Bedside Manners
Nyota Uhura came to Sickbay this morning, worried about Spock; and her visit has left Leonard unsettled - with a steadily increasing sense of unease.
It's a not unfamiliar feeling, but it's an unwelcome one – and one, he is learning, it always pays to heed. There is a definite and, somehow, appropriate irony, he thinks, to the fact that - where Vulcan reticence is concerned - human intuition (backed-up with willful defiance of logic) is one of his most useful tools.
Well, in this case, he'll take what he can get.
A few hours later, the surgeon waits at his desk, reviewing the last of the previous night's charts. The ship's Chief Medical Officer has summoned the ship's Chief Science Officer to the Main Bay of the Medical Facilities for evaluation and additional treatment.
The fact that the latter responds promptly is a cause for renewed concern: The doctor had been thoroughly prepared to get high-handed; and wonders, quite frankly, why it wasn't necessary. Either Uhura had relayed the message in a way that indicated Spock would incur her displeasure if he didn't go right away (and if that is the case, McCoy is sorry he missed it) - or the Captain had ordered him directly.
Or…
Honestly, McCoy doesn't like the idea of a third possibility.
He isn't sure which approach will be most effective with the Enterprise's exceedingly logical (yet apt-to-be-recalcitrant) Second-in-Command; so he just climbs to his feet, when the Vulcan walks in, and leads the way to a biobed in the least-occupied part of the Bay. "Up here, Commander," he says, with as neutral a tone as he can manage.
Spock maneuvers himself to sit at the precise center of one side of the bed.
McCoy notes the long hands fitted lightly over the edge of the bed's padding, and thinks perhaps the other's motion was not as fluid as usual. The doctor doesn't say anything, however, and he draws the curtains closed around the bed.
He still hasn't decided what tack to take; he stands a moment, surveying his most docile (and tied-with-Jim-Kirk-for-'most-troublesome') patient.
The Vulcan looks thinner, maybe; thin. His face is set, and a little drawn; his eyes, his hands are motionless. Spock is not staring at him expressionlessly as usual, and again McCoy feels that tiny wave of fear. No, Spock is not staring at him: He is looking down at the floor, somewhere near the doctor's boot heels.
Leonard sighs.
Disquietingly discerning eyes are directed to him, then; and not quite knowing what he should say, McCoy just gestures with his chin. "Shirt."
Spock says nothing. He starts to remove his blue tunic; and after a moment, remembering the injuries lying beneath, Leonard steps forward and reaches to help him.
And Commander Spock lets him help.
McCoy's tiny wave of fear grows stronger.
He thinks to turn up the ambient temperature in the immediate area - and to begin warming the biobed.
Still, Spock says nothing.
McCoy steps back, for a few seconds, to observe him again – and in those seconds, he thinks of Uhura's visit that morning: Her slow sink into the visitor's chair; her head tilted back, as she blinked at the ceiling; her fingertips white on his desktop. Looking away, Leonard forces the vivid images from his mind. As clearly as he can, he calls up the most boring lectures he can remember from Med School: Dry, dry talks on failed reform and malpractice insurance and lists of outmoded drugs. Then, he steps forward to touch Spock's skin.
The uneven cuts on the pads of the fingertips are beginning to knit together fairly well – better than expected, in fact; though, now that McCoy thinks of it, maybe he should have been revising his expectations, all along.
The others, though? Not so much – so maybe not.
Spock's right palm has split open along two of the angry jagged tears, and Leonard hisses a little as he sees it. Spock, he knows, reported here from his post on the Bridge – and this has to hurt. It has to hurt a lot. (The hiss has earned him an expressionless Vulcan stare - At last: The first of the day.) He sprays the other's outspread palm with topical analgesic. As he cleans it, Doctor McCoy thinks of his upcoming Medical Department Meeting with his very efficient superior officer and, at last, has something to say. "I don't suppose I could convince you to take a couple of days off - to let this heal, Boss, huh?"
This quip earns him a one millimeter lift and drop of a single straight black brow - and a firmly uttered, "No."
The second shirt is removed a little less smoothly - and McCoy is glad he thought to heat the bed.
There is no close-fitting thermal layer, now, under Spock's uniform, and the reason is shockingly plain.
In the course of the time that McCoy has been treating the First Officer of the Enterprise, the doctor has learned a few things about Vulcans (some more useful than others). The one of particular interest at the moment is that their dermal tissue contains a much higher concentration of nerve endings per square centimeter than does that of Humans. As long as that neural network remains intact, it functions as, essentially, an additional sensory organ - one as highly developed as any other the Vulcan possesses. This, McCoy suspects, is part of Spock's astonishing acuity - and it is certainly a part of his telepathic ability.
On the other hand - when damaged - the pain signals, surely, are increased to a commensurate degree…
Pain suppression is one of the essential Vulcan mental disciplines.
Since Spock is so stubborn about discussing pain at all, however, McCoy has never asked him directly to what degree is he affected - and really, he wonders how they can even discuss such things without a common frame of reference.
Meanwhile, whenever Spock is treated in the ship's medical facility, the Chief Medical Officer tries to remain aware of the stoic First Officer's sensitivities – and to anticipate, as best he can, the other's unstated need for privacy, quiet, heat, peace…
Looking, now, at the open tears across the Vulcan's lean muscular side, the phrase 'flayed alive' comes to mind.
He can't even imagine how Spock must be feeling – how he managed to work until summoned to Sickbay. If he were Human, he would hardly have been able to walk out of the facility the previous evening under his own power, much less do anything more.
It occurs to the doctor that he really, really, needs to convince the other to stay.
Spock's bandages were all removed at some point; and as he touches a section of pale unshredded skin near the first of the oozing lacerations, McCoy stops himself from thinking he knows why. But now Leonard is picturing Uhura again, and he backs away a few steps - then decides this would probably be a good time to grab a few things, and maybe make a call to the Bridge. "Just relax, Commander," he says, before retreating around the edge of the curtain.
Uhura answers, of course - her tone professional, just the same as always; and his side of their conversation conveys an overly detailed message ostensibly meant for Jim. "… Would you ask the Captain to step down here, when he has a moment? … Let him know I am going to be keeping his Science Officer for a little bit, will you? … Oh, no, nothing major … And just when he has a minute… No, really, Commander Spock will be fine."
'That should do the trick,' he thinks, when the call is complete. He tells Chapel to send in the Captain when he manages to make his way down.
He shakes his head, frowning - bluntly rejecting her too-eager offer of help - and is not really sure why he does.
And he remembers to grab a hypo, and some more bandages - and a few tubes of derma-glue - before he makes his way back to Spock.
The air temperature is now several degrees warmer in the curtained area around the occupied biobed, and when McCoy has deposited his things on the rolling tray, he turns to survey his silent patient once more. He notes that the Vulcan hasn't moved at all.
He wonders idly when he will get so familiar with Vulcan communication patterns that he will be as used to nods and silences and stillness as he is to Human groans and complaints and wincing. The thought makes him stop in his tracks.
He goes out to grab a lightweight blanket from the nearby cabinet. Stepping back in, he shakes it out matter-of-factly, and drapes it around Spock's shoulders.
He tells himself that that is Human-to-Vulcan non-talk for 'you are going to be here a while, so start getting used to the idea.'
Clear enough?
After a moment, Spock nods one of his tiny nods, and reaches his left hand across his body to pull the blanket more closely around him. He doesn't stop it from slipping down a little on the left side, and Leonard sees that as a capitulation – or an acknowledgement, anyway, that this examination is inevitable.
The doctor prepares a hypo; and as he does, Spock speaks. "That will not be necessary."
McCoy glances over at him, his eyebrows rising. "What?"
"Pain medication. It will not be necessary."
McCoy has finished; and he steps a little closer, drawing his patient's attention. "Oh, I dunno, Spock," he says, pressing the instrument gingerly against the skin just above the worst laceration. The rest of his words follow, as he depresses the plunger to administer the hypospray: "You just might piss me off."
The long Vulcan eyebrow goes up, and its owner nods – a real nod.
McCoy finds himself grinning.
The grin doesn't last five minutes: After another application of topical, he is now at leisure to examine the insides of Spock's forearms – compared, anyway, to the night before. He feels a shiver go up his spine; and wishes, just a little, for the previous evening's adrenaline-fueled clinical objectivity. A little deeper, a centimeter lower or closer in, and a major artery would have been severed, a tendon sheared clear through. Spock could have so easily not made it back… As it is, this wound is ugly, and will need careful attention. Leonard consciously wills his hands to not shake, as he cleans the gash once more.
He wraps the wrist in fresh white gauze, and is admonishing his patient strenuously when the Captain arrives. They can hear Chapel's voice, out there, directing him. "I mean it, Spock," he says, as dark eyes shift from him to the edge of the curtain, where Kirk will appear. It's clear he's already lost the Vulcan's attention.
Jim ambles in, with a fairly convincing studied-nonchalance. His eyes go immediately to his First Officer. They linger, there, appraisingly, a moment, before the Captain crosses his arms and shoots a glance at McCoy. He asks in his best 'unconcerned' drawl, "So, what's going on, guys?" His questioning gaze returns to Spock's expressionless face. "Spock, you okay?"
Spock's eyes shift to the doctor for a moment, then back to Jim. They move to a spot some two feet to Jim's left as he waits for the doctor to speak.
"No," McCoy says, in a drawl of his own, stepping forward to take control of this conversation. "Captain," he says, and his voice is mid-way between 'friend' and 'reporting Medical Officer', edging toward the latter by the time he's done speaking, "I am going to have to insist that Commander Spock stay here a day or two for observation and recuperation."
Both of the other men start to speak at once; and they both fall silent in the same instant, when McCoy raises his hand. "Listen." Two sets of wary eyes, one brilliant blue, one deep and brown, are focused on him. He turns first to the brown.
"I am being serious here. If you keep moving around, you are just going to keep shredding skin and tissue - faster than I can glue it. You're missing skin already - and some of those cuts are deep… If you just sit tight for a few days, and cooperate, I might be able to fix you up so you don't look and feel like shit when you finally get out."
Now he looks at the blue. "You." The blue eyes blink. "You tell him."
Jim starts to speak, but McCoy interrupts. "Just be quick about it - because I have to get to work: I already gave him something for the pain, and I don't need it to wear off while you discuss what's going on on the Bridge or some damn thing."
Kirk's mouth closes, and he nods, before turning to Spock. "You heard him, Commander." His voice is determinedly brisk, no nonsense.
"I did, sir," Spock confirms.
"Three days," McCoy says quickly.
Both pairs of eyes are looking at him, and he wonders if he's pushed his luck too far. But blue eyes turn away, back to rich red-brown. "That is 72 hours, Commander. You are relieved of duty."
Jim is trying to avoid staring at the open wounds trickling thin green fluid freely down Spock's side – Leonard can tell, from the way he blinks.
The Vulcan nods. "Yes, Captain," he says, and the crisp redundant words draw the Captain's attention back to his impassive face.
Kirk's voice is rough, his words a little clipped, "Good. Just so we're clear." He turns to McCoy. "Are we good?"
McCoy nods. "Yep." He nods again, looking from one man to the other. "I think that about covers it."
And Kirk gives a curt nod of his own before turning on his heel and retreating back to the Bridge.
After he leaves, Spock and McCoy look at one another. The silence lasts long after Jim's footfalls fade to nothing.
Leonard is caught between a desire to apologize, and a desire to emphasize his victory. In the end, he just goes to wash his hands.
At least Spock is cooperating. His movement is awkward as he bends to undo his boots; and his arm is pressed against his side as he removes them. He makes no comment, just undresses the rest of the way, while McCoy prepares a second hypo.
Remembering the gashes along the other's flank, the doctor readies a third, while he's at it.
The first spray goes into the Vulcan's thigh, near a pair of long untidy green-weeping furrows; the second, high on his hip: 'That must hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,' Leonard thinks, choosing the likeliest spot.
Spock's head is angled, so he can see what McCoy is doing as the doctor cleans and seals the simplest wounds.
Leonard can't imagine anyone wanting to watch a surgeon work on his own body - but the Science Officer looks exactly like he's checking the progress of a mildly interesting chemistry experiment. It's bizarre.
Now McCoy is tending the more complicated injuries. He takes a moment to rest and stretch. He wishes, just a little, that he had let Chapel assist with the easy stuff; but no - looking at Spock's exposed, torn flesh - he really doesn't, at that. In addition to the lacerations evident before, there is quite a bit of bruising. And that damage – combined with nakedness interrupted only by pressure strips and bands of clean white gauze - makes Spock seem especially vulnerable. No, he's very glad Chapel isn't helping.
He looks at Spock's face, with sudden sympathy. "How're we doing?"
The only response is a pointed look at the doctor's hands, and eyes directed to his own tattered skin.
"Yeah, I'm with you, there," McCoy says. "I'm working on it."
Leonard has left the worst places for last.
He mostly keeps himself from hissing, as he works. 'Sonuvabitch, sonuvabitch,' he thinks, trying to find enough whole skin to even glue. He uncurls a twisted flap, and presses it against oozing green with one careful finger, before doing the same to the opposite edge.
Son. of. a. bitch.
Poor Spock - This has to have fucking hurt.
Leonard's hands slow, as an unwelcome wave of compassion washes over him.
He breathes, a minute, trying to shut out the sympathy and regain focus. He delicately holds several fragments in place, and reaches for the glue; as he does, he raises his eyes for a quick glance – Deep brown Vulcan eyes are dispassionately observing every move the Doctor's hands are making.
McCoy finds the cool awareness in those eyes disconcerting. His hands still and his chin lifts as he looks full into his patient's face - Spock's gaze follows that movement, then, too; and their eyes meet. Leonard keeps the defensive sarcasm out of his voice as best he can: "You want me to get you a mirror, sir, so you can see better?"
"Yes."
At that, McCoy throws his hands up in disgust. "I was kidding."
Spock's voice is even. "I was not."
No kidding.
There is a long pause before McCoy manages to spit out an idle threat: "I didn't give you so much pain killer, Mr. Spock, that I can't still hurt you."
"Yes," the cool voice immediately responds, "I am aware of that."
Struck speechless, outraged, McCoy glares a moment before stomping off to borrow a mirror from Chapel. He doesn't try to explain why he needs it, and he is seriously annoyed with Spock for putting him in that position. 'There goes any sympathy I might have had for you, you pig-headed green-blooded -' He stops.
Holding the mirror, he stops right there, halfway between a very curious Head Nurse and a waiting Vulcan patient – a Vulcan patient very tired, no doubt, of being an object of pity and curiosity.
Huh. Clever.
Very, very clever.
Anger's better than pity, any day – Even a doctor knows that.
Well.
He steps back into the warm air surrounding Spock's biobed, and goes to wash his hands. He sterilizes the mirror, while he's at it; then hands it to Spock. He pulls the blanket closer around the long, lean shape.
The whole time, he's thinking of failed medical reform, malpractice insurance, lists of outmoded drugs.
As he quietly finishes his work, he occasionally angles the mirror Spock's holding, and moves his hands out of the way so that the Vulcan can really see. McCoy checks the wounds one last time, then leaves them uncovered (dry, dry – boring, boring) – at least, for the meantime.
When he's done, he looks up, catches Spock's eye. "That's it," he says; and he wonders whether Spock is relieved.
He takes the mirror, and holds it, then, so that the other has a good view. He runs his finger gently, gently, along the edge of the worst laceration. "Feel that?" he asks.
Spock nods.
"Okay. That one's the worst. I numbed it some, but that will fade. It's deep. You want details?" And when Spock nods, Leonard thinks boring thoughts, to keep himself from thinking how awful this is. He moves his fingers away from Spock's skin, and - Oh, God - he gives him details.
He does the same for the other injuries he's left uncovered, and Spock just nods his understanding.
Dry, dry, dry – boring, boring, boring.
When they are done, he helps maneuver Spock further up onto the bed, and cautiously supports him as he eases back to a prone position. Leonard pulls the blanket up to cover all of that bare and tortured skin; then goes and gets a second, larger blanket, spreading it carefully over the Science Officer's supine form.
McCoy breathes a small sigh of relief: Mission accomplished.
He sits, then, on the rolling stool for a moment, and considers. He unlocks the wheels, and pushes himself along so that he can lean his elbows on the edge of the bed and see Spock's face when the Vulcan turns his head to look at him. Leonard's voice is quiet, his tone confidential. "Listen, Spock. I am going to make a deal with you." Spock is eyeing him, noncommittally – but he is listening.
"You focus your what-ever-it-is on those I showed you. Get them to start healing from the inside, out, and I'll let you go before the 72 hours are up, okay?"
Spock is nodding.
"If not, not. It's up to me, though, to decide how you're doing - You got it?"
Spock nods.
"Good. I'm going to leave you a chair, here, in case you have a visitor, and strict orders that you are not to be disturbed." He allows himself a small conspiratorial grin. "Will that work for you, Commander?"
One mobile black brow is rising, and there is a glint of amusement in the other's dark eyes. It is clear they understand one another: He nods.
"Okay, then." McCoy stands, crosses his arms. "I will be back at ten thirty tonight to put on bandages. That's 22:30 to you, sir. I'll bring you some clothes, too – but you are to stay put. You got that?"
Spock nods, again.
"Good. Just so we're clear: You put one toe out of line, and all deals are off."
"I understand completely, Doctor McCoy."
"I hope so, Mr. Spock. I have people telling me all the time how smart you are - So we'll just see, won't we?" He starts to leave, then turns back, his hand on the curtain. His voice is louder: "Alright, Commander, I'm sure there are people who want to visit you, so I'll let them know that's permitted. My staff is going to leave you alone, but they'll come if you call, okay?"
"Yes, Doctor," Spock answers dutifully; but his voice is quieter, unwilling to play along.
"Oh, and Spock?" McCoy is back to the urgent undertone. "Don't do anything – or let anybody else do anything - that is gonna pull on that skin: Be real careful, now."
Sober hazel eyes are locked insistently on brown ones. "Call for help if you need it. I mean that. And don't forget why you're here."
And Spock just nods; before leaning his head back, and calmly closing his eyes.