Before and After

Blood

Note: This one is a little different: Perforce, it is all 'After' – But I hope you'll agree it fits, nonetheless.

Blood

He has never really considered blood, before.

To him, blood is a simple substance – like tissue or bone or skin. Something to protect, yes – like air, or water – to preserve, like life itself. But blood is nothing special.

Blood has never been a… problem.

His own blood is nothing special. It just is – like his eyes, his hearing, his sense of smell. The sight of it has never frightened him. He does not find it disturbing. The sight of blood is a side effect of physical damage only. Damage can be assessed, then repaired – or not.

But something about this is different.

It is not the odor, though that is different: The heavy pungent scent of iron fills his nostrils, so very different than the rich clean tang of copper he knows well – but that is not it.

It is not the color, smeared on his hands - staining his skin, his hair, his clothing – gradually darkening from vibrant crimson to a black-edged russet red-brown: The color, truth be told, he has always associated with his mother's eyes, and - even more so, perhaps - his own.

No, not the color.

There are sounds associated with blood, of course. His own heartbeat is steady, and quick - the blood courses ceaselessly in his veins with a constant susurration. Those of his crewmates beat more slowly; they alter by mood or action – and he hears them slowing, sometimes, with a lagging double-beat. The fluent blood, then, pumps haltingly through arteries – and damaged tissue: Thick, almost viscous – emerging in gouts and spurts as though afraid of the air.

Afraid.

He tightens his fingers gently around Nyota's, and waits for hers to respond. They do, but faintly: Her mind cannot escape upward to him through the drugged stupor induced upon her when he carried her into this place. It is quieter, now, in the Enterprise Medical Facility, after the storm of purposeful activity: The voices are hushed, movements unhurried, staff faces masks of professional calm. But he could smell their fear, before, at the sight of his burden; see the excitement – the fear – in their eyes. He could hear the tremors in their voices – the speeding of their heartbeats, and the racing of their blood.

Iron, it seemed, called to iron – and the metallic noises of the Medical Bay increased as they wheeled her away, and prepared.

Yes, they had been afraid.

She had been terrified. Her eyes had opened, widened, as he held her, at the sight of her blood on his skin - as her senses caught the rich sharp metallic scent - as the first shards of pain slid in through and around the initial numbness of her shock. They moved to take her from him, and her eyes - wide and searching - found and gripped him with all of the strength her broken body did not possess. Her voice had been almost silenced with weakness, with fear - and he heard it, yet: A whimper - a gasp - his name on her lips.

They had been frightened, when they took her from him - a fear of the unknown, he thought perhaps it was - as they faced what must be done. Doubt and fear hung acrid in the air.

Fear of the unknown, perhaps, when they brought her back, as well – but that was very different, too: A very simple fear… because he is different, and waiting. They could not understand why he stayed.

Behind the enshrouding curtains, he stands beside her bed – and breathes.

He closes his eyes, and lets the tiniest wisp of his consciousness go seeking… He senses – feels - a fluttering warmth as faint as the rise and fall of her breast as she breathes, as almost-nothing as the motion of the slender fingers enfolded within his shielding grasp – but a faint almost-nothing is enough. He sends to her his own serenity - gently, gently - and feels her mental sigh.

Nyota is afraid no longer: He will never lie to her. She knows it. And his serenity is assurance against this present iron-scented stupor-draped uncertainty.

McCoy comes to him there, sends him away at last with reassurances and promises, worried that he might attract unwelcome attention – worried, perhaps, for his health, his peace of mind; though truly, the doctor need not worry about these last. He kneels in meditation:

He is Vulcan. He denies apprehension.

He is Vulcan. He feels no fear.

But, after - when the night grows late, and silence surrounds him - his mind turns, unbidden, to thoughts of the future. He remembers their eyes, their heartbeats, the inevitable oxidation of bright crimson to dull, flat reddish brown - and something for Spock is different.

In his mind, in his heart, it is different, heavy, down to his very blood.

This iron weight is new.

After, he wonders if this is a problem… if this could be called 'dread.'