Doctor McCoy received his orders to take two full days of medical leave not ten minutes after he awoke the next morning. These orders were non-negotiable, much to the doctor's obvious irritation.
Spock decided that no one could phrase the situation better than his captain: doctors truly did make the worst patients.
"You're killing me, Jim," McCoy had grumbled after his third and final failed attempt to get out of his leave.
At this, the captain had looked his friend square in the eyes and said, "No, Bones, you're killing you."
That had silenced the doctor, and Spock had yet to decide which McCoy was worse, the loud one or the quiet one…
The loud one was often sarcastic, always speaking his mind whether or not others cared to hear it, but the quiet one was… unsettling, to say the very least.
Twenty-seven days, four hours, and fifteen minutes.
That's how long it had taken for McCoy to wear himself out; for the illness in his chest to progress into its final stages.
And for none of them even to notice.
Humans were known for being allergic to a plethora of different things, particularly those of a more mundane nature. The doctor blaming that cough of his on seasonal allergies seemed a logical explanation. At the time…
Spock should have suspected something nonetheless.
The ordeal had shaken him more than he cared to admit because it had been the doctor in need of aid.
And it hadn't been something any of them could fix.
Even as Spock approached McCoy's quarters, the echo of that horrible cough filled his ears.
Being disturbed in the middle of his evening meditation wasn't as out of the ordinary as Spock would have liked, not on a ship so large. Those instances were forgettable, a slight inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. But he knew he would never forget rushing through the door to find Jim hovering over an unconscious McCoy. Nor would he forget the nearly debilitating wave of worry that had washed over him in that moment—the one he had battled for the remainder of that evening with varying results.
The fact that the doctor would allow himself to get to such a state should not have come as a surprise, yet Spock felt the shock still rattling his core. It was no secret that Jim and McCoy shared an affinity for overworking themselves, but to get to that point…
For their Chief Medical Officer to reach that point…
You're being ridiculous. Spock lifted his hand, letting it hover over the door chime for a brief moment. There's no reason to be this shaken.
Doctor McCoy is fine.
Was he?
That cough said otherwise.
No reason to…
Or, perhaps, McCoy had slowly become more of a friend to him than Spock had realized.
And perhaps, he had grown to care about the doctor, respecting him not only as a medical professional but as a close companion.
A friend.
He waited until the coughing subsided before hitting the chime.
"I'll be fine, Jim... I just need to catch my breath."
A ragged voice beckoned him inside.
"I'm coherent, right?"
"Most assuredly, Doctor."
The door slid open and Spock cursed his eyes for immediately flying to the spot on the floor. That spot. The invisible stain that replayed a scene in which he and Jim desperately tried to wake their friend.
Next, his gaze landed on McCoy, who lounged upright in bed against a stack of pillows.
"Spock." His greeting held a touch of surprise, the PADD in his hands suddenly forgotten. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you're a sight for sore eyes. Maybe you'll listen to reason. Do you know? Every damn nurse who's been in here won't even let me take a look at the medical logs! They've locked me out of my own medical bay both physically and electronically."
"You are supposed to be on leave, Doctor," Spock returned. "I would assume that includes all medical practice, even the reviewing of files."
"I should've known you'd say something like that," the bedridden doctor grumbled. "Do you even understand how positively boring books can be when you don't want to read them?"
As if to emphasize his point, McCoy tossed his PADD to the other side of the bed.
"Books are not the only form of entertainment."
"Yeah." McCoy washed a hand over his face. "But I've already done everything else." Here, he cracked a grin. At least, he tried to, though Spock thought it looked more like a grimace. "There's only so many holo-flicks you can watch before the sight of actors on a screen makes you physically sick. You probably wouldn't know about that, though. You never stuck me as the binging sort of guy."
"I can think of several more productive ways to use my time."
"Of course, you can..."
"However, concentrating on those sorts of things is rather… difficult when battling an illness. So, I have found that the occasional holo-film during such a time is acceptable."
"Well," came McCoy's sarcastic, yet smiling reply, "I'm glad I have your permission to do what I've been doing all day."
And for the briefest of moments, Spock tried to imagine what it might be like to do nothing but stare at stories on a screen for hours on end. McCoy was correct in calling the mere thought sickening.
"So," McCoy began, shifting into a more comfortable position—and quite obviously failing, if his incessant fidgeting was any indication. "What brings you here? I know you didn't come over just to hear about all the dull ways I've been trying to pass the time."
This question stopped Spock short.
Why had he come? There wasn't anything of importance to declare, nor were there even any updates from medbay about which the doctor needed to be informed.
Fortunately, McCoy concocted his own reason.
"Jim sent you to check up on me, didn't he?" At McCoy's narrowed stare, Spock merely nodded. That was as good an excuse as any, buying him time while he attempted to figure out his true motives behind the visit.
Something had driven him here. At the end of his shift, Spock had fully intended to return to his own quarters.
Somehow, he had found himself standing in front of McCoy's.
The doctor scowled. "I knew it. Couldn't even wait a full day, could he? Well, I'm fine. I bet he's still on the bridge, doing the very same thing he's keeping me from doing. Typical…"
"Perhaps both you and the captain need to be more conscientious about your tendency to overwork yourselves."
Whatever heated retort had been on McCoy's tongue got cut off by another string of coughing. Each scratchy, pain-filled cough sent a tiny spike through Spock's skin. Part of him—the rare, illogical part—wanted nothing more than to give the doctor a gentle nerve pinch if only to temporarily put him out of his misery.
"We should get you to medbay."
"Don't bother. There isn't anything that can really cure bronchitis..."
Images of McCoy's pale, sweat-coated face as he had tried to sit up pummelled Spock's mind. The doctor's strangled cough as he sunk back down to the floor, head resting on Jim's knees. The way he had grasped at his chest, a vain attempt to bring himself some sort of reprieve…
"Sorry, just... sorry..."
Spock had to put in considerable effort to clamp down on the memory, banishing it from his mind until he could meditate later that evening.
"Apologizing for something you cannot control is illogical."
"How'd... How'd I ever guess you were gonna say that...?"
"Well," McCoy forced out through his shredded throat, "you can go tell him exactly where he can shove his worry. I'm fine."
"The hell, you are."
"I'll be sure to relay your message."
McCoy chuckled at this. "I'd sorta like to hear you say that to him. Or, better yet, tell him to come see me himself. That way I can yell at him in person. I swear, it's like he has me on house arrest or something."
"You did manage to give him quite a scare."
"Scared myself a bit, if we're being honest." Though he looked as though he wanted to elaborate, McCoy ended up shaking his head. "Well, it's over with, anyway. No reason to keep talking about it."
"I have observed..." Clasping his hands behind his back, Spock inclined his head. "That talking about certain experiences can act as a coping mechanism."
This brought forth a small smirk from McCoy. "Ever thought about getting a degree in psychology, Mr. Spock?"
"I believe the Enterprise already has an accomplished psychologist."
"I've noticed you can be good at flattery when you want to be."
"I was not flattering you, Doctor."
It took McCoy a short moment to reply and Spock noticed the poorly masked surprise on his face. In the end, the doctor chose to hide behind his favorite coping mechanism: sarcasm.
"Compliments from a Vulcan... I must still be more disoriented than I thought."
"Are you feeling any better?"
Even though each time you cough, it leads others to believe that you're dying?
McCoy waved a dismissive hand. "I'm fine."
Spock merely raised a brow, which never failed to provoke the doctor.
"I will be fine. There, happy? Once I get rid of this damn cough. And it's not contagious, if you were wondering."
"The thought never crossed my mind."
"Liar." McCoy made another effort to make himself comfortable with less success than the last time. "It's... Well, it's just weird when you don't know what's going on. What's wrong with you, I mean."
So, perhaps McCoy had decided to talk about his emotions after all.
The doctor furrowed his brows, no doubt remembering the very same scenes Spock was still trying to block from his memory.
"Especially as a practicing physician, I should've known. And, well, maybe I did know but didn't want to stop going. I don't know... Just… In the moment, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me and I didn't know how to fix it. I was so disoriented."
"I'm coherent, right?"
"You were quite talkative for someone who didn't have a firm grasp on reality."
McCoy shrugged. "I needed to prove to myself I could still form a sentence; that I could still make sense even while my brain was short-circuiting."
That… was logical.
"Sleeping's hell with this cough," he continued, "but then again, it usually is, so..." That, Spock noted, would be another conversation for another time. One final shrug followed a small chuckle. "I still don't know where you came from. It was like you just appeared out of nowhere. I opened my eyes and there you were."
"I heard a commotion during my evening mediation and—"
"Yeah, I heard the story." McCoy's chuckle turned into a slight smile. "It was just nice to wake up to some friendly faces, that's all. Especially when I was having a hard time even remembering where I was."
Spock felt himself nod, but the motion was hollow.
Friendly faces…
The words that came out of his mouth next were not planned, and certainly illogical—the most logical course of action would have been to bid the doctor goodnight and retire to his own quarters long before now.
"Jim… did not send me."
Confused, McCoy shook his head. "Then why did you say he—"
"I didn't say it," Spock corrected. "You did."
"But you nodded!"
"I..." Spock took a moment to consider his next words. "At that time, I was still unsure as to the motive behind my visit."
"And now you are?" It was McCoy's turn to raise a brow.
"I suppose I was simply… concerned about your health and wanted to check in to see how you were doing."
He didn't tell the doctor how the memories were affecting him. He didn't mention the fact that he wanted to make sure McCoy was still there—still breathing.
And he kept his lips pursed at the very moment in which they wanted to reveal the truth: that the ordeal had shaken him quite nearly as much as it had Jim and Leonard.
McCoy's voice, when he at last replied, was devoid of any sarcasm. "That's… Well, thanks, Spock. I appreciate it. Really."
Another fit of coughing killed whatever aura of sentiment the two of them had been creating, but perhaps that's just as well.
Spock had never been good at sentiment.
In most cases, it led to illogical displays of emotion. This case, however, didn't feel particularly illogical. As Spock refilled McCoy's water glass for him, earning a raspy thanks from the doctor, it felt right.
"Someone has to keep watch while you rest, just as a precaution. Considering Vulcans require less sleep than humans, I took over for the captain some time ago."
"Thanks, Spock."
"You're welcome, Leonard..."
The coughing had barely subsided when Spock heard the door slide open behind him.
"What? Why didn't you tell me you all were having a party without me?"
Jim, Spock had observed over the years, never seemed to have a problem making himself and his emotions known to all.
"If you call hacking up a lung a party," McCoy said, smirking, "then come on in."
Spock watched his captain chuckle, noting the flash of concern in Jim's eyes.
"Don't mind if I do. How're you feeling, Bones?"
"Fine, fine." McCoy waved a hand. "I'm not gonna die of bronchitis, if that's what you're worried about. Just boredom."
"Ah." Another chuckle from Jim was no doubt meant to keep the tone of the conversation light, yet Spock could sense the underlying tension.
The same feelings that had tightened up his own chest constricted Jim's, Spock was certain. They also wrestled with the same emotions, though Jim's were, of course, more pronounced than's Spock's.
And most assuredly, they were wrestling the same memories, as well.
Jim didn't bother with pulling up a chair, preferring to sit right down on the edge of the bed.
"You can't... Heh, you can't really die of bronchitis, right?"
This earned the captain an exaggerated eye roll from McCoy. "No, Jim. Of course, not."
Visibly relieved, Jim ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I know, I know. I just had to ask—"
"I mean," McCoy went on, "bronchitis used to be responsible for over 40,000 deaths annually, and not to mention all the people who died from it before the invention of modern medicine..." From the way the doctor's lips seemed to be struggling to conceal a smirk, Spock would hazard a guess that McCoy was enjoying the expression playing out on Jim's face. "But that first part only applied to chronic cases, and I like to think we've advanced quite a bit since the 20th Century… Hey—!"
The pillow that hit the doctor's face was, in Spock's opinion, deserved, and it appeared to give Jim no small amount of pleasure.
"Come on, Bones, knock it off. I didn't come over just to hear all the ways you can die from bronchitis. Especially not when my friend lost consciousness three times because of it."
"I told you a dozen times, Jim, I'm fine. Or, I will be fine when I can finally get out of this bed. I swear, every time I get up, someone comes in and tells me to lie back down." McCoy shook his head. "It's like the med staff has me on a tracker or something, I'll tell ya… Don't look at me like that. I already went through all that sappy stuff with Spock."
"Sorry, just…" With a sigh, Jim said, "I've yet to get over it, I guess."
"Come on, Jim, I'm fi—"
"But you weren't! You weren't, Bones, and I had no idea what was wrong with you, or how to help you, or... or anything! I watched you collapse in the middle of the hallway for, what I thought, was no reason. I heard you hit the floor because I couldn't..." Swallowing, Jim hung his head. "I couldn't get there in time."
The silence that followed was suffocating and Spock wondered if this was what it felt like for humans to try to breathe the thick air on Vulcan.
No one seemed to know what to say, and even for Spock, the right words were elusive, forever just out of reach.
"Sorry," Jim said at last, breaking the silence but not the tension. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No," McCoy cut in, "I'm sorry. I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn't... I never should've left the cough alone for that long. It was irresponsible, especially for someone who knows medicine like I do. Like I'm supposed to..."
"Doctors, I believe the captain has mentioned before, truly do make the worst patients." Spock wasn't sure where the words came from, but from the expressions on his friends' faces, he could tell he was off to a good start. "Their greatest goal is always to help everyone else, so much so that they often neglect their own needs. I think we can all agree that there are many things we should have done, however, I have found that continually going over mistakes of the past is not only pointless, but can be detrimental to one's overall mental health."
"Jim," McCoy said after a moment, "I swear, he should have been a psychology major."
"I am merely relating my observations, Doctor."
"Yeah, and they're right."
Jim grinned. "Well, I guess someone's got to stop us from having a pity party for ourselves."
"Exactly," came McCoy's nod of agreement. "And I'm pretty sure that's not the kind of party we were trying to have here. Now, before I lay into you about how absolutely dull tomorrow is going to be, how uncomfortable this bed is, and how it's all your fault for making me take leave, Jim… Why don't you pull up a chair, Spock? You're driving me crazy just hovering there. Besides, this is gonna take a while..."
"Oh, dear Lord, help me," Jim muttered, though his eyes were smiling, to borrow the human expression.
As Spock sat down, he was surprised to find himself quite... entertained by the doctor's rant toward their captain, which eventually shifted to talk of the ship and the day's events.
Which turned to casual conversation that Spock would not have traded for the world.
It felt right, relaxing like that in the company of two of the most important people in the universe to him.
He only wished it hadn't taken Leonard being reduced to unconsciousness thrice for him to realize it.
