Title: Clothes Make the Man (or the Vulcan)
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy, various
Rating: K+
Word Count: 11,523 (yikes)
Warnings: This was originally supposed to be a 2500-word oneshot poking fun at a fandom trope, and somehow it mutated into the epic h/c-fest you see here. Whups. Sorry about that. :| Split into two posts because it's apparently too large.
Summary: Five times Spock wore something other than his uniform, and one time he was only too glad to put the uniform back on.
A/N: Adaptation from a writing prompt given to me by imbecamiel, during my recent whining about a lack of muse on my LiveJournal. Other prompt answers to come; this is just the one that grabbed my attention the most. This is going to be a chronological story, following the Triumvirate through the years and how their perceptions of each other change through those years.
III.
Spock of Vulcan is only just beginning to understand the human emotions of fear and hope.
The incident in question is not at all amusing, despite how it sounds initially when they finally compile their initial report. No one seems to fully grasp the gravity of their predicament, the impossibility of the Enterprise remaining at full efficiency during this incapacitation, the inconvenience to his personal life and his mental shielding…the utter horror of the situation itself…
To his left, Jim winces. "Boy you think loudly, Spock," he says, not unkindly.
He stiffens, yet again having forgotten the horror in which they are currently embroiled. "My apologies, Captain."
"You've got nothing to apologize for, Spock," the captain points out reasonably. Poor guy, this has to be a nightmare for a true telepath, especially one of such a private species. "This whole mess isn't anyone's fault but mine, I suppose, if we have to blame someone. Nobody knew the planet's innate psionic field would short out both Vulcan and human physiology like this, and I should have figured out what was happening a long time before it did."
"Blaming yourself for something over which you have even less control than I, as a psi-null human, is illogical, Captain."
Assignation of blame is indeed impossible, save perhaps to the crew of the original scout ship. Obviously, the sentience of the planet itself had not been discernible by the limited scanners in the long-distance shuttlecraft. Evidently the planet, as yet unnamed but assigned the generalization Planet M-256, is itself a sentient being, quite aware of the life-forms which inhabit its coasts and oceans, and apparently living in perfectly tranquil symbiosis with those inhabitants. The Enterprise had been dispatched with all information available, to make a First Contact – but that information had not indicated that the planet itself was a very powerful telepathic being, whose innate and unshielded telepathic field soon proved to wreak havoc on both the ship's systems as well as upon certain members of the Enterprise crew. Namely, himself and Captain Kirk.
"That's the understatement of the century," Jim mutters as he scans through their preliminary report for Starfleet, and Spock knows that he said none of that aloud. The captain continues without looking up, however. "Medical is saying they can't tell how long this…mind-reading ability, will last, though it should be filtering down now that we've withdrawn to a safe distance from the planet. In the meantime…"
We shall be absolutely miserable, Spock thinks with understandable gloom, and promptly wishes he had not, as the amused look he receives shows clearly that Jim can still hear his thoughts as loudly as he could while the planet was in range.
"In the meantime," Kirk enunciates, still smiling – he is taking this far too lightly, in Spock's entirely logical opinion – "in the meantime, I will attempt to not think too illogically, Mr. Spock. I can only promise to try."
The captain is turning his best pleading look up at him, the one Spock is well aware humans call the employment of 'puppy-eyes,' and it is ridiculous how much the sight lessens his frustration with the entire situation.
Jim gives him a smug grin, then, and Spock realizes that it is not just direct thoughts which they can pick up from each other; obviously their emotions filter through as well, as they are the impetus for many thought processes.
That hypothesis is truly alarming, and he can almost feel the blood rushing from his face. This is a breach of privacy which is any Vulcan's worst nightmare, the invasion of control and violation of one's innermost thoughts being the highest of offenses in Vulcan culture.
Jim looks suddenly sick, as he picks up on Spock's instinctual revulsion. "Do you think it could be better with distance, Spock?" he asks soberly, all amusement vanished under the mental onslaught of despair. "I can get you in a shuttle headed out of the system within ten minutes, and we can rendezvous next week somewhere in the Cerulean system."
"From what reports and experiments my Science and Medical departments have been able to produce, the problem is not the distance, I fear, Captain, but rather the personnel involved. While the psionic energy did slightly affect certain crewmen in minor ways, no other members of this crew are in the same unfortunate predicament as you and I."
Kirk nods slowly. That's right, nobody else aboard has complained about being able to hear anyone else's thoughts…why us then?
"I would imagine the problem stems from my own telepathic ability, and you simply being the...individual aboard who is most attuned to that mental wavelength." Illogical, and a scientific improbability, but after the things they have seen in the last four years, surely this is not impossible. "That is the only hypothesis I have been able to form on the subject, Captain. It also explains why I was, at first, able to vaguely sense Dr. McCoy's emotional state on some level; that, however, has faded in the last twelve hours, most likely because we have never been attuned to the same level as you and I, Captain. Therefore, the connection was nowhere near as strong."
Seems logical enough.
"Indeed, sir."
Whoops, I didn't say that out loud, did I. Kirk clears his throat. "I hate that I'm the one going to be probably shoving a whole bunch of unnecessary business into your head for the foreseeable future, Spock. If I could stop it –"
"I am aware you would, were that possible, sir. As it is not, there is nothing to be done but to continue as best we can." For as long as we are able to, without incapacitation.
"And you're having no success in shutting me out, through any Vulcan technique?"
"I am able to…you would term it as muffling the thoughts, Captain, but I am unable to block them out altogether. The intense psionic backlash from the planet's consciousness has, at least temporarily, rendered all my abilities useless." The thought does actually frighten him, human as the emotion is; this is a laying bare of anything and everything he holds most private and sacred, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.
Jim looks vaguely alarmed, no doubt at the verging panic which is shamefully seeping through their connection, but Spock rather believes the cause is sufficient; any telepathic being would be wary of such a situation, a violation of every principle by which he lives.
"Look, maybe I should test the theory at least – maybe it will decrease with distance, and I have to go back to the planet to continue First Contact negotiations anyway," Kirk says, brow furrowed worriedly. If it's that bad, I definitely don't want him down there having to keep it together and fend off my thoughts at the same time. "Perhaps if you remain here, on the Bridge, the distance will at least lessen the effects."
"Regulations state that at least two members of the command chain be present in any First Contact negotiations. As Mr. Scott is attempting to repair the damage done to the ship's circuitry by our encounter with the telepathic field, and as Dr. McCoy is by far the least diplomatic individual aboard …"
Hey, he's darn good at what he does. Just…negotiating isn't what he does.
"I entirely agree, Captain," he answers dryly. He realizes now, after the initial onslaught of panic has passed, that the invasion of Jim's thoughts is less painful than he had anticipated. They are barely an annoyance, if that; not at all invasive. In fact, were he not aware of the accompanying emotions behind them, they would feel…almost natural. That is logical, as he and the captain have always been rather similar in thought processes.
"Well, that's good at least," Kirk offers, with a small smile of relief. "I was afraid your head was going to explode the next time I bang my elbow and swear, or something." Lord knows I might give him a seizure next time I get ticked off at the Admiralty…
Were their predicament not such a liability to themselves and the ship, Spock might almost find it amusing, how the human is now slightly more disturbed by the idea of their sharing thoughts than Spock himself. Jim's all-too-human exaggeration of the situation is almost…endearing.
Kirk gives him an odd look, which leads him to the chagrined conclusion that he just projected that, quite loudly, into the man's head.
"Yes, okay, let's just pretend that didn't happen, Mr. Spock. Speculation regarding ship's business, is this liability going to handicap our command performance?"
Spock is quite happy to move on, and ponders for a moment. "I do not believe so, sir; we are not in the midst of a danger zone, in which we might need to be free of distraction. I believe with some effort on each of our parts, we will be able to satisfactorily perform our duties as usual."
And of course, like so many other missions during which they prematurely speak thus, their optimism is proven drastically wrong.
"That's a negative, Commander. I don't want you anywhere near that planet – we're at minimal beaming distance now, and you're about to go down, don't pretend that you're not." The captain's eyes glint with that dangerous stubbornness that is so frustrating to Spock's more logical thought processes. True, he is struggling to maintain any semblance of control when in such proximity to the dangerously powerful entity below – but to send a human, a psi-null human, into such a situation without any protection? It is unthinkable, what could happen to an unprotected and vulnerable mind.
"Spock, look – I'm not having any problems right now, the planet isn't trying to communicate with us," Kirk says reasonably. "There's no reason to think it has malevolent intentions; it's literally just too powerful for you to get close to when your shields are already in pieces."
That is highly embarrassing; he had hoped that the destruction had been hidden well enough that Kirk would not be able to tell just how badly off he is.
"Why on earth would you be embarrassed about that?" the human demands incredulously, and the warmth of fond amusement floods his mind suddenly, a violation so startlingly pleasant that he takes a physical step backward out of pure reflex. "You're basically being tortured here, unable to repair the damage until we can get far enough out of orbit that you can begin to heal – why would you be embarrassed about taking one for Starfleet?"
"A Vulcan should be able to remain at least functional in this situation, sir," he replies, eyes downcast. Evidently, his skills in the Vulcan Way are lacking, as he is certainly not functional, not by any stretch. Kirk is correct; even at this minimal beaming distance, the pressure of the planet's telepathic field is wreaking havoc on his controls. Just the thought of having to beam down into physical contact with such a powerfully telepathic entity is enough to make him feel physically ill.
The captain's face shows clearly that he can still hear exactly what Spock is thinking. He steps across the distance separating them, and hesitantly places a hand on Spock's arm.
"I need someone on the Bridge who knows what they're doing in case of a First Contact gone wrong anyway, Spock," he says sincerely. "I trust no one else with my ship. It is only logical for you to remain here now that repairs are nearly finished; I'll take Scotty and the team with me, and we'll be back before you know it."
"At least take Lieutenant Carstairs from Hydroponics with you, Captain. He has the highest esper rating among the crewmen currently aboard the Enterprise. You will most likely not be able to sense if the planet attempts to make mental contact, but he might at least be able to give you warning before serious mishap occurs."
"Our canary in a mine shaft, eh Mr. Spock?" Kirk nods in agreement. "I will do so. You don't think I'll be able to sense something going wrong down there? I can still hear you loud and clear, twenty-four hours later." No signs of it letting up anytime soon…I sure hope he can last long enough for us to get this thing done.
"I do not know, Captain." One can only hope that Kirk will, indeed, have warning should something go wrong on the planet below. Spock very much does not like the idea of sending a group of unprotected humans down to such a potentially hostile planet, whether the entity is benevolent or not. Such absolute power is, by mere definition, dangerous. "I do not like it, sir."
Kirk's eyebrows twitch. "Aren't likes and dislikes a little illogical, Mr. Spock?" he inquires, eyes twinkling.
"Sir, this is a most serious matter –"
"I know, I know." Guess it's not a joke in any way to him, I should take it more seriously if it will ease his mind at all. The hand squeezes his arm briefly, and then releases him. "I don't like it any more than you, Spock, to be honest. I'm pretty picky about who I let rummage around in my head, you know."
"I am aware, sir."
"Okay, well. Let's get this over and done with, so we can get you to a safe distance and try to fix you up, all right?" Kirk moves to the comm-unit and gives a quick order for landing party duty. "Hopefully this First Contact will only take a few hours, and we can be on our way. I'll keep you informed."
"Most likely without intending to," is his dry rejoinder, and as he exits the briefing room Kirk's laughter floods his mind with warmth, slightly easing the pain of this constant violation.
Performing at peak capacity on Bridge duty is second nature to him by this point in their five-year mission; he has come far since those days when a shuttle crew barely offered him the obedience his position deserved, and none of the accompanying respect. Jim Kirk is, among other things, an extremely good teacher. Even functioning at normal capacity while there is an unprotected away team below on a First Contact mission, is not so difficult for Spock now as it might have been years ago.
Accomplishing this while he has Jim Kirk's inner monologue speeding through his thoughts like a runaway freight carrier, however, is an entirely different matter. One reason he has always been fascinated by Kirk's abilities as a starship commander is the fact that the few glimpses he has had of the captain's mind, have indicated it is a place of brilliantly-colored intensity: beautiful chaos, disorganized structure, and a perfect study in anarchic paradox between emotion and logic. The landscape of such a mind is so vastly different from his own well-ordered, black-and-white school of thought as to be utterly fascinating – and as a pure gratuity, Kirk is possibly the only human who understands him enough to not be revulsed by Spock's fascination.
However, his appreciation for Kirk's unusual mind is fast losing its allure, because the man simply will not stop thinking. And not about the mission, no; Jim is mentally categorizing the contents of his to-do list for tomorrow, wondering if Dr. McCoy has stopped blocking his meal card from producing waffles at breakfast, admiring the fiery hue of some flower on the planet below, warning his Security force to stop touching things they have no scientific readings on yet, wondering how the ship is doing above them, making a mental note to affix a forgotten postscript to their last report to Starfleet, wondering if Scotty has moved the still in Engineering since Spock's last surprise inspection, conjecturing on the likelihood of Lieutenant Kalov in SS&R managing to smuggle out their last batch of contraband before they reach the next 'Fleet checkpoint.
Honestly, these humans! Spock does not understand how they do not go mad, so disorganized are their thoughts. They can run several trains of thought in different directions simultaneously, while none of them have any bearing on the topic at hand. The most nonsensical of details can trigger avalanches of thought which are in no way pertinent, and their brains simply are not orderly, as a Vulcan's mind is. It is a completely alien way of thinking, and while it is quite intriguing, at this point it is becoming more of a nuisance than anything else.
Spock sighs, signs off on another report, and returns to his borrowed chair on the Enterprise Bridge. He wearily sits through Kirk's lengthy mental debate regarding the merits of changing the crew rotations mid-year as a way to prevent cliques and build a sense of family among crewmen who would not otherwise socialize, a passing remark and a flash of fond amusement on how all of Spock's Science lieutenants sound exactly like him when they give a report, a brief contemplation of the strange dream Kirk had the night before, and a fleeting and then more serious thought, about the rather uncivilized sexism behind the Starfleet uniform policy.
This is shortly followed by a lengthy and totally unrelated tangent about the captain's activities on his last shore leave on Risa, which is entirely too much information. Spock hopes his blushing is not as obvious as he suspects it is, and finally he decides enough is quite enough.
Jim, can you not at least attempt to keep your mind on the mission at hand, he pleads – yes, at this point he is reduced to that pitifully human action – silently, even as he conducts another skim of a fuel consumption report.
Oh, gods, you were listening to all that, weren't you.
A quick rush of mortification drenches his mind immediately, followed by a sheepish apology which in turn produces the unaccountable mental urge to laugh at the human's embarrassment.
I realize it is difficult for your human mind to set itself so strictly upon one train of thought, but if you are capable of making the attempt, it would greatly ease my work here, he returns, with a hint of amusement.
I want to die now, I really do.
I sincerely hope you have no genuine plans to do so.
Hope? Mr. Spock, you are adopting some positively human speaking patterns.
Perhaps your inability to control your own thoughts is, how do you say it – rubbing off on me. Sir.
And he does sarcasm too! He receives a vague impression of a grand sweeping gesture to accompany the projected thought, and feels his lips twitch in amusement, much to the mystification of the yeoman who takes his PADD back after a signature.
"Status report, Mr. Sulu." Status, Captain?
"All systems normal, Mr. Spock. No interference on any wavelength from the planet below. Constant scanning of the landing party life-signs continuing as you ordered, sir, and there have been no variations in any of their bio-signatures."
"Excellent."
Finally reaching what appears to the main city right now, Spock. As the original scout ship said, the natives are vaguely humanoid in appearance, though at first examination there appears no visible difference between the male and female of their species – I'm not sure they even grasp the concept, though that is a subject better suited to the xenosociology teams. Our guide sent to meet us seems to have taken great pride in showing us the scenic route to their capital. It is a beautiful planet, Spock, mild and temperate – and highly intriguing, that such a sentient entity as a whole planet is fully aware of the beings living upon it and is perfectly okay with that…
Indeed. Are the communicators still unable to signal?
Yes, we've been trying steadily to send up a status report for the last quarter-hour to you, but apparently the telepathic field is knocking out our transmissions. Nothing ominous about it, just annoying. Scotty said it's perfectly normal, just likely to last until we beam up again. Carstairs also says he's fine, not picking up anything strange – we just aren't going to be able to use the comms while we're down here.
At least subjecting myself to your mental commentary will give us indication of events on the planet below.
Taking one for Starfleet, Mr. Spock. Just be glad I'm the one invading your brain, and not Bones.
His instinctual horror at the idea must filter through, for he hears the light warmth of Jim's mental laughter, before the man returns to a – somewhat subdued, now – commentary on the progress of the First Contact team.
Three hours into the mission, and things are progressing smoothly (other than this disconcerting ability to read Kirk's thoughts, and vice-versa).
He can only hope, in every sense of the word, that this time of good fortune continues.
Of course, being the U.S.S. Enterprise and, by extension, the ship with the highest casualty/disaster rating in the Fleet (the humans call it bad luck, but Spock knows it is merely fatal misfortune due to circumstance…and perhaps Kirk's unorthodox brand of captaincy in some cases) – because of this, it should not be a shock when the mission suddenly turns into a nightmare.
One of his worst nightmares, human as the act of dreaming is – he has before had them, and most likely will have similar ones for years.
But this – this is far too close, strikes far too deep. He will rarely forget the moment that Vulcan control shatters under the onslaught of human fear.
He is finishing up notes for Science Lab Eleven on his portable research PADD, while still occupying the command chair on the Bridge. Kirk's commentary has faded, after informing Spock they have reached the capital city, to a sort of white noise, which only indicates that the captain's mind is busily engaged in conversation with someone; a good sign, as he is responsible for the diplomatic negotiations with this unique people. Despite the peacefulness of the mission so far, Spock does spare a few notes in a sidebar to addend to Kirk's report for Starfleet, recommending that a team for Second Contact be far more carefully chosen – possibly Betazoid, or at the least humanoids trained in basic mental shielding techniques, and with an accompanying bio-medical team as a precaution.
However, there have been no indications that the planet below intends them any harm; the telepathic field hums at the edge of their sensors, but has not fluctuated during the hours they have been in geosynchronous orbit.
It is a total surprise to him, therefore, when a flash of sheer panic suddenly shatters his thin mental shields, knifing straight through as if they were not even up at all.
His PADD clatters to the deck, drawing the attention of a startled Bridge crew. He places both hand at his temples in an effort to concentrate, ignoring Lieutenant Uhura's concerned questions. For a moment, there is nothing, only confusion and, which is more concerning, a sense of intense pain – and then, the captain's voice, slicing straight through the chaos in an unmistakable tone of urgency.
Full reverse thrusters! Get my ship out of here, Spock!
We are still able to beam you up, Captain –
Don't you dare drop those shields, Commander! Get the ship out of range now!
His head jerks upright, to see the crew looking at him with concern. "Shields to maximum and full reverse power, Mr. Sulu – take the ship out of orbit immediately and move her completely out of range from the planet."
Sulu is a good man, and an even better pilot; he knows better than to question an order, however out of thin air it may appear to come. "Aye, sir!" They are already moving away from the planet before he completes the sentence, its green-and-blue topography rapidly fading in their viewer.
"Further orders, sir?" Chekov's voice breaks through the cloud that has descended upon his mind, as he tries to filter out the chaos bleeding through from the captain's end.
"Divert all remaining power to shields and initiate full stop when we are clear of the planet's telepathic field."
"Meester Spock, are you all right, sir?"
"A moment, Ensign," he manages, barely, to not snap, and vaguely registers Uhura comm-ing Medical, specifically Dr. McCoy, behind him.
Jim's mind is clearly in panic mode now, but he cannot grasp any clear thought to know what precisely is occurring. Spock is afraid to mentally call out for the captain's attention, knowing that if he is engaged in some sort of danger that distraction could be fatal – but this not knowing, this ability to hear and feel the pain and the confused panic from the landing party's end…
He would rather sit through another session with the Klingons' mind-sifter, than be forced to endure this uncertainty, this waiting. Behind him, the turbolift door opens, and McCoy's grating voice followed by the whirr of a portable medical scanner suddenly distract him for a moment. He meets the physician's worried gaze only seconds before Jim's voice suddenly knifes into his head once more, brittle with urgency.
You were right – the planet, it is too powerful...not malicious, just…unaware of its own power. Something's gone wrong with the negotiations, Spock, the whole landing party collapsed before Carstairs even got a word out...
The thought fades out with another flash of pain, and his fingers tighten on the arms of the chair. He suspects his own link with the captain is responsible in some way for the human not immediately succumbing under the entity's powerful telepathy; for that much, he is grateful, as he would spare Jim that violation at all costs. But no link, however powerful, can stand forever, and the danger to the landing party is now at a Priority One emergency.
Captain. Jim. Focus on my voice for a moment. If I lower the ship's shields, will the psionic force attack the minds of everyone on board? Is that why you ordered the ship away?
Yes. No…I don't know, Spock. I can't – Another flash of panic, and a stabbing phantom pain that takes up residence behind his right eye.
Jim. Are you still under attack? Where are the landing party?
Still under…yes, fighting it but I don't think…don't know where they are now, the elders seemed to take it as a sign we weren't 'worthy' and so they weren't very happy that we claimed to come from a stronger society…of all the planets, we had to land the one where a sign of weakness is tantamount to wholesale surrender…
Deities of the galaxy save them from underdeveloped species. He sometimes wonders why the Federation bothers trying to contact such superstitious and many times hostile people; obviously this planet holds some mineral deposits or some other such attributes which the Federation wishes to claim before the Klingons do, otherwise they would not have been instructed to make a First Contact without an official Starfleet ambassador.
Jim's next few words are coming far too rapidly, as if the tactician within is trying to get as much information out as he can.
If you drop the shields, the whole crew will be in the same shape as the landing party. Under no circumstances are you to drop those shields, Mr. Spock. Understood?
Understood, sir. The pain is intensifying now, and he is becoming literally afraid for his captain; if the human has stood for this long under a psionic attack and is still conscious, he cannot imagine how hard he is fighting to remain so, or what damage he is causing to himself. Jim, are you injured, outside the mental attack?
…don't know, Spock. The words are fainter now, the pain more intense, and he tries to ignore the clenching feeling in his throat.
Are you still within the capital city?
There is no answer, only confusion, and he clenches the armrests so hard they creak in warning.
Jim? Jim, concentrate upon my voice. Can you tell me where you are?
There is only a whirl of confusion, not helped by the worried tones of Dr. McCoy distracting him to his left. He focuses every sense he possesses, trying futilely to grasp at any fleeting thought the captain has; but as they slip through his mental grasp, he is unable to feel anything but the pain, the confusion, until suddenly –
Like a flame extinguished, his mind goes utterly silent.
Jim!
There is no answer, not a sound nor a word nor so much as a twinge of feeling.
The void left behind is a horrifying vacuum made of painful shadows, deathly silence, the absence of the light and warmth that has lingered there for the last forty-eight hours – there is nothing, as if a candle has simply been blown out.
Shields in tatters, he manages to raise his head even as he lists dizzily forward, and finds himself leaning heavily on their Chief Medical Officer.
McCoy's eyes are darkening rapidly with concern, and for once the human is not complaining about being in such close quarters with him – in fact, he vaguely realizes that the doctor is basically holding him in his chair, paralyzed as his limbs seem to be for the moment.
"Spock. What in the name of heaven just happened?" McCoy asks directly, holding his arms in a vise-like grip.
He blinks slowly, attempting to at least clear his mind of the horrible emptiness therein. "I do not know, Doctor," he manages at last, before the pain finally overwhelms his fragile management. The shreds of his mental shields soon fall into the void like the rest of him.
"Tell me again why you can't just go in with guns blazing and get them out?!"
"One, because this is, despite the situation, still a First Contact mission. Two, because it is unclear whether the inhabitants of the planet actually hold ill-will toward the landing party, or if they are merely following an instilled religious directive. The Prime Directive is still in effect here, Doctor, as the First Contact negotiations were initially unsuccessful. We must proceed with caution."
Spock accepts the medicinal capsules he is handed without question or examination, as they can only help at this point to alleviate the headache and nausea which is becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. McCoy's eyes widen at his lack of protest, but Spock pays the human no mind.
"Third, if the power of the planet is sufficient to take down the entire landing party without so much as a struggle, then certainly no human will be able to stand before its force should it be directed at that individual. We would be risking madness or even death of totally defenseless crewmen, Doctor."
The physician's eyes darken. "You sayin' the landing party's in that bad shape, Mr. Spock?"
"I am saying, Doctor, that I simply do not have sufficient data to make an informed command decision," he replies, sighing quite openly now that his mental controls are all but non-existent. "We have no way of knowing what precisely happened, and I now have no way of ascertaining details of what has already occurred."
"And Jim?"
"The captain may be merely unconscious, or he may be dead," he says quietly. "Those are the only two explanations for the sudden absence of our mutual…handicap."
McCoy looks at him for a moment, and to his surprise the human does not make a move to attack him in any way, verbally or otherwise. Spock suspects, much to his dismay, that he most likely is an open book to this man, now that his shields are in tatters and his Vulcanity all but nonexistent. He can only hope his desperation does not affect his command performance, for this First Contact, as well as the safety of their landing party and the ship, now depend solely upon him.
With a weary sigh, the doctor sits on the edge of the desk, looking down at him. "So…what you're basically telling me, is that we can't drop the shields to beam them back without risking the ship."
"Correct, Doctor."
"And if a crew takes a shuttle out to the planet to do a recon, we risk them becoming mental vegetables until we know what we're up against."
"Also correct."
"But the landing party was fine for a while, Spock; you told me Jim said they only went down after something went wrong with the negotiations," McCoy points out. "I think you'll find quite a few crewmen willing to take the risk, if it means saving the landing party."
"They may be, Doctor; but I am not willing to permit them to take that risk. Dr. McCoy," he continues, hand upraised when the human begins to protest, "the Captain's last order was to keep the ship and her crew out of danger. Until I know what we are dealing with, I intend to follow that order to the letter."
"And how, exactly, do you intend to find out what we're dealin' with, then?"
"That is why I came to you, Doctor."
"Came to me, my eye – you basically fainted up there on the Bridge. I'm the one that carted your skinny green-blooded behind down here and pumped you full of stimulant against my better judgment!"
Spock ignores the diatribe, a well-practiced art by this time in his relationship with this most volatile of humans. "In the absence of Engineer Scott, it falls to you and I, Doctor, loathe as I am to ally with you in so unscientific a venture, to engender a feasible solution which will successfully block the planet's telepathic field from my own mind. Your studies in neurobiology are at the forefront of their field, are they not."
McCoy looks slightly taken aback that he even knows about the doctor's research. What does he think was Spock's immediate reaction, after the incident last year with his brain literally being re-implanted into his cranium by processes unknown?
"They are that, Mr. Spock…but protecting the brain from outside influences…that's more your area of expertise than mine. I don't know how it would work, outside a neural dampening field." McCoy rubs his temples uneasily. "I need time, Spock."
"We do not have much of that commodity, Doctor."
"Spock, you're basically asking me to take away one of your senses! It's not just blocking your mind from outside intrusion, that's easy enough with a targeted neural inhibitor, and maybe a physical isolation shield around your head if it comes down to that..." The human frowns, obviously thinking rapidly. "But you're a Vulcan – we're talkin' touch telepathy, here. I don't think I can totally block that, by any means known to medical science!"
"Then I shall simply take care in what I touch on the planet, Doctor."
McCoy is already typing into a medical program to hypothetically match Spock's recorded brain-signature with neural inhibitors which they either currently have or can synthesize rapidly, and only spares him a sour look over the top of the computer monitor.
"You have one hour, Doctor, less if possible."
"Then shut up and let me concentrate!"
He pointedly raises an eyebrow as the human's fingers still for a moment. McCoy favors him with a glare which could metaphorically melt duranium.
"I hate you, just so we're clear on that."
"Quite, Doctor."
At precisely one hour's expiration, it is a most ridiculous assembly of medical science and extremely dubious engineering which finally passes for their solution to the problem at hand.
"Scotty owes me a bottle of Saurian brandy when he gets back, I can tell you that much," McCoy mutters grumpily, as he adjusts the sensor net Spock has donned over the undercover version of the Starfleet uniform; which merely consists of a solid black tunic rather than the easily-seen primary colors. The sensor net is a lightweight mesh of black aluminium, invisible unless the light strikes it directly. It is not precisely the best camouflage, but it is the best they can do on such short notice with the resources they already have aboard.
"Now, the sensor net should, in theory, absorb or deflect all types of energy which travel in wavelengths back at their source, just like a deflector dish does on a starship, Spock," McCoy continues, concentrating on the final tweak to the programming. "That means sound waves, light waves, all of them - in addition to brainwaves; I can't tweak it finely enough to distinguish just brainwaves. So you may have wonky hearing for a while if it decides to deflect instead of absorb, I dunno."
"The purpose of this net being…?"
"It's a backup plan, Spock. I don't trust the neural inhibitor I gave you, because your hybrid physiology's basically a loose cannon when we don't have time to experiment. You could get down there and the inhibitor could not work at all."
"I see." Spock ignores the hashed metaphor in favor of examining the sensor net to his satisfaction. "And this?" he queries, gingerly lifting the helmet-like device, which looks vaguely familiar.
"Making do with what we already have," McCoy replies, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "It's basically a modification on the kit we suited your body up with when your brain got hijacked last year. What Scotty and I'd made was a suit and headgear that stimulated the proper nerves in your brain to in turn cause your body to move. With this, I've reworked that headgear to deflect all neural impulses except those originating in your own head."
Spock examines the device, and finally nods. "This should be sufficient, then, to mask any effects of the planet's telepathic field, Doctor."
"Mm-hm. You're gonna look like an idiot, but you should be protected from any wanderin' brainwaves, planetary or otherwise. And seriously, Spock," the doctor adds, pausing with one hand on Spock's shoulder, "you're putting up a good show, but you're in no condition to be taking on a telepathic entity. Don't take any of this off, y'hear me?"
Spock nods solemnly, for he is as dependent upon this human's medical and scientific expertise in this area as the captain usually is upon his First; there is no alternative, and if McCoy's jury-rigged protection fails him then he will be yet another casualty in this unexpected battle.
"I will use caution, Doctor."
"You do that. And I'm warnin' you – you've got six hours before I tell them to hang Jim's orders, we'll be dropping shields and beaming you all back aboard, then hightailing it out of this solar system without a look back."
"Dr. McCoy, that is –"
"It is a risk I'll take, Mr. Spock," the physician flashes back, eyes blazing, "because you and I both know Jim never leaves a man behind! I may not be on the command track but I know procedure as well as you, Commander. And I know what both of you would do."
Spock is silent, for at this point there is nothing he can say which will change this peculiar human's actions. McCoy is, unfortunately, the leading commanding officer aboard the ship in his and Mr. Scott's absence; and while Lieutenant Sulu is currently in charge of the Bridge, it will be McCoy whose orders they follow, and McCoy's responsibility in their official report for failure or success.
He resolves to not allow it to come to that, and waits patiently for the doctor to finish adjusting the protective headgear which they hope will mask his presence long enough for him to ascertain what has happened, while at the same time protecting him from any effects of the psionic power that apparently felled their landing party.
Lieutenant Kyle looks at him and his odd costume strangely as Spock enters the hangar bay and boards the Galileo II, but the young man wisely says nothing, and if he laughs he does not do so while Spock is still able to see through the viewer window as the bay decompressurizes.
Within seconds, the Enterprise falls far behind his ion trail, and he sets his sights to the planet below, hoping – again, that cursed human emotion – that he is not too late.
In the end, it is absurdly simple how easily he is able to ascertain facts and in turn diplomatically care for the misunderstanding. A relief, truly, for rarely has a mission gone awry been resolved with so little conflict – and even more rarely, has such a disastrous First Contact been turned into a fruitful alliance for the Federation.
Spock is pleased, in addition to being surprised, that his diplomatic skills are apparently sufficient to turn the situation around (the fact that he has the chance to explain his protective gear to a very interested native scientific council aids immensely in that negotiation). The natives of the planet are shocked to learn that there are beings in the universe who do not communicate solely through their minds, and that it is a taboo in many cultures to do so without permission.
It was not the planet, after all, which incapacitated the landing party – but rather the entire collective consciousness of the three houses of government, before whom the landing party had been brought to present the Federation's case for an alliance. Spock spares a few moments of intense gratitude that Dr. McCoy's jury-rigged equipment is certainly performing its purpose – were it not, he would by this time be in even worse condition than the landing party. As it stands, he is able to remain strong and perfectly alert, protected from the collective telepathic consciousness being projected at and around him.
Captain Kirk had never even gotten the chance to explain himself, because the instant negotiations began, the population of councilmen immediately took it upon themselves to view the true intentions of the landing party by the equivalent of a telepathic invasion. Now, when the gravity of such an offense in Federation society is carefully explained, Spock is gratified to see the natives' attitudes completely change. In their culture, it is apparently highly offensive to prevent someone from seeing into another's mind, and when the landing party simply collapsed but Kirk remained, fighting valiantly to keep them out, they had seen it as the worst of treachery, and had acted accordingly to protect themselves against what they saw as an outworlder infiltration.
Spock refrains from any outward expression of his instinctual horror and – yes, it is an emotion, and the cause is sufficient – anger over this, for it is obvious no harm was meant by the natives. It is a simple cultural misunderstanding, and therefore no one was truly in the wrong.
And yet, if what they say is true…if the captain fought so hard against the invasion, instinctively knowing what was happening when the less attuned humans had simply lost consciousness under the onslaught…the damage could be considerable.
But Kirk is alive, that much Spock gathers before the negotiations have even started. Armed with that knowledge, he can continue, and continue he does – until the treaty has been signed, and the negotiations completed to Starfleet specification, in preparation for a Second Contact mission by a more informed ambassadorial party.
Then, and unfortunately only then, can he see to the state of the landing party.
"I assure you, Captain Spock –"
"I am but a Commander, second-in-command of a starship, Councillor." His tone is one of perfect diplomatic calm; his father would be quite proud. "The human James Kirk is the ship's captain, and the intended ambassador to your world."
"We are so-extremely-very-intensely sorry, Commander Spock!"
The native, a pale humanoid, lifts his hands in supplication as they move down the corridors to the confinement cells levels below the courtroom (the universal translator had assigned the being a masculine pronoun, though Spock is unsure if that is merely grammatical technicality or actual gender). Spock hears and discards as unimportant the slight glitch in the universal translator's matrix, which evidently is picking up on genuine distress and inserting extra descriptives accordingly.
"Had we known, that what is second nature to us is most offensive-horrifying-criminal to your world…"
Spock does not bother to correct the singular of world, knowing where to pick his explanations as a diplomat. Besides, genuine remorse or not, he is fast reaching the end of his patience.
"What is done, is done, Councillor. But you will understand that I must see to the health and safety of my men before further discussion of our cultural differences." The words are couched in quiet diplomacy, but there is an iron edge of command in them that the native instinctively reacts to.
"But of course-certainly! You are most welcome to our facilities, our healers, anything which you require, Commander."
"I require only the release of our landing party, and permission to return them to the Enterprise in our shuttlecraft. Unless you have the capability to contact our ship, in which case I would prefer to transport aboard directly to our medical facilities if you would be so kind."
"Of course, of course." Spock almost – not quite, but almost – feels a twinge of pity for the unfortunate native, as he thrusts a ring of keys into the Vulcan's hand and then pelts off back the way they came. "I will see to communications at once-immediately, Commander!"
Spock does not even spare a look after the fleeing native, but moves quickly around the corner to the beginning of the cell block, which he has been told is used to house political prisoners.
The first three doors are unlocked, the cells empty, but they are at least clean and dry, and he holds out hope that at least the landing party will at least not have been trapped in the deplorable conditions he had been fearing for the last six hours. The true danger is in how gentle the mental probe had been in the courtroom – which, if Kirk's panicked communication had been any indication, was likely not going to be the case.
The next door is locked, and he chooses the correct key on the second attempt.
He blames his shattered mental controls for the relief which floods him at the sight of Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott, sitting on the stone floor and scowling, quite awake and aware, at his silhouette. Scott blinks twice, adjusting to the glare of the corridor's light, and then his eyes light up with a relieved grin.
"Mr. Spock, sir!"
"Mr. Scott. You appear relatively unharmed?"
It is a question, not an observation, and the answer will prove highly important. He scans the human's face as he quickly unlocks Scott's wrists from the stasis cuffs – he spares a moment of surprise that this civilization has advanced that far in security technology – and sits back on his heels in front of their chief engineer.
Scott shakes his head and then flexes his wrists gratefully. "I've a headache to end all headaches, Mr. Spock, but naught other than that wrong with me. No idea what happened to the negotiations, though, sir – 'tis all a blank, ye might say."
"I have successfully conducted and concluded the aborted First Contact negotiations, Mr. Scott. We need only release the landing party and we will be beamed back to the Enterprise once the natives of the Council have signaled our success to the ship."
"Who's mindin' the store, then?" Scott inquires as he scrambles to his feet, stretching quickly before following Spock into the corridor.
"Dr. McCoy, unfortunately," is Spock's dry reply, as he hauls the next door open without delay.
"Saints preserve us."
"Indeed. Lieutenant, are you well?"
From within the cell, Carstairs grimaces but gives him a human gesture Spock is aware by now is called a 'double thumbs-up.' He makes quick work of Carstairs's stasis cuffs, with the instruction for the young man to regain his bearings and exit when he feels ready.
Scott helps him with next three doors, after which their efforts have produced the other three members of the landing party, two Security men and Ensign Luai from Xenosociology, all in various stages of what appears, miraculously, to be relatively good health. Spock is now optimistic that these humans' minds apparently have enough of a self-preservational instinct as to literally shut down under the onslaught of a psionic attack. The action most likely saved them from serious harm, as none complain of worse than a headache after the events of the morning, and none seem to be exhibiting the signs of trauma which a Vulcan would be showing under such circumstances.
That knowledge does not, however, serve to lessen his concern, which has only increased since finding the other members of the landing party – he has still not located Jim, and Jim is the one whose mind may conceivably be injured, possibly severely. Of course, with the captain being unfortunately connected to Spock as he was, Kirk would have been able to instinctively draw on that connection in order to fight back against the attack, instead of surrendering before it. That might be Kirk's salvation, or it might be what had damned him to a violation which makes even Spock shudder with instinctual fear. It was the act of fighting back, which made the natives believe him to be guilty of treachery – so who knows in what condition they will find him.
Engineer Scott, who has shaken off his own injuries with the stamina that comes from his station and love for his captain, has already worked his way down half the corridor, trying doors to save Spock time in locating the man in question. Finally, he shouts down that he's found one locked, and it is the work of seconds to unlock and open the heavy steel door.
Spock had hoped – illogical, he knows – to find Kirk in the same condition as the rest of the landing party; obviously, that had been an irrational optimism. The captain appears either sleeping or unconscious – the latter, Spock knows immediately upon moving into the cell – but apparently the natives had seen him as a far more serious threat due to his resistance. The stasis cuffs are separated, each attached to the stone wall, much as chains would have been in a more barbaric prison, and Kirk is slumped unconscious in them, head lolling against his left arm.
Spock hears Scott's soft swearing behind him as he hands off the keys without a word and places a hand (not shaking, thankfully, for he would have difficulty explaining that to their worried Chief Engineer) gently on the man's neck, relieved beyond belief to feel a strong pulse beating there, steady and reassuring.
"Captain," he says softly, moving his hands to support the captain's head as he raises it, trying to ascertain physical signs of what might be damage within. There are the indications of a severe nosebleed, long since dried on the captain's tunic and face, and his heart sinks a little more to see the same around the captain's ears. "Jim, can you hear me?"
"Want me to release those cuffs, sir?" Scott asks quietly from behind him, and he glances over his shoulder to see that their wise CE has moved to block the door from any curious crewman who might regain his strength enough to wander this direction.
"In a moment, Mr. Scott." There is not so much as a bunk to lay Kirk down upon, and he well knows how stubbornly the man refuses to show weakness before his crew. If he is able to rouse the captain, Kirk will appreciate being led out partially under his own power if possible.
For a brief moment he considers trying to perform a shallow mind meld, because in medical circumstances it can be permissible, merely to ascertain how deeply trapped the mind of a patient is within – but at the same time, the idea of further violating Kirk's mind, after today's events, is so abhorrent he feels physically ill at the thought.
When a second attempt fails to awaken the captain, however, he gives Scott a curt nod and the engineer moves grimly to release the left cuff. Kirk's arm flops limply downward, but the sudden motion appears to rouse him somewhat; Spock gives him a gentle shake and moves his hand to support Kirk's neck as his head rolls, a frown twitching at his drawn features.
"Cap'n Kirk, sir, 'twould be beautiful if ye woke up now, y'know," Scott encourages gently from where he is fiddling with the settings of the right stasis cuff, for some reason reluctant to release its prisoner.
An incoherent noise from the injured man, and Spock leans closer, inhaling deliberately in an effort to keep his tattered controls functional. "Captain. Jim, can you hear me?"
Spock has never felt quite so relieved – he can fairly feel the tension of the last few hours begin to seep away – as when Kirk's eyelids flutter unsteadily for a moment, and then blink open, unfocused but at least partway coherent (which would be utterly impossible were he suffering from severe mental damage from a psionic attack). The captain blinks at him for a moment, head wobbling unsteadily, and then closes his eyes again.
"Jim, remain awake if you can, please," he murmurs, and is grateful that Scott does not comment on the desperation that he knows seeps through his frayed control.
A frown twists the captain's lips, and his eyes finally blink open once more. Hazy green slowly sharpens into clear hazel, and he finally sees Jim in that confused look, rather than simply an injured human.
"Spock?" The word is faint, a breath only, but clear enough – and the last of his terror at what-might-have-been fades as he hears it.
"Indeed, sir," he replies, and if his voice is not quite its normal steady timbre, no one comments on the matter.
Kirk looks totally bewildered, and then apparently decides it is not worth the effort to question. He offers Spock a small, tired smile, and closes his eyes again for a moment, obviously trying to focus his thoughts and get his feet under him.
Spock is still quite concerned, and rightly so, that there may be serious damage to the captain's mind; just because Kirk recognizes the last person to whom he spoke does not by any stretch indicate that he is not suffering from the severity of a multi-being mental attack. Surely no human is strong enough to withstand such a thing alone, at least there has never been such a recorded case.
But suddenly he sees Kirk's gaze sharpen into clarity, and the man's head lifts on its own from Spock's support. Jim's eyes finally open once more, searching for answers, and finally pause wide-eyed, staring at him.
"Captain?" he asks cautiously.
A look of amused incredulity suddenly quirks the man's lips into a familiar grin, totally alert and aware of his surroundings at last. "What the heck are you wearing on your head, Spock?"
He pauses, blankly, for that is the last thing he would have predicted from this fascinating human's lips after such an ordeal – but he should not have been surprised. Beside him, Montgomery Scott snorts a laugh into his sleeve before finally getting the stasis cuff to release its grip.
"Whoops…" Kirk's eyes widen comically as he falls forward, but Spock has been ready to catch him since the moment their connection terminated aboard ship three hours ago, and catch him he does.
"Seriously, what." The captain reaches up with one limp hand and experimentally taps the protective headgear Spock has, until now, literally forgotten about. "You look like a Vulcan tin man."
Scott grins at them both and heads back out the door, indicating with a gesture that he is going to corral the rest of the landing party and prepare for beam-up procedures.
"It is a protective measure against the telepathic field of the planet, sir. Are you in any pain, Captain?" he inquires, carefully supporting the human until Kirk wavers to his own feet, one hand on Spock's arm and the other on the stone wall.
"The migraine to end all migraines…Spock, what happened?"
"It is a very long story, sir. Ultimately, we have performed a successful First Contact with the inhabitants of this planet. They are quite apologetic about the cultural misunderstanding which resulted in your being attacked in the council chambers. The council is now waiting for word from the Enterprise to beam up the landing party, though I must return via shuttle, which I left outside the city's limits."
Hazel eyes pierce straight through his assumed modesty, and he is aware that the hands on his arms are not totally for physical support. "Once again, you save the day, Mr. Spock. I don't know what I would do without you."
"Actually, sir, the success of this venture is, I regret to say, due in large part to Dr. McCoy. It is his protective gear which enabled me to even land upon the planet without succumbing to the power of the telepathic field generated here. And it is he who now has command of the Bridge, and is awaiting clearance to beam up the landing party."
Kirk squints up at him, swaying slightly. "Must have a worse headache than I thought," he mutters after a moment's contemplation. "I thought I just heard you say you left Bones in charge of my ship in the middle of a Priority One crisis situation."
"So I did, sir."
"You WHAT?"
After a heated debate which is more amusing than anything else (it is hard to take Jim seriously when he sounds like a cranky toddler, which invariably happens when he has a migraine), a laughing Montgomery Scott volunteers to fly the Galileo back to the Enterprise so that Spock can see their captain safely through the beam-out process.
Kirk is still barely on his feet, obviously trying to hide the fact that he is still having fits of dizziness, and so Spock does not argue with the man, despite the feeling that he is using Scott for his own purposes. But after the fourth time when Jim puts a hand to his head and staggers sideways on their way to the beam-out point, Spock simply makes a vow to make it up to their valuable Chief Engineer the next time Scott comes to him with a suspiciously legal requisition order.
Jim perks up slightly when Sulu reports on the other end of the comm, followed shortly by Dr. McCoy's concerned voice, and Spock has every hope that their (mis)adventure is drawing to a satisfactory close when they finally disappear in the familiar gold transporter beam.
Of course, Jim Kirk delights in contradicting popular opinion, and so evidently decides to spectacularly pass out as soon as they materialize.
Spock resists the emotional urge to throw up his hands in exasperation (mainly because they are full of an unconscious human at the moment), and just collapses tiredly on the transporter pad with Kirk in his arms, because he frankly is far too exhausted to make a trek through the corridors carrying someone, and because he knows McCoy is on his way with a stretcher just on general principle, despite the landing party informing him they are all in reasonable health.
Sure enough, moments after he orders Carstairs to escort the other three crewmen to Sickbay for a debriefing and physical, the doctor in question barrels in with a team of nurses and an anti-grav gurney…two anti-grav gurneys. Odd.
He vaguely realizes his mental controls are now all but non-existent, and that he is dangerously depleted of energy, for some reason he cannot at present discern.
"Your protective equipment functioned perfectly, Doctor," he manages to get out with admirable equanimity, as McCoy is running a scanner slowly, then slower still, over the captain's head. "My congratulations on your inventive skill, and my appreciation for a successful protective device."
The doctor pauses the scan near Jim's left frontal lobe, and looks up at him incredulously. "Did it scramble your brainwaves in addition to blockin' out everyone else's?" he drawls. "Because it sounded to me like you just thanked me, Mr. Spock."
Spock regards him for a moment, registering faintly that he is not feeling quite well and promptly discarding the annoying sensation until he is certain Jim has been cared for.
"I am...quite unable to deal with your impossible human mind right now, Doctor." That is not what he meant to say, not in the least, and not just because it is terribly rude – but somehow he is less and less able to control his speech patterns, and that in itself is alarming.
He hears a muffled curse, and the handing off of Kirk's medical scan to Nurse Chapel – and then he nearly jumps out of his skin when he opens his eyes (when did they close?) to see the doctor's worried face only inches from his own.
"Doctor?" He does not know precisely what he is asking, actually, now that he stops to think…
McCoy gives him an odd sort of smile, and squeezes his shoulder gently. "Y'did good, Spock. Really good. Now it's time for all good little Vulcans to go to sleep for a while."
His head has begun to nod of its own accord; that explains why his eyes had closed without his intention. That is but logical, for he is more mentally exhausted than he can ever remember being in his life.
"Go on, Spock. I can't give you any sleep drugs until that neural inhibitor's totally worked its way out of your system, so stop fighting it, okay?"
He blinks slowly, finally registers the doctor's words and, more interesting, the worried tone which accompanies them. He nods, that much he can manage at least, and somehow his eyes are closing again without his permission.
Suddenly he forces them open, and his hand closes tightly around McCoy's wrist.
"Geez, you stubborn space elf! What do I have to do to get you to just pass out already!"
"The captain," he manages, by sheer force of will focusing the words clearly.
"He's fine, for pity's sake, Spock." The doctor's eyes soften. "Preliminary scans don't show any brain damage, I promise – a miracle, but one I won't argue with. I'll probably end up throwin' you in with him once you're both stable and you can see for yourself how fine he is, all right? Now for the love of all that's logical go to sleep!"
The hiss of a hypospray, and he raises an eyebrow.
"Painkiller. Your K-3 indicator is off the charts. Anything else you aren't telling me?"
Ah, that would explain the sudden rush of euphoria he so despises. The only pain relievers which seem compatible with his physiology (meaning he does not vomit after taking them) seem to have the unfortunate effect of making him slightly voluble, and that with less inhibition than a Vulcan should possess.
McCoy's eyes twinkle down at him. "Feelin' good now, are we?"
"You are a very frustrating human," he informs the man, with perfect sincerity.
"Uh-huh, so I've been told."
"And loud," he adds helpfully.
"That too."
"Nevertheless, that can be overlooked due to your dubiously superior innovative skills."
"Yeah, Spock, just shut up and go to sleep, okay?"
Things are much clearer when Spock awakens. The nausea and headache have vanished, no doubt under the effects of the light healing trance his biological function informs him he has been under for several hours. He lies still for a moment, regaining his bearings, and then nods to Dr. McCoy, who is waiting to make sure his patient has fully awakened due to the blows to the face.
"Never will get used to doin' that," the doctor mutters to no one in particular, as he adjusts a monitor over Spock's head. "How you feeling, Spock?"
"Considerably improved, Doctor." He sits up slowly, testing both physical and mental function, and he is immensely relieved to find that his shields have re-formed during the healing trance. He is not to full capacity, but he is certainly functional.
"I'm surprised you weren't out for longer," McCoy observes candidly, as he adjusts the bio-bed so that Spock can recline partway. "You have any idea what actually happened to you?"
"Not precisely, Doctor."
"Well, from what I can tell from examinations and what little we know about all that Vulcan mind voodoo, either you managed to shield Jim's mind from serious damage while he was on the planet, or else he was just unconsciously stealing the equivalent mental strength from you. Basically when I got you in here Jim was just unconscious but already healing, and your indicators for mental health were basically drained to zero. Was that a conscious action on your part?"
"No, Doctor." This information is surprising, though not unheard-of in his culture; it is, however, highly unlikely to happen between two beings who are not fully telepathic Vulcans. "It appears to have been an instinctual reaction; I doubt the captain was any more aware of it than I."
"Well, whatever happened, I think we have to thank that planet for knocking your mental filter out of whack – because if you two hadn't already been connected somehow, I doubt Jim would've come through this with nothing more than a headache and some scarring." McCoy looks down at him, for once smiling without a shred of animosity. "Guess we have you to thank for that, hobgoblin."
Spock is not to the point where his strength is sufficient to verbally spar with this incorrigible human, and he merely closes his eyes with a slight sigh.
He hears a gruff chuckle, and the examination lights overhead are dimmed to a more comfortable level. "Better?"
Much; he can now open them without feeling the need to shield with his secondary eyelid. "Thank you, Doctor. What is the captain's status?"
"Sleeping now, but on his way to a full recovery if the scans are correct. He woke up for a few minutes a couple hours ago, pitched a tantrum about not being let out of bed, basically said you'd better have a darn good explanation for everything when he wakes up again. I think he's a little miffed that you successfully completed the mission single-handedly, Mr. Spock," McCoy says, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"As I told the captain, Doctor, we must cede much of the credit for success to your unorthodox shielding equipment."
"Are you thanking me again for saving your hide, Spock? Cause I have a whole 'nother hypo of pain meds with your name on it if you're still that out of it."
"It is unfortunate that your bedside manner is not as successful as your skill in medical engineering, Doctor."
"I'mma engineer you a nice little cocktail of Vulcan naptime if you don't –" McCoy's rant is cut off by a medical alarm screeching painfully in the other room.
Spock raises an eyebrow as the doctor throws his hands dramatically up in the air and stalks away, drowning out the alarm quite impressively himself.
"Honestly, Jim! Keep your backside in that bed or so help me God, I will put you down for a week!" The words are punctuated by the angry squeak of a chair being yanked out from behind the doctor's desk, as he flumps into it with a huff of annoyance.
Thanks a lot, Spock. You couldn't have distracted him for five more minutes?
I was not to know the doctor had installed an occupancy alarm on your bed, Captain. Perhaps your attempts to escape should be more subtle.
You know just for that, I'm going to think long and hard here about that night, the last time we were on Terra, when we stumbled into the wrong bar in San Francisco…
He can already feel the blush spreading over his face, and he decides that accepting Dr. McCoy's 'naptime cocktail' is the only strategic move he has left. After all, only a fool accepts a checkmate when a stalemate is open to him.
You're no fun, Spock.
Why, thank you, Captain.
"Both of y'all shut up and go to sleep!"
Spock blinks, surprised. "I said nothing, Doctor."
"Neither did I!" Jim yells indignantly from the other room.
"Suuuuure. Think I'm an idiot, do you?"
I believe the expression is, if the footwear is the correct size…
McCoy looks up, glares dangerously at him over the computer monitor, as the captain's muffled laughter filters in from the other room.
"Subtle, Spock. Real subtle," he growls, returning doggedly to his report-writing.
I think he's jealous, Spock.
That, I highly doubt, Captain. He has mentioned on more than one occasion how 'creeped out,' I believe the expression is, he becomes when confronted with such things.
Yeah, like I said, I think he's jealous.
Believe what you like, sir.
Well, next time you need to rent out space in somebody else's mind, just make sure it's him. So he doesn't feel left out, or anything.
Spock shudders, hoping – yes, illogically hoping – that he is never forced to make such a sacrifice.
And, he reflects ruefully, he most likely just brought a curse down upon his own Destiny for even thinking such an illogical thing…