Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.
Look into the void...
Jim didn't know what to do.
Jim was unfamiliar with that sensation - he always knew what to do when something went wrong. Sure, sometimes he was doing it by the seat of his pants, but he at least had some clue of where to go from where he was.
Not this time.
He wasn't used to aliens, yet, and Vulcans even less. Nobody had thought to give him pointers on how to interact with ordinary Vulcans, never mind ones like Spock. He could trip over a whole goddamn minefield of issues with Spock, like a) his mother, b) his half-human heritage, c) his emotional control, d) his relationship with Uhura, or e) the loss of most of his species. There were a fair few things in there that wouldn't be issues with other Vulcans.
And hell, Jim was clueless on how to really talk to Spock anyway, never mind when there was something wrong with him. Talking to Spock when there was absolutely nothing wrong with the man was difficult enough. Now, in light of McCoy's concerns...
Jesus, Jim wasn't cut out for this.
Vulcans didn't even have, to his knowledge, any typical social or cultural methods of consoling or comforting each other. They didn't let each other know there was pain - and Jim knew they could be in pain and grieve. He wasn't an idiot. But even if they did have rituals for it, he was pretty sure (Vulcans being such a private sort of people) that those overtures would be quite unwelcome coming from him. Possibly even inappropriate.
And the worst part of the whole thing?
He would never have guessed.
Spock didn't look like he was practically doped six ways to Sunday when he turned up for duty. He didn't even look like he was in mild pain, never mind pushed to the extremes that McCoy described. Part of Jim - the very human, not-allowed-out-in-public-because-it's-nasty side of him - muttered that he obviously wasn't as bad off as McCoy said he was.
Then he remembered the feel of those hands around his throat, and wondered whether he would be able to tell at all before he snapped. And from what McCoy said, if Spock snapped now, they could very well lose him.
Jim didn't really mesh with the guy, and he had trouble getting along with him at the best of times, but he didn't want to lose him either.
But he didn't know what to do to stop that happening.
For the first time since he was a kid, Jim felt...pretty much helpless.
McCoy didn't even hesitate when Spock entered the sickbay that afternoon, immediately passing off his current patient (genius-level kids, every last one of them, and they still managed to cut themselves cleaning up shattered glass. No wonder the medical profession was full of alcoholics!) to one of the junior doctors and steering the Vulcan towards his office.
His sound-proofed, windowless, door-with-a-lock office.
"Sit down," he said, pulling up Spock's file on his console and frowning at it. "You're not through that batch of painkillers already?"
"I am," Spock confirmed, and McCoy hissed.
"Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't possibly give you any more than I already have. We could switch to some heavy-duty human medications but I doubt they'd touch the Vulcan brain. They'd do you just fine for a broken leg, but psychic shock...not so much."
He glanced apologetically at the First Officer. His face was like stone, but there was a fine tremor apparent in his fingertips, where they rested on the desk between them, and he was sheet-white. He looked haggard, almost, as if he hadn't been sleeping. Which McCoy wouldn't be at all surprised about.
"Spock, I know you're trying the Vulcan way of coping, but have you thought about giving the human way a try?" he ventured. "You can't neglect your human half through all of this."
"It is not my human half that provides the problem."
That much was true. "But the emotional impact won't be lost on it," McCoy prodded. "We usually find it helps to talk it out with others, to seek company..."
"I cannot...talk about it, Doctor."
McCoy raised an eyebrow, caught himself, and lowered it. "Why not?"
"I believe," Spock actually hesitated, and McCoy swallowed. "I believe that even humans make note of the dangers of reaccessing the memory of a trauma when it is...too fresh. Even humans require...distance at such times."
"You're saying that if you try and work through the emotional feedback now, while it's still happening, then...?" McCoy prompted.
"The combination of the psychic trauma of...the broken bonds and the emotional trauma of the event itself would combine," Spock said, his voice dropping in volume the longer that he spoke. "The combination would likely result in a physical shutdown."
"Your brain wouldn't be able to cope," McCoy muttered, and nodded. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Your telepathy's really not helping right now."
"The damage is...physical, as much as it is telepathic."
McCoy knew that. He'd taken scans - there were pockets of inflammation running over Spock's cerebral cortex, and dark blotches indicating minor aneurysms. Vulcans did not react to very minor aneurysms as humans did - they were not uncommon, they did not cause the same pain response, and the Vulcan neurological system was evolved to deal with them. But so many shadows was still concerning, and he wanted to avoid more at all costs.
"Those aneurysms. You haven't had any more?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Believe me, you'd notice," McCoy grumbled. "Would shutting down your telepathic centres help at all? Stop you reaching out for those bonds, so to speak?"
"Negative," and Spock actually shivered at the prospect. "It is likely, in the confusion, that my mind would decide that the remaining bonds I have were also destroyed."
McCoy flinched. Last damn thing they needed.
"Right," he said, and swallowed. "Christ, Spock, I'll be honest with you here. I have no idea how to help you. I can't keep medicating you until the pain stops, because the amount you'd need would destroy your liver and kidneys. Hell, it would probably cause more brain damage. I don't know what to do."
Spock bowed his head, and rose from the chair without his usual grace.
"Spock," McCoy called as he turned for the door. "We'll find something. We'll get you through this. I swear to God, we'll get you through this."
Spock said nothing.
Nyota was waiting for him outside his quarters when Spock came off-duty some hours later. She offered him that sad smile that had seemingly replaced her bright demeanour, and embraced him the moment that the doors hissed shut behind them.
"How are you doing?" she murmured, her voice pitched very low and soothing. At any other time, he might have taken the opportunity to observe human social techniques in comfort, but his own need was too great to achieve the necessary distance, and he returned her hold with trembling hands.
"Inadequately," he replied.
"What about the painkillers?" she asked, drawing a little to look at him. "Can't the doctor give you anything better or stronger?"
"No," Spock said flatly. "There is nothing else. He can do nothing for the pain."
It said enough that he was willing to admit to such pain, and Nyota brushed the pads of her thumbs over his temples gently. She was walking blind in this - she had no idea what to do to help him. In many ways, she couldn't, and if there were other, more human ways that worked, then she didn't know them.
But she was determined to help, all the same.
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" she asked.
"No," Spock said decisively, and took a measured breath.
"Okay," she said, cutting off anything further he had to say. "Okay, then, I'll stay. Let's try and sleep?"
"I..."
"Try?" she urged, still rubbing small circles into his temples with her thumbs. The pressure was strangely soothing, even as his telepathy yearned for her to be able to initiate a meld and soothe his thoughts actively. "At least try?"
"I shall try," he allowed, and let her lead him to the bed - even as he knew that it would not work.
Jim crept into McCoy's office just as the doctor's shift ended, and they exchanged wan smiles as McCoy checked his messages. When his face tightened, Jim sat up straight again in his chair.
"What is it?"
"Another message from New Vulcan," McCoy muttered darkly. "Another two Vulcans died today."
"Jesus," Jim growled. "If they keep this up, there aren't going to be any Vulcans left."
McCoy snorted.
"What about our Vulcan?" Jim asked quietly. "How's he doing?"
"Like Hell," McCoy replied. "I've had to take him off the painkillers. They're just going to cause damage if we keep them going. I'm trying to find a substitute but, so far, nothing. They're having exactly the same issue on New Vulcan. They can't dope them up far enough or fast enough to even begin to stabilise them."
"Where is he?"
"In his quarters," McCoy nodded at the console. "I'm keeping a tab on his whereabouts. Things are going to go south pretty soon, and I want to know in advance where the hell I'll be running to."
Jim nodded.
"He also implied, today, that he has to achieve some kind of emotional distance from it, or he'll snap and go under," McCoy added. "Hell, Jim, he needs time, and it's the one damn thing his brain isn't going to grant him. Given time, he'll get better, same as anything else. But we've got to keep him alive long enough to even begin to improve."
"Bones," Jim held up a hand, cutting off the flow. "Honest, now. Do you think we're in serious danger of Spock dying because of this?"
McCoy hesitated, thinking over the whole situation. The rising risk of further aneurysms, the swellings on the brain, the failing telepathy, the emotional trauma, the pain, the shock of the broken bonds...
The sickbay klaxons went off as the computer registered an alert being issued. "Medical emergency in the First Officer's quarters. Medical emergency in..."
"We are now," McCoy snarled, then flew out of his seat and for the doors.
...and see nothing but your own reflection.