Another character piece, though one with a bit of a plot, I'd like to think. I don't own!

On Friendship

I was drunk. And that's my only excuse. Why else would I ask such a tom-fool question to such a hard-headed, cold-blooded alien like Spock? I don't remember a lot of what I said that night, but I remember the conversation that followed the Question. I hurt…emotionally, I mean, and so I know I was being brutal. That was one of those times that Jim came back from some crazy excursion barely alive, and I spent half the night piecing him back together, scared sick that he wasn't going to pull through. Scared to death that I wasn't going to be good enough this time. I'm not a miracle worker.

I did all I could, but it wasn't going to be enough. He was dying, slipping away from me, despite all I could do to pull him back. Spock was hovering unintentionally but his close proximity was grating on my tattered nerves, and all I could think was that if he'd been a little quicker, a little more impulsive, he might have saved Jim. But that cold, callous logic had prevailed, and because of that, six other men had been returned to the ship unharmed and the Captain was lying unconscious. Sacrificed for the many. I knew this was a little harsh, and that Spock had reacted in the only way he knew how, and perhaps the best way. But that didn't change the fact that my best friend was now lying comatose, bleeding internally, barely breathing, clinging to life with the utter audacity that made him James T. Kirk.

Finally, I snapped. I ordered Spock out, hearing the unintentional venom in my voice register in his suddenly rigid shoulders. He looked at me for a long moment in that way that told me he was hurt, somewhere deep behind the Vulcan barriers he had built around his heart. Then he tilted his head at me and went without argument, leaving me feeling like I had just killed his mother. I found that I could concentrate no better with him gone than I could with him there, and instead I just felt alone. Alone and completely responsible for the life of my Captain. I needed Spock to share the burden, to lend his support, as distracting as his hovering over the Captain was.

All too soon, I had done all I could. I stared down at his pale, still face with that terrible pain in my chest that came every time I lost a patient. And Spock…why had I ordered him away? If Jim died and Spock wasn't there, died without his best friend by his side because his doctor was a fool, how could I ever possibly forgive myself? It wasn't easy to swallow my pride, especially not in confrontation with Spock of all people but he was there within minutes of my call. He brushed aside my apology and bent over Jim's body, examining his face closely.

When he suggested a mind-meld, I was suddenly and inexplicably jealous. Jealous that Spock could do something for Jim that I couldn't, when I was the doctor, I was the healer. But if it meant Jim's life, I was man enough to swallow my pride again and leave Spock to pull Jim back from the edge. Ten minutes later, Jim was stabilized, and I was drinking away my guilt, my fear, my pride, my jealousy...it was stupid, it was disgusting, but I needed it. I needed to forget the feelings that were surfacing after weeks and months of watching Spock and Jim become closer and closer, with me somehow on the outer edge, part but not part. I needed to forget the faces of the men and women I hadn't been able to save. I needed to drink away the memory of what my brother had looked like when he had been carried into my sickbay; limp, pale, sweaty, blood soaking his shirt and dripping steadily, drop by drop, onto the polished floor…

Spock didn't let me forget. He came to my quarters, and, unfortunately, I was still able to recognize him. I pride myself that I know how to read Spock fairly well. After spending so much time with the pointy-eared Vulcan, I know when he's calm or agitated or disapproving or even happy. Now…well, he was disapproving. And so I offered him a drink. He declined, as I knew he would, and then sat silently, watching me down another two or three glasses of whisky. I offered again, and he shook his head.

"I would venture to assume that you, Doctor, are drunk," he said.

"I would venture to assume, Spock, that I have the right to be so," I said. "You're perfectly licensed to refuse my offer, but I am also perfectly licensed to drink in front of you. And after what I've seen and done tonight, I think I deserve it, Spock."

"I will not argue with you, Doctor."

Curse him. I wanted him to argue. I needed him to argue with me. I needed to release the fear and the pain and the anger that had built up inside me. The alcohol wasn't doing it, or at least, not fast enough. I still remembered, I still felt the fear and smelled hot, acidic blood and heard my instruments telling me that Jim was dying, he's dying, he's dying…there was the sound of breaking glass and splashing liquid, and I registered dimly that I had dropped the whisky bottle. Or had I thrown it?

"Doctor…"

"Stop it Spock, stop it, just go away, leave me alone, I don't want to think, I don't want to remember…" I was babbling, shouting, cursing, on my feet, seeing Spock hazily through—was it tears? Was I crying? I couldn't have been crying. I don't cry. Ever. I felt as if I were crumbling from the inside, splintering, shattering, and I slammed my fists down on the table, shaking, sweating, feeling wet on my face and thinking it was blood. I was dying, just like Jim, dying, dying…I was instantly afraid. Terrified of the depths of what I was feeling, and what had caused such violent emotion. I knew it had been bottled up too long, but there was nothing I could to do stop it from exploding in my face. I heard the hiss of my door as it opened and swung around. "Spock, wait."

He stopped, turned in the doorway. "Yes, doctor?"

I was suddenly tired. So very tired. I still couldn't see Spock clearly. How strange. My vision seemed to be fading…I staggered, but lifted a hand as he took a step toward me. This was suddenly important. Very important that I ask him. I needed to know. I need to know…

"Spock, are we…friends?"

He considered this for a brief moment, head cocked, dark eyes boring into mine. His voice came from very far away when he replied.

"Yes, Doctor. Yes, I believe we are."

"You believe," I whispered. So tired. "You believe we are. You don't know, do you, Spock? Do you? We might not be friends, you green-blooded hobgoblin. We're too different. Too bloody different."

His strong hands were suddenly around my waist, supporting me—had I needed supporting?—and his soft baritone was in my ear.

"You need sleep, doctor. I will assist you to bed, and then I must return to the Captain."

I laughed, and it ended in a sob. He didn't know how much that simple statement had hurt. "Of course, Spock. Of course. Jim…Jim needs you more than I do."

Spock's step almost seemed to falter, as if he had caught the implication in my words…that I needed him too. But then he helped me lay down on top of the covers and looked down at me for a long moment, gaze unfathomable. "Doctor, might I ask why you inquired as to our friendship?"

If I had been sober, I would have never said what I did. But the whisky spoke, and it spoke the truth of my feelings. "It's you and Jim, Spock. It's always been you and Jim. Oh, sure, I'm there, I'm there, but I'm on the outside. I've never been like you two. You and Jim are like…like two halves of a whole. I'm the spare tire, Spock. Handy to have around when one of you comes in messed up like Jim did tonight, and good for a laugh or a drink, but I'm not…I'm not like you. And so I wondered…I wondered…"

Spock didn't reply to this, but when I next looked up at him, he had pulled a chair up next to my bed and was watching me. When I felt the silence becoming uncomfortable, I snapped, "Well?"

"Doctor, I consider the Captain to be one of my closest friends," he began carefully. "But he is hardly closer to me than are you. The two of you are similar in your human emotion. I find that I am beginning to understand you both in ways I did not begin to comprehend in the beginning of our acquaintance. Contrary to your belief, I often feel myself on the outside of your friendship with Jim. I…am not like you, and therefore, it is sometimes difficult for me to find my place in the relationship that you and he seem to so easily share."

Oh.

"Well, Spock, I…" But I didn't know. I didn't know what I wanted or needed, or could even say to that. Spock had all but bared his very soul to me in those few simple sentences, and I had never before been allowed to peer past the intellect to see the human underneath. He was looking at me, waiting politely to hear my response, and I smiled at him, suddenly shy. "I …I suppose I didn't…well, what I mean, is…you really…glory, Spock, I don't know what to say."

"That, doctor, is obvious." The dry wit was back, along with the shields, and I fell into this infinitely more comfortable relationship with relief.

"What I meant by that was, I didn't know you had it in you to be human, Spock. I admit you caught me off guard."

"Yes, it would seem…"

But the rest of Spock's voice was fading, tuning louder and softer like an old twentieth century radio losing signal. I tried to focus on his face, on his moving lips, the lift of the eyebrow, but his face was getting fuzzier too, and I realized that I felt dizzy and tired and a little ill.

"Spock…"

A hand gripped my shoulder, and his face was now close to mine, that one eyebrow still lifted, but I saw one of his almost-smiles lingering on his lips, and I smiled back.

"I would advise you to sleep, doctor," he said quietly.

"Jim…"

"I will see that he is attended to. It seems that I will be looking out for both of you tonight."

"I don't need a doctor, Spock."

"I would disagree. And you, Doctor, are in no position to argue with me."

"It's Leonard, Spock. That's my name. Leonard."

I opened my eyes—when had I closed them?—and looked up at him. He started to shake his head, but my hand moved of its own accord, gripping his arm suddenly and violently, grasping it so hard that he cocked his head in his Vulcan equivalent of surprise. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, opening and closing my mouth several times before my tongue would form the words I wanted. It was important that I hear him say my name. Urgent that I know, know he was my friend, or know that he wasn't. Somehow, illogically, hearing him speak my Christian name would give me that assurance. "Can't you call me by my name?"

He was silent for a long time, gazing down at me with those black, veiled eyes. I don't think he realized that I could still see him, because I swear he smiled. Just the smallest upward turn of his lips, and his eyes and the stern lines of his brow softened. I blinked again, and somewhere in my foggy mind I recognized that look. It was the one that I caught him giving Jim when the Captain wasn't looking. It was the one that spoke loyalty and respect and acceptance, but more than that it spoke affection. Real affection, sincerity, overtones of amusement…even love. It was so very subtle, but so very Spock. I'd never seen it directed at me before. For the first time, I wondered if for every time I had felt jealous that Jim was the one receiving Spock's "look", he had given me one just like it.

But even with this revelation, I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I was drifting, fading into a warm, comfortable, alcohol-induced coma. Just before my world went blessedly black, I felt a cool hand settle gently on my forehead and heard the low rumble of Spock's voice.

"Sleep, then…" a pause, and then, "Leonard."

Well.

I hope the characterizations are ok...I find first person much harder to do, and writing Spock generally even more difficult than first person. So let me know what you think!