Spoilers for the episode in question, with inspiration from A Private Little War.
He is unceremoniously hurled back into consciousness by a resounding jolt of pain, and then one more before awakening reflexes stop the third with a hand around the offending human wrist.
"You back with us now?"
He opens his eyes, blinking a few times to clear the blur which always results from prolonged unconsciousness. "Yes, Doctor."
"I hate doin' that," McCoy grumbles, adjusting the monitors over his head.
"There is no logic in a physician feeling distaste for a medical necessity."
"Well, we aren't all ruled by logic, now are we." McCoy scrutinizes the readings, and then looks back at him. "How you feeling?"
"Much improved, Doctor." He slowly sits up, and indeed, the difference is stark between his state now and the last he remembers. "What time period has elapsed?"
"Your internal chronometer's still offline? It's been a little over two days." The doctor reaches down to incline the head of the bed, allowing Spock a more relaxed yet alert position. "All situation normal. We're headed at Warp Three for the nearest starbase to turn Tracey over to a board of inquiry."
He exhales, still pulling full awareness back from the shroud of a healing trance, and absorbs this information along with the sensory input that is slowly expanding to full capacity.
"Look, Spock. I know you hate givin' me medical data, I dunno if that's a Vulcan privacy thing or you just like to make my job harder. But you have got to give me at least some baseline information. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."
"The successful end result, as you can clearly see, would indicate you are incorrect."
"That's called personal guesswork, not medical treatment! You were in full-on telepathic overload, and I didn't figure it out until Jim kept you from falling off the transporter pad and snapped at my medical team to put gloves on!"
Ah. That would explain Spock's final, somewhat hazy, recollection of being completely unable to generate the faintest mental shield against a room full of highly emotional humans, and making this realization too late to request physical assistance. The rest, seems to be yet unclear.
But the doctor's tone is rising rapidly in both volume and pitch, enough that Nurse Chapel cautiously pokes her head into the cubicle, takes one look at their scarlet-faced CMO, and promptly disappears with no more than a sympathetic look at the bio-bed's occupant.
"And that doesn't even count the nerve damage and arrhythmia, which manifests completely differently in a Vulcan since your heart is where the baseline scanner thinks a liver should be. I could have made things ten times worse, purely accidentally! You have to give me some basic information for your file, Spock. I'm making it a medical order."
"One which, as head of Sciences, I have the liberty of disregarding."
"You want to bet Jim's going to back you on that?" McCoy's grin turns slightly evil. "I would love to see you explain your actions logically to him when he wakes up."
Honestly, this particular manipulative human is going to be the death of his Vulcan patience someday, much less his logic.
"Doctor, I do not require your services often enough to justify the risk of my more personal medical information becoming public knowledge in the Starfleet Medical database. I have no desire to field constant questions about my 'unique hybrid physiology' from your curious colleagues."
"Huh. Here I just thought you were bein' a pain for the sake of being one."
"That would indeed be illogical." Belatedly, his full mental faculties finally settle into place with a satisfying, almost euphoric rush of relief. Said relief swiftly turns to something else, when McCoy's words register. Over his head, a sensor chirps a warning. "When he wakes up, Doctor?"
"Relax. He's not in any danger, and I'm monitoring him. But I'm not rushing it, he took a beating down there on top of the head injury." The doctor gestures to the side, where Spock only now registers another bio-bed with a sleeping or unconscious human occupant. The readings over the bed seem relatively normal, which is somewhat reassuring.
"Now, just for the record, it would've been useful information to know he had a traumatic brain injury while we were on the planet, because apparently he was unconscious for more than seven hours and neither of you said anything," McCoy says, and the words are laced with a subtle menace that is quite unlike his typical genial manner. "He scared me half to death last night."
Spock raises an inquisitory eyebrow.
"Walked into my office, told me he didn't realize he was missing a huge chunk of time until he was trying to record an accurate timeline for the ship's log, and then almost nosedived mid-sentence into my desk," the doctor says dryly. "I suppose I should be grateful he was already here when it happened, that's more than I usually get. He's too stubborn for his own good."
"That is an accurate assessment, Doctor; but he would not intentionally take actions which could endanger the safety of the ship. I would postulate that it is likely his clarity around the events was less than optimal, which is not unusual for this type of injury. He would not have intentionally withheld serious medical information, not when it could adversely affect his command."
"Mmhm. Unlike someone else I could mention," McCoy says pointedly. "You both are turning me gray before my time, you know that?"
"We had other, more immediate, concerns on the planet, Doctor, but I do take your point." Spock closes his eyes for a moment to resettle his mental equilibrium.
"So does that mean you'll give me what I need to know?"
"Doctor –"
"Please, Spock."
The quiet tone causes him to open his eyes and look, actually look, at the human standing by his bed. McCoy appears to be genuinely in distress, which was certainly not a foreseen consequence of this often-revisited discussion. It produces an extremely uncomfortable, almost emotional sensation within, which Spock certainly does not often admit to.
"Look, I understand you don't want to be the only Vulcan in the 'Fleet who was stupid enough to give his most personal medical details to a human. But…I could store the information on the internal server, so it would never leave the Enterprise and only be available to me by voice recognition, if that'd make a difference." McCoy sighs. "I'd just sleep better at night if I at least had a file, is all I'm saying. Just a few key data points, at the very least."
"That is a reasonable compromise, Doctor."
"And I – wait, really?"
"Affirmative." He sits fully upright, and is pleased to find that all vestiges of drowsiness have now been eliminated; he is functioning nearly at peak capacity. "I could deliver this information in writing or in person, whichever is your preference."
Blue eyes squint suspiciously at him. "You sure you're feelin' all right, Mr. Spock?"
"I am, Doctor." He finally stands, noting a residual physical weakness in his extremities but no other indications of illness. "Is there a problem with what I have proposed?"
"Nope, no problem at all. In fact, I'm gonna take some information down now before you change your Vulcan mind."
"If you must."
"Oh, I must." McCoy shuts off the sensor board above the bio-bed, as it has started beeping insistently to note its displeasure that the occupant has departed. "Sit tight, I'll be back in a minute."
Spock does nothing of the kind, instead moves across the room and examines the medical sensors over the captain's bed. While the stress indicator is slightly elevated for someone in unconsciousness, the pain indicator is very low, so Kirk likely is in the final hours of whatever treatment regimen the doctor had implemented and is, as McCoy said, quite all right.
But it would be preferable to know for certain, as this has been a very trying mission for all concerned. A quick, whisper-gentle brush of fingers at the human's temple is enough to ascertain that knowledge, and he straightens within the same instant, feeling a most unVulcan sense of relief.
A noise at the doorway, and when he turns, it is to see McCoy standing there, arms folded and face carefully expressionless. The doctor walks over to the bed, and looks at the stress indicator, which has slid fractionally lower.
"Vulcan eavesdropping?" he asks in a neutral tone. "Don't take it the wrong way, Mr. Spock, but is he aware you do this?"
"Yes, Doctor." Spock does understand the human's well-founded skepticism, and instinctively steps back to an attentive stance, hands clasped behind his back. "It typically is no more invasive than your sensor readings, as it is merely ascertaining the vaguest sense of wellbeing."
"You're not looking in on his thoughts, then."
"Certainly not. Human, Vulcan, or otherwise, that would be an unacceptable invasion of privacy."
"Well, as long as he knows it happens, it's none of my business." McCoy takes a final look at the sensor board, and then side-eyes him. "He is all right, yes?"
"Correct. I believe he is dreaming, Doctor."
"Hmh. Ahead of schedule, that's always a good thing. Now, along the same lines, just how much of those voodoo powers of yours did it take for you to convince that woman on the planet to open your communicator?"
Spock ignores the incorrect assignation and focuses on the unfortunate fact that he has, unwisely, agreed to this line of questioning.
"Touch telepathy is not a precise science, Doctor, and I likely do not have quantifiable answers for most of your questions."
"So give me a vague one," the human says, not unreasonably. "Scale of one to ten, how difficult?"
"Nine, Doctor." At a surprised look, he clarifies. "Without physical contact, it is nearly impossible, even on such an underdeveloped species. And even with physical contact, my abilities in this area are not as advanced as a pure Vulcan's would be."
"Well, I guess that explains why you collapsed after we got back to the ship," McCoy mutters, making a note on his padd. "So, as far as the capability to influence someone's actions…"
"That is quite literally not possible unless the species is most suggestible and underdeveloped in thought pattern, or if there is extended physical contact. Most definitely impossible to do so with anyone aboard the Enterprise, if that is your primary concern."
"Considering the amount of times I've used artificial means to keep one of you in a Sickbay bed when you want to cut and run, I suppose it's not that different at its foundation. But I needed to ask, for my own peace of mind."
"As underdeveloped as your bedside manner may be at times, Doctor, I re-assure you, it would be quite impossible for me to control or influence your actions by any such casual means, and certainly without your full awareness."
"I'll show you underdeveloped," McCoy mutters, making another note. "But I guess I understand. I don't like it, though. Don't do it again without medical staff present, you were in bad shape there for a while."
"Understood."
"You can feel free to send Jim a sleep suggestion the next time he ignores my advice about his caffeine consumption, though. Lord knows none of us benefit from him having a sixth cup of coffee before noon most days."
"Rude." A sleepy grumble interrupts whatever Spock might have said in reply.
McCoy looks immediately chagrined, smile quickly chased by concern. "Sorry, Jim. I figured you'd still be dead to the world for a while."
"I was," is the slightly testy reply, although the drowsiness within it is threaded with amusement. Kirk's eyes flick rapidly between them, landing on Spock, and the line of worry between his eyebrows softens. "You all right?"
"I am quite functional, Captain."
"'S good. Bones?"
"Lieutenant Kyle has the watch, Jim. It's the middle of the night," the doctor replies gently. "We'll be quiet. Go back to sleep for a bit."
In an unusual turn of affairs, the captain makes zero protest against the order, only a faint sigh. His eyes close slowly once again, and the sensor readings continue to slide back to a normal resting baseline.
McCoy looks down at the bed for a second, and then turns a suspicious glare across it at Spock.
He inclines an eyebrow, mildly amused. "I assure you, Doctor, I have not implemented your last recommendation. Your medication choices are solely responsible, both for the captain's lethargy and my ongoing nausea."
"You know what would help with that? A medical file, Spock. A medical file would help with that."
