Watching McCoy Sleep
She awoke with a gasp; Spock was no longer beside her.
But he had been. In the stillness, she could almost feel the weight of his hand on her hip. Her racing heart began to settle: The heat from his body had not yet dissipated from where he had lain, his scent still hung in the air.
He had come home.
But he was no longer beside her.
Unwilling to sleep, had he gone to the Bridge?
Unanswered questions pricked his skin – Had he been drawn to the labs?
Upon his return, he had not stayed long in Medical. Perhaps his injuries were worse than they seemed. Worse than he had let her assume?
She knew he would not lie to her; but she had not asked.
He also knew she worried.
She flipped back the sheets that he had pulled up around her, and pushed her feet over the side of the bed. She stood for a moment, undecided.
Then, she began to dress.
On the Bridge, he would turn in his chair, with a rising brow - if he saw her now.
In the lab, he would hardly notice her – though he would listen if she spoke.
In Medical…
Her feet made their own decision and carried her to Sickbay.
At the doors, she paused a moment to straighten her shoulders. She took, and expelled, one huge breath. Chin high, she marched in.
Once inside the big blue bay, she hesitated, looking around. Many of the beds did hold forms, but none was the one she sought. Nor was the Captain here, sitting by some heedless sleeper. She moved forward – Still, no Spock.
If he were in the smaller wing… No. He was not here. This smaller room was, thankfully, empty: Those this severely injured had at least recovered enough to be moved to the primary bay.
One last look through the main facility and the tension in her spine released. It was almost peaceful, here.
She almost smiled.
She could go to the Bridge. She could check the labs.
She could go back to bed.
The light was still on in McCoy's office. Once again, her feet turned of their own accord, and she found herself at the doorway.
Now, she smiled.
Still in his surgical tunic, Doctor McCoy sat at the desk. He had clearly been reading one of the charts, chin upon his hand, when he fell asleep. The awkward weight had caused his hand to shift - both arms now lay splayed across the customary litter of equipment, data devices, and empty plates - and his head lay heavy upon one forearm.
Uhura slipped into the office. She sat in the chair to one side. Looking at him, she thought briefly about trying to move him to a more comfortable position, but she didn't want to risk waking him.
She curled her legs under her in the chair and studied him. His hair was disheveled – even more than usual – and there was a single grey strand that she was sure had not been there even a few months ago.
The doctor's face was angled toward her, and she could see that the deep furrows worn in his brow by worry, pain, and late bedside nights, had eased.
His eyes – a penetrating hazel, saying so much that his irascible mouth could not – were closed. The skin of his eyelids was slightly red; she was sure that, open, his eyes would be bloodshot from looking at - staring into - insistent screens, troubled faces, tormented bodies.
His lips were barely parted. She had never really seen his mouth peaceful. It was always too busy quirking wryly, frowning in concentration, pressing together out of frustration; too busy spitting out words – or biting them back. His mouth was mobile. But it would look nice peaceful.
The arm that held his head was bent, and at the end of it his hand was, for once, relaxed.
His hands were powerful and capable, the fingers strong and flexible: The doctor had quintessential 'surgeon's hands.'
She had seen him push those fingers through his hair when a decision seemed too large to make for someone else; rub his forehead when there was nothing left to do but wait; scrub at his eyes when surgery was over, and they stung from work – and what they had witnessed.
She had seen those hands comfort someone in pain, rest on the shoulder of one who waited, close around the arm of one who needed to be led. She had seen them run equipment, administer medication, ease suffering in a myriad of ways.
She'd seen the doctor's hands explain – when eyes and mouth and words weren't enough.
She'd seen them close the eyes of the dead.
Watching McCoy sleep, she wanted to find a way to ensure that he had fewer days like this one, and more that found him sleeping peacefully in his own bed. Peace, after all, was why they all had journeyed so far.
Battles leave marks on a man.
Looking at the doctor's hands, she understood: As strong as they were, McCoy's hands too often had to wrestle with death. Too often they were stained with evidence of the fight…
She understood and, in this moment, forgave him all of the unforgivable things he said. She knew he was a good man - for all that he professed to believe things they both knew weren't true.
Maybe when he woke she could tell him.
Maybe when he woke she could thank him.
Maybe when he woke she could then make him understand that this was where he truly belonged, and where he needed to be.
Maybe she would: She'd also seen his face streaked green – and those surgeon's hands dyed emerald.