Bedside Manners Still Later that Day
Doctor McCoy carries the tray into Sickbay, and it is clear Nurse Hutchins knows where he's headed: She greets him with a friendly nod, but no more than that, resuming her data entry with a quick stretch of neck and shoulders.
Walking across the bay, Leonard is struck by the hush. He has long since become habituated to the background hiss and hum, which, combined with the sound absorption, effectively masks any sharper noise; but now that strange deadened quality strikes him, making him vaguely uneasy, as though he can't quite hear something important through a pair of thick earmuffs.
Spock comes instantly alert when McCoy comes through the curtains. He is already coiling himself up into a sitting position before the doctor can set down the tray and assist him; and Leonard cringes at the thought of what such a careless display of abdominal strength is doing to the skin covering the muscles in play.
First things first, though.
He pulls the tray table over, and puts the food tray down.
"Here," he says, oddly aware that his words are superfluous – a thought that would never occur in the presence of anyone else. "I brought you a little something to eat."
Spock nods, but makes no move toward the food.
McCoy adjusts the bed; Spock does not deign to relax his now ramrod-straight spine against it. With a sigh, Leonard drops onto the stool - then rolls over, and just sits a moment, surveying him. After a second, he asks, his voice unaccustomedly gentle, "Not hungry?"
"No." The Vulcan answers, briefly; then he seems to reconsider: "I am not currently experiencing sensations indicating hunger, but I am aware that I should soon require sustenance."
McCoy is mildly amused by the strictly truthful answer, then finds himself distracted by the scientist's tone, his choice of words… Pulling himself together, he looks at his patient more closely. "What, then?"
The other is still for a long moment. Then, at last, his head turns, "How long will I be required to remain here, in the Medical Facilities?"
Again McCoy is torn between amusement and exasperation: "I think you know the answer to that."
"No. Indeed, I do not." The Vulcan's voice is quiet, and Leonard suspects he might have doubted the words were intended for him, if the idea that Spock would talk to himself doesn't seem so completely improbable.
"First things first," the doctor tells him, then, and pulls the food over where it is readily accessible.
There is a long pause.
With well-concealed resignation, Spock leans back - and reaches for the tray.
Walking to his office afterward, Leonard replays the scene in his imagination, feeling like he's missed some important point. He's been at work, now, for close to twelve hours, and he's aware his day isn't over, yet – not by a long stretch. But, still, exhaustion, or worse, inattention – especially where the First Officer is concerned – is not a luxury he can afford. He promises himself, that - if he can get the other well-situated for a bit – he can grab a nap before he has to tackle the process of re-bandaging a mile-and-a-half of torn Vulcan skin.
Yeah, a nap. That'd be good. It's been a long day.
It's been a long day, but it's not over.
He's only been working in his office for half-an-hour or so when there's a small movement at the entryway. McKinnon is there, hesitating at the threshold. McCoy rises to his feet at the sight of him. The boy looks hunted. The doctor greets him cautiously, "Matt?"
McKinnon is clearly uncomfortable, "Doc, do you have a minute?"
"Of course, son." McCoy says; and, coming around the desk, he indicates the visitor's chairs. When McKinnon sinks into one, he takes the other, himself, and waits.
"It's awfully quiet, in my quarters, I just wanted to be – Well, around someone I know."
"That's fine, Matt," McCoy says.
Maybe it strikes McKinnon how odd this might seem. He hastens to add, "Not that I know you, really, Doc. It's just that – Well, you're easy to talk to, I guess."
"That's fine, Matt." Leonard allows his drawl to deepen a little, and he hopes his own conflicted emotion is not too plain in his voice. "I told you you could come any time."
McKinnon just nods. "My corridor. It's quiet, too. Too quiet. you know?" The boy is looking at his hands, but meets the doctor's gaze at the end.
"I suppose," McCoy says, in what he hopes is an encouraging way. He had looked up the kid's personal records after this morning's session, and facts swim up as the seconds tick by. Matt McKinnon: Product of a small town – a town not much larger than the population of this ship, in fact – with, presumably, a similar close-knit feel. (He was sure it was the kind of town with the kind of feel that results from the banding-together of inhabitants who have consciously chosen such a life.) But small town North America doesn't provide the kind of adventure for its children that the Enterprise could… nor the opportunity for sudden loss of life, whether your own, or that of your friends...
Leonard wonders whether such familiarity makes this seem easier, or harder.
And he resolves to study Matt's duty records; maybe talk to Spock, who could correlate such things in his head.
They sit in silence.
McCoy avoids thinking of all the other people – the recent people – who've sat in that chair. Not sure if he's doing the right thing, but, honestly, not wanting to (or having the energy to) over-think it, he drops one hand companionably on the boy's shoulder.
Maybe the silence, now, seems companionable, too?
After a minute or two, the boy looks around the office, as though taking stock of a room he's rarely seen. (And maybe that's true: He's never come here by choice, before - Every other visit has been scheduled in advance, part of a carefully-devised treatment plan.) As McCoy glances over at him, strain visibly eases in the boy's face, leaving behind youth and simple curiosity. He feels a tiny shuddering sigh move the shoulder beneath his hand, and a relaxing of tension. Noting that, McCoy feels an answering uncoiling of tension in his own belly; he duly notes that, as well. McKinnon meets his eyes, and smiles a little; McCoy's smile answers him - and the doctor feels a sudden touch of shame at the relief he feels: McKinnon is troubled, more than one of his youth and health should be; and while whatever the immediate crisis that might-have-been is apparently delayed, this is one more place that McCoy will have to tread carefully and keep alert, if they were both to come though into the light at the end of the tunnel.
But, for now, Matt seems to have recovered his balance – and the boy had voluntarily come through McCoy's door – and that, the doctor counts a win. With one last pat on the shoulder, he sends the child off to bed.
He can feel fatigue pulling at him; but, shoving thought of a nap behind him, resigns himself to a session with gauze and glue and an oddly subdued Vulcan, before he, too, is able to succumb to the oblivion of an empty bed in quarters too quiet by far.