More Bedside Manners

McCoy makes his way down to Sickbay, timing it so that he'll be back promptly at ten thirty. Halfway there he remembers that Spock often arrives three minutes early for their departmental meetings; and he wishes, just for a second, that he'd thought of that earlier.

But, no: He said 'ten thirty,' so ten thirty it's gonna be…

He greets the shift-change staff nurse as he enters the facility, and goes toward the curtained area. He walks in acting as though his day didn't start much like this - only opposite, if you see what I mean; as he does, he catches the merest hint of a spicy fragrance lingering in the air.

Uhura, of course, is there.

McCoy suppresses the smile that forms then.

Two pairs of expectant brown eyes, only a few feet apart, are directed toward the edge of the curtain when he comes around it. Uhura is standing at Spock's side, not quite touching him; she's looking back over her shoulder - her ponytail still swaying from the last-moment turn of her head.

"Good evening, Miss Uhura," he says, and now he smiles - at her fortitude in coming here, if nothing else. "I see you have discovered that something has, in fact, happened to our intrepid Commander Spock."

Uhura smiles a little at that, before turning back to the figure on the bed. "Yes, Doctor, I had noticed."

She had probably been sitting when McCoy arrived – the chair is there, pulled up close, and her padd and knitting bag are on the table.

But maybe not.

Right where she is standing, the blanket has slipped down a bit, revealing the smooth pale green-tinted skin and black body hair of the Vulcan's chest and shoulder. Her hand is on the bed, an inch or two from his bicep; slender fingers reach for the edge of the blanket and pull it up protectively around him.

His eyes on hers, Spock lifts his arm, so that she can smoothe the covers over him. As his hand comes down, his fingertips brush the length of her bare arm and sweep over her hand in passing, before folding with his own atop his chest.

If McCoy had not been facing them, with his chin tilted down toward his padd, he would not have seen it at all.

As it is, he smiles to himself, and is grateful for famous doctor-patient confidentiality.

And he makes a mental note to erase the biobed readings for the last few hours, just in case.

In a demonstration of brusque bedside manner, McCoy grunts and drops his padd on the end of the bed. He eyes Spock, and then Uhura, before addressing the latter. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid visiting hours are over." She nods, and starts to collect her things.

McCoy reaches one foot and hooks the leg of his rolling stool, pulling it toward him. He taps the padd where it lies on the bed, enters a note. Without looking at them, he says, "I wonder if you might be able to do me a favor, though." He can feel both of their eyes on him, and he glances up innocently, and meets Uhura's. "I promised the Commander, here, that I would bring fresh clothes for him. But I neglected to ask permission to enter his quarters." He turns to Spock. "Commander, would you mind if I send Miss Uhura to get those things for you?"

Spock's eyes slide from McCoy's to Uhura's. His lips form the single word, "No." His hand has dropped, apparently of its own volition, and is now resting mere centimeters from hers, at his side. "That would be acceptable," he adds.

"I'd be happy to, sir," she pipes in; and the comedy is complete.

McCoy nods, and turns away, busying himself with the biobed. "Mr. Spock, I'm sure the Lieutenant can bring you anything else you require, as well." He spares them a quick glance over his shoulder: They are gazing into each other's eyes. "I'll just give you a moment to give some instructions, shall I?" And feeling like a hopelessly romantic old fool, he hastily grabs his padd and steps out of the curtained area - and out of earshot.

Five minutes later, maybe six, she emerges. She is carrying her padd and her knitting bag, and neatly folded clothing in black and blue. When she spots McCoy, she veers toward him.

He goes to meet her. He puts a gentle hand on her back, and escorts her out into the corridor. She is looking at him questioningly, and he gestures with his head back toward the sickbay. "Vulcan hearing," he says, with a wry smile and upturned eyes.

She laughs a little, and nods in agreement.

Leonard sobers, then; he doesn't want any misunderstanding. "I want him to be as comfortable as possible. Loose pants, something loose for a shirt – oversized t-shirt, maybe. Does he have anything like that?"

She is thinking.

He tries to help, "Maybe pants with a drawstring? Pajamas? And something warm – layers, maybe – a sweater?"

She is shaking her head with a touch of uncertainty. "I'll try. He likes his clothes close to the body. And his uniform, of course. But I'll see what I can find."

"Good. Thanks."

He hesitates to say anything else, but finally deems this important enough to risk it. He drops his voice a little: "I am not making assumptions, Miss Uhura – and I hold patient confidentiality in high regard – so I am just going to casually mention to you, Lieutenant, that I have an anonymous patient who is in a lot more fragile condition that he, perhaps, believes. And his pain level has got to be high. Immobile, he should heal well enough. But if that patient puts any strain on his injuries - or if the tissue surrounding them becomes abraded - the recovery could take a while, and be fairly unpleasant. Are you following me?"

She is nodding, and her eyes are wider than before.

"Anything that can be done to keep him here, comfortable - cooperative, even – for the next few days, I am pretty much going to agree to. But he needs to focus on healing. So anything that brings him peace of mind, I'd be game for, too. Okay?"

She is smiling a little. "Okay. I'll bear that in mind."

"Good." He clears his throat, makes his tone businesslike. "Well. Just get the things Mr. Spock needs, and drop them by as soon as you can, Lieutenant." He coughs a little, looks at her upturned face. "But no more visiting tonight. I want him to try to get some sleep."

He sees her off down the corridor, and it occurs to him that it is probably soothing – healing - for her to feel like she is, at least, doing something to help Spock. He realizes he forgot to mention that some of the Science Officer's pet whiz kids are working on a special project… Well, that can wait until morning.

He turns back in to Sickbay. He grabs a hypo, and gets himself a cup of coffee before heading to where his patient awaits.

Spock's eyes are closed, his lashes very dark and still against his cheeks; and his breathing has slowed.

McCoy puts his padd and his coffee cup on the table; and, pushing it back some, he drops into the chair near where Uhura had been standing.

Far from looking like he is sleeping, the Vulcan appears to be focused on something inside his own head.

His face is no longer drawn: It looks the tiniest bit softer, now, more peaceful – more like his normal self; and his hands, too, appear more relaxed.

It won't do, the doctor thinks, for Spock to get ideas.

McCoy eyes the other a minute further, and takes a sip of his coffee. He leans back, stretches out his legs, crosses them at the ankles, takes another sip. When he speaks, he lets a little of his drawl slip in. "Have a nice visit with Lieutenant Uhura?"

Spock blinks, and gazes at the ceiling. He doesn't move, and his non-expression hasn't changed - but it is clear he does not want to respond. He reluctantly replies, "Yes."

"She's a very attractive woman."

McCoy drinks some coffee, and watches his patient breathe. There is no other response.

"Did you do anything stupid?"

Two more long slow breaths, and Spock turns his head to look at him – another perfect expressionless stare.

McCoy takes a deliberate sip of coffee, then lowers his cup. He has learned to wait.

He takes another sip.

Spock is still doing his slightly creepy non-blinking blank-face Vulcan staring thing. But Leonard waits, knowing the other can not leave a question unanswered.

He sips again.

Spock still hasn't blinked, and McCoy is not even sure his chest is rising and falling.

Maybe he just doesn't know how to answer.

McCoy pushes himself to his feet. He walks around the end of the bed, tapping its foot a few times with an idle finger as he passes.

It is obvious that Spock is following his foot falls, but he still does not speak; and his eyes have closed by the time McCoy makes it up to his ribs. He turns his chin away, just a small amount, when the doctor reaches for the blanket - but he lifts his elbow to make moving it possible. (That's a fight Leonard's glad not to have.)

The doctor eases the covers back just far enough to see the worst of the lacerations. The skin is still held precariously together on the injuries that are exposed; and the bandages are all in place. He breathes a mental sigh of relief, and nods, carefully re-placing the blanket over the other's torso. Leonard drops one hand gently on the bare skin of Spock's shoulder.

That action seems to startle him: He turns his head swiftly, and eyes far too intelligent and perceptive meet McCoy's.

Leonard gives him a reassuring pat, and smiles a little, nodding. "You're very smart, in fact, Commander. Thanks: I was not looking forward to another session with the glue this evening."

And Spock gravely nods his agreement.

"Okay," Leonard says, walking back around the foot of the bed to grab his padd and moving to where his patient can see him easily. "Where are we?"

Quickly, he shoots a quelling glance at the Vulcan. "Don't answer that."

Spock's eyebrow rises by an eighth of an inch, but he says nothing.

"Here's what we're gonna do -" the doctor proposes, "I am going to ask you a few questions, take a closer look at you, see what we can do to make you a little more comfortable, okay?"

Spock nods.

"Then we'll see if we can get you into some clothes, and settled in for a peaceful, quiet night – Alright?"

Again, Spock nods.

The consultation goes well – no mulishness, at all - until Spock suddenly stops talking and turns his face toward the entrance of Sickbay, outside the curtains. McCoy stops, too, and then listens carefully: After a moment, he can hear quiet voices. They are only a murmur, but he is sure that that is Uhura - talking with Jim, maybe. There are a few footfalls, the Captain laughs a little – it could be no one else – and now they can hear his voice clearly: "I'll risk it, Uhura, thanks. But I promise to behave."

Uhura replies with something that McCoy interprets as "You'd better." He decides not to ask Spock exactly what she said.

He can make out the Captain's footsteps moving closer. There is a pause, and Jim pokes his head around the corner, with one hand covering his eyes. What is he - like, four? "Hey, guys, can I come in?"

To do Jim credit, he hasn't come on in anyway - so McCoy figures he might actually be able to head him off, if Spock really isn't feeling up to it… But when McCoy looks to him, Spock nods.

"Yeah, Jim, c'mon in," McCoy says, and the Captain drops his hand with a grin and a shrug, and ducks in around the curtain. He has a bundle of things clutched clumsily to his chest; he looks about, a little, uncertainly, as if wondering where to put them.

McCoy clears his padd and cup off of the bedside table and nods toward it. Surprisingly, Jim manages to put the bundle down without saying or doing something he shouldn't. He sprawls in the visitor's chair.

Lounging back in the chair, Jim laces his fingers behind his head and stretches out his legs; and gazes at Spock. Apparently satisfied with what he sees there, he looks around more, curiously. He glances at McCoy, then, frowning a bit. "Kinda hot in here."

McCoy rolls his eyes and resists saying "Vulcan: Butt-nekkid," 'cause he's not too sure about Spock's sense of humor at the moment. Or ever. (And, actually, he doesn't truly want to draw any attention to all of the uncovered pale skin showing above the blankets.) But the thought does make him smile, which seems to put Jim at ease – not that he looks, much, like he needs it.

Jim says, "Oh!" and his sudden movement is startling. He points toward the things on the table. "I ran into Uhura. She was going to drop these by for you, so I just brought them along. I hope that's okay."

Spock nods – an answer to an unasked question.

Jim looks at McCoy, and his expression is the tiniest bit defiant. "She told me 'no visitors' but I figured you'd let me in, just this once."

McCoy has been preemptively frowning over his padd, now he glances at Jim. "Yeah, just this once." He makes a show of entering something, frowns again, drops the device back on the bed. "But after this, no barging in. And I mean that, Captain – Commander Spock will let the staff know if he wants company, and who. Otherwise, leave him alone."

Jim opens his mouth, but doesn't dare talk: McCoy is really glaring at him.

Then the doctor shrugs. "Well, that is, if you want your First Officer back anytime soon."

And Jim has no smart-ass answer to that, so he just leans back and eyes said First Officer.

He smiles amiably. "Yeah," he says, his tone glib, "I'll be good."

He glances at the doctor: "I need him, Bones, and the sooner the better - " the smile becomes slightly roguish, "I really suck at preparing for briefings."

He turns to Spock, then, and the famed Kirk smile widens into a grin. "Since he's not cutting me any slack - After I leave, see if you can talk him into letting you pull over the display. There's this…"

"Jim!"

Jim ignores McCoy's outrage and raises one finger to his lips in the universal 'shhh' sign for 'secrets'. He murmurs in an ostentatious undertone, "Don't worry, Spock, I'll slip you a padd. I know you're gonna get bored sooner or later."

And Spock solemnly nods.

"James T. Kirk!" McCoy hisses, rising to his feet – In his panic, he can't help himself, even though he is pretty certain he sounds like one of his maiden aunts…

Crap.

Blue eyes and brown - both wide – are staring at him in surprise. He addresses himself to the blue. "Jesus, Jim! Yes, he's gonna live - this time - but that doesn't mean that right now he's feeling like anything other than warmed-over dog shit! Can't you at least show a little sympathy?"

"And you," he's angrily addressing the brown, which close and open, in a slow blink, "Don't encourage him. You heard what I said before: You already have a job to do, in here. And I will be pissed as hell if you let this - " he jerks a disparaging thumb at the highest ranking officer on the ship, "talk you into doing something stupid." He glares into inscrutable dark eyes. "Is that clear?"

Spock nods blankly; and in a quiet voice forced between tight lips, McCoy offers the one threat he's got that he's sure will give him complete control over one obstinately unpredictable Vulcan genius: "Good. I'm glad it's clear. Because I sure as hell do not want to have to forbid you visitors."

And then, just for a second, he wishes he hadn't given in to temptation: Something deep inside Vulcan eyes has closed off, and Spock has averted his face.

There is a small silence.

McCoy turns to Kirk. The doctor has lost his will to fight, but he's not about to give up hard-won ground: "Out. Go get some sleep. Or do something Captainly." He shoots him one last sharp glance; then sighs, and mumbles, "I'll call you tomorrow when I feel like letting you come back."

And Jim just nods, and slips away, past the curtain.

When the door has whooshed behind the departing Captain, McCoy drops tiredly onto the rolling stool, and runs his hands through his hair. Then, keeping an eye on his silent patient, he kicks himself over to the tray, and collects his coffee cup. He takes a sip, sighs; then rolls himself back to Spock's side. The Vulcan is pointedly ignoring him, and Leonard isn't sure what he should say.

He tries to sort through his conflicted feelings. He doesn't think he's done it very successfully – and looking at the still figure, he feels more awkward, more foolish even, than usual.

He takes another sip of cool, bitter coffee, sighs again, then stands. Taking a step to Spock's bedside, he looks down, and sees Spock's eyes closing in mute self-defense. He deliberately lays his hand flat on the Vulcan's bare shoulder, over his clavicle - keeping it there for a long, long moment. Spock's chest rises and falls, and he blinks, but he doesn't offer any other response. "Sorry, Spock, I…" McCoy mutters, almost under his breath. "I'll be back in a sec – I'm going to go get another cup of coffee, okay?"

Spock does not look at him, but he does nod.

The doctor takes a few minutes to get his coffee, and when he returns, he decides to pretend that Spock has forgiven him.

"So, Commander, where were we?"

Spock turns his head to look at him, and Leonard sees that his sense of humor has not improved any.

"Never mind."

Sitting again on his rolling stool, he leans one elbow on the back of the visitor's chair, rests his chin on his fist. He gazes at the ship's Vulcan First Officer for a moment, then makes his voice as conversational as he can. "I have the readouts turned off. You wanna give me an honest assessment of your pain level, or shall I just flip that baby back on?"

It sounds like the words are being dragged out of him, but at least the other is speaking: "The pain I am experiencing is within acceptable parameters."

"Uh-huh."

When McCoy speaks again, his voice is gentler. "You do realize, don't you, that in about 3 minutes I'm gonna start poking around? So, if you need something to help you get through that, don't be shy. Now's the time, Spock - Okay?"

"I understand." Spock's tone is remote.

"Yeah, well – By my calculations, the last of the shots I gave you should be wearing off soon."

He shakes his head, when Spock starts to say something then. "No, don't tell me. I'd really just as soon not know." Spock's lips close, and McCoy knows he was right. "So, what'll it be? I can give you a spritz…" He tries to make it sound tempting.

But Spock is shaking his head in his single sideways Vulcan negative.

"Alrighty then." McCoy is temporarily resigned: He is altogether too well acquainted with this particular brand of obduracy. "If you'll hold still, I think we might oughta start with your hip."

Spock doesn't say anything, and McCoy realizes he didn't actually ask him a question. "Sound good?"

Spock nods.

While he's washing his hands, Leonard wonders how far he can push Spock before the other gets good and irritated. Well, no matter - He feels obligated to try one last time: He directs his voice back over his shoulder. "Not too late, Commander." He's walking over, dropping onto the rolling stool. "Could still give you a little something, you know…"

"Yes, I am aware of that. But no. No medication." Spock's voice is firm.

The gashes look less distressed than McCoy had feared, and he makes short work of the bandaging of hip and thigh. He half holds his breath as he helps the Vulcan slip on the pants Uhura brought – With every movement, the skin is strained; but it doesn't tear further.

When Spock raises one hip to lift himself back onto the biobed, McCoy moves closer; but Spock shakes his head at the unspoken offer of assistance, lifts one hand against that intrusion. As the other presses himself up, the muscles across his ribs shift beneath their damaged surface – and, though the skin does not give way, the livid bruises stand out vividly. His arms flex; and seeing those muscles working, McCoy realizes that, at some point, the gauze was removed from his wrist.

Spock sits on the edge of the biobed for the remainder of the treatment; and Leonard struggles to find something to talk about besides ship's business. Uhura, he knows, is a forbidden subject, and anything else would just be small talk. He lapses into silence. As he re-bandages the wrist – its skin faintly scented and glistening with a fine sheen of oil - he looks up to meet Vulcan eyes. Once more, Spock has been watching him intently.

"Time for a shirt. Then I'll send you out to do whatever it is you do before going to bed, alright?" The other nods, and McCoy continues, "The air out there is going to feel cold - so you might want your sweater, too…" Spock starts to speak, and Leonard waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know - You can control your shivering. Ordinarily. But, Spock, your skin is already besieged, so just give it a break, okay?"

And Spock nods at that, too.

The shirt Uhura found is long, to the knees, slim in the torso but fuller below. It has a close high collar, and the sleeves end in tight bands secured at the wrists with metal fittings. Helping him with those, McCoy cannot imagine how Spock will be able sleep in such a garment (though, he reflects, at least he won't be tempted to unwind the bandages underneath). The fabric is soft and flexible, however - unlikely to rub uncomfortably on tender skin. The short sweater-thing has wide sleeves, long enough to cover the hands, or turn back into cuffs. It wraps across the chest – obviously another Vulcan garment – and Leonard thinks it couldn't be more perfect: Easy for the other to manage, as the temperatures in Sickbay fluctuate.

McCoy directs Spock to the private facilities off of his own office, and his offer of assistance is once more refused.

In uniform, the Vulcan First Officer is a familiar figure. But now, watching him silently pad barefoot across Sickbay - his walk very different - Leonard has a hard time recognizing him: He looks strangely alien, and, in spite of Vulcan dignity, very young… McCoy ruefully shakes his head at his own illogic: Hasn't he spent several hours, today, dealing in silence with emerald blood, heated skin, and eyes that see – have seen - far too much?

While he is waiting for the other to return, he tidies up a bit, and mechanically organizes gauze, scissors, glue: All that is left, now, is the gash on Spock's cheek, and his long sensitive hands. McCoy hopes that the Vulcan will let him numb them before working, again, on the torn fingertips and the ugly double slash.

But, naturally, he won't.

(Stubborn, recalcitrant, obstinate, intractable, obdurate, refractory…)

Gauze, scissors, glue.

Composing a mental inventory of supplies that will need to be replenished during their next stop at a starbase carries the doctor through an inspection of Spock's fingers. Planning follow-up training for newly assigned personnel gets him past the cleaning and bandaging of the slashes, and the smaller tears on the palms.

He rolls away for a minute, and thinks that Spock is going to need some help, in the morning. He wonders what time the Vulcan normally wakes up, and whether he, himself, will have had enough sleep by then. Then he thinks that maybe he should just leave a message for Uhura. He glances at Spock, considering, and finds the other's eyes examining him.

He smiles, a little, apologetically. "Just trying to figure out what else I can do for you, Commander."

Spock nods.

McCoy asks him then, "Is there anything you need?"

After a moment, Spock speaks, and his voice is quiet. "Perhaps some sleep."

At that, the doctor grins. "I thought you'd never ask."

He holds the jacket as the other slips his long arms from the sleeves, then puts it within easy reach. Once again, he helps the other move to a better spot, then lie back. He shifts the pillow so it supports his neck. Then he helps straighten the blankets.

There is a little gleam of amusement, then, in Spock's eye, and McCoy wonders whether he has ever been fussed over by a more solicitous mother hen. Picking up his hypo, he eyes the Vulcan sternly. "Now listen, here, Mister Spock. You need to get a good night's sleep - and then get to work with your healing business."

"Doctor McCoy," Spock says, his voice completely sober - and perhaps a little drained, "that would be much easier if my system were free of contaminants."

"Contaminants?" Leonard starts to reach a hand for the Feinberger; he's a bit confused: He didn't see any signs of infection.

Spock looks away. "It is difficult to… feel… with the interference of pain medication."

"Well, yeah, Spock, that's sort of the point."

Spock turns his head, slowly, then, to look into McCoy's eyes. His non-expression manages to convey the impression that the Doctor has been suddenly struck stupid.

McCoy gets it. "Oh. No, Spock, no." He shakes his head to emphasize the negative. "No. That I can't do. Seriously, now…"

Spock has leaned his head back and is calmly contemplating the ceiling.

McCoy is still – or again – shaking his head.

Spock doesn't bother to look at him. "If I am not able to focus, then I assure you that you will grow very tired, indeed, of my company before another 66 hours have passed."

It takes a moment for that to sink in. "Is that a threat?" McCoy is starting to get a little pissed, now. (Damned Vulcan, tryin' to tell him how to practice medicine…)

Spock's eyebrow has risen the tiniest amount. He is still coolly studying the ceiling, and his voice is level. "No. An observation, merely." It seems that that is all he is going to say, but then: "Vulcans do not –"

"—do not make threats." McCoy sighs. "Yeah, I know. You know what else I know?"

Spock turns his head, again, to look at the doctor, his face utterly expressionless. Leonard waits a second for him to parry with something cool and dispassionate that will, in actuality, be a thinly-veiled insult; but Spock doesn't pick up the gauntlet.

"Vulcans can be a real pain in the ass."

The only response is silence.

Though it doesn't show outwardly, McCoy realizes Spock really must be tired, and hurting worse than he will admit: He did not respond rapier-fast to that sally, either, and ordinarily he would have – efficiently - going straight to the heart with ruthless, penetrating logic – or equally cutting wit.

The doctor sighs, again, and leans forward, a little, toward his patient. "No pain medication?"

"Preferably not."

"So you can mumbo-jumbo your body into healing faster… Have I got that that right?"

Spock just looks at the ceiling, and McCoy stands, and reaches out one hand - He stops short of grasping that shoulder… Spock's eyes slide toward him. "Spock, I get it. And I'm sorry you don't feel like fencing. I probably wouldn't either," he admitted, "if I was in that kind of pain.

"I guess it's about to be worse though… I don't like it, but you win: No pain meds.

"However," the doctor says briskly, stepping over to the controls of the biobed, "I'm going to set this so that if the pain you're experiencing goes outside of what I consider to be tolerable levels, it will alert me immediately." He taps the controls, suiting action to words. "If it goes off – or even turns off – I'll come straight away, and give you the good stuff."

From any other patient, that would earn him a smile. From Spock? Nothing. Not even a nod.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Alright then. Try to get some sleep." Leonard goes to the edge of the curtain, and starts to pull it aside - but he can't resist a parting shot: "And heal, damn it."

And at that, Spock nods.