The entire bridge sat in anticipation, awaiting either something horrific or something static. Hearts beating rapidly in chests, palms sweating, eyes focused wholly on the view screen. Would their first officer be invisibly murdered? Would they all be invisibly murdered? Would the control panels erupt in flames and the Enterprise swallowed into a desolate demise with no one as witness?

Before long, they found themselves to have been sitting intensely for 20 minutes, each second ticking by like an hour. Then an additional 10 minutes passed. Soon, 40 minutes slugged by without event. McCoy eventually became tired of staring at Spock and checking his micro expressions for any sign of distress. His immediate concern dwindled, and he accepted the danger of Spock's death being immediate had passed. The question now lied in if the danger still existed, but in longer terms.

Kirk took his eyes off the stars and looked up to his first officer, sitting at his science station. Spock was unable to stand any longer, but in masking and in truth, he told the captain he had the curiosity of studying the cosmic dust they'd been passing. Spock met his gaze and replied with a small shake of his head: nothing. The captain gave a nod and slowly blinked his eyes back to the glass. The skin under his eyes felt heavy and exhaustion took the place of adrenaline. He hadn't slept since the day before the encounter, which would make him conscious for almost 46 hours. The thickness of his zigzagging emotions had torn at his energy. The three hours that soon passed occurred as a hazy blur, each moment melting together. Time did not seem to be relative, as all Kirk could focus on was getting away, away, away without the sound of his friend's body hitting the deck.

McCoy finally took to poking around the bridge, humming his scanner over the officers' heads and peering at their complexion questionably. As satisfied as he could be with the results, he strolled back to Kirk while observing him out of the corner of his eye.

"You need to eat and you need to sleep, Jim," he said as he leaned against the chair, just loud enough for Kirk to hear.

"Me? Why don't you say that to the Vulcan behind me?" he whispered back.

"He's been awake for nine hours…you've been awake for far longer than that. And I need him conscious and ticking; more accurate observation."

"Well, I will. I need to wait until we've put more distance between us and that star cluster."

"It's been hours, Jim. There's distance. If something would have happened, it would have happened already. It's not over yet, but it's over for now. And you need to be ready for when later comes. Come on." He motioned with his head towards the lift. Kirk wiped his face and looked back to Spock. The Vulcan, unwillingly hearing their conversation but not letting on he could, sensed the captain's glance. He looked back to him.

"You don't…feel anything?"

"No."

It was no surprise, as Spock had convinced himself that the speculations they'd made were logical. He did not feel anything because, logically, he was no longer a target. Perhaps he would have felt relief at the lack of any type of anguish, but relief can be only defined when you anticipate the opposite of the occurring.

"He'll have the conn for now, Jim," pressed McCoy gently. "Let's go."

"Alright, alright." He stood from his chair. McCoy followed him to the turbo lift, somewhat doubting Kirk's ability to follow his medical orders. Sometimes McCoy questioned if Kirk's mind was human, as he had the inexplicable ability to curb outbursts while harvesting strength, but the man's body was.

"I'm gonna give you a hypo to help you sleep," stated McCoy as the door closed.

"No, that's alright, Bones. I feel pretty tired, I won't need help."

"Yes, you will. The mind explores dangerous things when it wishes for quiet. And I'm going to make you eat a sandwich and some fruit, no, don't argue with me." He held a finger up. Kirk exhaled loudly.

"You gotta stay up there, Bones. Keep an eye on him. I don't need an escort." McCoy braced himself on the railing as the turbolift landed, his body barely swaying in it's stopped momentum.

"I have every intention to, Jim. He's alright for a few minutes. He's got more than just you and I watching out for him."

Kirk was ordered to go straight to his quarters while McCoy fetched his hypo and meal, snagging a second sandwich for himself. He looked at the bread and it's contents, his stomach protesting the look of it. He pursed his lips with disdain as he took it anyway. He himself hadn't eaten much, but seeing as he had babysitting duty for the Vulcan, he knew he was going to need all his strength. That Vulcan really knew how to test his limits.

McCoy was going to bring up something to talk about over their meal, to attempt to give Kirk a sense of calmness as they sat at the small table in his quarters. He knew his friend was overloaded with difficulties, and McCoy rather disliked him having to be in these unfair situations. But as the time came, he found nothing of interest and they ate silently.

"Alright," he said as they finished, "unless I need you for some reason, I want you to sleep for six hours." Kirk's eyebrows shot up in protest, which the doctor was soon to shoot down.

"You need something like 12 hours, Jim, but the best I can do for you right now is six. So, six hours," he said, an order that was a hybrid of gentle and command. He dug out his hypo and inserted it into Kirk's shoulder. It hissed as it emptied itself into his blood.

"You need to call me if anything, anything, happens," implored Kirk as he laid back.

"Okay," conceded McCoy, having no hidden intentions. "Don't let the bed bugs bite." The sedation began to take effect, Kirk's mind slowing in it's wake.

"There are no bugs in space, Bones," he muttered as sleep began to blanket over him. McCoy gave a modest smile.

"I guess being out here does have that one perk," he mumbled, knowing his friend wouldn't hear him. He softly ordered the lights to darkness, and Kirk fell into a vortex of unconscoiusness with no struggle.

The doors closed behind McCoy, and he leaned himself against the wall, the hallway empty. A primal part of him was envious of Kirk's sleep, wanting nothing more than to lie back and force his mind to shut up. He'd had something of a catnap, just before the green machine woke up, but it didn't seem to have swayed his fatigue. He inhaled heavily and exhaled with a groan, pushing off the wall. A short break in a vacant corridor was all he could afford himself — he had half a Vulcan to supervise.

He stood begrudging next to Spock, his arms crossed over his chest. Outwardly, he may have seemed like a bodyguard who took his job very seriously. In some ways, he supposed that's exactly what he was. And dammit, he did take his job very seriously.

Another solar hour passed, by which time Spock had recommissioned the sleep rotation for the bridge, relieving those who needed it most. Uhura began to walk past him to head to her quarters, but stopped, placing a soft hand on his shoulder with a relieved smile. Spock returned with a light, silent nod. He was admittedly a little uncomfortable with the entire bridge being acutely aware of him, however he found he could not dismiss it without appreciation.

Time continued to pass, and McCoy continued to motion his scanner over Spock. It had become annoying to the Vulcan, for the doctor persistently harassed him about his condition. Eventually the headache that he had woken with returned, empowered by McCoy's voice and his own exhaust. He attributed it with contempt to the doctor's incessant hounding.

Soon following, nausea slowly crept into his gut, spreading through his body like a liquid. Spock understood his body needed nutrition in the form of food, but he did not wish to eat. It was entirely illogical, as the intelligent thing to do would be to maintain strength. For Kirk and the ship's sake. However, he surmised he would vomit if he consumed anything, so he accepted his decision. Water, however, may be less intimidating. He stood from the chair, thinking a short walk to fetch it could prove beneficial to his lethargy.

The moment he was upright, the nausea skewered into his stomach and a swift wave of lightheadedness pooled in his brain. The room went black for a millisecond and he grabbed the captain's chair as he staggered. As quickly as his senses were assaulted, the offense was gone. The room stood still, color returned to his vision, and the faint feeling vanished. He blinked it away and warily glanced around the bridge; nobody saw. Grateful of that fact, he took a step towards the lift, now needing the water more critically.

In a rare instance of surprise, a firm hand sprung out from beyond his awareness and grasped his forearm. It was McCoy's, who's alarmed gaze had been trained on him the entire time. He had fear in his eyes.

"I am alright, Doctor," Spock said quietly. Knowing the Vulcan's arbitrary need for privacy, McCoy tailed him to the turbolift and forced the door closed.

"Like hell you are!" he hissed, looking him up and down. "You looked like you were about to pass out!"

"I understand how it may have seemed, McCoy, but I do not find it concerning. You know as well as I do that my circumstances given yesterday's events are undesirable, and I have not consumed anything since that time. I do not believe we should find it as evidence to the alien's threats, as sensibly it is a natural reaction to…this ordeal."

McCoy exhaled heavily and took a step back from Spock. For nothing to have happened for hours, and then for the Vulcan to suddenly falter…

He'd been roaming his eyes around the back of the officer's heads when he noticed the Vulcan stand, and his curiosity for the action had quickly been replaced by horror. The Vulcan must have forgotten that McCoy was standing behind the chair, as McCoy saw him hesitate and then continue to move as if there wasn't a man of medicine right there. His lack of perception was disturbing to the doctor.

"Maybe, Spock, but maybe not. We're gonna get some substance in you, and sleep, NO! Don't you dare argue with me, you goddamned dusty sack of beans! Why does everyone want to argue with me? AND SLEEP, and we'll see how you are from there."

There was a small beep from the turbolift, reminding it's occupants they needed to pick a deck. Bothered, Spock glanced up at it and shifted his stance, debating on if the doctor's words were worth battling.

"You relayed to Captain Kirk yourself that you wished me awake, 'for observation'. That, and he is sleeping. I cannot also do so with no replacement."

"Yeah, humans do this thing called lying, Spock, which is what I did with Kirk so he would worry about himself. You could be awake or you could be knocked dead by five different hypos, and I'd observe you just dandy either way. He's gonna be awake in less than two hours, Spock. Sulu can manage that. He's been in command in some nasty red-alert situations before, he's capable." The Vulcan could spew as much logic as he wished upon McCoy, but he wasn't going to budge this time. Spock opened his mouth to protest, and McCoy regarded him dangerously.

"I will cut your tongue out," he said cooly, a layer of truth laced in his words. Spock clenched his jaw and looked up to the ceiling, annoyed. Eyes still on the panels above him, Spock detached his communicator from his hip.

"Spock to Sulu."

"Go ahead."

"You have the conn, temporarily."

"…yes, sir."

He clicked it shut and looked to McCoy, expecting him to be satisfied. McCoy gave a curt nod and promptly directed the turbolift to sickbay.

"Doctor McCoy, I thought we agreed I would eat and rest," Spock objected, an edge to his voice.

"Oh don't worry, you'll be doing that too. But I never got that check up I was promised after Kirk took you out of sickbay. So, we're doing that right now." He smiled at him. Spock shook his head and looked away from the doctor; there was no point in arguing. The lift landed and they exited, Spock beginning to feel the nip of irritation. It was an emotion he did not like to recognize.

McCoy discreetly peered at the Vulcan, who seemed to be walking straight. His face was a wall of stone.

"Your silence is making me nervous," he finally said. "Some days, I feel like I have hard time getting you to stop chewing my ear off." He continued to look sideways to the Vulcan, but his gaze wasn't met.

"I am tired, Doctor," Spock answered simply. "I do not wish to exert my energy wasting words with you."

McCoy scoffed and even smiled, turning his head back to the front. A few days ago, a statement like that would have gotten the doctor hot and bothered. Today it seemed to be somehow welcome.

"Fair enough."

The sickbay was becoming something of an abyss to Spock. He'd had his fill of the white walls and incriminating medical needles. He suppressed his sigh as he lied back on the biobed. The monitor beeped to life.

"K3 levels look good," McCoy noted as he waved his reader. "K1…needs improvement. Food will help that. How's that headache?" He looked down to Spock. He impishly wanted to see if the Vulcan would be honest this time. The Vulcan pressed his lips together.

"Still present," he said shortly. McCoy hovered the scanner near his temples, the quiet humming aggravating the dull pain.

"Yes it is…" McCoy mumbled to himself, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wasn't very fond of that headache's presence. Vulcan's rarely experienced such things, half human or otherwise.

"I can give you a hypo," he offered as the scanner dropped to his side.

"No," Spock replied, unvarnished.

"It will help, Spock."

"No, Doctor, what it will do is make me ill. I am already in a weakened state, those voodoo sprays can do nothing beneficial for me." He sat up and lifted himself from the bed, fending a small bout of dizziness. "In fact, at this moment, I would prefer to rest. That is what may effectively aid me."

"Alright," conceded McCoy, looking back to the monitor. There wasn't anything alarming on the screen. Exhaustion, hunger, fatigue. A few wavelengths that indicated nausea. All to be expected.

"But you need to sleep, Spock. No meditating. Sleep."

"That is my intention, Doctor."

McCoy nodded and looked over to the room Spock occupied several hours ago, then looked back to him. Spock stared at him.

"I have no desire to sleep here, McCoy."

"How am I supposed to keep an eye on you?"

"At the moment, I do not believe that is necessary."

"Oh, my God, Spock." McCoy rubbed his face with his hands, clenching his eyes shut. "You are single handedly the worst patient I have ever treated." His voice was tired, tense. Spock cocked his head, observing the man. He himself did not seem to be the only one in need of rest.

"Look, if you want to sleep in your quarters, take a micro-monitor with you," McCoy said, his eyes still squeezed shut. He dropped his hands and then looked up at him. "I just want to keep an eye on your heart rate. So take one." He waved him off with one hand and used the other to massage his temples. Spock stared at him for a beat and willingly left the room, collecting a micro-monitor from the cabinets as he exited.

It was a small device, designed for medical staff to continue minor observations on patients who were not in immediate view. It generated small, thin strips which the patient could wrap around two separate fingers; this allowed the device to detect heart rates and blood pressure and relay it in realtime back to the staff. McCoy was unwilling to allow Spock the freedom to do as he wished concerning his recovery, however the doctor was more at ease knowing he had one with him.

Spock walked down the corridor, his legs heavy. The tease of sleep tugged at his mind. How was it so that he was so exhausted, after waking up less than half a day ago? As a Vulcan, he could go without sleep for a substantial amount of time, if needed. Now the need for it threatened to drown all other senses. He hardly recalled the route he took to arrive to his quarters, he only recognized that he was suddenly there.

He tugged his black rest shirt on, his mind receding to a dull roar. It had been racing, active, since he woke to Nurse Chapel's questions. He'd been keeping intense attention to every turn, every point in which this journey had taken he and his ship. Now it was reeling down, draining of it's distractions. His mind drifted from that which he was forced to pay mind to, to things in which he was formerly too busy to focus upon. The unnerving faulting of the lights on the bridge. Malign wires ensnaring his legs with magnificent force, pain in which he'd never fathomed. His arms. Around his jaw. The clarity of all the pressure, agony, suffocation beginning to wane in tandem with his consciousness.

He blinked and shook his head sharply, chasing the memory away. It was not something he could stand to recall with his usual detachment. He did not notice his left hand was trembling.

He took a long breath in, and closed his eyes as he exhaled. There was nothing left of it but the headache. It is illogical to dwell on that which is gone.

He eagerly climbed into his bed, his muscles crying out for relief. He stared at the ceiling as he fought between the want for sleep and the want to never close his eyes. The prior soon became inevitable, and he welcomed the ease with which he seemed to fall into it. He was barely conscious of the strips round his fingertips, his head drooping to the pillow as blackness rolled over him.

It is illogical to dwell on that which is gone.