Spock makes it back to his temporary quarters at 0117 hours with the intention of engaging in a lengthy meditation session. With the captain recovering in Starfleet Medical, the majority of the debriefings and meetings held by the admiralty require Spock's presence, as he is currently the highest ranking officer available to provide information regarding Khan and Alexander Marcus. There has been a steady increase in the number of meetings held in the past 2.6 weeks. He leaves his quarters promptly at 0700 each morning and has not returned before midnight for the past four days.

Spock's mental shields, normally impenetrable and maintained with little effort, feel strained in a way they have not since the weeks after the Narada incident. There is no one in Starfleet or San Francisco unaffected by the destruction wrought by Khan, and Spock finds himself constantly shielding against an onslaught of anger, grief, and confusion throughout the day. This requires him to meditate and rest for longer amounts of time than he normally would.

He lights his meditation candles and changes into standard Starfleet-issue sleepwear. He is about to begin his meditation when someone knocks sharply on his door.

For a very brief, illogical moment, Spock contemplates ignoring the knock.

He appears to be in greater need of meditation than he previously thought.

Spock rises from the mat and crosses the room to the door, pausing to don a black bathrobe. He suspects it may be Nyota – she has come to visit his quarters often in the evenings since they returned to San Francisco.

When he opens the door, however, it is not Nyota.

"Doctor," Spock says evenly. Dr. McCoy is dressed in a slightly rumpled Starfleet Medical uniform, his hair sticking up at the top of his head and a caged tribble held under one arm. Spock raises his eyebrows.

"Oh don't give me that, you condescending hobgoblin," McCoy growls, tapping his foot impatiently. "You gonna let me in?"

Dr. McCoy is not known for his manners. From his tone, Spock surmises this will be a primarily emotional encounter, the conversation of which will contain at least fourteen utterances of vulgar vocabulary. However, 96.2 percent of his interactions with the doctor are highly illogical, so this is not a new development. Spock steps aside and allows McCoy to stomp through the doorway.

McCoy heads straight for the nearest flat surface – a small bookshelf in the sitting room – and places the tribble cage on top of it.

"That's yours," the doctor announces bluntly. Spock's eyebrows shoot upwards.

"May I ask why you feel the need to present me with a tribble, doctor?"

"Because," McCoy grumbles, leaning against the bookshelf, "You like the damn thing and I don't want it anywhere near me."

"I have no preference regarding – "

"Shut up, Spock, that's our cover story, not the real reason." Spock raises an eyebrow and folds his hands behind his back.

"Explain."

"Look," McCoy runs a hand tiredly through his hair. "We agreed to leave parts of Jim's medical status out of our official reports, right? Big parts, like the fact that he was a goddamn corpse before we injected him with super-blood?"

"The full extent of Captain Kirk's medical condition is not significantly relevant to Starfleet's understanding of the conflict between the Vengeance and the Enterprise, nor relevant to their understanding of the motivation behind Khan's actions, so therefore it did not seem necessary to – "

"Necessary, my goddamn foot," McCoy interjects, rolling his eyes. "Justify it however you want, Spock, but you and I both know we don't trust Starfleet with this information."

Spock remains silent. He is unable to truthfully deny such a claim.

"So," Bones continues, pointing at the cage, "Since Khan's blood is a secret and we can't keep using it for tests, and we want the Starfleet brass to leave Jim the hell alone, the only thing we've got to study is this damn tribble. If that blood's got long-term side effects, the only way we'll know about them is through that furball."

Spock considers the tribble thoughtfully. It shuffles to the corner of its cage and makes a quiet cooing sound.

"That is a logical argument, Dr. McCoy – "

"Jesus, I think hell just froze over."

" – but that does not explain why you have given the tribble to me," Spock says pointedly.

"Dammit, man, I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian! All my medical colleagues know I hate the stupid fuzzy things," McCoy says with a visible shudder. "It'd look damn suspicious if I started keeping a live one in my quarters or in Sickbay."

"And you believe it will be less suspicious if I keep a tribble in my quarters?" Spock's eyebrows are somewhere in his hairline. "Vulcans do not typically keep pets, doctor."

"Bullshit," McCoy says, covering a yawn with one hand. "Besides, if someone asks you why you've got a tribble in your room, you can just do that murderous Vulcan glare and they'll shut up. It'll be fine."

Spock immediately thinks of 37 counterarguments for this statement. Since coming to Starfleet, however – and particularly since meeting Jim Kirk – he has learned to identify what humans call "a lost cause."

He inclines his head.

"Very well, doctor. I will take custody of the tribble."

"You make it sound like we're getting a goddamn divorce," McCoy mutters under his breath. "Just make sure you keep it on a diet. The last thing we need is a bunch of baby zombie-tribbles running around."

"Zombie-tribbles?" Spock's eyes narrow. "Please clarify."

"Unlike Jim, this tribble wasn't frozen in a cryo tube to preserve its brain function," McCoy explains, jabbing a thumb at the cooing ball of fur. "It can't do much besides keep its body working, so make sure you force-feed it, or it won't eat." He squints at the cage for a moment. "It's dumb even by tribble standards, which is impressive if you think about it."

Spock finds this entire situation illogically alarming.

"Also, for god's sake, go visit Jim, would you?" McCoy continues, waving an arm in Spock's general direction. "You were there every day when he was unconscious, and now that he's awake you've turned into a ghost."

"Doctor, I am hardly a grotesque apparition commonly found in Terran horror stories. Additionally, now that the captain's recovery is assured, it seems illogical to visit the hospital while Starfleet requires my presence elsewhere."

"Shut up, Spock," McCoy growls. "I know you're busier than all of us with the goddamn interrogation sessions the admirals are throwing at you, but that didn't stop you from visiting before." He gives Spock a long look which Spock finds distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm no expert on Vulcan relationships, but in human friendships, there's usually no logical reason to spend time with someone. And…I think Jim'll feel better if he sees you."

Spock remains silent, assimilating this information. The doctor would not ask unless he truly believed Jim's health would benefit from Spock's visits.

"It appears I may have…miscalculated," Spock says finally. "I will visit Jim tomorrow."

"Good," McCoy mutters darkly. "The more people we can get in to sit with him, the better. Did you know he was gonna get debriefed yesterday?"

Spock was unaware that the admirals had debriefed Jim at all.

"I did not."

McCoy snorts angrily.

"No, of course not – it was damn sneaky. A bunch of admirals waltzed in and grilled him before he'd even had breakfast."

"I was not aware that Captain Kirk was declared healthy enough to – "

"Could he physically sit up and stay awake long enough to talk to them, yeah, and that's apparently all the damn admirals wanted. Never mind that he hasn't had time to heal from the goddamn mental trauma," McCoy says furiously.

It was entirely logical for the admirals to debrief Jim as soon as possible in order to minimize the risk of an inaccurate report. For some unknown reason, however, Spock finds himself vastly displeased with the admirals' course of action.

McCoy is still ranting.

" – so of course, rehashing events just caused the kid to finally start thinking about everything that's happened, and – " McCoy breaks off, suddenly appearing worn. "The thing about Jim is, he doesn't say what he's really thinkin' about. It's a goddamn guessing game. You've been in command when shit hits the fan – maybe you know better than I do what he's goin' through. When he's ready, talk to him, will you?"

Spock nods slowly.

McCoy looks at him for another long moment, then sighs.

"I'm goin' to bed," the doctor says, dragging a hand over his face and grumbling to himself. "It's almost 0200. What the hell am I still doing in your quarters?" He heads for the door without pausing for Spock's response. "Get your ass to Starfleet Medical tomorrow morning, Spock. And don't kill the tribble!" The doctor gives this last instruction over his shoulder as the door slides shut.

Spock stands in the hallway for a moment after the doctor leaves. He casts an assessing look at the tribble on his bookshelf. It coos.

"Fascinating," Spock says aloud.

He then returns to his sitting room to begin his meditation.


Spock knocks on the captain's hospital door at 1023 hours. There is a brief silence before Jim's muffled voice says "Come in." Spock enters, and Jim, who appears unusually tense, relaxes immediately.

"Spock, it's you," he grins, and Spock finds himself illogically pleased at the sight of Jim's smile. "For a second I thought you were an admiral."

"Why would you mistake my presence for that of an admiral's?" Spock asks curiously. Jim snorts.

"'Cause who else knocks? Bones and the nurses just barge in." He tilts his head back and frowns. "Sit down, would you? You're gonna give me neck pain."

Spock sits in an empty chair next to the bed, taking in the vitals displayed overhead. Jim looks cheerful but tired, the dark circles present underneath his eyes indicative of insufficient rest. He also appears thinner, his face more hollow than it was 2.6 weeks ago, the skin taught across his cheekbones. Spock's eyes flick downwards as Jim tries to discreetly tuck a PADD beneath the covers.

"Captain – "

"Whoa, hey, what happened to 'Jim?'" Jim demands indignantly. "We're friends now, Spock. That means you call me Jim."

"Jim," Spock amends, tilting his head in acquiescence. "I believe I should apologize for my absence these past four days."

"That's okay," Jim shrugs. "You're busy, I get it. Hospitals bore me too."

"I do not find your presence boring," Spock corrects, and Jim's mouth twitches into a half-smile. "I was merely occupied."

"Yeah, no shit. I bet it's a madhouse out there," Jim says, most illogically. "Have you been keeping up with space dock? What's going on with the Enterprise?"

Spock hesitates.

"Dr. McCoy instructed me not to give you information which might be stressful in – "

"Spock. What is going on with my ship."

Spock does not think Jim intended to use such a commanding tone. He straightens and folds his hands in his lap.

"Starfleet engineers are still evaluating the extent of the damage," he tells Jim. "However, sections of engineering may need to be disassembled and repaired planetside in the Riverside Shipyard. Current data estimates that total repairs will be completed within seven to eight months' time."

Jim sits quietly for a moment, blue eyes averted. Spock finds it surprisingly difficult to interpret his reaction.

"I guess I really scratched her up," Jim says finally, with a faint smile that does not seem sincere. Spock is not pleased.

"I believe Alexander Marcus and Khan are responsible for the damage," he corrects. Jim shrugs, smile a little more genuine.

"Well, technically, yeah," he acknowledges, and the smile fades. "Where are they keeping Khan, anyway? I hacked into the nets when Bones wasn't looking, and it just says 'the terrorist John Harrison' is dead."

Spock hesitates. He does not believe Jim is ready to discuss such issues; since Spock has entered the room, Jim has turned approximately two shades paler and tremors in his hands have increased by 5.6 percent. He is not well, although he does not seem to realize this.

"I am unclear on Starfleet's thoughts on the matter," Spock says carefully, which is not technically a lie. Spock only knows that a panel of admirals voted unanimously to lock Khan and his crew away in cryo tubes for an indefinite amount of time. "However, I do not believe that Khan or any of his crewmembers have a chance of escaping and causing more destruction."

Jim shivers.

"Speaking of that, I heard the Vengeance crashed into the bay?" he asks. Again, Spock must tread carefully. The destruction to the city is quite visible, but Jim, confined to bed, has likely not seen any of it with his own eyes.

"Affirmative," Spock says simply, and hurries on before Jim can open his mouth again. "I must leave now, Jim – I am scheduled to attend a meeting in 15.7 minutes."

Jim tries to hide his disappointment.

"Yeah, no problem – you don't want to be late." He offers Spock another, smaller smile. "Thanks for stopping by."

Spock does not stand up.

"If it is acceptable to you, I can return at 1700 hours. You once asked to engage me in a game of chess. I would be amenable to the experience."

Jim's face splits into a broad grin, and Spock feels suddenly pleased.

"I'm gonna kick your ass," Jim predicts gleefully.

"That is doubtful, as you are still confined to a bed," Spock observes, rising from the chair. Jim laughs as Spock heads for the door.

"1700 tonight, don't forget!" he calls after Spock's back.

Spock briefly considers reminding Jim that Vulcans have an eidetic memory, but merely nods and continues down the corridor.


So...who wants to name the tribble? :D