"Captain, jus' so ye know, I'm seein' some major interfer'nce there. Looks like a jammer. Once ye three are inside, I'll be hard pressed ta beam ye straight back up, so if ye need ta come back in a hurry ye'll hafta get outside or disable whatever's causing that effect."
"Very good, Scotty."
"What the devil is supposed to be good about that?" Leonard grumbles, stepping onto the pad and checking and double-checking his phaser nervously.
"It'll be a challenge." Jim smiles in such a way that Leonard has to forcibly remind himself that he doesn't really mean that, no really, he has started taking things more seriously in the four months since he'd been named Captain.
The fact that the Vulcan forgoes a chastising comment tells Leonard that, for once, they are thinking the same thing.
Jim notices his mood and for a moment his eyes turn a bit more serious as he nods at Leonard in encouragement, then speaks.
"Energize."
Rubbing a hand over his exhausted eyes, Leonard concluded that he should have seen this coming.
It was, after all, completely logical, as the frigid pointy-eared green-blooded hobgoblin would have put it himself. The word 'consistency' had a meaning, patterns had a value, and you could use your past experience to extrapolate about what could be expected in the future. Not predicting, not quite. Just getting ready. The right hyposprays already on the table in preparation, that sort of thing.
Lights are flashing, something nearby explodes and nearly covers them in debris, and Leonard grits his teeth and wonders for the ten thousandth time why he came along for this. And for the ten thousand and first time his question is answered for him - in the form of Jim shooting them a breathless smile over his shoulder and his blue eyes shining with mirth-veiled concern through the cloud of dust like twin cornflowers, scanning them for injuries in his gesture of levity.
"Running away while things explode! Sure brings back memories, doesn't it?"
Even running alongside them, Spock manages to calmly raise an eyebrow. "Captain, it has been seventeen days, two hours and thirteen minutes since the last such occurrence. As I understand, the phrase is meant to evoke what you call nostalgia, but your use of it is highly illogical."
Leonard manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes and keeps them fixed on the doorway ahead.
In layman's terms, if someone had a history of being stupid, or getting themselves in trouble, or just acting like an unapproachable nitpicking computerized humanoid placebo and making things difficult for you, you'd give them more than even odds of staying true to their bastardized nature and doing it again sometime in the not too distant future.
Even thinking about odds, he was just sure that the Vulcan would be able to name an exact percentage number for the actual probability, down to the tenth denominator, after running it over once in his head. It was irritating just thinking about it. Not that some people were good with numbers, just that they'd take every chance to abuse that without even having the decency to appear smug and human about it the way Jim would.
"Remind me when this mission went south?" Leonard demands irritably as he catches the sounds of phaser fire.
The Vulcan shifts to look at him, but before he can say a word, Jim cuts him off with a chuckle and a wave, "Yes, Spock, it's a figure of speech."
Leonard didn't mind logic. He was a doctor. Logic was one of his most valuable tools when he had to turn off the friend, turn on the medic, and tell his emotional ties to go screw themselves while he calmly stitched together some new gaping hole adorning the flesh of his careless Captain. So, logically, it was logical that logic didn't bother him that much - not the logic, not by itself.
The Vulcan was just special like that.
...an entirely logical course of-
Leonard snarled at nothing in particular, causing nurses in his vicinity to instinctively edge away while he tapped furiously at the medical display screen, skimming through the data. His shoulder felt sore.
The Vulcan's eyebrow gives a faint twitch and he indicates the computer he has just hacked into, "I was actually intending to report that there appears to be a hidden complex in this area, possibly where-"
This time, he is interrupted by phaser fire and barely jumps aside in time. All three of them duck for cover. The Klingon chances another shot, but Jim hits him with a stun before he can even aim, and the guard drops like a sack, a communicator clutched in his other hand. Jim winces slightly, pulling on Leonard's arm as they rise to their feet again. "You'll have to tell me on the way," he says to Spock. Leonard curses under his breath, grabs his med kit off the floor and follows them.
And they're running the hell out of there again before the reinforcements arrive.
If humans tended to be jackasses, and Vulcans were infamous for being frigid, then a certain hybrid he knew had the best of both worlds. He'd jokingly said he'd liked him that day at the Academy, but that was when Jim had been the one under assault, and that was funny as hell, not to mention satisfying. Leonard was a friend and would stick through for Jim to the end, but he wasn't about to deny his vindictive urges, either, and having Jim actually get chewed out over something, and by someone he could not just smile and shock into submission... that was too damn good to pass up.
But dealing with the Vulcan himself hadn't been nearly as fun. It was always logic this and logic that, all formality and indifference, like it would kill him to admit that those things didn't exist in a vacuum.
Or would it? He had to wonder if Vulcans actually suffered ill effects from unleashing their emotions... like a human did if they kept them bottled up, only the opposite, maybe? It seemed worth looking up later. In lieu of his medical training, he knew enough about the physiological traits like freaky green copper-based blood and such, but it couldn't hurt to know a bit of psychology, too. Especially if that gave him an edge on the Vulcan – although, admittedly, having an edge on the Vulcan seemed to be Jim's job.
Going over the readings on his current patient – someone from maintenance with a concussion – Leonard couldn't help stealing an apprehensive glance back. It irritated him that he couldn't help it.
Jim jerks in pain and dashes back behind cover, clutching his arm and hissing through his teeth.
"I told you to keep your damn head down," Leonard grumbles, but his voice has a frantic tone to it. Even as he's already pouncing on Jim's bleeding arm with bandages and disinfectants extracted deftly from his kit, the Captain leans out again, his good arm stretching out and the stun blast knocking another advancing grunt off his feet.
Behind them, the Vulcan is still crouching at the strange device, his back to them. He hasn't turned around or even glanced back at the sound of Jim's hiss of pain, the cold bastard, but his posture is just a tiny bit more rigid. Rather than anxiety, his knee-jerk response to danger is focused concentration, and his attention is fully on the screen in front of him.
Being vindictive could only go so far, Leonard mused darkly as he went over the inventory for what seemed like the hundredth time. Sure, he'd found out the Vulcan was human. That would have been comforting to know, but for all the possible ways of expressing his humanity – like singing or painting or flower-arranging - the Vulcan just had to settle on outbursts of irrational, homicidal violence.
Leonard could still remember those few seconds on the bridge, with the Vulcan's fingers around Jim's neck in a vice-like grip, and everyone else watching like so many sheep. He'd later concluded that they'd done nothing for the same reason he hadn't – a mixture of disbelief at the depths of Jim's apparent stupidity, pure shock at the intensity of the Vulcan's reaction, and some deeply buried voice of intelligence insisting that Jim couldn't possibly be that stupid and it was all part of a plan and it would be best to let things run their course because surely Jim had to know what he was doing...
"Doctor, what is the Captain's condition?" he asks after a few seconds, still not turning around.
"It's just a graze, Spock," Jim assures him, leaning over and taking down another Klingon goon. "How are things on your end?"
"I am at sixty-seven percent, I require three minutes and twenty seconds to finish collecting the data."
"No way you could speed that up?"
The Vulcan doesn't answer, probably because his reply would be something like 'By not initiating or engaging in distracting and unnecessary conversation', and then the game would be up, since it's not very logical to ask about the Captain when the Chief Medical Officer is already there fussing over him, is it?
When a huge Klingon comes crashing through the wall inches away from him, Spock reacts instantly, batting away the Klingon's weapon even as he jabs his fingers into a nerve at his neck and then flings him to hit a wall ten feet away, all in one fluid swirl of motion. Before Jim and Leonard have a chance to get their bearings, the device screen has recaptured Spock's undivided attention.
...And no need to deny it, the fact that he'd been scared shitless by the angry Vulcan had probably been a contributing factor as well. Even now, as he sat in his doctor's chair and poured over medical reports and just couldn't help but think about all this, Leonard knew it was an effect the Vulcan tended to have on people even when he wasn't randomly trying to strangle them or punch them through walls. For a Vulcan, 'stronger than he looked' was pretty much part of the package, but it didn't prepare you for actually seeing it in action.
Vulcans were dangerous. Jim was crazy to have taunted one. Sparing a glance at Jim's own medical record, Leonard reminded himself that Jim could be called crazy for a whole lot of other reasons as well. He put himself in danger on a daily basis while the Vulcan had only strangled him once. To the best of his knowledge, anyway, and that knowledge had better be correct.
Suddenly, a phaser blasts the wall dangerously close to Leonard's head, close enough to make his ears ring, and Jim drags him down even as he returns fire. "The hell, Bones? Weren't you so big on keeping our respective heads down not a moment ago?" Jim scolds him. As Leonard tries to get over the bout of adrenaline from his brush with death, Jim mutters, "Can't have our medic get injured, Bones. You're the one we need to patch us up if things go downhill. It's your job to keep yourself safe."
Next to them, Spock nods faintly in agreement even as he's absorbed in the complex workings of the device.
And then, somewhere along the way, some things had changed. The half-Vulcan was no longer a pointy-eared bastard, he was their pointy-eared bastard. Leonard wasn't sure how or when that had happened, he only knew that he'd been left out of the loop. On a purely intellectual level, he knew it was reasonable that Jim and the Vulcan had connected, in a manner, after the events on Nero's ship – surviving danger by working together tended to do that to you. Even if, for the Vulcan, it just meant obvious respect for Jim where there had been strangulation attempts earlier, it was clear the change was there. Leonard knew why it was there, and he certainly wasn't about to complain that Jim had the respect of a person who'd been humiliated and stripped of command and standing and had every reason to wish death on him.
Leonard also knew that he wasn't a walking computer and that intellectually acknowledging the mutual respect between those two did nothing to change how he felt about the whole thing. Nothing between the Vulcan and him had changed, so why would he feel any different? The key word, of course, being 'feel'?
"Spock, progress?"
"Ninety-eight percent, Captain."
"Okay, finish up. I think it's time to get out of here." Jim winces at a twinge in his injured shoulder as he backs away from the opening. Phaser blasts are now showering their position too densely for him to risk a shot.
Edging back from another volley of shots Leonard crouches in his corner and glowers at Jim, "You think?" he snaps.
Behind them, Spock shuts down the device, extracting the data padd.
Leonard wondered absently if they'd ever cleared up the whole 'provocation and strangulation' incident. It was obvious the Vulcan didn't hold grudges – they were illogical, after all. He just... wondered. Jim had acted like the worst kind of nasty, villainous, manipulative bully and the green-blooded bastard had nearly murdered him. There was a lot to apologize for on both sides. Leonard had asked Jim if he planned on doing anything about it, back at the beginning, and the Captain had just shrugged and frowned thoughtfully. Then, the issue had kind of melted away in the din of the next few months as they'd struggled to cope with the demands of a fleet that had recently lost an allied planet and half its ships and officers.
Glancing back again anxiously and mentally kicking himself for it, Leonard thought that if they'd never talked it over to clear the air, that was a really lousy way of things getting wrapped up now.
They get the door open and then they're running again, just like in those elusive old times Jim keeps talking about. As they halt with bated breath at a doorway the Vulcan cocks his head slightly in what could be amusement or puzzlement at Jim's attempts at levity, before shooting a brief but intent look at the Captain's bandaged shoulder. At the same time, Leonard too is giving Jim a glance-over, and when they both look up their eyes meet.
Something like faint surprise or embarrassment – or, heck, it could be annoyance or anger or even homicidal rage, for all he can tell – flickers in the Vulcan's dark eyes but is extinguished quickly, his back snapping straight in a unconscious show of discipline.
"We must remain vigilant, Doctor," the Vulcan says in that formal tone he apparently reserves for admonishing displays of hypocrisy. Leonard sneers and shakes his head in disbelief before turning his attention back to their surroundings as they move on.
Leonard sat in the sick bay, wringing his hands and glowering darkly at everything. When no new distraction presented itself, he flicked the display of his medical encyclopedia on and started randomly reading up tidbits about Vulcans, including how the copper-based blood is apparently a trait they share with certain types of molluscs and anthropods back on Earth. It was hysterical. He could imagine what the green-blooded hobgoblin would have to say to that. He'd cock his head in that very vaguely annoyed manner and say something along the lines of Yes, Doctor, the oxygen in my blood is transported by hemocyanins, as you are aware. The coincidence of other organisms sharing this trait is no more relevant than the possible significance of your own hemoglobin-based similarity to many types of vermin on your home planet.
Great, he was thinking up replies in the pointy-eared bastard's place now. Leonard sighed, a tense, apprehensive purging of breath from lungs that left him feeling even more on edge than before. His shift had ended hours ago. Common sense – logic – dictated that he try to catch some sleep before he fell asleep at his work place again. God knew he needed the rest. He felt completely and utterly spent, both physically and, yes, emotionally. He had his own injuries to recover from, too, even if those were just bruises and scrapes and grazes.
Then again, he was human, unlike a certain other green-blooded bastard he knew.
But this was different. He couldn't afford to mess up because he was too twitchy with lack of sleep to think properly.
Leonard got up and headed for the exit, meaning to give instructions to wake him immediately no matter how cranky he sounded about it if that one or the other one or a myriad of other things happened during his absence. He kept his pace brisk, absently rubbing an aching spot on his shoulder.
Walking past a particular bed, he stopped.
Somehow, they are in the middle of a fight again. Leonard isn't quite sure how that happened, but with these things you have to go with the flow.
And so he does, rolling and dodging and trying to get a phaser blast in edgewise and keeping his damn head down as well as can be expected of a person who spent more time memorizing the ways of stitching people up than making them need stitches in the first place.
Before he could stop himself, the medic's instinct took over again – or so he told himself – and he was already leaning forward, examining critically, checking the readings and evaluating the changes.
They're trying to get somewhere and do something, but Leonard is quite lost in the chaos of it all. Jim is fighting in his usual haphazard, unbelievable, but somehow perfectly controlled manner. The Vulcan's being a Vulcan, weaving in and out of hand-to-hand range, arm snapping forth like a viper to deliver a nerve pinch or phasing down three opponents one after another out of the corner of his eye.
"Bones, get that door open!" Jim shouts and Leonard runs in the direction he'd been pointed to. It goes without saying that the Vulcan is occupied, but Spock manages to press a data padd into his hand as he darts past.
He started fidgeting with a hypo, and if he'd looked at the nurses around him he would have realized what a terrifying sight he presented – wild-eyed, anxious, with shadows under his eyes and a hypospray in his restless fingers.
Not finding an excuse to spray anything into anyone, Leonard set the hypo down again.
With help from Spock's data padd, he gets the door open. They run through. Phaser blasts follow them. Another hallway ahead.
He sank into the chair by the bed, his shoulders sagging and his hands rubbing his exhausted eyes again. He re-examined the readings for the millionth time, viciously searching for anything he might have missed, any implication he hadn't thought of.
Paradoxically, he felt both proud of feeling anxious about this – being human – and wished he could be more like the Vulcan. It would make things simpler.
He looked at the readings again, then at the figure on the bed. Suddenly filled with an absurd, desperate need to have something more tangible than the sterile, impartial readings on the tricorder, he reached forward on an impulse and pressed his fingers to a pale wrist. It flinched under his touch and the hot skin sent a jolt of alarm through him, but he reminded himself that it was normal. There was a good and steady pulse, and that's what mattered.
Moving forward, Leonard glances back over his shoulder. Spock is directly behind him and covering their retreat as Jim struggles to get the door back closed to cut off pursuit.
He's still looking back, his eyes focusing worriedly on several new blotches of red on Jim's uniform, when he feels as much as hears enemies up ahead. He catches a glimpse of Jim's panicked expression. "BONES!" Jim yells.
For a split second, as his head snaps around, he sees them. Two hulking brutes with even more brutish weapons, pointed at him, fingers on the triggers.
A flash of panic, eyes snapping wide and muscles going rigid, bracing themselves. Even if he could move in time, the hallway is too narrow. No place to dodge.
"Doctor." Close behind him, the Vulcan's voice is admonishing, insistent, and almost without alarm.
A hand seizes his shoulder, pulling him back.
The Vulcan weaves past him.
His arm shoots forward. A blast from his phaser.
His back blocks the view.
Two blasts, at the same time. The Vulcan jerks violently, the hand still on Leonard's shoulder painfully tightening its grip. He stays on his feet.
A moment later, the Vulcan is back in control again. His breath held, his arm straightens up again and with quick, successive blasts he picks off not one, not two, but all five of the next group of goons as they come running around the corner straight into his line of fire.
For a crystalline moment, things stand still. Spock is like a statue - muscles rigid, still not breathing, phaser held high and dark eyes fixed on the empty doorway where seven goons lie unconscious. Spock's back is to him, but a bit sideways, and he can still glimpse the blotch of green on his uniform. He stares at it with wide eyes. It looks absurd, like someone had gone way overkill in a paintball match. Despite years of medical training, his mind is reluctant to put two and two together.
The moment shatters. The phaser slips from Spock's fingers and clatters to the floor as he sways against the wall without a sound. His other hand trembles and releases Leonard's shoulder to fall limply by his side. His expression is rigid with control but his eyes drift in and out of focus. There's a splotch of emerald green blooming to huge proportions across the upper-left side of his chest.
Face ashen, Spock tries to breathe in. The sound is wet, choking, and his whole body shudders with the effort. As he rasps the breath back out, the green trails over his lips.
Copper-based, Leonard distantly remembers, as theoretical knowledge finally lines up with what he's seeing, something he'd somehow escaped seeing for the past four months. Yes, that's right, Vulcans bleed green, don't they?
"Spock!" Jim must have gotten the door closed. He shoves past Leonard and braces the Vulcan as he slides down to the floor, concentrating on breathing in and out. There's nothing scary about him now, and that in itself is unsettling.
"Shit. Shit. Shit! This isn't good." Jim bites his lip, helpless anger in his wide eyes, "Spock, what the hell were you THINKING?!"
The Vulcan blinks, and answers slowly. "Captain, protecting the medic is an entirely logical course of-"
Spock fails to finish. He chokes up more green blood, his chest heaving painfully. His head lolls a bit.
Entirely logical. Leonard snorted at that. Gods, that man was like a broken record. He shifted uneasily in his seat, going over the readings like he was trying to memorize them. For the most part, he already had.
Even though Jim had said practically the same thing, about him needing "Bones" to be there to patch them back up, it had been different. It was personal with Jim. Warm, emotional. Always said in a sort of you're really like a brother to me and you being a doctor is just me rationalizing shit tone.
But the Vulcan had meant it. Leonard was the medic, so he had to be protected. Jim was the Captain, so he had to be kept safe. Logical.
And so full of bullshit. Leonard knew how to let go of emotional ties, but he'd rather die than let go of emotion. A doctor who'd stopped caring about a patient, who couldn't see beyond the tricorder readings and the qualities of rank and function and importance, wasn't a doctor at all. It was unfathomable and repugnant. A first officer who couldn't care about people didn't deserve to be in Starfleet.
Leonard doesn't know when exactly he'd recovered from the shock and started acting like a doctor, but there he is, glaring at the data on the tricorder, digging around in his med kit and applying stimulants, painkillers, coagulation agents, anything that might help. And all the while he reminds himself that he's treating a Vulcan, that Vulcans are physiologically different, and the dosages have to be adjusted.
Looking frantic, Jim runs ahead to make sure the way is clear.
And then they're moving forward again, Spock miraculously back on his feet and leaning heavily on Leonard, and Jim in front of them, shooting and covering. With the arm that isn't wrapped around the Vulcan in support, Leonard has his own phaser out, helping out where he can. They're not moving too slowly, all things considered, but it's a close thing.
"Captain," Spock manages to say, "Attempting to assist me severely impedes your own speed and decreases your chance of-"
"I don't wanna hear it, Spock," Jim snaps without turning around, too busy shooting clear their way to escape. "I'm not leaving anyone behind," he mutters angrily under his breath.
"Captain, your illogical behaviour may result in the loss of three people instead of-"
"First officer Spock, stop talking. That's an order."
That shuts him up, finally.
Where the hell was the logic in taking a bullet for him, anyway? Leonard was a medic, but there were many medics. There weren't many Vulcans, not anymore, and there sure as hell weren't many first officers who could locate a hostage by reading someone's mind or take down a raging brute with a freaking hand gesture or shoot down five opponents with full precision after their lung had been torn to shreds.
It was stupid. It was hypocritical.
It wasn't logical.
Gulping down replicated coffee one of the nurses had brought him at some point, Leonard tentatively wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wasn't supposed to be.
Things get blurry. They're still moving forward, and it's too far to the outside of the building, so they're trying to disable the jammer, Leonard thinks, he isn't quite sure. He lets Jim do the thinking, he's not focusing much on anything that's not the Vulcan's crazy vitals.
Leonard almost wishes Spock would start trying to convince them to leave him behind again, because hearing no sound from him but his laboured breathing is so much worse. He's lost way too much blood and seems only vaguely conscious. As they move on in the shooting and chaos, Jim's back outlined heroically in front of them, Leonard is lost in the readings of the tricorder and the different drugs he keeps pumping into the Vulcan's system in an increasingly frantic effort to keep him on his feet, because there is no way he can deal with the tall Vulcan being dead weight right now.
And for all his efforts, Spock's body grows limp and sluggish, and Leonard's efforts to keep them both moving become increasingly one-sided. Spock's Vulcan-bred discipline is probably the only reason he hasn't passed out yet. They better get there soon.
Leonard gets a few scratches, too, at some point, and is vaguely aware of quickly treating himself when Jim doesn't let him do otherwise.
And then the device won't shut down.
"Dr. McCoy."
The voice sounded strict, insistent, and Leonard blinked up to see Chapel's pretty face peering down at him with disapproval and veiled sympathy. "Your shift ended three hours ago."
"I'm not done yet," he growled, willing her to leave him alone. The understanding in her eyes briefly grew more palpable as her gaze flitted to the figure on the biobed beside him. That pissed him off. Why the hell was she being understanding? There wasn't anything to understand.
"Your patient is stable," she insisted, like trying to make him see reason was going to do her a hell of good at this point.
"He's not awake," Leonard snapped, setting down his coffee cup with force that would have brought the contents splashing if there still remained any. And of course, it didn't.
He frowned at the empty cup.
"I'm getting more coffee," he grumbled, struggling to his feet and pushing past the nurse. He walked off with the empty cup in his hand, knowing that she'd be staring at his retreating back with a frown of disapproval. Like he'd care.
"What the devil are you talking about, Jim?" Leonard is angry and he has every right to be. He's not thinking about rank or whose fault it is, or whether yelling at Jim will make things any better. He's too far gone in the doctor's mindset to care, and all he knows right now is that the patient – his patient – is steadily getting worse, and needs to be delivered to a medical facility soon, and God help anyone who stands in his way.
"The padd should work," Jim mutters, fingers working frantically over the display screen. "It should work, dammit! ...I'll have to try hacking into it."
They're in a large circular room, the guards already limp on the floor. The controls to the transmitter jamming their contact to the ship are right there, except for some reason the hacked data isn't enough to get them past. There was shooting right behind when they got the door closed and Leonard can hear pursuit fussing around outside, probably seconds away from entering.
Leonard is hunched almost protectively over Spock, who's on the floor, his back to the wall, with his face too pale and too much green on his uniform. The tricorder's readings tell Leonard that the last thing they need right now is a delay.
The only sign that Spock is still conscious is the rigid control he's somehow still retained over his posture. His head is held up, eyes unfocused but open, lips pressed together and nostrils flaring as he breathes slowly in spite of the green blood that gushes out of the wound with each shallow rise and fall of his chest. In and out. In. Out. Like some kind of Vulcan trance. Maybe that's even exactly what he's doing.
It didn't feel right, seeing him like this. In the four frantic, busy months since the Narada, by some miracle the Vulcan had managed to avoid the sick bay almost entirely, despite almost seeming to be worse than Jim when it came to self-preservation instincts. And on the occasions he hadn't, Jim had usually been in worse shape and Leonard had spent his time hovering over his bedside, instead.
Jim was the one who'd get beamed back in a beaten and bruised heap with his first officer supporting him, controlled and powerful even if sporting injuries, and it was on those occasions Leonard was silently grateful for Spock's presence even if still annoyed that he had the gall to keep himself uninjured but not do the same for his captain.
Spock was the goddamn Vulcan, after all. He'd gotten through the fight with Nero with hardly a scratch, for crying out loud. Spock's invulnerability had become something of an axiom, and to see it shattered was almost as rattling as if Jim had declared a vow of chastity.
It was only now, after having actually seen Vulcan blood for the first time ever – which didn't seem right, really, how the hell had he managed that, with years of med school and four months with the Vulcan on the ship? - that Leonard realized how much of an illusion that invulnerability was.
"Computer," Spock suddenly gasps, surprising both of them. "Override code 532XE8... 788346-Delta-5Y." He finishes, and chokes up blood again, going somewhat slack against the wall, as the tricorder starts throwing even more of a fit.
"Override accepted," the computer's mechanical voice answers, and if Leonard wasn't so busy in a frenzy over Spock's readings he'd be rolling his eyes. That was another axiom – if Spock was there, then he'd remember or figure out the code to whatever they needed, come hell or high water.
As he works to shut down the anti-transporter transmissions, Jim glances anxiously at the Vulcan, but bites down what he's obviously aching to ask. They're about to get back, and he shouldn't get distracted.
The last few seconds stretch on like a slow, viscous river of heavy lead. Leonard's eyes are fixed on the tricorder, flitting to the Vulcan every few heartbeats. Spock is finally completely out of it, his features are unmoving and what's not dark green is pale and ashen. Leonard is itching to be back on the Enterprise, with all the advanced medical equipment and the biobeds and the cardiometers, because there isn't anything else he can do from here.
A line of hot white slowly cuts through the door and a commotion is audible on the other side. They're trying to get through with a laser. As Jim finishes with the device his eyes widen at the door. Prepared to get the hell out of there any second, Leonard holds Spock close, his free hand on his phaser. With bright crimson and emerald green staining both their uniforms, they almost look more like victims of a bizarre painting fest than a dangerous away mission.
Finally, Jim's pulling out his comm. "Kirk to Enterprise, beam us up now, Scotty!"
The last thing Leonard sees through the glow of the transporter rings is the door bursting open. And then they're gone.