Nine
It wasn't often that Spock wondered about other people's motivations, particularly not when they had to deal with emotional incentives. However, lying flat on his back in an oddly angled part of a Jeffries tube working on a piece of circuitry, he couldn't help but speculate about whether or not this kind of activity was what endeared Montgomery Scott to engineering.
The work was creative by means of invoking a lot of cognitive problem solving. It was also concrete, in a very tangible sort of way. It was logical in its gradual progression of one thing leading to another. It was undeniably satisfying emotionally as the result of the work was right there, beneath his fingers, and in all other parts of cross-connecting circuitry he had repaired so far today.
Spock reached for the toolkit on his belt and pulled out another instrument to make a more fine-tuned adjustment. His thoughts streamed in a slow-paced, uninterrupted flow, which was almost meditative.
He had never considered it, but now that he was faced with it, he realized he missed this kind of work. Not engineering specifically, but rather this sense of close-to-the-ground activity. When he had been a junior officer, he had spent most of his time working in the field, having first-hand contact with whatever subject was the current focus of the research. It involved a lot of preparatory work, a lot of tasks which were more in the area of physical toil, only crowned with short periods of theoretical postulating.
Captain Daniels used to call his junior science staff little demon workers, which was consistent with his ironical view of himself as a 23rd century alchemist. Unsurprisingly, the nickname stuck to Spock more than to any of his colleagues on the Artemis, but there was a great deal of affection behind it. Unlike Leonard McCoy, when Captain Daniels called his resident Vulcan a hobgoblin, he implied his almost supernatural predilection to working non-stop first, and his appearance only a distant second. On the other hand, appearance probably did matter some, because Thrella, their Andorian Chief Science Officer, was fondly called a genie by the Captain. (And a horned genie behind her back by the rest of the crew, Spock naturally excluded.)
Spock always enjoyed fieldwork, but as his experience grew, he was promoted and pushed gradually higher in both the ranks of the service and scientific duties. He became senior researcher, then eventually Science department head. He fought to maintain contact with the basis, but as any accomplished scientist, he was one day forced to realize that his time as a demon worker had come to an inevitable end. On that day, he seriously considered leaving the service. But it was the time of a short lull during a vicious war, and his longing for purely scientific endeavors stood no chance faced with his formidable sense of duty.
Later, as he became third in command, and then ultimately First Officer, the administrative duties that came with the title had eaten up even more of the time he devoted to his research projects. He still managed to publish several major papers every once a quarter, but it was so drastically not enough to satisfy his yearning for more that at times he felt something suspiciously close to jealousy of his colleagues at the VSA.
That, and not his supposed inability to lead a human crew, was the main reason for his profound aversion to any Command position. He could still remember the wistful look on Captain Daniels' face, as his commanding officer told him, 'Science is now but a hobby for me, Spock. An indulgence I can rarely afford.' Spock vowed silently to himself then that it would never come to this point for him. Life, however, had other plans. He was aware that he had come perilously close to that line. Another promotion—and his career as a scientist would be over.
In rare moments of deep personal honesty, he asked himself if his subconscious mind was working overtime, trying to make him show his unsuitability for Command in every way imaginable. He stuck with his poor understanding of the human nature, even when he understood it perfectly. He stuck with being a model Vulcan rather than a real one. He tried to stick desperately with anything that might potentially work...
It never happened. Or perhaps he was just as unfortunate with his commanding officers as he was fortunate. Captain Pike saw through his subterfuge as if Spock had given him a detailed report explaining it. Not that he would have been able to, as he didn't have the slightest idea of his true motivations at the time. But then, starship captains were supposed to be perceptive, and Chris Pike was as shrewd as they got. He cut Spock little slack for self-indulgence. And he had given Spock a lot of vital lessons of what it meant to be a leader.
Spock surveyed the completed piece of circuitry, checking it for the last time before closing the panel. In a sense, he supposed he envied Scott. Engineering was a very specific occupation. No matter how high one got, one could never lose sight of one's roots. Sliding out of the tube to relocate to the next one that required his attention, Spock concluded that he felt grateful to Scott for allowing him to become a demon worker once again, even for a short while. It felt... soothing.
And it still felt soothing up until Spock climbed out of the tube completely to be faced with a very irate looking Leonard McCoy.
Spock started. He caught himself quickly and schooled his features back to neutral, but he did start and he knew that McCoy had noticed that.
"Let's take a walk," the CMO said crisply and turned to go, without waiting for a sign of Spock's compliance.
Spock glanced at the next tube longingly, contemplating the possibility of disappearing into it before McCoy could catch him. But he knew it would be fruitless in the end and therefore illogical. He checked the impulse and followed the human resignedly.
To his quiet surprise, McCoy showed no inclination to leave the deck. Spock expected them to head back to Sick Bay, but instead the Doctor took a well-familiar path towards the ship's arboretum. The doors were stuck in the half-opened position, as gaining entrance to a recreational facility was clearly not on the top of the repair crews' roster. McCoy didn't try to force the doors, instead stepping aside and glancing at Spock expectantly.
"Do you mind?"
Spock moved past him and, with an effort, pressed the doors open.
"After you," McCoy said from behind.
Spock walked inside, glancing around curiously. He rarely visited this part of the ship. The arboretum consisted of several adjacent rooms, some of them larger and some smaller, each with its specific purpose. This one at the starboard side entrance was purely recreational. The majority of the plants growing here were flowers in different stages of bloom. Instinctively, Spock came towards the big jasmine bush, which was a particular favorite of his. He bent over slightly and inhaled the delicate scent, almost smiling in pleasure. Then he remembered he was being observed and straightened up with almost painful abruptness, turning to face McCoy.
The Doctor stood opposite him with his arms folded across his chest. He was watching Spock fixedly and made no effort to hide it. Spock sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"There is no need for such determined scrutiny, Doctor. I do not pose any danger to these plants."
McCoy looked thoroughly unimpressed and if anything, more irate.
"Cut the crap, Spock. I'm waiting for an explanation."
Spock lifted an eyebrow.
"To what specifically are you referring?"
"You know perfectly well to what I'm referring," McCoy snapped. "You left Sick Bay without permission."
Spock looked down at his feet and immediately chided himself for it. This lack of outward control was most distressing.
"That is not entirely true, Doctor. Doctor M'Benga has cleared me."
"Doctor M'Benga is not your personal physician." McCoy's voice picked up a notch. "I am. And you don't leave Sick Bay until I say you can. I don't care how many degrees in that Vulcan mumbo-jumbo he's got, you're my ward, Spock, until the Surgeon's General office says otherwise. You are to wait until I say you can go, not M'Benga, not God help me Nurse Chapel, or anyone else you can intimidate into releasing you."
Spock sighed, biting his lip. He had foreseen this reaction, which was exactly why he seized the chance to leave Sick Bay when McCoy wasn't there.
"But I am fit for duty," he said, trying hard not to sound as if he was pouting. "Surely, Doctor M'Benga explained that I am fully functional."
McCoy lifted his eyebrows.
"Fully functional? I don't think so. Physically you're healthy, no denying that. As for your mental state—"
"There has been no brain damage," Spock retorted, a bit sharply. "I'm in control of my actions and faculties."
"But you're not in control of your emotions," McCoy said.
Spock closed his eyes briefly in exasperation.
"Doctor, I am no less in control of my emotions than any other member of this crew."
"Which for them is healthy. But not for you."
Spock looked at him impatiently.
"What would you have me do? I will regain my control as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will not be attacking people at random, if that is what you fear. I will not be throwing tantrums. My intelligence and skills remain intact, and I prefer to put them to work. We are in a critical situation, McCoy. Do you expect me to sit idly by and watch the events unfold, knowing I can be of help?"
"You will regain your control," McCoy said, paying no heed to the rest of Spock's tirade. "How?"
Spock frowned and looked away.
"Gradually. Through meditation and contemplation."
"Interesting. How much meditation do you think you're gonna need for that?"
Spock glanced at him, irritated.
"Quite a lot, one would assume. What are you implying?"
McCoy didn't answer at once, instead watching him pensively.
"Spock," he said distinctly. "You've been tortured."
Spock's lips twitched.
"I am well aware of that fact. I was there."
"You are evading the issue."
"What issue is there to evade?" Spock's temper flared. "I have been tortured before, Doctor. This is not the first time since I joined the service and it will probably not be the last."
"No, but it is special. They had never used your telepathy against you before."
Spock sighed in exasperation.
"I fail to see how this is relevant. The methodology—"
"I'm not talking about the methodology here, Spock. You have never been subjected to an attack so precisely designed for you. Nor one that would have succeeded. It's one hell of a lot to deal with, and from what I'm seeing, you're not dealing with it at all."
"I am dealing with it. In my own way."
"By pretending it never happened? Spock, you're acting like a rape victim who tries to convince himself that it was no big deal."
Spock grimaced lightly.
"I'd rather you wouldn't use this terminology."
"Why? Because it hits too close to home? Spock, if what has been done to you isn't a violation, then I don't know what is."
Spock frowned and looked at him somberly.
"Doctor. I do not contest your words. However, you seem to fail to remember that I am not, I believe the colloquial term is, a shrinking violet. I'm a Starfleet officer, trained to deal with situations such as this. I have done so before. I will do so now, given due time and privacy."
"And what if you can't?" McCoy asked quietly. "You're right, you've had to deal with torture before, but you always had your Vulcan training working for you. You were still yourself."
"Are you saying that I have ceased being myself now?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"And what is, if I may ask you, Doctor, your purpose for bringing this up? Do you believe I am not aware of my current deficiency? Do you suppose perhaps that I need to be reminded of it? I assure you this is not the case."
"Blast it, Spock! I'm trying to help you!"
"How? By discouraging my efforts to retain some dignity? By accusing me of not wishing to act like a victim?"
"You're shouting at me."
Spock froze as if slapped. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back, bowing his head.
"I apologize."
"This is what I mean, Spock," McCoy persisted determinedly. "You're not controlling your emotions, and bolting them up inside you won't help."
"What do you suggest I should do?"
"What do the rest of us mortal humans do? We talk."
"Talk?" Spock turned to him, the expression of pure horror on his face. "You want me to talk about it?"
"Look, Spock, there's no need to be so apprehensive. For some reason, you tough guys seem to believe that counseling sessions are detrimental to your self-image. To be honest, I couldn't care less about your male pride right now. You need to talk this out—"
"Male pride?" Spock asked, staring at McCoy as if he were speaking a foreign language. The very thought that he would have to bare his soul was filling him with terror to an almost physical degree. If there was any other concept more instinctively alien to any Vulcan, Spock couldn't think of one. To submit to any such procedure now, when his barriers were less than one day old, seemed suicidal. "Doctor," Spock searched for words carefully, panic obscuring his concentration. "Surely, you are aware that no Vulcan serving in Starfleet is obligated to attend counseling if he or she does not wish to?"
"Yes, Spock, I know that," McCoy said, almost gently. "But you're only half-Vulcan, and right now I think even less than half. You need it."
I will not survive it, Spock thought desperately. He took a step towards the human and, having no logical arguments left, pleaded with him.
"Doctor, if you ever considered me a friend, if you ever even allowed the possibility, I beg you... do not compel me to do this. I will follow any ground rule you lay out to the letter. But this... I cannot, simply I... Please."
He bowed his head and turned away abruptly, deeply ashamed of his own emotionalism. Which led to the fact that he had completely missed McCoy's expression, as he gaped at the Vulcan, stunned. How Spock managed to get a grip on himself, he didn't know, but when he looked at McCoy again, he was able to speak in a more leveled, even if still somewhat broken tone.
"I apologize," he said again. "I overstepped my bounds. It is of course your prerogative as Chief Medical Officer to prescribe whatever treatment you see fit. But I will not, I cannot submit to that."
McCoy was finally able to close his mouth. He watched Spock's face carefully. If it hadn't been so serious, it would have been funny. Spock adopted the same poise of proud stoicism in the face of ultimate defeat as Marie Antoinette on the morning of her execution.
"Spock," McCoy sighed. "Give me your hand."
Warily, Spock complied. McCoy clasped his hand tentatively, but seeing no other reaction than a light wince, nodded and turned it over to get access to the monitoring device on the bracelet. He dialed a short sequence of commands and let go.
"You are officially discharged from Sick Bay now," he said.
Spock closed his eyes briefly in relief.
"Thank you, Doctor."
McCoy looked at him strictly.
"That doesn't mean you're getting a clean bill of health."
"I understand."
"And I do have ground rules for you. You're in a funny position now, Spock," he said, shaking his head at the irony. "You weren't here when we closed the doors. So even if you weren't an escaped convict, you'd still have no legal status aboard this ship now."
"I am aware of that," Spock said.
"Which means," McCoy smirked, "that at the moment every single person on board ranks you, from the Captain to the assistant dish washer in the galley."
Spock raised an eyebrow.
"I do not believe there is any such position on the Enterprise," he said. "However, metaphorically speaking, you are correct. But I am familiar with the regulations, Doctor. What is your point?"
"Oh, I simply didn't want you to forget that," McCoy said. "If you suddenly start giving contradictory orders, people might get confused."
Spock clasped his hands behind his back, drawing comfort from the familiar posture. The encounter was exceedingly draining on him.
"I assure you, I have no intentions of giving orders of any kind," he said. "I am well aware of my current position. Was there anything else you wished to tell me?"
"Yes," McCoy straightened up, suddenly dead serious. "Stay away from Jim."
Spock raised both eyebrows in surprise.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Jim," McCoy repeated, with an air of evaporating patience. "You know, James Kirk, tough guy, wears gold, commands this vessel?"
"I believe I have a vague inkling of whom you may be referring to, Doctor," Spock intoned acidly. "If you would please get to the point?"
"I've already made my point. Stay away from him."
Spock studied him, with a mixture of curiosity and incomprehension.
"You are apparently operating under a misconception that I have some intention of crowding the Captain?" he asked. "I can assure you, I harbor no such intentions."
McCoy wasn't buying it.
"Listen, Spock. M'Benga mentioned your memory loss, but I wonder. How much do you remember about getting on the Enterprise?"
"As Doctor M'Benga has undoubtedly informed you, I do not remember anything," Spock said. "I lost consciousness on the Legourian vessel, and I woke up here, extracting myself from the Healing Trance. I have no recollection of being conscious in-between."
"Well then, you missed one pretty cool spectacle."
"Doctor M'Benga informed me of what had transpired."
"And you don't have anything to say about that?"
Spock sighed.
"I do not recall those events, Doctor. How do you expect me to offer an opinion?"
"I don't, actually. But I'll tell you one thing. Whatever happened between you two that you can't recall affected the Captain pretty hard. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me and I don't want to risk a relapse. Not until we have the time to get to the bottom of this."
"Something to look forward to," Spock muttered.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. You want me to stay away from the Captain."
"Yes, I do. I ran it by Jim, and he agrees that it's a good idea. Until this crisis is over, he can't afford more... distractions."
Spock was silent for a few moments, his expression once again unreadable.
"I understand," he said finally, very softly. "I shall endeavor to comply with this restriction."
"Good. Now then, if you promise to inform me the moment you sense any trouble?" he looked at Spock expectantly, and the Vulcan nodded. "Then I'll leave you to your work."
Spock nodded again silently, still strangely contemplative. McCoy shook his head, but decided to leave it at that. In the doorway, he paused.
"Spock."
The Vulcan glanced up at him.
"It's good to have you home."
He waited for a moment, but Spock didn't say anything. McCoy shrugged and walked out of the room.
"How are we doing, Scotty?"
Kirk's voice came out of nowhere, making Scott jump and bump his head painfully into the closet shelf he was currently inspecting.
"Sorry," the Captain said, grinning apologetically.
"Aye," Scott nodded, extricating himself from the closet. "Not bad, sir," he said in answer to Kirk's question. "All things considered. We still have only minimal life support in most of the port section, but ye told me to prioritize."
"I did," Kirk nodded. "So how're the engines?"
Scott frowned, as he glanced over to the main intermix chamber. The expression in his eyes was that of a mother whose child had taken seriously ill.
"Salvageable," he drawled.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Scott," Kirk clapped him on the shoulder. "We're still alive, aren't we? It can't be that bad."
"Aye, sir, that we are," Scott said, none too happy. "Gabler there has one last test to run, and then we can engage full impulse power."
"Scotty..." Kirk looked at him as if he was barely refraining from kissing his Chief Engineer.
Possibly recognizing the danger on some subconscious level, Scott swiftly stepped aside. He shrugged, rather grimly.
"We'll restore full life support in three to five hours," he said.
"Shields and weapons?"
"Operational," Scott said, with a strange reluctance to his tone. "But, Captain, ye have to understand. We didn't only lose the warp drive. We lost the warp reactor. The impulse reactor simply doesn't have this kind of power."
"You need both nacelles to run the warp reactor," Kirk nodded.
"Aye, sir. Otherwise there isn't enough counterbalance to stabilize the warp field."
"Which we still use for purposes other than propulsion."
"Aye. I might have an idea of how to reconfigure the dispenser field, but it'll take some time."
"Scotty," Kirk looked hesitant. "That sounds kind of... dangerous. If I remember my engineering classes correctly, you can't run a warp reactor with so much as a bolt out of place, never mind a nacelle."
Scott looked at him, with a fine measure of irony. Just enough to constitute friendly teasing, but not nearly close to spelling disrespect.
"Well, sir, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be in any engineering class I attended, either. But—"
"But you think it can work?" Kirk asked with a mild smile.
"I think it's worth a try," Scott said honestly. "I have a theory. I can't guarantee it'll work."
"I want a full briefing on this before you take any action."
"Understood, sir."
"Good. Now, there's something I want you to take a look at. Come with me."
Somewhat intrigued, Scott followed Kirk out of Main Engineering. They took the turbolift to the last section on the port side that did have life support and then crossed into the intersection that was outside the safe zone. Donning oxygen masks, they walked outside the marked perimeter. Only the emergency forcefields were holding this piece of the outer hull together, but the artificial gravity was in place.
"I know you're not a metal specialist, Scotty," Kirk's voice sounded muffled and slightly distorted. "But take a look at this," he pointed at the cramped edges of the hull. "What do you make of that level of corrosion?"
Scott examined the ridges closely.
"It looks like a hit from a Klingon disruptor," he said, fighting through the waves of interference. "Only I've never seen a single disruptor blast cause that much damage. Those panels are practically melted. Now, I suppose a prolonged exposure coulda done that, only—"
"Only we haven't been exposed for that long," Kirk nodded, brushing his hair with his fingers, making it stand on end. "Let's get out of here."
With a final look at the hole, Scott followed him back to safety. Kirk took off the mask, inhaling deeply.
"So what do you think?" he asked, taking a deeper breath and watching his Engineer closely. "Could a single discharge have done that?"
Scott took a moment to consider this. He took his mask off slowly, placing it meticulously back into the hold and clasping the locks with defined precision.
"It does depend on the discharge, doesn't it?" he muttered. "I'll have to run a spectral analysis to exclude metal fatigue, but I can tell ye now that from the looks of it, it's highly unlikely. But Captain, if it was a single discharge, it was of a degree that even Klingon disruptors don't have."
Kirk nodded grimly. "Conventional disruptors, not to mention phasers, couldn't have penetrated our hull that easily, not even with our shields down."
"Aye, they couldn't," Scott appeared pensive. "But ye know what's weird, Captain? It doesn't fit what we know of the Legourians. Technologically, they're a pretty primitive people, if ye know what I mean, sir. That ship of theirs, it belongs in a museum. Apart from their ability to obscure our sensors, there wasn't a wee piece of sophisticated anything aboard."
"That's what's bugging me," Kirk confessed. "They shouldn't have been able to cause us this kind of damage."
"Aye. I'm betting they had help."
"Question is from whom." Kirk pursed his lips resolutely. "Take every weapons specialist we've got and get me a full analysis. I could spare Chekov if you need him. And Scotty." The Captain looked at him levelly. "It's on your priority list."
"Aye, sir," Scott nodded. As Kirk moved past him, he called, "Captain, speaking of priorities, there was something I..."
Kirk turned back towards him and sized him up with a glance. "Yes, Mr. Scott?"
Scott looked hesitant and strangely uncomfortable, his focus shifting between his feet, his hands and the Captain.
"Well, sir... Do I really have to check Mr. Spock's work?" he blurted out finally. "Only it's eating time, and there's no point in it anyway—it's all good and sound. It's not like I don't trust him to handle..." he trailed off awkwardly.
Kirk regarded him evenly.
"It's not a question of his qualification," he said calmly. "He's been a captive of hostile forces and subject to severe mental pressure. We can't exclude the possibility of a hostile influence at this point. He's allowed back on duty only on condition of constant supervision. Regulations, Mr. Scott."
"Aye," Scott sighed. "But..."
Kirk frowned. "Did Spock give you any grief about it?"
"No, sir," Scott shook his head vehemently, as if startled at the idea. "He said the same thing ye said. But it's still damn inconvenient."
Kirk's lips stretched into a thin smile. "I can only imagine Mr. Spock agrees with you."
For a moment, he appeared on the verge of asking something. Scott waited patiently, but the question never came. The Captain visibly collected himself and smiled tightly.
"We both have a lot of work to do, Mr. Scott. Let's not waste any more time."
He turned around and walked away in a slightly more rapid pace than one inviting company. Watching him go, Scott could only shake his head. Kirk was obviously overcompensating, but in Scott's view, that was no reason not to act like a human being. But then again, the Captain was still rather young, a fact that Scott often forgot in view of Kirk's ever present and rather forceful personality. Young people often saw acting like a human being as a sign of ultimate weakness. Particularly when they wore captain's stripes.
Still shaking his head and grunting under his breath, Scott set off to deal with yet another assignment. His day had begun two days ago and there still seemed to be no end in sight. There were too many things to be restored, repaired, reorganized. Too many things and only one of Scott. For an absurd moment, as his mind sought a break from reviewing his endless to-do list, Scott entertained the idea of cloning himself. The mental image of three Scotts strolling casually into Engineering made him chuckle and then almost immediately frown. In a moment, the incongruous notion was expelled firmly out of his mind.
"Captain, hold up a second!"
McCoy's voice practically snatched Kirk out of another dive down the ladder between two decks, which at the moment was still the shortest way to get to certain parts of the ship, too damaged to safely send turbolift cabins there. Kirk looked up with a frown, more tired than irritated, but relinquished his hold of the rail and stepped over to wait for his CMO. Without a word, McCoy proceeded to scan him. That got to Kirk fast.
"Bones, I'm a busy man," he snapped.
"Easy, Captain," McCoy said, a bit absently, concentrating on his readings. "The deal was you check with me every six hours."
"I feel fine," Kirk said, folding his arms across his chest. "And the deal was you update me on Spock's condition since I can't see him. But strangely, Doctor, I have to find out that he's up and about from anyone but you."
McCoy snapped his scanner closed and looked at him grimly.
"Well, he didn't tell me he was checking out, either."
"Bones, that happened more than a day ago. In all that time you couldn't spare a moment to tell me that he's fine?"
"He's not fine," McCoy said flatly.
Kirk stared at him, momentarily startled. "But I thought you said... I mean, you cleared him for duty."
"Physically he's healthy."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"That he's just undergone severe psychological trauma, Captain, and he won't let me help him."
Catching a curious glance from a passing crewmember, Kirk steered McCoy into an empty briefing room.
"You want to explain that?"
McCoy sighed. "M'Benga said Spock's putting his shielding on priority. Meaning that his own internal equanimity will have to wait."
"That's understandable," Kirk shrugged. "First defend, then restore. Pretty much the way we act with a ship in a combat situation."
"Maybe. Maybe it's even logical. For now, though, we are left with one highly emotional Vulcan. He yelled at me, can you believe it?"
Kirk was watching him very carefully. His eyes were glinting softly, but the expression was expectant, calculating, rather than sympathetic.
"Even without his barriers, Spock's pretty reserved," he said quietly. "What did you say to him to make him yell at you?"
McCoy shrugged. "It wasn't my fault, Jim. I was only trying to help. You know he's been tortured. I offered him counseling, but he almost went into a panic attack when I said it. I've never seen him react quite so squally before. I even thought..." he fell silent, noticing that Kirk was staring at him aghast. "Jim? What's the matter?"
"You offered him counseling?" the Captain managed heavily. "After he just had his mind split open, you suggested—more of that? Another stranger messing around in his head? Another intruder?" Kirk swallowed hard, closing his mouth at last, but his eyes were still gaping. "Bones," he shook his head in utter disbelief. "Sometimes I wonder if you've even heard of the Hippocratic Oath, never mind taken one..."
"Oh sweet heaven, what is wrong with you?" McCoy exclaimed, annoyed beyond himself. "With either of you? You act as if I suggested torturing him again!"
"You did! Dammit, McCoy, he's a Vulcan! You can't treat him like an old lady who was mugged on her way to church!"
"I'm not!" McCoy exploded. "By God, Jim, I'm used to Spock making me sound like an imbecile witch-doctor, but I thought I could expect at least some measure of professional respect from you! I'm not suggesting medical treatment out of the blue, God dammit! I've been in Starfleet for more than twenty years, I've seen more torture victims than you'd care to count!"
"But you've never been one, Bones!" Kirk said with heartfelt emphasis. "You've never been one, and I thank God for that every day of my life! You don't know what it's like! You don't know how it feels! You don't know what he's going through! Talking about it is the last thing he needs! Oh, dammit!" He smashed his fist into the wall in frustration. "I don't have time for this. I'm late for a security update, and I... I just don't have the time to talk about it any more right now."
With that, he turned around abruptly and strode out of the room, leaving a deeply distressed and angered McCoy alone.
