T'Phol followed McCoy into the corridor. Once they were away from Sickbay, he turned to her, embarrassed.
"Look, you really don't have to babysit. I'll be fine, I have the epi and the monitor, and even Doctor M'Benga, who is caution personified, admitted that he doesn't expect any complications."
"I promised." She paused. "So did you."
"So we did. All right. What I'm going to do now is have a quick shower and change. I can still smell that smoke. Nasty stuff. I can't believe I stood there like an idiot and breathed it. I even said I'd be sorry. Remind me next time to listen to my own advice."
He led the way to his quarters and ushered her inside, glad he had tidied earlier. He gestured to the seating area in the alcove and hurried through the shower, throwing on sweatpants and a t-shirt. When he returned, barefoot and damp, T'Phol was intently studying a framed picture from his desk. He looked over her shoulder, smiling a bit.
"Nice picture, isn't it? That is my daughter, Johanna. She was almost five years old then. She's grown now."
T'Phol gently replaced the frame on the desk. "I did not mean to pry. She is a beautiful child. And you look young and happy."
"I was." His smile faded. "That was almost seventeen years ago. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then." He reached past her and laid the epinephrine hypo on the desk. "Here's the magic potion."
"You are full of idiomatic phrases, Doctor." T'Phol indicated another photo. "This is your family? The little boy is you?"
"Yes. My parents and Grandma Lydie. You know, the one who made good cornbread. And our dogs, Rambler and Bel. I was about ten years old." His eyes softened with a smile.
"Are your parents still living?"
McCoy sat in the other chair, stretching his legs out. "No," he said slowly, face darkening. "Daddy died years ago, I had just finished medical school. Mama passed a little before I joined the Enterprise. Johanna is all the family I have left except for an aunt and uncle and a few cousins. The other picture is her graduating from nursing school. That was a few months ago." He cleared his throat, wincing a bit.
"You are getting hoarse," observed T'Phol. "Let me get you something to drink. What would be soothing?"
"Jack and honey with lemon," McCoy said.
"Do you have the ingredients?"
"Order a hot lemon tea, extra sweet with honey. The beverage card is beside the slot. The bottle of Jack Daniel's is in that cabinet. There is a shot glass in there, too."
T'Phol found the card and requested two teas from the synthesizer and brought the bottle and glass, setting both in front of him. She declined his offer to share. He poured from the bottle, drinking one shot right away, then poured another. He recapped the bottle, moving it away. He sipped the hot tea, and when the level dropped enough he poured the second shot into the cup. After finishing, he leaned back, closing his eyes. T'Phol sipped her own tea, quiet but watchful.
When she finished she decided to rouse him. "Doctor McCoy. Come, lie down."
"I wasn't asleep." He opened his eyes and sat up as if to prove it.
"Perhaps you should be. I can hear you just as well from either location, and I believe rest was part of Doctor M'Benga's prescription."
McCoy realized he was indeed near exhaustion, more tired than he could remember being in a long time. He looked at T'Phol and couldn't help but feel a bit foolish. "So you're gonna just sit and watch me nap?"
"If it makes you more comfortable, I will not look."
He laughed hoarsely, shaking his head a little at her brand of inescapable logic, and padded over to his bunk, stretching out on top. He was sleeping within a minute or two. When his breathing evened and she was sure he was asleep, she got up and pulled the coverlet over him and dimmed the lighting. She was just sitting down when the door chimed. She hurried to answer but McCoy did not stir.
She opened the door and was not surprised to find Kirk standing on the other side. She put a finger to her lips and motioned him in.
Kirk could see the doctor's sleeping form. "I stopped by Sickbay first," Kirk said softly. "They told me he was his usual terrible patient self, refusing to stay in Sickbay, and you are his caretaker for a while. How is he?"
"He is beginning to lose his voice, which was expected, I believe. He had a hot drink and has just gone to bed, although not without protest," T'Phol answered. "He is sleeping now. I shall observe him very carefully for signs of distress. I have the epinephrine hypo, should it be needed."
Kirk looked up at the tall Vulcan, her concern was palpable and genuine. "Well, it seems Bones is in good hands," he said. "When he wakes up, he's going to want to know what's going on. Tell him the decontamination is finished and no one else was exposed. Kelan is fine, just antisocial, and he tells me that defkato is very addictive for Andorians. So Vartheb is an extremely unhappy junkie at the moment. Scotty is making him a sealed chamber with controlled airflow so he can continue to enjoy his libation without poisoning the entire deck. And Vartheb says under no circumstance does he ever want to lay eyes on Doctor McCoy again."
T'Phol's eyebrow rose. "I shall relay that when he awakens."
"Thank you, Miss Grayson. I'll stop back by Sickbay and give Doctor M'Benga your report."
"He sent you?"
"Yes and no. Doctor McCoy is my friend."
"Of course. I was not complaining."
"Tell Bones I will see him tomorrow. Take care of him."
"I shall do my utmost best."
Kirk laughed, softly. "That's what we all say." He looked at McCoy affectionately, shaking his head. "He makes that a hard job, sometimes."
After Kirk left, T'Phol stood at McCoy's bedside, listening carefully. His breathing was regular and deep, and other than an occasional small hitch nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. She studied his features for a while. In sleep he looked younger and vulnerable, more like the young father in the photo. After a few minutes, she took a seat at his desk, picking up the photo again. They were both looking into the camera lens, smiling, faces pressed together, a breeze ruffling their hair. His hair was longer then, and wavy, his daughter was crowned with very blond, curly ringlets. They did not resemble each other much. His features were open and relaxed, and he was wearing a wedding band, now absent, as well as the other ring he still wore. She set the picture down in its place, picking up the older family photo. McCoy grinned shyly from between his mother and grandmother, his hair uncombed and unruly. A brown spotted hound was laying at his feet, a handsome German Shepherd Dog sitting alertly beside his father.
Eventually she moved her chair a little closer to his bunk. In her head she practiced scores, seeing the notes flow by, but always listening to his breathing in the background. He turned and moaned a few times, but then settled down again. The afternoon waned into evening.
McCoy woke slowly. His throat hurt and he could hear a few wheezing rales inside his chest. He opened his eyes a little. T'Phol had moved her chair into his view. She was sitting quietly, eyes closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. He could see her eyes moving under the lids, and her fingers twitched a bit in rhythm and pattern. Playing air piano, he suddenly realized. He studied her profile for a minute from under his lashes. Her features were clean boned with strong, elegant lines, a straight nose adorned with a faint smattering of freckles, high cheekbones and delicately pointed ears. Her thick dark auburn hair was mostly captured into a loose braid. The escaping tendrils waved and curled in their own fashion. He watched her hands, very long and strong looking fingers, but graceful, with closely trimmed nails and a prominent ulnar styloid process highlighting thin wrists and sleek, muscular forearms. She did not look much like Spock, but he thought they shared quite a few mannerisms.
She suddenly opened her eyes and turned toward him. "You are awake," she said. "How do you feel?"
He experimentally cleared his throat. "I don't know. How long have I slept?" It came out mostly as a croak.
T'Phol checked her internal clock. "Five hours, thirty-eight minutes. It is now almost twenty-one hundred hours."
He coughed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. T'Phol rose to assist, but he waved her off. "I'm OK," he said. He went to the bathroom, washed, splashed his face, and drank some water. When he finished, T'Phol was moving her chair back into position. He sat, toying with the monitor on his wrist for a minute, feeling awkward. It had been a long time since he woke up to another person in his room.
"Captain Kirk stopped by while you were sleeping," T'Phol said. "He left messages. The decontamination process was completed without incident and with no further injuries. Kelan indicates that defkato is a highly addictive substance and Vartheb is an addict. Mister Scott is preparing a safe delivery method so he can continue to use the drug without compromising the safety of the crew. Vartheb is not interested in talking to you again. Captain Kirk will see you tomorrow."
"An addict?" McCoy's brow furrowed as he thought. "Addicted, but sent to work as half of a team on a fairly high profile scientific project. He and Kelan apparently do not like each other or get along too well."
"It does seem like an odd pairing on the surface."
"Yes. Yes it does."
"T'Phol leaned forward. "Why do you think they are staying hidden from view? Are all Andorians so private?"
McCoy shook his head. "I don't know. Except for the Babel conference, I haven't had a lot of contact with Andorians. Maybe they just don't like us. They are a warrior people despite their mild mannerisms and soft speech. There are several races they are not too fond of, including Tellarites and Vulcans. I guess Vartheb is feeding his addiction. Kelan..." He shrugged.
"I wonder what sort of scientific equipment they had to transport themselves to a rather well established research site. Most translating work is done by computer. It seems tapes would have sufficed. Any necessary excavation supplies would already be available planet-side. They brought a great number of boxes on board."
McCoy cocked a brow at her. "Well, you brought some special equipment on board, too."
"Yes. How many Moog synthesizers do you suppose are on Aminta II?"
"Point taken." He paused. "Anything that is beamed aboard undergoes a screening process. Dangerous items would have been flagged and identified." He cleared his throat.
They looked across the desk at each other, unanswered questions hanging in the air.
T'Phol suddenly stood. "Does the synthesizer in here deliver food as well as tea? I am hungry. Where are the rest of your food cards?"
"Look on the shelf."
"What would you like? Is chicken soup acceptable?"
He nodded unenthusiastically She programmed the soup and set it in front of him. She got vegetable soup with bread and more tea. Wordlessly she handed him a hot tea as well. He found after the initial couple of painful swallows that he could finish without too much trouble, so he ate and then drank the hot tea, feeling a little soothed.
"She finished and got another dish for each of them, setting his in front of him.
"Pudding?" The corner of his moth drew down in a frown.
"Another thing that should be easy for you to swallow."
He looked at her and then at the pudding, pushing it away. "You heard Doctor M'Benga griping about my weight, didn't you?"
T'Phol raised an eyebrow. "Even my Vulcan ears cannot hear through walls. Also I do not intentionally listen to private conversations. It is obvious that you could not have not eaten since at least the midday meal, however you may colloquially refer to it." She spooned a bite with a little more vigor than necessary. "You," she said, pointing her spoon at his midsection, "are quite thin. Do not blame me for noticing. The pudding is soft and easily swallowed. You should eat it."
McCoy stared at her, then pulled the bowl back in front of him, taking a bite. "I call the midday meal lunch, usually. Grandma called it dinner. You coulda at least ordered chocolate."
"I shall file that information for future reference."
They finished eating in a silence that felt oddly companionable, and to McCoy somehow familiar. T'Phol picked up the used dishes and fed them into the recycler. She turned to find him staring at her. She met his eyes, neither looked away for a long moment. Finally McCoy laid his hands face up on the desk.
"May I see your hands?" he asked.
T'Phol quirked an eyebrow, but sat and placed her hands on the desk, also palm up. McCoy looked at them for a moment, then reached across with a questioning look. She nodded permission, so he took one hand in his, gently manipulating her carpals and metacarpals, rotating her wrist, and feeling her fingertips.. She got the idea he was actually seeing the inner structure in action. He did the same with her other hand. "Here, he said, "squeeze my hands."
She did, lightly.
"No, really squeeze." He increased pressure.
"I will hurt you."
"Well, then squeeze until I scream."
She tightened her grip quite a lot. His eyes got a little wide, so she eased up. He pulled away, holding his hand with extended fingers. She matched him. His hands were large for his size. Their hands were about the same, but her fingers were a little longer.
"How far is your reach?" she asked.
"What?"
She demonstrated, spreading her fingers wide.
"Oh." McCoy splayed his fingers as far as he could. She spread hers, easily out-distancing his by quite a bit.
"I reach an eleventh without rolling." At his blank look, she added, "An eleventh is an octave plus three keys. Rolling is this motion," and she demonstrated. "Listz and Rachmaninov could reach a thirteenth.
"Not surprising. Yours have adapted through years of intense training starting when you were very young. If I started playing today, mine might change some, but never to that extent. Your wrists and hands are very muscular, very strong, even your fingers. I expected callus on your fingertips, but there aren't any. The skin is hard on your left fingers, though, I can feel that."
"The left hand is my playing hand for strings. Some violinists do have calluses, but they are more common on guitarists. And perhaps surgeons? You have some."
"Will you play for me again?"
"That did not go so well last time," she said.
"Only that one," he said. "Anything else is fine."
She studied his face a moment. Then she stood. "I shall do so if you promise to stop talking so much, your voice is getting worse."
His slow smile spread into a real grin. "That's just an excuse. You really just want me to shut up."
"That is correct. Would you accompany me to my quarters? I will play either Moog or violin. The piano seems to attract a crowd."
He put on a pair of slippers and pulled a scrub over his t-shirt. T'Phol grabbed the epi pen from his desk on the way out.