Bedside Manners Later That Day

Doctor McCoy spends his first full hour in Sickbay that morning dealing with routine matters. He even manages to finish a report he's been avoiding: His Departmental Meeting might be delayed, given the circumstances, but he won't be able to keep the Science Officer here, tied-up, forever…

Saving the file, he stretches and stands: That last thought has reminded him of his patient – and the time.

As he reaches the curtains, he can hear a low murmur of voices, barely distinguishable amongst the hushed background noises and dampened machinery of the 'bay. He stops, struck by the thought that, in all this time, he's never really heard the Vulcan converse. Observe, yes – remark, yes – order, certainly. But engaging in an ordinary conversation? Never. Such a thing, in fact, hardly seems possible.

Maybe it's not. Maybe even this conversation isn't ordinary – at least by Human standards: Their voices are so low that he can't make out the words – but the bulk of them seem to be Uhura's, anyway.

What would Spock talk about, given he would?

Leonard wonders how she can stand it: The silence and - well, everything…

He sighs.

Then, with an effort, he recaptures his clinical manner and - clearing his throat - reaches, again, toward the curtains, one hand pushing them aside. As he enters, he turns to pull them tightly closed once more.

When he turns back around, they appear to have hardly moved; though, really, there's no telling: Maybe there is just the hint of movement – of hands dropping, having been drawn apart… Uhura is sitting in the visitor's chair close by the bed, her knitting suspended between the delicate graceful fingers of her right hand. Her left one is moving slowly to gather up yarn and a smooth wooden needle.

The breakfast tray has been pushed away, and - though it is obvious they had been smoothed and tucked carefully - the blankets are crumpled around Spock's bent knees. The doctor is pleased to note that it looks as though the Vulcan actually ate something – but he supposes it's too much to ask that the man try to remain even remotely still in consideration of the injured tissue he bears.

Eyeing them both, again, Leonard is surprised, once more, at how young they appear. Too young, he thinks, for so much pain, and so much responsibility.

But that, he supposes, is neither here nor there.

Uhura stays for only a few more minutes. Spock rolls back his sleeve matter-of-factly when the doctor, returning with a tray of supplies, says, "Well, Mr. Spock, shall we?"; and as McCoy asks him about his pain, and unwinds meters of gauze from a forearm marred with torn (though no longer gouged and puckered) green skin, he finds himself surprised that Spock is willing to speak, at all, with her there.

But he is. (Though hardly more than usual.)

This, it would seem, is a no man's land.

Uhura quietly gathers her things, without comment or words of parting. She slips away before McCoy moves on to examine Spock's hands - and, frankly, the doctor is relieved.

By mid-afternoon, Jim Kirk has come, and gone – on his best behavior. McCoy keeps an eagle eye on him, at first; but Jim mostly seems to just want to hang out, and maybe hear a low, grave Vulcan voice.

He is preceded, very shortly, by Chekov, who mutely slips a book, with a note attached, onto the bedside table - with every evidence of crippling embarrassment, poor boy.

And surprisingly – once word has gone out (as it inevitably will, on board a starship) that Commander Spock was more-than-passingly injured - several other members of the crew have dropped by. An assortment of specialists in blue want to visit en masse, but scatter when they are denied the collective protection of going in as a group.

Leonard has to smile at Scotty's good-humored optimism in bringing a bottle of whiskey and some schematics. Though Leonard expects him to be summarily dismissed, the Engineer stays for a good half-hour – and McCoy, just able to catch the sound of voices as he passes outside the curtain, is surprised by that, too.

The doctor has other patients, of course: McKinnon comes in for counseling. The man – just a kid, really, one of the first-service-in-crisis lot - is making progress, but slowly; and McCoy is becoming concerned. Everyone entering Starfleet undergoes stringent evaluations (McKinnon included, of course); and, one way or another, everyone suffered under Nero – injury and losses alike. (Again, McKinnon included.) And yes, the losses were horrific - unimaginable, really - but McKinnon wasn't in the first line of defense; his losses were (if viewed dispassionately) secondary… Still, something in the boy seems broken, and McCoy has tried nearly everything, and is running out of tricks. What the youngster needs most of all is time. And ironically, time is a luxury not much given to those away from home in the service of the Federation - relegated to the edge of Deep Space for five years or more… (And God knows there is no absence out here of loss or pain – even when he and Jim and Spock manage to do their jobs properly.) When the boy stands to return to duty, McCoy stands, too. He gently claps one hand on the red-clad shoulder; and holding it there, assures him, "Matt, you can come talk to me any time. You know that." The boy nods. He looks away, and McCoy thinks he looks miserable. "If there's anything I can do for you – anything I can do to help, to make this easier – you let me know." And nodding again, uncomfortably, the boy turns to go. Sitting at his desk after McKinnon has gone, McCoy rubs his eyes wearily; and fills in a field on the boy's chart that he would rather be able to leave blank. He makes a note to talk to the Captain – Just casual-like: A heads-up, just in case.

He deals with a tension head-ache, mild dehydration, and a case of tummy-troubles. A few patients come in for small injuries, or follow-up.

Between-times, the doctor makes his rounds, and does his paperwork (with very little protest, all things considered) - and checks on his Vulcan patient, running interference between him and the Chief Nurse who would gladly take him on.

At the end of Day Shift, McCoy has a word with the incoming Staff Nurse, locks down his files, and heads out to dinner. He is already starting to consider what he'll have to do tomorrow. He has only made it a few feet, however, when he looks up and sees Christine Chapel, who has evidently been loitering in the corridor, waiting for him. Thinking better of returning to his office (though the temptation is strong), he continues on. As he walks toward her she straightens, wringing her hands a little, unconsciously; and his heart sinks. Even his easy days are long, and he's so tired it seems perpetual…

"Nurse Chapel," he says with a nod, his voice unintentionally brusque.

"Doctor," she answers, in the ritual response of the well-trained nurse.

Internally, he sighs. Chapel is a well-trained nurse – and she's a good one, for the most part. The best, really, if he's going to be strictly fair. She just has one tiny little weakness… But that weakness is pretty damned inconvenient, McCoy thinks, since it comes in the form of a tall, dark, Vulcan First Officer (whose private life is strictly private, Thank-you-Doctor-That-is-all). McCoy glances over, catches the world-weary – and eternally hopeful - blue eyes of the woman waiting for him.

He sighs again.

"What can I do for you, Christine?" he asks.

Watching her try to straighten her shoulders under a slipping cloak of calm professionalism, he feels sorry for her. Chapel knows a little something about loss, and pain, too. Maybe this isn't what he thinks, he thinks hopefully. Maybe he isn't going to have to –

Summoning courage, she starts, resolutely, "It's Mr. Spock."

Damn.

He opens his mouth to reply, but the nurse hurries on, "Doctor, it's just that – well, I've noticed that when you're available, you're who Mr. Spock always comes to… And it just seems like you always have so much to do, and I thought that maybe I could help you, and then maybe Mr. Spock would have somebody else he could trust, and…"

Her eyes lift to his - Meeting them, her voice trails off. She's breathing as though she's been running.

He shakes his head.

This time, she's the one who opens her mouth – but he shakes his head again, doggedly, and she stops, chin trembling.

After a moment for thought, and another silent sigh, he touches her back with a gentle hand, to steer her with him as he starts once more down the corridor.

"Listen, Christine," he says, still trying to figure out what to say – how much he can say – as a doctor, and a friend.

She glances over at him, and he can't tell but he thinks maybe her eyes are wary, ready to be hurt.

Dammit.

"You and I, we know – as Medical professionals - that every single person who comes through Sickbay needs something different (even once the physical doctoring's done). Some need to be allowed to cry, and others need to be patched up and sent on their way – and frankly, some just need to be told to be quiet!"

She smiles a little, though he suspects she sort of wants to protest.

"Here's the thing. Mr. Spock, now – what he needs is something real different."

He stops walking. She stops, too, and turns to look at him. "Chris, you and I both know you're the best nurse I've got. You're good at establishing an emotional connection: You're kind, you're compassionate; you care about your patients and your work." She's nodding, something in her eyes brightening under his praise; and he turns so that they start walking, again. "Those are great qualities – wonderful qualities – and they work great with patients that need bandaging or a good cry. Or even," he says with grim humor, "those who should shut the hell up…"

Her smile is wider, now; they are talking professional – not personal – matters.

"I know how much you want to help.

"But with Mr. Spock… an emotional connection just gets in the way." He hesitates; then - Oh, what the hell: "He's not gonna cry, he hardly stands for patching up - and the last thing I need from him, when he's bleeding on my floor, is for him to be quiet!"

He glances at her sidelong: She looks a little shocked, but amused; then she grins, a little, as the justice of his words sinks in.

"The man is more tight-lipped than an Aldebaran shell-mouth." He lets a little of his own real frustration seep out; but figures that, really, it only reveals something about himself – and nothing about Spock, at all.

He glances over at Chapel again. She's definitely listening, and he thinks maybe she'll hear what he's saying.

"Thing is, maybe he needs to be."

He feels the corner of his mouth quirk up at her questioning glance – and he lets it. "I know some people think Mr. Spock is mysterious, enigmatic and intriguing – or some sort of tragic hero. But – and this is just me, mind (though I do know a thing or two, even if I do say so) - I think his mind just works differently, more differently than we can grasp... And honestly, I think he just wants to be left alone. You know?"

She doesn't answer. She's looking at the ground in front of her, as they walk. After a moment, she nods, just a little.

"Christine," he pauses; and this time, he lets her hear the hesitation as he gropes for the right words. "I know you don't want to hear this – and I know you probably aren't going to believe me – but Spock has got the life he wants. He doesn't need anything – anyone – else. He's got his job, his responsibilities – his interests, even. And he has a few people he works with all the time, who will mostly leave him be, but can let him be himself, just as he is – with no expectations - when they do get together away from the job."

She starts to say something, but doesn't; and after a second's pause he finishes the thought as though he hadn't noticed.

"Anything else – anything more than that – is an unwelcome distraction."

They move a few feet further, then. She glances up at him – a flash of blue more vivid than the uniform – before eyeing the toes of her boots, in their slow progress down the corridor. "So, you're saying - " It's clear she can't finish the thought.

"I'm saying that – however much somebody might think they know or understand – or even care for - Commander Spock, the one thing they really need to grasp is that he is Vulcan – which is a lot different, and more alien, than you might imagine."

"Oh," she says, quietly.

"And what I'm also sayin' is that - when Commander Spock comes into Sickbay - the wonderful compassionate qualities of the nurse who usually assists me are going to distract him, rather than help him heal. And that, I can't have."

This time, it takes a lot longer, then: "Oh."

She takes another few steps, then stops. He can hear her take a long drawn breath.

He reaches out one hand, and gently turns her chin toward him. After a second she lifts vulnerable blue eyes to his; he can see helpless tears welling in them. Before he can think twice about it, he opens his arms; and she melts into them, her head on his shoulder. Hoping to God no one will come around the corner in the next five minutes, he holds her, trying not to think how well she fits against him - and listens to the small sound of Christine Chapel trying not to cry.

"Oh, Leonard," she whispers, those few soft words watery.

And he is very glad that that is all she says.

He pats her back, a little awkwardly, and says, his voice gruff, "I'm sorry, Christine."

"I know." She sniffs, and raises her head. One hand brushes ineffectually at the escaping tears that have run down her cheeks. When she backs away, he can see one drop trembling on the end of her nose – and he is a little relieved when she wipes that one away, too, so that he does not have to. "Thanks," she says, and his heart turns over when he sees her trying to smile.

She smoothes her skirt, and pats her hair back into place, making a conscious effort to stand up straight before turning to walk away.

"Hey, Chris?"

She looks back over her shoulder, and for a moment she looks like some graceful wild creature caught by surprise: All legs, and wide eyes.

"Take the day off tomorrow."

She gives a half-nod, and smiles, before rounding the corner into a side passageway, heading for home.

Everyone else has already gathered in the Officer's Mess by the time McCoy arrives. The conversation seems a bit haphazard, and – noticing the empty chair near Uhura, left empty through sheer force of habit rather than in expectation of another arrival – Leonard suspects he knows why. When he approaches with a laden tray, his suspicion is confirmed: All eyes leap toward him, and they shift eagerly to make room.

Still, he's a doctor: They can't honestly expect…

He sits, and roughly shovels in a few bites; suddenly, the sandwich-at-his-desk seems a long time ago. He chews this last bite slowly, in silence; and, still holding his fork, glances up. He meets the Captain's eyes. That blue gaze is filled with a mixture of eagerness, wariness, and amusement. McCoy is glad his mouth is full, so he can resist the temptation to smile. He looks down at his plate, still chewing. He swallows, takes a swig of water, and looks up again.

He looks around at the attentive circle of faces: Bromley, Kyle, Chekov, Scott, Kirk, Sulu, Hannity, Uhura, Jakobsen.

Jakobsen? He realizes the decorative blonde has garnered a temporary upgrade in duty during Spock's absence; and he has to smile, though he hides it behind a napkin scrubbed across his mouth. Uhura might not find much joy in the substitution; but Jim, now? In the full realization that his Chief Science Officer will be returned to him in the fullness of time, Jim has got to be enjoying the change in scenery…

Leonard eats one more bite. His gaze meets Jim's again, and the message Jim is sending is loud and clear. Uhura has taken another mouthful of salad, and, chewing, she discreetly slides her eyes toward him – no warning there, which he takes as encouragement. He abruptly drops his utensil on the edge of his plate, and the desultory conversations around the table dwindle. He takes another gulp of water; and wiping his mouth again, clears his throat. All eyes are on him, and Jim is nodding the tiny nod McCoy realizes he picked up from his First Officer.

"Uhm…" the doctor says, not really liking the feeling he has, that he's making an announcement.

"Doctor," Uhura starts, just a half-second before Captain Kirk says hastily, "Bones, how's Spock?" Her voice fades, and McCoy pretends she didn't speak.

He addresses himself to the man across the table. "Captain," he says firmly, setting the tone, "Commander Spock is recovering."

There is a collective exhale, and shifting in seats. "Now," he says firmly, gathering their attention to him again, "this does not mean" (he avoids the warm brown eyes to his right, just past the pale blue) "that he is entirely out of danger." (His eyes shift to Jim's right, and left, catching the attentive gazes there – Chekov's eyes are wide.) "He's going to need some time."

With the air that he's said his piece, he picks up his fork, and spears a large bite. Taking his cue, Jim turns to his right and, making a few preliminary remarks, asks some question guaranteed to set off a geek storm. When Chekov and Scott are wound up enough that there's no way they'll notice, and Sulu has taken interest, Jim looks back at Leonard. McCoy calmly takes a big bite, and chews in satisfaction – and Jim just smiles.

A short time later, McCoy takes his demolished tray up to the units; and when he turns, empty-handed, Jakobsen is waiting for him. "Doctor McCoy," she says – and Leonard has to wonder whether the deft soft voice is as pleasing giving reports to her superior as it seems right now.

He smiles, gently, "Yes, Ensign?"

"Please tell Commander Spock…" The poor girl looks entirely out of her element (and about 12 years old) - and McCoy decides to rescue her.

"Don't worry, Annika," he says, and she looks up with a small smile starting to warm her pale face. "I'm sure he knows you'll do your best."

The smile reaches her eyes, and the icy blue is thawed delightfully. "Yes. Thank you, Sir," she breathes, and he can hear the smile in her voice, too.

"Don't mention it."

She laughs a little, and he can feel her relief. "Oh, I won't!" She goes away with a light step, and McCoy finds himself thinking that here's another who has not escaped Vulcan's brand of specific gravity. 'What is it, about Spock,' he wonders, 'that makes every scientist in Starfleet go around so in awe of the guy?'

Alone at the community table, Uhura is unobtrusively shifting around the last few shreds of lettuce still on her plate; and Leonard realizes she is just waiting, too.

He goes, and - avoiding the still empty seat - sits beside her, turning his chair so that he can look at her full on.

Hunched over her plate, she hardly seems to notice.

"Hey, darlin'," he says kindly, resting one hand on her suddenly-frail-seeming shoulder. (He's a friend, now, not a doctor.) After a moment, he lets his palm slip sideways to delicately rub the shoulder and then a bit of her back. She straightens under his touch and gives up the pretense of picking at her food.

"How're you doing?"

She smiles, just a little, though she looks tired. "Fine, I guess."

"You guess?"

She puts her utensils down, puts her napkin next to them on the tray, and pushes the whole thing away.

"Can I see him?"

He hadn't anticipated the blunt question, but perhaps he should have.

Her head turns, then, and her eyes look square into his. They are unreadable – and he supposes that's a good thing: He suspects there's anger there, and impatience, mixed in with the worry, and all the rest.

"Yes."

Without another word, she gathers her tray, and stands.

As he slowly follows her over to the unit, it occurs to him that it must get old sometimes, the pretense and circumspection. The Human constitution just isn't designed for extended self-denial, and self-effacement.

Still…

"Clothes," he says, coming up beside her as she turns. Her brows arc – probably at the roughness of his voice – and he says, more fully, "Do you think you can find him a change of clothes?"

"Probably." She thinks a second, then says, with increasing assurance, "I think so, yes."

"Okay."

"And food. He'll probably want food." He glances at her for confirmation, and shrugs a little. "Right?"

"Yes," she says deliberately, her tone neutral, "He'll probably want food."

"Okay, then."

"Is that all, Doctor?" Her abrupt question sounds almost belligerent in comparison to her usual silky tone.

He matches that voice, or tries – he's missing real motivation. "I don't know. You tell me."

She meets his eyes, and looks into them for a long, disconcerting moment. As the seconds pass, the tense lines of her face start to soften: Her frustration isn't really directed at him.

After a minute, a corner of her mouth quirks up; and his does, too – and this he can do with total sincerity.

She reaches one hand, and pats his arm, letting it linger there - perhaps in apology; then turns toward the food dispenser. "Come on," she says, a smile starting, "You can take him the tray, while I go dig around and find something for him to wear. Okay?"