Christine's room was quiet. There was no nurse in attendance. Everything was being monitored at a distance by the relevant staff, and so there was no one to see Spock sit down in the chair next to her bed and rest his head down onto his arms as if he were exhausted. Truthfully, he was exhausted. He would not have admitted that to anyone who asked, but his illness and the exertion of the mind meld with his grandmother had taxed him to the limit. If he had been allowed to he would have brought discipline to bear and returned to the lab and carried on working there with only a minimal drop in efficiency, but since he was not, he could allow himself to break down a little.
So, he seated himself by the bed, heard Sacha slump on the floor with a grunt, and rested his head down beside Christine's arm on her mattress. She was quiet and settled. He could hear her breath passing slowly between her lips. But her temperature was elevated and her stillness disturbed him. She was too ill to be restless.
He sat very still for a few moments, listening intently to the noises of Christine's body and to the gentle blips and beeps of the monitoring devices. Perhaps after a while he would call a nurse to update him on her condition, but that could wait. He did not want to be seen at this moment. The meld with his grandmother had left him feeling raw and exposed. His emotions were close to the surface and he had to admit to himself that he was deeply worried about Christine. He had told Kirk that there was no need to come, but in truth he would be grateful of the assistance of the Enterprise medical team to fight this virus, and he would be grateful of the support of his friend.
He moved his hand so that it was touching Christine's forehead. Her skin was hot and damp with sweat. Her skull curved, hard and solid under his hand. Under there was all that she was, all that made her Christine. He could have slipped into her mind but he was wary of disturbing her sleep and exposing his concern to her. In this tired state he did not want her to see his innermost thoughts. When he was more composed, and in the presence of a doctor, perhaps he could perform a similar meld to the one that he had just performed on his grandmother, but until then it was best that he leave her in the privacy of her unconsciousness.
He could feel her thoughts moving like creatures, dark and confused. He did not intrude. He just tried to project feelings of calm, feelings of safety. She became aware of his presence and her breathing slowed, her thoughts unwound a little. Her hand flexed, and, aware of the movement, he took it in his. Her fingers clenched around his, but she was still asleep.
He turned his head on its side and let the mattress pillow his cheek. He listened to her breathing, in and out, and the sound of it soothed the thoughts in his mind. Beneath his control there was a deep fear. He had to acknowledge that. It was a fear of losing Christine, a fear of the void that she would leave in his mind. He did not intend to let that happen. It was imperative that the cure was found, it was imperative that they halted this illness before anyone else succumbed.
But he was so tired. His bones ached. His head was heavy. His own breathing mirrored Christine's, in and out, in and out. Dr Rowlands would not let him back into the lab. He had passed on his most recent thoughts and findings. He could rest for a while.
The image of the virus drifted in his mind, a spiky ball, an alien. Christine breathed, in and out, in and out...
'''''''''''''''''''''''
He woke, startled and momentarily confused. He was lying flat out with what felt like a blanket over him. He moved his hand and felt a soft, large weave to the cloth. He blinked, turning his head about, trying to orient himself. It was always confusing waking in a strange place.
What had happened? He had been with Christine, sitting by her bed, his head down on the mattress. He had been so tired. Now he felt astonishingly refreshed, but he was briefly annoyed at himself for succumbing to the need to sleep. The light was dim. For how long had he been unconscious?
He lay still, wanting to assess his surroundings before he made a move. He could still hear Christine's breath, in and out. He could hear the soft, musical chirping of the monitors above her bed. Evidently he was still in her room. He moved his hand over the bed he was lying on and discovered that it was narrow, with raised sides and a relatively hard mattress. So he had been manoeuvred onto a gurney. He would have questioned how he had been manhandled from the chair onto this bed without being woken up, but there was a distinctive metallic taste in the back of his mouth that usually came from one of McCoy's favoured sedatives. No doubt on finding him asleep one of the medical staff had decided to ensure he stayed that way, and injected him with something. Really, some medical professionals were completely unscrupulous.
He sat up cautiously, pushing the blanket back from his chest, running his hands over the cool rail at the side of the gurney, and then over his clothes. He was still dressed as he had been before, but his shoes had been removed. He pushed the blanket from his legs and tried to lower the bed rail. He could not work out how it functioned, so instead he manoeuvred himself over it, assuming that the floor was the expected distance below the level of the bed. His feet touched the floor just where he had thought it would be. It was cool and smooth through his socks, and somewhat slippery.
He stood and looked around, trying to make out the lie of the room. What had previous been a bright square where the window was was now dark. Christine's bed was there before him, bright with an orange covering, and he thought he could make out the shape of her head on the pillow. The room was quiet, but the instruments still beeped steadily. He could make out dim flashing of lights up above her head where the instrument panel was.
'Sacha?' he murmured.
The dog started up from a corner of the room and padded over to him, and he ruffled the fur on her head.
He did not know where his cane was. That was a frustration, but he put it aside and moved over to Christine's bed. The chair was still there, and he sat down in it and reached his hand to her shoulder.
She turned her head and said in a tired voice, 'Oh, Spock.'
The elation leapt in him and reached the muscles of his face. He was smiling, and she saw it and laughed weakly.
'You know, the last time I saw you do that...' she murmured.
Spock remembered. They had just returned from Vulcan. He had been exhausted, his hands dry and dusty with Vulcan dirt, his muscles aching, his mind in turmoil. He had been rejected by his bondmate. He had killed Captain Kirk. And there Jim had been in front of him, alive, whole, golden and real. And the smile had burst out of him before he could control it. His father, who had not been on-world to attend the ceremony, would have been severely disapproving of his son's conduct and his son's reaction.
But it had not mattered. All that mattered then was that Jim was alive. He had barely even been conscious of Christine standing there and witnessing that terrible display.
And now... Now here Christine was, brought back from the edge of the veil, alive, conscious, speaking to him in that voice that he had grown to love. He did not suppress the smile as quickly as he had quenched the expression with which he had favoured Jim's resurrection.
'Christine,' he said. There was no point in asking, Are you better? because evidently she was. He turned his head uselessly. 'Is there a comm in the room? Can I call the lab?'
She laughed again. Humans so often found logic amusing.
'There's no need, Spock,' she said. 'They found the cure. Working on your research, they found the cure. Dr McCoy – '
'Dr McCoy is here?' Spock asked, wondering just how long he had been asleep. Six hours at most, Jim had given as the estimated time of arrival.
'He's been here a while I think,' she said. 'I'm not sure when they got in. He told me he found you dead to the world and so he gave you a sedative and slung you on a gurney.'
There was laughter in her voice. Spock raised an eyebrow.
'I might have guessed,' he said. 'And, using my work, McCoy devised a cure?' he asked, allowing his tone to sound slightly nettled. He was not in the least annoyed, but the reaction was expected.
'Together with the lab team here, I think,' she nodded. 'I don't know. I didn't take a lot of it in. He stayed with me a little while then moved on to see the other patients. I wasn't feeling very with it, if you know what I mean.'
'I know precisely what you mean,' Spock nodded, remembering how he himself had felt as he began to recover from this illness. 'But you have spoken to him about your condition, Christine?' he asked seriously. 'You are expected to recover?'
'I am expected to recover,' she told him firmly. 'There is no trace of the virus left in my system. I'm still sick because of the damage it did, but I'm not having to fight it any more. I just need to get well.'
Spock exhaled. He had not realised he had been holding his breath. He reached out toward her hand and her fingers closed around his, far cooler than they had been. He could feel the weakness in her, but it was good to hold her hand in his and feel the pulse of her blood at a slow and steady rate. He reached his other hand to her face, feeling the cool of her forehead under his fingertips. He brushed hair back from her forehead and could see the movement of her smile.
'I quite forgot that I haven't told you the news,' he said.
'What news?' she asked. Her fingers flexed in his, and he sensed her uncertainty.
'Christine, the virus worked as intended, at least as regards my eyesight,' he told her in a low, steady voice. 'I underwent one laser treatment and the cells have been eradicated.'
'Eradicated?' she echoed, wonder in her voice. 'A hundred percent?'
'A hundred percent,' he nodded. 'I have been left with scarring, so I am still quite severely visually impaired, but I can see light, colour, movement. I can make out where your hair meets your face,' he said, tracing his fingertips over the meeting of pink and gold. 'I can see the colour of your lips.'
'Oh!' she said. She seemed incapable of further speech.
'Indeed,' Spock said. He wondered if she were crying.
She seemed to be trying to sit, and he gently pressed her back down.
'Then with some treatment – ' she began.
'Treatment for the scars, or total replacement of the lens,' he nodded. 'There are no cells left and no possibility for regrowth. As soon as the procedure is performed my vision will be without fault.'
'Oh, Spock...' she said. He could feel the gladness rippling through her. Then a questioning feeling. 'Why haven't you had it yet?' she asked him, something of a tone of accusation in her voice.
'I have hardly had the chance,' he told her. 'I have been working on the virus, and I was told it would be ideal to be free of illness when I undergo the operation. It will happen in time, Christine,' he promised her. 'A few days will make little difference.'
'I am so glad,' she said.
'I know,' he replied simply. He could feel the gladness radiating from her mind. 'Christine, what time is it?' he asked, feeling that there was no more to say about his sight. He wanted to find out more about the cure for this virus, and the prospect for those who were ill. 'Is the captain here? Is McCoy still in the hospital?'
'Ooh, it's about – ' She moved in the bed, evidently to look at the time. 'It's ten past one in the morning, Spock. I don't know if the Captain or Leonard are still here.'
'Going by Enterprise time the hour would be 20:10,' Spock calculated. 'It's doubtful either the captain or doctor are asleep. Is my cane here? Do you see it?' he asked.
She looked about then said, 'Yes, it's on a little trolley near the gurney you were sleeping on. Do you want me to – ?'
'I do not want you to do anything which occasions movement from a recumbent position,' he said sternly. 'I can get it.'
He stood and navigated carefully back to the gurney, and found the trolley and cane with a little direction from Christine.
'If you think you will be all right, I must find the captain and Dr McCoy,' Spock told her, unfolding his cane.
'I'm in the best place,' she assured him. 'You go find the captain and Leonard. You must have a lot to discuss, and much as I'd like to learn more about this cure I really don't think my brain's up to it right now.'
'I'm sure that I will be able to brief you on developments later,' Spock nodded.
'Oh, Spock,' she said as he moved towards the door.
He turned and asked, 'Yes, Christine?'
'You might want your shoes,' she reminded him with laughter in her voice. That laughter felt like one of the best sounds Spock had ever heard.