K'oh-nar

by AlexPrime

Somewhere, hidden on this desolate planet of ice and snow, a lost civilization reaches out to the only one capable of reaching back, and Spock discovers that first contact can have lasting, devastating consequences. He never should have come here.

26. Lit'dhae

— Chapter Twenty-Six—
— Lit'dhae —

For a long time—time he could not accurately calculate—Spock stared at the door.

This felt familiar.

For a moment, Spock wondered if he was lost in memory again. He wondered if the Seskille had found him once more and were ripping through his mind at their leisure, their happiness. He wondered if this was truly real, or if it were merely a recollection that he'd been forced into reliving. A possibility, and one that was just as likely as it was not. Perhaps everything that had happened was false. Perhaps he was dreaming again.

He did not feel real. He did not feel as if he were truly present.

… And paradoxically, it was the feeling of complete detachment thatinformed him that yes, this was real, for in his memories, in his mind, he'd been unable to tell it was not. It had felt real, as had he.

The reason this felt familiar, Spock realized, was because this hadhappened before. He was indeed reliving a memory, but not in the way the Seskille had forced, nor the way his dreams had distorted. Instead, he was retracing the steps of a memory, the movements of a memory, the circumstances of a memory.

("I order you to report to the sickbay." "… Sickbay?" "Complete examination, McCoy's waiting.")

Yes, Spock had done this before, and because of similar reasons. He had lost time. He had no recollection of his actions, nor had he noticed the absence of that recollection until he'd been confronted by it. He had orders to report to sickbay. He was reluctant to follow those orders and considered not doing so. He stood outside the doors to sickbay, and everything in him screamed to turn around and flee back to his quarters.

The same doors, the same hallway, the same pattern. Spock even felt now what he'd felt then. Dread. Terror. Desperation. Panic. Shame. Nausea. Nothing. Pure detachment, as if his body, his mind, his thoughts, his surroundings—as if nothing were real at all; as if he were as intangible and incorporeal as smoke. Part of him wished he was, so that everything could simply dissipate away. He wanted to be nothing; nothing did not have emotions, nor memories, nor orders. Nothing had—and was—nothing.

He thought it preferable to being Spock, for it was Spock who was late to his scheduled appointment in sickbay with Doctor McCoy, and it was Spock who that very doctor would be angry with.

If one were to ask any crewman aboard the USS Enterprise which officer they considered to be the most dangerous, the general consensus answer would have been Commander Spock for his Vulcan strength and endurance. By these parameters, this was not incorrect. A close contender would have been Captain Kirk, for his strategic resourcefulness and tactical brilliance. Indeed, the captain used both talents effectively, often with impossibly successful results. There may have even been a select few—particularly from those in Engineering—who would have named Lieutenant Commander Scott, for his technical prowess and borderline-obsessive adoration of the ship.

All three answers would have been, based on their own respective criteria, acceptable. Well-reasoned, observable, factual, logical.

Spock, however, privately disagreed.

Any species whose primary drive was founded in emotionalism was, in all ways, irrational and unpredictable. By their very nature, emotional beings were guided by whim and impulsivity based on the ever-changing variables of mood and feeling. Each were subject to incomprehensible fluctuations, from mild tonal differences to extreme opposites in rapid succession. Emotion influenced behavior, which influenced action. Because of these disjointed, often senseless deviations in resulting behavioral patterns, emotionally motivated species could be highly dangerous.

Humans were a prime example of this, and no human demonstrated the dangers of passionate emotion so perfectly as Doctor Leonard McCoy.

Driven by a paradoxical blend of rage and compassion, McCoy could often be observed as altering between the furthest extremes of either state, while somehow displaying both simultaneously in a way Spock had never been able to understand nor quantify. Quick to snap, but even quicker to help. Swift to snarl, but swifter to soothe. The doctor's very nature was an illustration of contradiction; his show of temper was real, but never as real as he made it seem. His compassion was evident, but often hidden behind his show of anger. And more than this, each emotion was saturated with an overwhelming amount of empathy, regardless of the outward expression of irritation meant to conceal it.

In Spock's opinion, there existed few men more dangerous—on the Enterprise or elsewhere.

And so, knowing this, Spock expected to be greeted by that infamous display of enraged concern upon his entrance to sickbay, approximately twenty-six minutes past his scheduled arrival time. He expected to see McCoy in a frothing, snarling fury, descending down upon him like encroaching storm clouds. He expected to be shouted at, berated, harangued, and barraged.

McCoy, however, was not there.

"Mr. Spock!" Nurse Chapel sounded surprised as she stood from behind her computer monitor. Her expression appeared to be torn between reproving and relieved as she rounded the desk. "There you are."

Spock hovered just inside the doorway, straight-backed in parade rest. Some part of him was relieved that the doctor was nowhere to be found; that McCoy was, perhaps, also late to the appointment and that Spock was therefore the one who could be considered on time.

However, while Spock considered McCoy as having a lengthy number of negative traits to his name, unreliability could never be counted among them. Not when it came to matters of healthcare, at the very least. If the doctor said oh-nine-hundred hours, he would be waiting for his patient on the dot and, likewise, expect his patient to be there as well.

Spock had been hoping to make use of McCoy's sense of empathy to smooth over his late arrival and hopefully rush through the medical check-in with as much dignity as he could. He'd missed his first check-in the evening prior and did not know what to expect from one, but he had little doubt that it would be invasive, tedious, and humiliating, as many of his sickbay experiences often were. That the doctor wasn't immediately present was… problematic. Spock had few hopes that the doctor was merely waiting in his office.

"I am here for my appointment," Spock said simply, hands behind his back and safely out of sight. They were shaking. All of him was shaking. He noted this with a sense of detachment and numb apathy.

The nurse pursed her lips. "Your appointment was scheduled to start a half-hour ago." The statement, while a complete sentence, had a ton that trailed off to expectant silence. It was not difficult for Spock to determine why this was.

She was expecting him to correct her with the precise time, down to the decimal, as he so often did. Those who knew him in even the most passing manner knew of his preference for specifics, with time often being the recipient of his quick correction. He would have done exactly that, Spock thought, had he known it. Unfortunately, he did not know the time anymore. Not with approximation, and certainly not with third decimal precision. Perhaps it was indeed exactly thirty minutes past oh-nine-hundred; he could neither confirm nor refute this without asking clarifying questions.

He did not ask them.

"Yes," he agreed in a somewhat curt voice. He offered no explanation as for his tardiness. "Is Doctor McCoy still available?"

"You just missed him," Nurse Chapel said as she crossed her arms with a disapproving frown. There was a crease in her brow as she examined him up and down. She was worried and trying to hide it, which only made her concern all the more obvious. Miss Chapel had never been proficient at concealing her emotions, particularly towards him. After his recent recovery in sickbay, after… after what he had done when she'd held his hand, he found it easier than ever to accurately analyze her expression. "He left a few minutes ago to look for you."

There was a sinking feeling already pitting into his stomach at the statement. An innocent one on the surface but implying a great deal. This was troubling news. If McCoy were looking for him, that meant Spock had already exceeded any shred of patience he might have had, and he could no longer rely on the doctor's pity to excuse his tardiness. No, now the doctor had felt obligated to go hunt for him, which Spock knew would only anger and infuriate the man further.

McCoy would use his override codes—against regulation, of course—to check his quarters first. Spock remembered now that he had not tidied his room after his abrupt waking and subsequent disorientation. His covers would still be spread and tangled on the floor, his bed in a state of dishevelment, his belongings scattered.

If the doctor were not already concerned, he would be upon seeing that. Perhaps it was not quite the state of obvious disorder McCoy had discovered the evening prior, but it hardly suggested Spock had been a picture of Vulcan control this morning either. He should have neatened them before he'd left. He should have ensured that, were anyone to enter, they would not see such an obvious lapse of discipline. He should have—

But he should not have had to, he thought, unexpectedly furious. He should have been able to treat his room with as much respect or disrespect as he wished to, without fearing comments or criticism on the matter. He should have been able to decorate, or disorder, or destroy every belonging he had, for they were his belongings, located in his private room, and he should have been the only one whose opinion or input he concerned himself with.

No one else should have been able to enter without his permission to see it.

There was an abrupt rush of heat in him, surging and blazing to strength like a wildfire. Not one of temperature, but of emotion. It took him a moment to place the feeling, but when he finally did, he observed it with a sense of resigned detachment outside of the emotion itself. Anger. He was angry.

… And he was. He was so wholly angry. He was angry at himself. He was angry at McCoy. He was angry that the doctor would invade his privacy. He was angry that his quarters, which should have been accessible to only himself, were now apparently public domain for anyone and everyone to rummage through at their leisure. He was angry that he had to worry about ensuring his belongings were neat and tidy, for fear that even his personal space would be judged. He was angry that he had lost his rigid adherence to cleanliness. He was angry that he felt anger at all.

Why was it, Spock wondered bitterly, that everything about him was open to critique? Even those parts of himself—especially those parts—that should never have been revealed to begin with.

Spock had little doubt that McCoy would draw false and overblown conclusions from the investigation of his quarters. His office would be next, and the labs after that. According to Lieutenant Uhura, his scientists had proven themselves to be unusually defensive of him, but even the most tight-lipped officer would crack under the onslaught of McCoy's specific brand of ire. The doctor would look there and not find him, inciting further rumors, further gossip, further speculation. If he had not already enlisted the captain to help search, he would do so then.

It was likely that the doctor was on what Jim often called a warpath.

"I see," Spock said. He took a deep breath and forced himself not to betray the queasiness that was rising in his stomach, nor the hot, furious irritation that boiled in his veins. "In that case, seeing as the doctor is not present, I shall return lat—"

"Mr. Spock, please," Miss Chapel said gently, stepping towards him. He took a swift step back, tensing up at her approach. His hands tucked even more firmly behind his back, safely out of sight and out of reach. He could not trust himself to be touched, not by her, not by anyone.

Chapel paused at his retreat. He could see the nurse watching him with that noticeable kind of wistfulness; the one she'd never quite been able to hide from her expression. Despite her best efforts to make eye contact with him, he persistently avoided it.

He recalled—for it was impossible not to recall—how she'd held his hand in an attempt at comfort during his healing trance.

He recalled how he had invaded her mind.

Violation.

He felt sick.

"How about you wait in his office? I'll comm him for you and let him know you've arrived," she spoke softly now, motioning him forward like how one might coax a frightened animal into approaching to sniff intent. He remained rooted right where he was, unmoving and unbudging. "Please. You should sit down, Mr. Spock, you don't look well."

"I assure you, Nurse Chapel, I am quite well," he returned immediately, straightening to perfect posture. "Howev—"

"You."

Spock stilled. Closed his eyes.

There it was. There was the reaction that Spock had expected to receive upon entering sickbay.

With as much dignity as he could summon, he straightened and turned.

The doctor stood not a foot behind him in the doorway, eyes narrowed, face already darkening to something flushed and livid and red. His lips were drawn into a thin line, pale with fury. Yet, even with his anger, even with his obvious outrage and frothing temper, that calculated gaze was calm as it glanced him over. As it always did, it saw far, far too much.

"Doctor McCoy," Spock acknowledged airily. He offered him a polite incline of his head.

"And just where have you been, hmm?" McCoy drawled out, his southern accent exaggerated in every word to stress them. "'Cause I can sure tell you where the hell you haven't been! I tore this whole ship apart looking for you!"

"Doctor, I will never understand your propensity for hyperbole." Spock intentionally raised his chin just so, so that he could look down his nose at the doctor in the imperious manner he knew would aggravate him. "You have clearly not, as you say, torn the ship apart, or the structural integrity of the Enterprise would have been outrageously compromised, thus resulting in a near-instantaneous depressurization of all decks. As we have not yet been ejected into the vacuum of space, I can only speculate your intended meaning was that you were searching for me."

"Oh, you're real cute." The doctor didn't look impressed by him in the slightest. "Go right ahead, Mr. Spock, you just keep digging that hole you're in. You're, what, thirty, thirty-five minutes late? You're lucky—real lucky—I didn't put a security alert out for you."

Indeed, Spock was rather surprised McCoy hadn't already done so.

"Luck is illogical," he said dismissively in response. "You appear to be overcome with temperamental emotion, Doctor. If you are too agitated to conduct my appointment professionally, I should prefer to return at a later time."

"Oh no," McCoy said, stepping forward into Spock's immediate space, thus forcing him to take a resulting step backwards, further into the clinic. An intentional maneuver, no doubt; sickbay was the source McCoy's of power, and he utilized strategic positioning in the layout to his advantage. "No, no, now that I have you here, I'm hardly about to let you slip away to go hide somewhere else." The doctor waved a hand towards the doorway of the first private room, the one Spock had used the day prior. "After you, if you please."

Spock did not please, not at all. He also knew he had no other choice but to comply; to do anything else would only prolong this appointment, and there were few things he desired more than for it to be over as quickly as possible. Already, his tardiness had regrettably caused it to become an ordeal. What could have been a brief scan would now no doubt include a discussion of his late attendance, as well as the circumstances behind his disorganized quarters.

Spock spun on one heel, moving past Nurse Chapel silently. She watched him with large, wide eyes, lips parting as if to say something, but he did not give her the chance, nor did he look at her.

The exam room was still warmed for his arrival, which Spock took to mean that McCoy had been confident his efforts to hunt him down would prove successful. He supposed it was intended to be a thoughtful gesture, an attempt to make him comfortable. The doctor could be considerate in that way, regardless of his often aggressive and irritable bedside mannerisms. However, it achieved quite the opposite effect, unfortunately. The heat of the room informed Spock that McCoy intended to have an extended conversation, one that would necessitate a comfortable, warm space to have it in. A brief scan would not require such altered accommodations.

At the doctor's gesture, he reluctantly sat on the biobed. In his peripherals, he could see the immediate jump of the monitor's reaction to his vitals, already dialed in for Vulcan parameters. No, this would not be a brief scan at all.

McCoy hovered in the doorway for a moment, considering him with a long, steady, even look. There was no longer any sign of temper or annoyance, but instead, his expression had smoothed to one of contemplation and thought. Spock thought he might have preferred the annoyance. McCoy had always seen too much when he cared to truly look.

Finally, the man moved to the desk, glancing over his biocomputer at the data the bed sensors were feeding it. The body function panel above the bed only gave so much information, and none of it was particularly relevant to what McCoy would want to know—although Spock could see those readings were not at standard healthy levels either.

Once, he would have been able to control his physiological processes enough to conceal any distress from the instruments. However, he did not trust himself to be able to do so in his present state, not without raising greater concern over a potential discrepancy. If McCoy knew he was attempting to conceal information, he would only perform increased testing to find it.

The doctor's expression didn't change much as he glanced over the dials, lights, and scans of the biocomputer. In fact, the only sign of his displeasure was a fleeting, subtle pursing of the lips as McCoy read through the results. He did not share his findings or thoughts aloud but instead turned his attention to Spock with an even shrewder inspection than before.

"How are we doing, Mr. Spock?" McCoy calmly asked him. A careful kind of neutrality was present his tone, which was otherwise absent of any judgement or feeling, and intentionally so. Spock would not have gone so far as to call it Vulcan-like, but it was not entirely dissimilar, either.

This question was a trap. McCoy knew exactly how he was doing, at least in the medical sense. He was testing Spock's honesty.

"I am well, Doctor McCoy." This instinctive response was not the correct answer. Spock could see the subtle flare of the doctor's nostrils, although McCoy's expression didn't change from the cool mask he wore. Spock hastened to expand on the statement before the man could interrogate him about it further. "I apologize for my tardiness, sir. It was unprofessional. I was having breakfast with Lieutenant Uhura."

The distraction was successful. McCoy blinked, clearly taken aback. "Oh," he said in a surprised tone. The mask broke, and he looked distinctly pleased. "Oh! Well, that's good. That's great, actually. Never occurred to me to search for you in the mess hall. I'll admit, I thought I'd have to wrestle you down to get you to eat today. What'd you have for breakfast?"

Spock opened his mouth and… hesitated. His jaw worked without sound once, twice—

"I… I replicated a traditional Vulcan breakfast dish of b'lltarr, krei'la, and theris-masu." At McCoy's look of incomprehension, Spock sighed and clarified with an approximation. "Oatmeal, a biscuit, and tea."

The doctor looked positively delighted, but Spock's stomach soured with guilt. Nothing he'd said was a lie, technically speaking. He had indeed replicated all three consumables and had watched as Lieutenant Uhura ate her own breakfast. He had sipped at his own tea multiple times in her presence, thus resulting in breaking the fast of his own, in accordance to the most recognized etymological definition of the meal.

("That's your stance, then? You're going to hide behind, what, a technicality? That's the reason you went around my order?")

He felt sick.

Six hours. Six hours he had sat in the mess hall, and not once had he taken so much as a single bite of his breakfast. Neither had he even finished his small cup of tea; the majority of which had spilled all over the table when he'd flinched back from Lieutenant Uhura.

He was not lying to McCoy, but neither was he speaking the truth. A grey area; one he was often content enough to reside in, but now found to be tight, uncomfortable, and unpleasantly dishonorable. He had not eaten, and to imply otherwise was to be purposely misleading. A lie by omission was still a lie, Spock knew, and that hollow pit in his stomach grew colder.

"That's a pretty heavy breakfast for an empty stomach," McCoy continued, eying him with that keen, evaluating look of his. "Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to death that you've eaten, but that kind of meal packs down dense and is chock full of carbs. Doesn't always sit well in the system. How's your nausea doing? Better? Worse?"

He felt worse, far worse, but it was not because of the breakfast he hadn't eaten.

Spock chose his words carefully. "…I am mildly nauseous. However, it is a minor discomfort; I do not believe I am in danger of vomiting." Because he had nothing in his stomach to vomit up.

"Your levels are lower than I'd like them to be." It was said casually enough, but Spock recognized the hinted suspicion in the particular tonal delivery. "Must not have been that big of a meal."

McCoy did not believe him.

"As you say, it was perhaps an unwise choice of breakfast after my recent digestive sensitivity. I did, admittedly, find it difficult to consume in its entirety." True. "Per your recommendation, I will consider choosing a lighter meal for dinner." Also true. He would indeed consider it—and he would likely dismiss it just as swiftly, choosing nothing to eat at all.

"And lunch," McCoy reminded him sternly. "Breakfast and dinner need to be eaten outside of your quarters per the restrictions, but that doesn't mean you get to skip out on lunch, Mr. Spock. You still need three whole meals a day. If you're struggling with that, I'm sure Jim would be happy to keep you company and encourage you."

"The captain will be occupied on the bridge during the standard midday mealtime."

A pitiful excuse. He was called on it immediately.

"Not so occupied that he wouldn't take a break for you, Spock." McCoy tilted his head, considering him. "You didn't happen to see him at breakfast, did you?"

Spock was uncertain how to respond. In truth, he did not know if he'd seen Jim at breakfast. He did not know who he'd seen, spoken to, encountered, or conversed with. He did not know what happened at all.

He would like to think that Jim's presence would have been memorable enough, important enough, for him to easily recall, but the fact remained that he could not be truly certain of that. One would think commanded an entire starship to go off ordered course would also have been memorable, but Spock had done so during his pon farr, and still could not remember doing so to this day.

It was disturbing, this gap in his memory. Six hours. Six hours he had lost, without the faintest idea of what he'd done for the duration of that time. He had sat down to his breakfast. He had begun to stir his meal. He had still been stirring it when Uhura had interrupted him, but it was impossible to know whether he'd maintained that action the entire time. Spock was torn between hoping he had, and wishing desperately that he might have conducted himself with more standard mannerisms.

It was impossible for Spock to avoid notice on the Enterprise. He naturally drew attention by being the only Vulcan on the ship, and doubly so for being the ship's First Officer. Now, that already-heightened attention would be greatly compounded by the news of his recent medical leave, as well as the transcript contents being spread within two entire departments.

Spock did not know what was worse. To have been seen behaving in an abnormal, but ultimately harmless manner, or to have been engaging in interactions with others that he did not remember—interactions that could have involved anything. The possibility that he had been seen sitting there, blankly staring into, and stirring, the same bowl for… for hours, by countless crewmembers, by his friends, by Jim…

"Negative. I do not recall seeing him," Spock said, which was truthful enough, and did not sound so unusual a comment to make… for a human inclined to the use of connotation, at least. But he was not human, and McCoy had noticed the irregularity. He hastened to continue with a mild clearing of his throat, which suddenly felt dry. "Regardless, I am quite able to take lunch on my own. I do not wish to distract him from his duties."

That was true enough; indeed, he did not wish to distract Jim. He did wish to distract McCoy, however, and very much so, at that.

Thankfully, it worked.

McCoy leveled him an intense look, one that Spock suspected was intended to impart an unspoken meaning. A human, he thought, would likely have understood it. He, unfortunately, did not.

"Spock," the doctor said, purposely drawing out his name with his southern drawl, "you're kidding me, right? You're gonna be a distraction to him whether you're around him or not, and that's a fact." Spock only stared. "Around him, not around him, there, gone, up, down, awake, asleep, on the ship, off the ship—it doesn't matter, you're gonna distract him."

Spock did not know what to say to that. His brow slowly furrowed inwards uncertainly.

The doctor snorted loudly with a muttered, "Christ, that's painful." He jabbed a finger at him. "Y'all are too goddamn painful to watch, you know that? Jesus, I need a vacation. I need a vacation from this ship, and I need a vacation from the two of you."

He found his voice. "If… you wish to request shore leave, Doctor, by my last records audit, you should have exactly eleven-point-two-seven-six we—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, tons and tons of hours. Weeks of 'em. It's a tease, is what it is. All that accumulated time off, and it's pretty much less than worthless to me, 'cause I can't use a single lick of it. There I'd be, off burning myself red on some nice, boring beach, and meanwhile, the whole damn ship would be going to hell without me. Or getting infested by, I don't know, mutant lettuce, or falling into a wormhole that steals your soul, or… or some other catastrophic nonsense. Doesn't matter the what or the why, but it'd happen the exact second I started to relax, mark my words. I'm chained to this damn ship, like it or not, and you'd all be lost without me anyways. Who'd be here to patch your stubborn Vulcan hide back together, hmm? Who'd strongarm Jim into taking care of himself?"

"I—"

"Hah! Like hell!" McCoy laughed outright in his face with a loud burst of sound. "You're even worse than he is! Ain't that the pot callin' the kettle black; at least it only takes one man to get Jim to cave. You, though? You're a whole shipwide operation."

Spock only looked at him, so utterly and incomprehensibly lost. "Doctor," he said seriously, "you are behaving erratically."

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you've been up for three whole days, Mr. Spock. You get erratic, and you get impatient, and you get real goddamn crabby." The doctors clapped his hands once, brusquely. "Don't think I'm clueless to what you're doing, Spock. You're trying to deflect, and I'm not gonna let you. Meals, lunch. If you don't wanna distract Jim—which is about the dumbest thing I've ever heard in my life—you're more than welcome to eat with me. I'll probably be going over some files during it, but—"

"Although I appreciate the considerate offer, Doctor—" And it was considerate, enough to where Spock felt incredibly warmed by the invitation. "—I shall decline. I do not need to be monitored."

McCoy squinted at him, too observant and too sharp. "S'that a fact? So, you're saying you'll actually eat lunch and not lie to me about it later?"

"Vulcans do not lie," Spock lied.

"Oh, pull the other leg, Spock," McCoy chuckled out, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "it's got bells on."

Despite the highly perplexing and incomprehensible phrasing of the idiom, Spock did understand it. It was said commonly enough that he'd heard the expression multiple times before, and thus knew it to mean that McCoy (rightfully, in this instance) did not believe what he was saying to him. Nevertheless, despite his awareness of the intended connotation, Spock was not particularly keen on establishing a pattern of accepting the doctor's illogical and nonsensical vernacular into common use.

Eyebrow already raising, Spock bit out a dry, "My hands are nowhere near your leg, Doctor McCoy, nor have I pulled on any of your limbs. I have no interest in doing so, either; not on one leg, and certainly not on the other, bells or no bells."

The doctor huffed a laugh as he pulled his rolling stool to the bedside and took a seat. There was a loud snap when he pulled on a pair of gloves. He flexed his fingers wide to ensure a good fit. "Well, you're about to," he said, and he patted his thigh twice, "let's see them." At Spock's other brow arching and resultant look of incomprehension, McCoy raised one of his own in imitation and clarified. "Hands, Mr. Spock, your hands. Give 'em over, now, palms up."

Spock did not move so much as a centimeter. "You have already scanned me."

"The biobed scanned you with its sensors, sure. And now I'm going to visually scan you with my eyes." There was a dangerous, challenging look in those very eyes, the ones that watched him and saw far, far too much. "Is that gonna be a problem for you?"

The doctor already knew, Spock thought forlornly. The sensors surely would have already told him exactly what he needed to know, and it would not come as a surprise. This was, after all, the rationalization for the appointment in the first place, as well as the primary reason he'd dreaded attending it. McCoy had, just the night prior, tended to his hands and ensured they were adequately mended. That he'd been unable to go for even a handful of hours without damaging himself was appalling. Such a visible lack of self-control…

Spock did not respond to McCoy's obvious goading, unwilling to escalate it into outright accusations and confrontation—not over this matter, at least. The faster he could get through this, and with as little discussion about it as possible, the better. He wanted to return to his quarters and isolate himself. He wanted to get far away from that hawkish scrutiny as he could.

He extended his hands outwards for inspection, and he turned his head away to observe the pattern of the biobed he sat upon.

For a moment, only silence. Spock sat there impatiently, wishing for this to be over, to be finished, to be dismissed. He stared with rapt and pointed attention to the weave of the blankets rather than glance even once at the expression he was certain he would no doubt find on the doctor's face. A frown of disappointment, he thought, as well as of reproach. He did not look; he refused to. McCoy already knew, he told himself. Nothing he said or did would matter now.

There was a soft sound. Not a sigh, although he could tell the doctor wanted to do exactly that, but a mild hum of acknowledgement. Neutral. Professional. Distant.

"Well," McCoy said measuredly, "that's… about what I expected. Not great, but not surprising. Alright, wanna tell me what happened?"

He did not.

Spock remained silent.

The doctor appeared to have anticipated that response; he didn't pause long enough to allow him a chance to speak even if he'd wished to do so.

"Y'know, they make these sort of mittens—scratch mittens, they're called—to prevent babies from clawing at their skin. You wanna know why that is? Because they're infants, and they don't know any better."

It was a purposefully goading comment to make, one that was said in an attempt to provoke him to an emotional reaction. Another time, it might have succeeded, but Spock struggled to verbalize anything at all right now. He did not feel as if he were even present in the room.

"Are you an infant, Mr. Spock?" McCoy continued after a moment. "Do you not know any better?" The tray of the rolling cart clattered as he reached for the dermal regenerator. "If not, I'd suggest—demand, actually—that you figure it out sooner rather than later, 'cause I'm about one more injury away from replicating you a pair and strapping them over your hands."

The aggravation in the doctor's voice was becoming audible now, his professional neutrality breaking beneath the weight of rising temper. No longer was it intentionally abrasive, but naturally so, and it was with real irritation that McCoy was speaking to him. Despite this, however, his touch was exceedingly gentle and careful as he took one of Spock's hands between his own.

Violation.

The alarms on the monitors positively screamed.

Spock ripped his hand away so sharply, so forcefully, that his entire body jerked. The movement nearly sent him backwards off the bed.

"Woah, hey, hey, easy," McCoy exclaimed. His hands raised, splayed open as if proving he was not concealing or possessing any weapons.

Except he was, Spock thought blindly, breath freezing so that it wouldn't burst from him in choked, desperate gasps. He was, and he did not even realize it. Would that it were a blade or a phaser, for Spock would rather take injury to himself a dozen times—a hundred times—than to experience mental violation even once more. Not to himself, not to others, not… not…

Not again. Please, not again…

(Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was useless.)

"I—I am—" Spock could not speak, not without inhaling, and he could not seem to open his airway enough to do so. First, one must exhale in order to draw further breath inwards, and it felt as if his lungs had been filled to beyond capacity.

The doctor watched him carefully, that extraordinary human capacity for empathy bright in his eyes. "Okay, take it easy. Shh. You're alright; I'm not gonna touch you." He kept his hands raised and allowed distance between them, ensuring no part of them was touching, just as he said. "Take a deep breath for me. In through your nose, out through pursed—yeah, good, just like that. A little more…"

Spock's body shuddered as he fought to exhale and inhale at a reasonable rate, rather than the irregular, too-rapid and too-slow manner he was alternating between. He could not be touched. He could not be touched. It wasn't safe, not for his friends, and not for himself. The risk he presented was too great a threat, and he simply… he simply could not endure it happening again. He could not. He… he couldn't…

Intrusion.

Violation.

Kae'at k'lasa.

Mind rape.

McCoy stood to mute the blaring alarm, the wail of which was cut off into silence and left an empty ringing in Spock's ears. It intensified the pain in his head more than the alarm itself had. It lasted too long, and felt too muted; there was too much hollow space for him to think, for McCoy to think, for McCoy to stare at him, to examine him.

"Okay, here's how we're gonna do this." The doctor settled back into his stool. His elbows rested on his knees, and he leaned forward enough to address him quietly, but not intrusively. "I need to have look at your hands, 'cause they're in pretty rough shape right now. Sorry, that's non-negotiable, Spock. But what I don't need to do, and what I'm not gonna do, is touch you, okay? I'm just gonna run the dermal regenerator across your palms to fix up those cuts. That's it. That's all that's gonna happen. My hands aren't going to make contact with yours, I'm not gonna touch you, and if anything becomes too much, you say when and I'll stop, just like that. How's that sound? Sound alright?"

Spock stared at McCoy blankly, watching the doctor's lips move. Sound emerged from them, and he logically understood that he both heard and registered that sound, but the words themselves seemed, on their own, to be wholly unintelligible. It was as if human speech itself was no longer comprehensible to him; as if what had once been a fluent language was now meaningless noise that he could not decipher.

Curious. Even fascinating, from a certain perspective, were one inclined to examine it from a mindset of science…

"Spock?"

"Yes, Doctor?" Spock looked up, refocusing his wavering attention. McCoy was closer now than he had been. He wondered when that had happened.

"Did you hear me? I asked if you're alright with that?"

He did not know if he was alright with that. He had… he had forgotten what the that being referenced was, and thus had very little way to verify whether he found it alright or not. He was tired, so tired, and at the present, he rather thought it impossible to care about alright or not alright. McCoy would do what McCoy would do, nothing more, nothing less. The doctor had already proven he would go against Spock's wishes in most matters anyways.

"Affirmative, Doctor," he said softly.

He'd extended this medical check for far too long.

The doctor was attempting to make eye contact, which Spock denied him. Instead, he examined the pattern of the bedsheets once more, tracing with his eyes; the gold thread woven into the orange as it glinted and caught the harsh light of the sickbay. He felt sick. He felt tired. He felt so, so tired. Was it possible for one to feel so exhausted that it could be felt in the skin? In the bone marrow? In the blood?

"Okay." McCoy sounded like he was not okay with that at all, and also that he had a great deal more he'd have liked to say about it. Thankfully, he seemed to understand there was a time and a place for such lectures, and that the present met the criteria for neither. "Hands over here, if you don't mind."

He did mind.

He also did not protest it.

Spock extended his hands slowly. They did not feel as if they were attached to his body—so much so, that he had to wonder why he'd recoiled them with such vehemence. No part of him really did. Not his hands, not his head, not his mind, not his lungs.

A spark of intrigue flashed and faded like a strike of lightening. Could a body still be considered a body if it were not arranged in the typical fashion? Or was it merely a conglomeration of parts? He supposed it was an acceptable comparison for his own sense of detachment at the moment. He felt like a collection of parts. Disconnected, disjointed, mutilated, severed. No longer a whole, but a broken mess of inner workings that could not come back together again, no matter what tricks McCoy tried.

He flinched involuntarily as the dermal regenerator brushed against the skin of his palms.

"Easy now," McCoy murmured to him as he worked.

True to his word, he did not touch Spock, nor brought his hands any closer than they strictly needed to be. Spock was relieved that the doctor hadn't asked for an explanation as to why Spock reacted so; he was uncertain what he would or could have replied with that would satisfy his inquiry.

McCoy had always been, for the most part, respectful when it came to personal contact. Oh, he grabbed him, certainly, and occasionally turned him around forcibly to shout in Spock's face, but he always did so by the arms or the shoulders. Never did he intrude his bare touch upon Spock's hands, not since the first two weeks of McCoy's posting on the Enterprise, during which Spock had made it clear that McCoy's volatile, illogical, irrational, uncontrolled, disorganized, and turbulent emotional projection was uncomfortable to experience. Afterwards, McCoy had been careful to either avoid physical contact with his hands, or he used gloves to touch them.

It was one of many ways the doctor showed he cared far more than his temper, irritability, and scowls would let on.

It was only once Spock's respiratory patterns had leveled out to baseline standard that McCoy spoke.

"So," McCoy said, his voice too loud in the silence of the room as he worked, "I think we're going to have to address the elephant in the room."

"There isn't—"

"No. Nuh-uh. I know you know what that means. Not even two months ago, you had Jim fall for that and explain it to you—twice. So don't play games." Spock opened his mouth once more, but McCoy snapped his head up and shot him a look, head tilted in pure challenge. One Spock was not particularly keen to participate in, either, for that would only extend this already miserable affair. Wisely, he remained silent. "Mmhmm, that's what I thought. You wanna take a guess at the elephant I'm talking about?"

He did not, although he suspected he knew exactly which elephant it was.

McCoy waited him out, demonstrating an unusual display of patience. Any other time, Spock would have been able to outlast him, for he was rarely opposed to sitting in a quiet room to think—and if that further annoyed the doctor, Spock considered it only an extra incentive to take his time doing so. However, his appointment had already been extended too long as it was, and he did not wish to prolong this any further.

It took approximately seventy-two-point-three-six-eight seconds of silence and staring for Spock to give in.

"You wish to discuss last night."

"We've got a winner," McCoy said. He sounded almost amused, but there was a hard glint in his eye that suggested otherwise. "Congratulations. Your reward is, go figure, discussing last night. You wanna tell me what happened?"

"No."

The doctor leaned in. "'S'that right? Let me rephrase then. You can either tell me what happened, Mr. Spock, or I can call the captain down here, so he can order you to tell me what happened. You pick which option you'd like. Although, I should let you know that Jim's pretty curious about that answer himself and would likely stick around to hear it."

It was a vindictive threat to make; uncommonly petty in phrasing and delivered in a purposely antagonistic vocal intonation. Unfortunately, Spock knew that the doctor was not above engaging in petty behavior—and, in fact, often took pleasure in doing so. Even more unfortunate was that McCoy would not hesitate to follow through on that threat.

Spock took a breath, forcing his mind to calm. Be empty, be still, be nothing. Nothing at all. "That is a broad question, Doctor McCoy, consisting of multiple hours," he said flatly. "Which specific aspect of last night would you like to discuss?"

"We'll get around to discussing all of it, Mr. Spock—and the whole damn twenty-four hour cycle, eventually." His voice was equally flat and dry; sardonic. "You skipped your mandatory dinner, which wasn't all that shocking. But then you skipped our appointment, too, which definitely was. I found you passed out on the floor, covered in vomit, tears, blood. That's the specific aspect I'd like to discuss."

Silence. Spock intentionally held off speaking for a number of seconds—seven, eight, nine, ten, elev—until the doctor's face began to darken almost purple with anger. Then, he lightly cleared his throat.

"I have nothing to add," Spock said dispassionately, tone flippant and uninterested. "Your description was a satisfactory summary of events."

A muscle in McCoy's jaw jumped. "Really. Nothing at all."

"Affirmative." He paused, tilted his head, and reconsidered this answer. "Except, perhaps, that I was not passed out, as you say. I was merely asleep."

"You weren't asleep, you were unconscious."

"As I can remember our conversation, Doctor McCoy, I quite clearly was not."

The doctor closed his eyes for a long, long moment, bringing up a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His chest rose and fell with purposeful breaths, inhaled slowly and exhaled in a low gust. It was an deliberate display. Spock admittedly felt relieved to see it. If McCoy was exhibiting his dramatics, then he was neither truly upset, nor truly angry. He would still follow through with the threat, Spock knew, just to make a point, but it would not be done out of real malice. That did not make Spock any more eager to talk, but it did not make him any less inclined to do so, either.

"Spock."

"I do not know what you wish me to say, Doctor," Spock admitted. "I engaged in meditation, during which, it seems I mistakenly fell asleep. It was an error; you are correct to point this out. I will not make that error again."

"Except you did make it again, Spock. You were late to this appointment too."

Spock opened his mouth to inform the doctor that he had notmade the same error, for he had neither fallen asleep, nor missed the appointment in its entirety. He said nothing, however, as that answer would only draw attention to his tardiness, and he did not wish to field further interrogation about it. He'd already excused it with breakfast with Uhura, but it was unlike him to be late to anything. His exhaustion the evening prior made for a valid reason. Distraction did not. Distraction only demanded more questions.

"I apologize," he said instead, voice stiff and quiet.

"No, no. No apologies. I'm not trying to guilt you for it; that's not why I'm bringing it up." McCoy waved a hand in the air, as if dismissing even the possibility of remorse. "I wanna talk about it because I want to know what happened to cause it. The unconsciousness—sleep—whatever you call it. You weren't just having a nap there on the ground, Spock. I couldn't wake you up for almost three minutes."

The doctor turned serious. There was no sign of the over-dramatic display of emotion or grousing. He looked grim. Spock regarded him with the gravity he deserved, already feeling apprehensive. Whereas McCoy's passionate fits were a positive sign, this one was ominous. It often heralded a difficult conversation.

"Your quarters were a disaster. Blood all over the place, things toppled, broken, vomit on the ground, vomit on you…" A doctor through-and-through, the list was given with professional neutrality. "You were curled up on the ground, collapsed in front of your firepot—which, by the way, you almost burnt the whole ship down. You were curled up in a ball. Your nose was bleeding from both nostrils, lips bleeding, hands bleeding. You could hardly string two words together when I did finally wake you up. Just mumbling, mostly. You didn't make much sense, and the few times you did, you kept asking for Jim."

Spock's stomach sank. He felt mortified.

"You couldn't even get into bed on your own," McCoy finished, staring at him with a measured, calculated expression. "Jim and I had to lift you up like a baby and tuck you in. So, how about we stop trying to minimize what happened and start being honest about it instead. What happened, Spock?"

He did not know what to say. He did not know what answer to give the doctor. He didn't know what could possibly explain or excuse what he'd seen. McCoy might not wear the insignia of the Science Department, but the doctor was no less a scientist because of it; he knew how to examine the evidence and form reasonable conclusions based on that evidence.

The evidence, in this case, spoke to there being something deeply, truly wrong with Spock.

"I…" he stared down at his lap. The body function panel's steady pulsing sped up in time with his rising heartrate. "… I do not know what happened."

Truth.

McCoy peered at him intently for a moment, before finally nodding, seeming to accept that answer. "Okay. That's okay. Can you describe it to me, then?"

Spock thought of the night prior. He thought of the terror; the way his heart raced in his chest, the way his breath burst from him rapidly. The way that noise had emerged from his lips, the way his eyes had leaked, the way he couldn't tell which way was up, or where he was, or who was witnessing it, or if anyone was at all. He recalled the way that such fear—fear he'd never felt before, not once in his life—stole over him so severely that he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but lay there uselessly and shake.

He thought of how certain he'd been that he was dying.

He thought of the aftermath, forcing his body to move through the sluggish, absent detachment. The shame, the humiliation, the distant understanding that what he'd experienced was unacceptable. The relief that no one had seen him. The attempt to purge his mind of it, fix himself, escape…

"My respiratory patterns altered," he said in the most dispassionate tone he could summon. It was not enough; it quivered regardless. "I experienced vertigo, dizziness, disorientation. Some… some manner of psychological distress, as well as physiological. Heart palpitations. Emesis. Paralysis."

"Were you afraid?"

Spock stiffened. "I am a Vulcan, Doctor McCoy," he bit out firmly. He was offended by the question.

"Sure. That's not what I was asking though, was it?" McCoy looked at him with empathy in his eyes. Not anger, not annoyance, not hostility, not mockery. Pure empathy and compassion. It made him Spock feel sick. "I'm not asking to upset you, Spock. I'm asking 'cause that's usually front and center during a panic attack. And if that's what happened, which I'm pretty sure it is, I need to know about it."

"I do not recall," Spock said through gritted teeth. "I would presume I felt no such thing. Experiencing emotion of such severity is considered highly unusual for a Vulcan."

"But not highly unusual for a human, and you're half that, too."

"Yes." Spock's voice was tight, like a band stretched to near-snapping. "With how often you see fit to remind me of it, I could hardly forget." There was audible annoyance in his voice, and he knew he was becoming emotional. Compromised. He took slow breath. It did not feel as if it entered his lungs at all. "It was not a panic attack."

"Oh?" McCoy raised a brow at him. It was a shockingly Vulcan-like expression, and he wore it with appropriate severity and stoicism. "Have a lot of experience to compare it to, do you? Alright, what was it then?"

He didn't know. He did not know what it'd been, or why it had happened to him. He did not know why he had writhed on the ground sobbing, curling into a ball, vomiting, shaking. He did not know what happened or why—only that it had happened. It had been terrible, and messy, and degrading. He wished never to experience the like of it again.

Spock remained silent.

"Spock, you're taking this as an attack, and you shouldn't be," the doctor told him gently. "I know I'm making you uncomfortable, but these are questions I've got to ask. I'm not shaming you about it."

But you are. Spock did not say it aloud, yet he thought it all the same. McCoy was shaming him; every word he said, every comment, every question—it was both shameful and shaming him. The doctor had no comprehension of how truly taboo this was to a Vulcan. An emotional lapse of any kind would be humiliating, but to be forced to discuss one so… terribly disorganized… it was degrading and insulting.

Spock wished that he could fault the doctor for asking those questions, but he could not. McCoy truly had no idea of the significance of what he was doing or saying; he was right in that he was merely doing his job, the same as he would with any other crewmember. Had it been Jim, or Lieutenant Commander Scott, or Lieutenant Shams al-Din in his place, McCoy would have been having the exact same conversation. Spock would have even approved of his due diligence, had it been anyone else in his place.

But it was not.

"—ck?"

He looked up. "Yes, Doctor McCoy?"

The doctor eyed him, narrowed and hawkish and far, far too knowing. "Where were you just now?"

"I have not left the room," he responded tonelessly.

"You know what I mean."

He did. Spock understood that the question was not intended to be taken as literal, and that it was meant as an inquiry of his thoughts or preoccupation. However, Spock was also not inclined to humor the doctor's nonsensical terminology. It was grating that he was so often forced to abandon the definition of a word to hunt for an unspoken meaning, usually discovering that those unspoken meanings were contrary, opposite, incoherent, and entirely incongruent to the standard one.

He remained silent, arching an eyebrow. Silence, in this matter, was both his sword and shield, and he wielded both now to great effect.

"Spock." McCoy sighed and ran a hand over his face. Three days, the doctor had claimed to be awake, and he certainly looked tired. There were the beginnings of dark circles forming beneath his eyes and his face seemed too drawn and pale. His posture, his expression, his grumbling, his movements—it suggested he was highly stressed. Spock suspected that he, unfortunately, was the direct cause of that stress. "Okay. Hell. Alright, I'm not gonna argue with you right now. Sure, you're still here. Forget I asked. Fine, what happened after your panic attack?"

"It was not a panic attack," he insisted.

"I just said I'm not gonna argue with you, goddammit. It was if I say it was. What happened after it?"

He'd lain there for what felt like hours, too weak and too exhausted to move or uncurl himself. Even the mere act of rolling over had been more exertion than he'd been capable of at the time. Eventually, pride and dignity forced him upwards, but it'd been weak and slow. He'd wanted to call Jim. He'd wanted to shower. He'd wanted to curl up into bed. He'd wanted to fix himself.

"I meditated," he told the doctor, "during which, I fell asleep."

The doctor made a skeptical hum.

"You believe I am lying to you?" Spock felt insulted at that, although he was not surprised either; it seemed as if every answer he gave was cast under suspicion lately. And… he supposed it was not entirely unwarranted. It certainly felt as if every answer he gave recently was a lie.

"Not exactly; I don't think you're telling the truth, but that doesn't mean you're lying." Spock had no possible idea what that could mean, and he did not have the energy to decipher it. "I do think it was a lot worse than you're saying, though."

Spock narrowed his eyes. His fists tightened until his palms stung. Those probing blue eyes glanced down at them, and he forced them to relax. He could not afford to lose control again.

"You are, of course, within your right to think what you wish," he said. This room was suffocating and he found himself beginning to exhaust from the stress of it. "I answered your questions. I have nothing else to say on the subject."

He examined his hands; at the smooth, unblemished skin of his palms. No cuts, no bruising. It was as if nothing had ever happened. With the wave of a dermal regenerator, all damage had been mended. Spock wished, more than anything, that such a thing existed for the mind. That he could run a device over his head and correct all the malfunctions present in it. If he'd only been able to go deeper into meditation, perhaps he might have been able to simulate something to that effect.

McCoy noticed the direction of his gaze. "You're welcome, by the way," he grumbled in a distinctly long-suffering, pointed manner. No doubt he was implying Spock was being rude with his lack of gratitude.

"Thank you, Doctor." His response was given less-than-graciously, and with no small amount of rudeness, as he rose to his feet. There was a rushing vertigo in his head as he did so, despite having moved slowly and—if anything—sluggishly. He did not sway, but only because he locked his legs in place. "If that is all…"

"Hold on, now." McCoy rose as well, and positioned himself so that he was between Spock and the exit. If he were to try to leave, he would have to very obviously skirt around the doctor to do so. That was displeasing. "That's not all. Sit back down, you and I need to have a conversation."

"We already had a conversation."

"We did," McCoy agreed, "and we're about to have another one."

Spock remained standing, planting his boots stubbornly in place. "You told me these appointments would be brief," he said tersely. "That they would take, in your own words, a handful of minutes at the most, to ensure sure I was doing alright. It has been longer than a handful of minutes, Doctor, and as you can plainly see, I am indeed alright. There is nothing else that needs to be said."

"Oh, really! Is that so? Well, guess what! You don't have the authority to decide that, Mr. Spock, I do!" McCoy's temper flared. His eyes sparked as he jabbed a finger at him. "If I ever wanna hear your unlicensed, amateur medical opinion, I'll be sure to ask you for it! But until such a time, it's my medical opinion that matters! I'm the one in charge, and I'm the one thatgets to decide when, where, and if there's anything that needs to said, understand? That means you're gonna shut up, you're gonna listen to me, and you're gonna follow my orders! Now, sit down! We're gonna have a conversation and that's that! I swear, it's like pulling teeth with you!"

Spock answered only with a stony silence that was, in and of itself, a complete response. It said far more than he'd be willingly to verbalize aloud for fear of sounding angry. And he was getting angry, he suspected, for his hands shook where they rested behind his back, and his jaw was clenched until aching.

McCoy scowled at him for a moment, eyes flicking over him and seeing more than Spock wished him to. And he must have noticed something, or otherwise had seen some sign in Spock's posture indicative of his rising aggravation, for the man softened minutely with a tight pursing of his lips. After another few steadying breaths, the doctor sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. When he spoke, his voice was calmer.

"Listen," McCoy began, settling back down onto his stool, one hand raised as if halting an oncoming objection, "I healed up your hands, sure, and I checked you over to make sure you're physically okay, yeah, but that's not all these appointments are for. It's not just about checking or mending the risk, Spock, it's about intervening in it, mitigating it. I don't want to have to keep fixing up your hands every time I see you."

Spock remained standing, although some of his annoyance was easing. "If you are unwilling to do your job, I am certain that Doctor M'Benga would—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Bizarrely, the doctor chuckled at him. It was not a pleasant, humorous sound. "Look at it from where I'm sitting. In less than twenty-four hours, I've had to fix your hands up five times. That's averages out to be, what, once every five or so hours? That's a problem, Spock, and it's something we've got to address."

"You said it yourself, Doctor, it is an involuntary action," Spock said. He reluctantly lowered himself back to the biobed, catching in his peripherals as the function panel jumped erratically from his stressed readings. He attempted to ignore it and hoped that McCoy would do the same. "I am not deliberately engaging in such a behavior."

It was humiliating to say aloud, and so utterly shameful to admit to that he felt sick to the core for doing so. It was a confession that he had lost control of himself, of his body, of his actions. Perhaps McCoy would not understand how significant his admission was, but Spock did, and he felt the mortification rise sour in his throat.

"No, I know," McCoy said as he soothed him down, hands raising out flat as if coaxing a wounded, frightened animal. "I know that, Spock, and that's—well, maybe not a good thing, exactly, but it's better than the alternative. Trust me, if I thought for even a second you were doing it intentionally, you and I'd be having a much different conversation right now. You're right, though; it's not something you're doing for the sake of doing it. Unfortunately, that might actually make it a little harder to treat."

Spock stared at his lap quietly. McCoy was leaving him an opening to respond, to ask for clarification on exactly why his involuntary display of self-harm might be harder to treat than a voluntary, intentional one. However, Spock did not care for clarification, nor did he care about the answer itself. This was not a conversation he was interested in having, for all that McCoy seemed determined to force it on him.

His lack of response earned him a small huff, but otherwise did not dissuade the doctor from the topic.

"It's harder," McCoy continued in an irritable tone, "'cause we can't predict the future. That means we're gonna struggle to find alternative coping strategies. If you were purposely doing it, you'd be able to utilize different ways of handling stress before you ever got to that point. But since you aren't, we're gonna need to jump straight to dealing with the problem."

"You just informed me the behavior was a problem." Spock regretted speaking the moment the words aired. He immediately recognized that his inadvertent contribution the discussion had just prolonged his already-drawn-out appointment by a considerable amount. He resigned himself to being here for quite some time. "Are you suggesting it no longer is?"

"Oh no, no, it's definitely a problem—and a slippery slope of one, at that."

Spock stared; blinked. "I… do not follow, Doctor."

"It's a problem, Spock, but it's not the problem."

It was… indescribably vexing that McCoy could speak so much, for so long, and make such little logical, coherent sense. Conversing with him was exhausting, and Spock's slowly arching brow communicated exactly that.

The doctor's eyes pointedly rolled towards the ceiling as if hoping to find something there. His patience, Spock thought mildly, although he did not think it would be found in such an unlikely location, or at all. Yet somehow, this familiar display of exasperation was… oddly relieving to see. It informed him that the situation was not so severe that the doctor's concern had overshadowed their antagonistic camaraderie, nor was it so serious that McCoy was professionally distancing himself from emotional reactions.

"Right," the doctor groused briefly, before moderating himself suitably to engage in a productive discussion. "Okay, the self-harming isn't good, but it's only a symptom of the problem, not the actual problem itself. That symptom wouldn't present itself if the main problem didn't exist in the first place. Take the common cold, for example. Stuffy nose, cough, sneezing, watery eyes, fever, body aches… those are all a problem, absolutely, and they need to be treated accordingly. But in the grand scheme of things, they aren't the actual illness itself, just a result of it. And you can manage the symptoms all you want, but unless you recover from the illness as a whole, managing is about all you can do."

"I am not ill, Doctor McCoy." His tone was frigid.

McCoy leveled him a long, hard look. "Yeah, Spock, you are. Now, I'm not saying that in the way you're probably thinking, 'cause I can already see you catastrophizing the whole thing and finding insults where there aren't any, and I'm tellin' you right now to knock it off. I'm not saying you've lost your mind, Spock. I'm saying you're ill in the way that means you're not healthy. Even you can't deny that what you're doing is harmful."

He felt sick. He felt cold. He felt so, so tired. So tired. This was not a conversation he wished to have. McCoy was attempting to bait him into responding, as had often worked in times past, but when it came to matters of his own privacy, this topic was not open for discussion. He refused to allow himself to be provoked into engaging with it.

"That is—" The doctor leaned in and met his stare with a dangerously challenging one of his own. "—unless you plan to sit there and lie straight to my face that this whole thing is somehow beneficial to you, hmm? What's that? No? Yeah, I didn't think so."

Spock did not respond. Instead, he pressed his lips firmly together in a flat line so that he did not submit to the scowl that was threatening to form. McCoy, on the other hand, in his usual manner of disregarding the mere possibility of emotional restraint, had fully given in to his own apparent desire to scowl, and thus did so now, seemingly with great satisfaction.

"I'll put together a list of grounding exercises for the panic attacks, and we can narrow that list down until we find a good fit. That's more long term, though. We need to set manageable goals and figure out what we can do for you right now, today." McCoy reached over to the rolling tray and took up his PADD, waiting for it to load. "The symptoms you've been having, they aren't the problem, but they're still a problem, and we need to come up with some coping strategies to manage your anxiety during those in the moment times—which, like I said, is gonna be some trial and error, since we can't predict when and where those times are gonna happen."

"I do not experience anxiety."

But McCoy continued as if he hadn't heard him.

"We're gonna focus on the easiest one first, to get some wind in our sail. Your hands. I'm thinking maybe we try gloves—" The doctor cut himself off with an erratically waved hand. "I know, I know, I threatened you with scratch mittens, but I was only teasing. I do think it might be a good idea. It'd minimize the risk of injury, and the muted pressure sensitivity would be noticeable enough for you realize that you're clenchi—"

"Unnecessary," Spock interrupted, loudly this time. It was clear the doctor was attempting to lighten the mood and joke with him. He did not feel like joking. "I have coping strategies in place to—were—in case I should ever be required to make use of them."

"Oh?" McCoy raised a brow, sounding skeptical.

"Meditation."

"Right." There was a low sigh and a nod, as if that answer had been expected. And from brief twitch of his lips, Spock knew that not only had it been expected, but that McCoy had already prepared a rebuttal to it ahead of time. "I'm just now learning what that actually means for a Vulcan; the benefits, the process, the importance, so on. And yeah, it might even be helpful—if you can achieve it. But based on the severity of the symptoms you've been having, Spock, I've been told there's some strong evidence to support the theory that you might be struggling with that a little."

I've been told.

It was said so casually, so smoothly, that Spock nearly overlooked it. The doctor was so prone to speaking with idioms, metaphors, euphemisms, and other occurrences of speech that were not intended to be taken literally. It was often difficult to make sense of his often-nonsensical verbiage, after all, and Spock almost dismissed it as another example of such a habit.

Except, it bothered him, this casual hint towards a greater meaning. It was not an intentional one, he thought, but it was not a turn of phrase, either.

I've been told.

Such a specific, curious choice of phrasing. It was not, I've read. It was not, I've researched. No, McCoy had plainly stated that he'd been told. That inferred he had been engaging in a conversation with someone about Vulcan meditation, and that this someone had known enough about his condition to offer their opinion that Spock was unable to achieve it.

Only the day prior, McCoy had watched him meditate. He had watched him do so multiple times, even, and not once had the doctor questioned him.

Not once.

I've been told.

Something had changed.

"You've been told?" Spock's voice came out stilted, sounding oddly quiet and guarded and already defensive. He diverted his attention from his lap and looked at the doctor straight on. He could feel his brow already furrowing downwards, tightening his expression further. "And who, may I ask, is the source of your information?"

McCoy's nostrils flared. He looked angry at himself, but he returned Spock's eye contact unflinchingly and squared his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. That, more than anything else, warned Spock that he would not like the answer he was about to receive.

"After our chat in your quarters the other night, I reached out to the Vulcan Medical Institute," the doctor said with that unusually calm, practiced, easy tone of his, the one taught in medical school for the managing of difficult patients. "It took a bit of back and forth to get an actual medically-relevant response, go figure, but after I logically stressed to them the urgency of the situation, they started answering quick enough."

Spock felt bile in the back of his throat.

He could only stare at the doctor, stunned speechless.

"You—" He could not speak. He could not form the words, nor the sounds, to articulate a coherent, intelligible, ordered response. "You… contacted…"

"Started consulting with a healer named T'Ras," McCoy continued, as if he hadn't just shaken Spock's sense of stability so profoundly. "Only the initial stages, mind; we're far enough out into space that communication's moving slower than I'd like. I sent her your files to look over, and she said she'd get back to me once she read them—" McCoy broke off, waving a quick hand, as if dismissing the protest Spock hadn't yet managed to give. "I redacted your personal details, don't worry. Not that… well…"

He didn't have to finish the sentence; Spock could extrapolate the rest himself.

Not that it makes a difference, he knew McCoy had been about to say, since there are so few Vulcan officers in Starfleet.

By process of elimination on a list of exactly one name, it would have been readily apparent to anyone with even rudimentary sentience just who the redacted Vulcan in question was. As well, Spock was certain, McCoy had no doubt felt it relevant to share with them his patient's half-breed status.

… And that list had only one name as well.

("Have you heard anything back from Vulcan?")

("Yeah, sort of. I finally got a name, at least.")

Distant, half-formed words, so foggy that they felt more akin to a dream than a coherent memory. The captain and doctor had discussed this, Spock remembered now, while they had been tending to him the prior evening. He had not been in any condition to pay attention; he'd been fighting to extract himself from Jim's mind at the time of the relevant conversation and had been quite thoroughly distracted.

Much of what he recalled from his intrusion into his captain's mind was vague; strong feelings, strong thoughts, strong worries, fears, helplessness. Spock had done his best to block out what little he could.

Not enough, clearly. Or, perhaps too much. If he'd not struggled so hard, he would have known this was coming rather than blindsided by it.

Somehow, despite his understanding of the doctor's inexperience with the Vulcan mind, he had not expected McCoy to take action to repair that gap in knowledge. He should have. He should have, because when it came to his patients, and especially to his friends, there were few lengths the doctor wouldn't go to ensure he'd done everything in his power to help them. And contacting Vulcan, contacting a Vulcan healer, was certainly within his power.

Spock should have known this would happen, and he should not have been so surprised, but he hadn't, and he was. He was, and… and he was angry. There was a dangerous sensation rising in him, white hot and burning as he fought to breathe, to think, to calm himself.

McCoy was only doing his job, Spock tried to remind himself. The doctor was only doing what he thought was best. It was a sensible, pragmatic course of action, no doubt having been judiciously decided upon with his best interests in mind. It was one Spock would have made himself, had it been Jim or McCoy who'd been displaying such erratic, concerning signs congruent with deteriorating health. It was logical. It was understandable. It was…

It was…

It…

They knew.

It was the only thought he could make any sense of; the only words that he heard. Over and over and over again and (again and again—).

They knew.

Jim. McCoy. The Medical Institute. Lieutenant Uhura. Lieutenant-Commander Scott. Vulcan. His people. His peers. His crew. His friends. The ambassador. Starfleet. Science. Communications. The Federation. The Seskille.

Violation.

The feeling stole upon him suddenly, halting the breath in his lungs before he could contemplate speaking.

Violation. Not of the mind. Not of the body. Not of another's head, or of his own. Not of anything tangible, or physical, or rational. But it was a violation, nonetheless. It was a violation in the most acute, obscene manner he had ever felt; that of his friendship, his bond, his connection to this man in front of him. Already, he had drifted so far away from Jim, from his brilliant, radiant captain, and now… now he saw an expanse open up between himself and McCoy as well.

Would it never be enough? Would his experience, the desecration to his mindscape, his desert, his thoughts, his memories—would it never be enough? How much more would he have to give for it to satisfy them all?

What else was there even left for him to give?

He felt hollow. He felt sick. He felt so tired. So, so tired.

… And he was angry. Perhaps angrier than he could ever recall feeling before.

It took a moment for him to remember how to breathe—esh-tor, esh-tor, esh-tor—and another moment to arrange his incoherent, racing thoughts in such a way that would translate accurately into speech. And even another moment yet for him to finally speak.

"I do not recall authorizing such an exchange," Spock said, speaking with such a low, quiet tone that it was nearly inaudible even to his own enhanced hearing. He feared if he spoke any louder, he would begin to shout. "You had no right, Doctor."

Except, he could not be entirely certain whether he had given authorization or not. His memory had proven itself unreliable lately, and it was possible—improbable, but possible—that he had allowed McCoy to contact Vulcan on his behalf.

McCoy looked at him sympathetically, with that empathy in his eyes. But he did not look apologetic in the slightest.

"Protocol Two Hundred and Thirty-Nine, Section Eleven," the doctor began, speaking matter-of-factly. "In the event of encountering rare or unique medical conditions—as described in Section Three—that challenge existing Starfleet medical expertise, medical officers are granted the authority to seek consultation with specialized medical institutions or medical experts, including those outside the Federation, with the primary objective of safeguarding the health of the affected patient, thereby ensuring the application of the most suitable medical interventions available, as stipulated in Interspecies Medical Practice Ordinance Three Hundred Twenty-Two of Federation Charter, Article Ninety-Five."

Textbook perfect.

Doctor Leonard H. McCoy, with his over-exaggerated drawl, biting sarcasm, hostile bedside mannerisms, and ill-tempered moods, was so deceptively intelligent that, even after having known him for nearly four years, Spock was still often surprised at just how brilliant and erudite he really was. He'd always known the doctor was exceedingly talented at his craft—one needed only to look at his list of medical accomplishments to recognize this—but these rare moments of articulative knowledge betrayed just how far that talent extended.

"Nothing to say?" McCoy asked him. Although the words themselves could be taken as rude or mocking, they were delivered with calm neutrality. "Alright, well, how about Protocol Three Hundred and Ninety-Four? When providing medical care to patients originating from culturally distinct backgrounds—as described in Starfleet Charter, Article Thirty-Two, Section Eight—Starfleet medical officers are mandated to integrate consideration of the patient's cultural practices and preferences into the treatment regimen, which includes, as deemed necessary, the engagement of species-specific experts, consultants, advocates, or specialists to ensure that the delivery of medical care is both respectful of and tailored to the unique cultural and physiological needs of the—"

"Please stop," Spock interrupted in a dull croak. "I am aware of the protocols, Doctor McCoy, you needn't quote them at me."

The doctor was attempting to make a point; to emphasize all the many ways he could, and would, break medical confidentiality. Both were undeniably, irrefutably correct; McCoy was indeed authorized to do what he wanted. As an enlisted officer of Starfleet, Spock had given up a certain amount of guaranteed rights that ordinary Federation citizens were entitled to, the right to privacy in specific circumstances being one of them. There was nothing he could say. There was no argument he could make. McCoy was correct.

And yet, he…

He had not thought Doctor McCoy would betray his trust in such a manner. He had not thought this man, this human man he called friend, would do this.

Spock couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe…

"Then you'll know I had every right to contact Vulcan." McCoy spoke calmly, patiently, as if he were attempting to explain a terribly difficult concept to a particularly stupid child. It was condescending, and for a moment, Spock felt something in him blaze hot. "Hell, I should have done it a lot sooner than I did. I didn't really get what this kind of attack meant for you, and that's on me."

How was it, Spock wondered distantly, that every word the doctor said somehow made it worse? A remarkable talent, truly. McCoy still did not get what had happened, or what was still happening. He did not get it at all, and nor would he ever. He was incapable of understanding, of truly grasping the extent of what had been done.

Esh-tor. Esh-tor. Esh-tor.

… but his lungs would not inhale, and his chest would not expand.

There was a buzzing in his ears, along with the sensation of blood rushing from his head in a wave. It must have been pooling somewhere in his stomach, as he abruptly felt nauseous, despite having had nothing to eat within the past twenty-four hours.

"And the response?" He spoke with a tone; one he had been unable to fully suppress behind stoicism.

The doctor eyed him sharply, not with anger, but consideration. Observation. Spock felt sick, so sick. Why? Why must everyone continue to look at him? Watch him? Observe and dissect him like some… some lab experiment.

(He got the sense that they were delighted by what they saw; that they examined him with as much fascination as he did a new species of bacteria.)

"Nothing major yet. A lot of research, a lot of case studies, a lot of questions." Acceptable, if not preferable. "A couple of red flags I need to watch out for."

Spock shifted in agitation. "Red flags."

"Yeah, they're when—"

"I kn—" He had to stop. Had to take a breath. Breathe. Calm. Control. "I know what red flags are, Doctor McCoy," Spock began again in a measured volume, struggling to preserve his rapidly dwindling patience. "I am specifically inquiring as to what these exact ones entail."

The body function panel throbbed in time with his pulse. Esh-tor, he tried to tell himself, because this was unbecoming of a Vulcan. He was not like this. He was better than this shameful display of emotion. Esh-tor, breathe, control. But control had been stripped from him, and he did not know what to do now.

What did one do when there was nothing left to do? How did one maintain what one did not have?

"You know I can't tell you that, Spock." Blue eyes watched him steadily. There was that particular look of empathy, of understanding, of sympathy in them once again. Too gentle. Too composed. "You and I both know that the moment I did, you'd make a point to avoid them. Which, funny enough, actually is one of the red flags."

"Funny? You consider this amusing?"

The doctor made a deliberate show of rolling his eyes towards the ceiling with a no doubt in a well-intentioned display of his customary exasperation. It would be a provoking action on its own, but within the context of their oft antagonistic relationship, it was usually considered a friendly one. Spock did not feel friendship in this moment, however.

"It's a human expression, Spock!"

Spock inhaled, but the breath seemed to get lost before it reached his lungs, leaving him with a feeling not unlike suffocation. The body function panels, with their low, consistent pulse, were beginning to alarmingly elevate with his growing distress. Another display of emotionalism that he could not conceal. Another betrayal of his privacy. He hated the sound.

Esh-tor. Breathe. Calm. Please, calm…

There was an ugliness inside of him; a sour, hot, potent feeling that was steadily rising the more he listened. Corrosive and burning, it surged through his veins, rose in his throat, stung in his eyes. He hated the sensation of it, hated the potency of it, even as he grasped it desperately for fuel, for control, for stability. Pathetic. He was better than this. He was—

But he wasn't, and he did not feel better than it at all. He felt angry; he felt indescribably, monstrously angry. And that anger, burning hot and raging though it was, made him feel, for the first time in weeks, like he had strength.

"I do not understand why you continuously speak in ways that—in ways that I do not understand, Doctor McCoy," Spock bit out quietly. His nails buried into his palms, his hands having balled into tight fists. He did not feel rational. He felt the blood rushing to his face, the numb chill in his limbs, the steady shaking of his body that matched the tremble in his voice, but he did not feel rational. He fought for control, but control was gone. It had been stripped from him. He had nothing left but this. "I am not human, as you so astutely mention every at every available opportunity. Your human expressions, your idioms, your analogies, your illogical, incoherent, nonsensical phrasing—they are indescribably exhausting to listen to, as are you!"

His chest was tight. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Esh-tor, but he could not, he could not, he could not.

The doctor's lips parted, surprised.

"Woah. Hey, hold on, now." McCoy stared at him as if he hadn't ever seen him before. "What's this about? What happened?" Then, those furrowed eyebrows shot up. "You're angry with me!" It was breathed out with dawning awareness, as if the doctor couldn't believe what he was saying.

"Anger is an emotion," Spock told him dismissively, gritting his teeth. "I do not suffer from the same emotional volatility that you do—a fact which, I assure you, I express gratitude for every day."

"Okay, alright. Shh, let's back it up a moment, 'cause you lost me somewhere there." The doctor's hands raised as if he were attempting to pacify and calm a frightened animal. "What's going on? What's got you upset?"

The body function panel's alarm began to shrill, loud and piercing. Observant, wide blue eyes glanced at it once and then immediately back to him, now concerned. The sight made Spock feel sick, and angry, and he could not breathe. He did not want to be watched, to be observed, to be examined.

Upset.

Did he truly not know? Did he not understand what he had done? Did he not comprehend the damage he caused? He had… he had betrayed his privacy. He had betrayed his trust. He had violated—

Carrion. Spock felt like carrion were picking him over, peeling away and stripping him of every protective layer he'd wrapped himself in. How was it that McCoy, that Jim, that the Seskille—how was it that none of them realized that he had so little left for them to take? Was it not enough? Had what he given not been enough for them? His control, his privacy, his mind, his body, his agency—all of it had been taken. Again and again it had been taken from him, and he could survive the loss, he could, but now they attempted to wrest his dignity from him too.

How much more would they demand from him? And would they even stop, or know to stop, when he'd run dry of anything left to offer?

Control. Please.

"Hey. Talk to me, Spock," McCoy encouraged softly. "I can't help unless I know the issue."

Spock's head snapped up.

"You claim to be helping me," Spock bit out. Esh-tor, esh-tor, but he already was breathing—too fast, too forcefully—and it was a struggle to dampen it, to curb his words, to keep them from rushing out. "And yet, your help is—it seems remarkably indistinguishable from malicious sabotage. How is it, I wonder, that you dare speak of aid when your actions cause such harm. One must ask whether—" He fought for control, to keep his voice even, steady, restrained. It shook regardless. "—whether your—" He could not. Esh-tor. Please, control. "You do not know what help I require, Doctor McCoy, and your presumptuous, arrogant, callous certainty that you do is as condescending to me as it is offensive!"

Something disgusting churned in him, bitter and acrid and steadily souring him. It felt like an infection, like a poison, and it washed throughout every inch, chilling him even as he blazed hot. Anger. He did not know this feeling. He did not feel this. He did not—he was not this, except he was, and perhaps always had been.

Uncontrolled, unstable…

Spock did not recognize himself.

"I'm not trying to offend you, dammit! Believe it or not, I'm doing this for your own good!"

"And you believe you know what that is?" His voice was a low, trembling, contemptible sound; hissed and bitter and venomous. "No, of course you do. My consent, my autonomy, of course they mean nothing to you. And what, precisely, does your idea of help look like, Doctor? More prying questions? More needless restrictions? More attempts to dissect my thoughts? More viol—"

His voice failed; lungs having exhausted itself of breath. Spock tried to inhale, but he could not. He…

He could not do this any longer. He needed to leave. Now, right now, before he lost control. Desperation was a freezing rush in his blood, mixing with his building fury. He was so cold, so tired, and he needed to leave, before he did something unspeakable. He could not trust his mind. He could not trust himself. The mind controlled the body, and they—both of them—were no longer his to command or restrain.

"Yeah, I do believe it." McCoy looked at him steadily—stop, stop examining me, stop trying to find a flaw, a weakness, stop!—and narrowed his eyes. "And I think, somewhere in that processor you've got for a brain, you believe it too. That's why you're so angry right now; you know that what you need to get better is what you've always been too afraid to do."

"And that is?" It was a tight, gritted snarl.

"Letting go."

For a moment, only a moment, Spock thought he might just hate Leonard McCoy.

He stood, forcing his body to move slowly, to move calmly—and yet, he was shaking, and his actions were stilted and stiff. He could not breathe, and he could not think, and he was afraid. He was so terribly, horrifically afraid of what he might do. He was not in control, and a Vulcan without control could not be trusted.

(Jim died in front of him again.)

("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")

He needed to leave. Now. Immediately.

"Oh, no you don't."

McCoy had stood as well and positioned himself between Spock and the door.

The burning fury faded as quickly as it had arrived, but tailing it was an icy chill that froze him in place, mid-step. He felt as if he'd been doused in water, soaked and clammy and so, so cold. His breath squeezed from him rapidly, choking out as a ragged wheeze. Fear. Terror. He…

He needed to leave, but he could not. He… he did not have that choice. How was it that he had lost such agency over himself so quickly? Only a manner of days, and he had been rendered inefficacious.

"Please step aside, Doctor McCoy," he said almost inaudibly. "Our appointment has reached its conclusion, and I am leaving."

"No, not like this you aren't. Not looking like you are." McCoy's hands were back up, splayed out in that coaxing, condescending, insulting manner. He looked worried; his eyes were wide and placating. "You don't have to spill your heart out right now, that's fine, but I need you to work with me here, at least a little, okay? Here, come to my office, we'll—"

"No."

"—get you something to drink, get you sitting down—"

"I said no."

Step aside. Please, please, before I lose what little restraint I have left. Please. I cannot do this now. I cannot do this. I do not know how to control this. I do not know how to make this stop.

"Spock," McCoy said, calmly and commandingly, "I need you to take a breath and sit down. Then we can talk about this, alright?"

Spock pressed his lips together tightly.

He was shaking; shaking badly enough that it felt like his teeth were beginning to chatter. He felt too cold. He felt too hot. He did not know what he felt, because it had blurred, and he no longer understood it. He did not understand what was happening, or why, or what to do with it. He only knew, with absolute certainty, that if he did not exit this room, he would fall apart and humiliate himself.

"I am—I do not…" Start again. Breathe. Control. "I fail to see why my participation is necessary. Now that you have taken the liberty of exposing my vulnerabilities for outside analysis, your T'Ras should be able to supply with you with any information you require. I presume your report to the Institute was thorough enough; I'm sure she will have a great deal of insight about me to share with you."

"What? I didn't…" McCoy blinked at him. His eyes were round with surprise, eyebrows raising sharply. "That's what your angry about? That I contacted Vulcan?"

"I wish to return to my quarters."

"You didn't leave me much of a choice, Spock," McCoy told him honestly, no doubt in an effort to keep him there and talking. "Listen, I've had to bluff a lot of times over the years with you, and I'd like to think I've gotten pretty good at improvising by now. But this isn't a surgery I can use anatomical charts to scrape through, or a—a drug I have to spend weeks modifying to work with your physiology. This? I don't have a reference for this, and I've got no way of getting one, 'cause you won't talk to me."

It almost sounded as if McCoy was blaming him. Him. As if… as if he had somehow been the one to err in this matter. While Spock knew himself guilty for a great many reasons—his emotional reactions, his deplorable lack of self-restraint, his inability to control himself, his lack of discipline, his faulty logic—McCoy's decision to violate the sanctity of his medical privacy could not be counted among them. The doctor had made that choice on his own.

The doctor took a step forward. Spock took a step back.

"I'm not so high up on my horse that I can't admit when I don't know something, Spock. Hell, if anything, I would have thought you'd be relieved! The illogical, irrational human doctor finally meeting his match with the telepathy thing and calling in the experts! I'd have thought you'd gloat up a storm about it!"

Spock said nothing. He could not. He could not trust what might emerge.

That sick, bitter, sour thing was in his throat, in his eyes, in his blood. He was boiling and he was freezing, and he couldn't… he couldn't. Did McCoy not see how dangerous this was? Did he not realize how close Spock was teetering to the edge?

He felt unstable. He felt so horrifically, terrifyingly unstable.

"I know this was a breach of confidentiality, Spock, I do," McCoy continued pacifyingly, "and I'm sorry about that. Protocol or not, I know how much your privacy means to you. But what was I supposed to do? I can't help you on my own, and you're in no condition to help yourself. What other choice does that leave me?"

Spock mouth opened to try to tell the doctor to move, to step aside, to leave, but he could not speak, and nothing emerged. Not words, not breath, not anything. He could not—he needed to leave. He was about to lose control of himself, his words, his voice, his body—he needed to…

"God knows I wish I could do it all on my own, 'cause if we're gonna talk about pride and ego…" The doctor tossed his hands into the air. "But I can't. Try however I might, wish whatever I want—"

Please, I beg you…

Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was—

"—I just simply can't do it; I'm not a Vulcan!"

"Neither am I!"

His voice, thunderous and bellowing, ripped from his throat, more a feral snarl than coherent speech.

McCoy reeled back as if physically struck.

The following silence was more deafening than his outburst had been, and perhaps even more uncomfortable. It weighed heavily in the room uncomfortably, filling those hollow, empty places where his raised volume had previously occupied, resulting in a tense and uncertain hush.

It had hurt to say, hurt to scream, and yet—yet it felt good. So very good to yell, to snarl, to rage, to erupt. It tamed the violence in him enough—just enough—to where he did not think he would lash out or become dangerous. The urge was there, of course, to throw something, to reach out and strike this man he called friend, to hurt him, but with his expression of temper came a relief much like a pressure valve opening.

He had the thought, distant and half-formed though it was, that this was the catharsis he'd always wondered about, when his human peers spoke of emotional release.

They'd been right. It did feel good.

… But trailing that thought was the reality of what he'd done, what he'd said, and any relief it had brought him fled as swiftly as it'd arrived. A cold pit formed in his stomach, and his horror sank into it like a stone. Wave after wave of nausea washed over him, clammy and chilling.

It was difficult to say who'd been more startled by his snarled outburst; himself, or McCoy. They stared at one another, Spock breathing heavily and the doctor's eyes large with disbelief. That tense, uneasy silence fell between them.

The doctor was the first to break it.

"Okay," McCoy said softly. His eyes were still wide, but the rest of his face had gone perfectly neutral. "Okay, Spock. I think—" A low gust of breath, a brief pursing of thin lips. "—I think you and I need to sit down and process exactly what you mean by that. That's not the kinda thing that comes out of nowhere; that's a pretty heavy thing to say."

Spock blinked dully. "I apologize, Doctor McCoy. If you will excuse me..."

"Let's hold on—"

He did not hold on.

Every word had become tangled hopelessly into only incoherent noise. The sterile, harsh lights and the scent of antiseptic were too much, too loud, too bright, too strong. He wanted to gag from it, but he did not, because he could not move, and he could not breathe, and he could not—he could not do this. The room swirled, and faded, and pulsed in and out and away, far away, until he felt as if it had somehow come to circle back harsher than ever.

It was not logical, it was not rational. He could not do this. He could no longer trust himself to remain around others. A Vulcan without control is dangerous, I am dangerous, I wanted to—I almost hurt—

Spock fumbled for some sense of order in the chaos, but every effort was like grasping smoke, or fog, or nothing. "Excuse me… I must… excuse me…" His voice blurred, slurring uselessly into the air. Each repetition was a struggle, yet he repeated them like a mantra, desperate to finish the sentence, to excuse this, to explain himself, to flee.

And then a voice cut through the roaring chaos, "Doctor McCoy? Is everything…" Nurse Chapel's voice trailed off as she stared at them with large eyes. She stood in the doorway, a smudge of blue. "I heard shouting, and—"

McCoy whirled to look at her with a barked, "We're fine!", and that interruption was all Spock needed.

He stumbled forward, moving before he could make sense of his actions. The world tilted sickeningly; the motion only worsened Spock's disorientation. Logic. Control. Leave. He needed to leave immediately.

"Spock, wait!" McCoy's voice was a harsh buzz, barely audible through the rising tide of static in his head. "Dammit, just—" The words were a buzzing of sound, of static, of incoherent… shrill popping, crackling, screeching…

McCoy's arm slammed into his own as he barreled past him. It was a meaningless obstacle that he could not afford to shift attention towards. It did not matter. He had already lost control; this would make little difference. "Excuse…" He lost his voice in the audible roar in his ears. The blood rushing to his head, or from it. He could not tell which. He also did not care.

Nurse Chapel leapt out of the way when he approached. Her lips were moving. Ignore it. Focus.

He dimly heard McCoy's shout behind him, but it was only noise. Not important. Few things were, other than to move, to run, to escape. One foot in front of the other. Step forward, keep moving. To his quarters, Spock thought, but the thought was just as incoherent and intelligible as McCoy's words to him were.

The blurred opening of the doorway was his only focus. Spock lurched towards it with mindless drive, gripping to the frame to propel himself out of the room on unsteady legs. He did not respond, nor did he apologize. Words would not come. There was no space left in him—and also far too much of it—to think, or speak, or formulate any coherent answer.

And so, he did not stop for the raised voice behind him.

He simply fled.

---

It came in flashes and blurs.

One foot. The other. Repeat.

He was in Deck Five, Section B. A short distance from his cabin. Six corridors, perhaps seven if one considered the length between doorways. At a distance of approximately eighty-three-point-seven-two-nine meters away. Manageable. He could traverse that length without losing control of himself.

Move.

Breathe.

Focus. Stare forward. Focus on movement, on walking, on breathing. Focus.

He was going to lose control. He had, perhaps, only minutes left. No. Ignore it. Push it back. Contain it down. Push it beneath the sand—yes, he needed to meditate. He needed to fix this, but how did he fix a desert? How did he fix what had been taken from him?

No. Focus. He was a Vulcan. Order the mind. Maintain balance. Keep moving forward. Do not think. Do not think. List. Chart. Logical observations made logically. He was a Vulcan.

Floor plating, nominal parameters. Junction box secured. Access hatch secured. Wall paneling seam—misaligned by approximately zero-point-zero-three centimeters. Structural integrity questionable, but it was not load-bearing and therefore a low priority.

Ventilation grate, airflow within standard acceptable range. Particulate matter on floor, dust composition consistent with habitable zones. His feet were moving too quickly, so that he was nearly stumbling, but he somehow felt too slow. Incongruous to fact. He disliked the contrary nature of his body to actions.

Environmental Control Monitor. Temperature consistent with designated ambient levels. Why then, he wondered, was he so cold? But there had been snow, hadn't there?

Focus.

Cycle pump. Minor discoloration on topside of valve. Potential condensation leak. Must be reported to Engineering for maintenance investigation. No. He was not First Officer now. He was not Science Officer. He was on medical leave. He was compromised. His control had been taken from him.

Crewman; Ensign. Designation: Azzan, Carey. Security. He nodded at the man, hands tucked firmly behind his back. The man returned the polite gesture and then, glancing past him, nodded at someone else. No.

Spock increased speed.

A voice was shouting at him to slow down. It sounded like shrill, popping static and inhuman screeching. No, only his perception of it, not based in fact or truth. Incorrect. He knew who was shouting at him. He knew why it was. But he could not stop, and he could not slow down, and he could not allow it to compromise his momentum forward, or he would lose control, here and now, right in the middle of the corridor.

Footsteps at his side. No. Ignore them. He needed to return to his room. He needed to isolate himself, for he could no longer trust his composure to stay firm in the presence of others. He felt… he felt such rage in him. Such rage, and such anger and such bitterness, that it choked him and strangled his throat.

He mentally listed the rooms as he went by them, as if, perhaps, conducting a scientific survey. Science did not have room for emotion; it merely was regardless of feeling. Changing, always changing, but in unchanging ways. A constant state. Predictable, measurable, factual, quantifiable.

Deck Five, Section C.

Turbolift C. Unoccupied.

The voice spoke once more, coaxing him now. There was a hand at his elbow. He pulled away. No. He could not be touched. If he were to invade another's mind… if he were to be violated or made to violate, he would fall apart. He would break, and he would not recover himself.

Mess Hall. Occupied.

Officers Quarters, 3F – 24, 54 – 76.

Focus.

Breathe.

Captain James T. Kirk. Room 3F 121.

Spock halted—frozen; he was freezing, why was he—but only for a moment. He continued further, counting each light, each panel, each circuitry control system, each door plate. Calculate it. Focus. Order. Maintain order. If he continued to think rationally, logically, in a systematic manner…

Officers Quarters, 25 – 53, 77 - 99

Commander Spock. Room 3F 125.

The door slid open for him. He felt his chest convulse. A taste in his mouth. Something on his lips. He felt his knees hit carpet, and his hands follow immediately afterwards. He dug his fingers in.

Hands on his shoulders. He pushed them off.

No.

He stood, or tried to, and moved. Moved… yes, he knew where he was, felt stone on his hand. He gripped that tightly, and sinking to the floor was a relief this time. The pot wasn't lit—("Which, by the way, you almost burnt the whole ship down.")—but he could still smell the incense, could still smell the fire that had burned there hours prior. Too many hours prior. Six of those hours now missing.

Movement at his side, around him, a voice, coaxing and calm.

No.

Sink into it.

Allow the shadows, the scent—allow it to sink him under, deep enough to where he could not be found. Allow it to fill the lungs, allow it to ground him and make him nothing. He needed to be as insubstantial as the air he breathed in. Become vague and become immaterial. Become thought, and logic, and concept.

Sink into it…

The sky was grey, overcast and heavy with an oncoming of a storm. Spock sprawled on the endless desert of sand beneath the impossible expanse of cloud cover and stared. It had been red once, he knew, but now it was grey. How strange. He could not recall when it had changed, or why it had, but it was no longer familiar to him; no longer recognizable.

Of course. Spock could no longer recognize himself. It was only fitting, he supposed, that his mind would become equally foreign to him.

"Th—t's it, keep bre—ng, just like—at."

His desert was wrong. Something was wrong. How was it that it had reshaped without his notice? How was it that it was now so alien to him, when it was his own creation? This place, this one place, had been his for as long as he could remember. The only place that had ever truly belonged to him. Where he could sink into the sand and be at peace with himself. Emotion, feeling, thought, impulse, urge—all of it could be pushed deep beneath the dunes and concealed out of sight.

He did not know this place, and something was wrong.

"—atch me—ock... in... out..."

His breath misted into the freezing air in frantic, rapid bursts. He could see it as a cloud, intermittently broken. It caught, drifting away from him to nothing, even as it was replaced by more. Respiratory patterns were altered, he realized; he was breathing too quickly. Spock stared at the overcast sky. Sand stirred where he lay, shifting against him. Pale, white, cold sand. There was wind.

There should not have been wind in the desert.

But there should not have been snow, either, and yet… the clouds were heavy with it.

He was jostled, the clouds above him blurring with motion like being tossed upon heaving seas. For a moment, he thought that the wind had picked up and thrown him, but no… no, it came from somewhere else; someplace beyond his desert.

A pressure. It banded tightly around his torso, and he was tugged inwards to rest against a broad surface. He was in his desert, and he was not; both nothing and something at the same time. Intangible and tangible. It blurred. He did not know where he was.

And a pulse, a beat, a throb; low, steady, consistent. It thrummed against his forehead, so loud to his ears, and distracting. He could not be distracted. He could not be anything at all right now. He did not want to be anything.

He gripped the sand beneath his fingers and felt it pack into a freezing ball. He tried to cling to the mindscape, because he was alone here, it was only him, and he needed to be alone, to be isolated. He was compromised, and he was losing control, and to be seen like this, to be observed in such a manner… it was unthinkable.

"List—to my hea—eat, that's it... slow an—just focus—you go…" The sound of the voice shook him, distracted him. It was difficult to return to any understanding or awareness. Spock wished to fade back to the sand, and he was not being allowed to do so.

Sink into it. Please—

"—Leave," Spock wheezed out. He needed to move, and he needed to sink into his desert and he needed to push it all down beneath the dunes, but the voice called him back, constantly undermining his ability to escape himself. Spock struggled to ignore it, but it shook the ground he lay on, and it shook the surface he was leaned against. He could not block it out entirely.

There was a rumbling chuckle that, even to his own ears, distracted though they were, did not sound humored. "Not happenin'—ock—ot sure—aware of it, but—re having a pa—attack."

"Not… under a-attack."

Surely the ship's Red Alert would have been sounded, were an attack to occur? The chances of one happening were slim; Seskilles VII was no threat—not to the ship, at least—and lacked any aerial or space advancement to speak of. Because the inhabitants had no need to move to travel; they only needed to connect, merge, feel. It was their happiness.

No. Shove it down. Focus. Meditate.

There was a pressure in his shoulder blades, and then a sharp pain digging into his chest. It hurt enough that he gasped in and coughed roughly. He could make out the sound around him now; a whirr of a hand scanner, a heartbeat against his temple. He could feel knuckles kneading into his sternum, painful and tender.

"No, not the ship," said the voice. "You."

Incomprehension. He did not understand.

Spock shuddered. Curled in on himself. Fought to ball up. The hands didn't let him. He fought to flee into his head, but the voice prevented that as well.

"That's it, you're alright," said the voice of the surface he rested against. Something began to pat him roughly on the back, pounding firmly but rhythmically. It felt good; felt grounding. "I've gotcha. Breathe, Spock. Keep breathing, in and out, just like that." Each instruction was punctuated by a firm press between his shoulder blades. "Keep effort-ing."

That made little sense to him. His mind fought to try to clarify the statement, to comprehend it, to make it fit. Spock shuddered, sucking in a breath. His chest spasmed—he couldn't…

"Wh—" He coughed. The hand applied pressure against his chest. It ached and drew his attention. "Wha-at?"

"That Vulcan one; you know the one. Effort, or whatever. You told me them yesterday, remember? Uh, Free-effort, sally-effort?"

"Esh-tor." His voice was little more than a hoarse croak of sound, barely audible. "V-vi-esh-tor." Spock stared at the overcast sky, even as he stared at the shine of a blue medical uniform. The two could not exist at once, yet they did. "Ss-… sa'le-esh-tor…"

"Yeah, that. Keep doing that," the voice said. Spock recognized it now; had recognized it the entire time, although he had not wished to do so. He certainly recognized it enough to remember he was angry with it, or should be angry with it. He assumed he would continue to be angry later, once he gathered enough energy to be so. At the present, he barely had enough energy to blink. "Your body's in overdrive right now, and you are having a panic attack. Let's work on bringing you back down, yeah? Work with me; we're gonna just gonna ensure for a little bit."

"Esh-tor."

"Sure, we're gonna do that too."

Irritation.

Sink beneath it.

There was darkness pressed against his eyes—the doctor's shirt, he knew—and a steady beat against his forehead to match the hand pounding against his back. He focused on it to the exclusion of all else. Ignored the way his own breath stuttered out in ragged gasps, or the way his body shook violently. Ignored the way his mouth still tasted of the stomach acid from his brief episode of vomiting, which no doubt now stained the entryway of his quarters. He instead focused on the rhythmic sound of a calm heart, of a firm hand, and the rise-and-fall of the chest his head was tilted into.

Sink into it. Sink beneath.

Breathe. Control. Focus.

Block everything else out; it did not exist. It was not important. Only this. Consistent, timed, calm. Match it. Sink into it. Use it to fade, and fade, and—

"Breathe with me. Feel this? Match it, Commander, c'mon."

"T-t—" Spock wheezed in one breath. "T-trying."

"Good. You're doing good, Spock. Just a little more."

He was able to gasp in another lungful of air, but choked on the exhale, coughing. The hand pounded him on the back. Spock sat like this another moment, focusing on his breathing, trying to match the rise and fall of the surface he rested against. It was difficult; the moment he began to make progress, he backslid once he became aware of it.

What must the doctor think of him, he wondered distantly. What must McCoy think of him for shouting as he had? For raising his voice and accusing him of intentional sabotage? For being damaging? McCoy had only been attempting to do his job; Spock understood this, accepted it, rationalized it. He saw the logic in such an action, for all that it felt like a betrayal to him. That he felt betrayed was a result of his own failing, not of McCoy's.

And what must the doctor think of him for this? This shameful, utterly disgraceful display? Such a visible lack of control, of emotion, of feeling… McCoy, he was sure, had no understanding of it. Had no true knowledge of just what this was to a Vulcan. And—Spock blanched—Vulcan would know soon as well. Because McCoy had contacted his home planet for help…

"Stop it," the doctor told him firmly. Strong hands jostled him; it jarred him out of thought and rattled him, despite having been an overall gentle motion. "Knock it off, I mean it."

Spock didn't understand what he was speaking of. "I am doing nnn-nothing."

"Oh, no? You're not working yourself up into a huge snit about this? You aren't spiraling about me being here?" At Spock's continued silence, there was a low snort. "Yeah, thought so. So knock it off."

"You do not understand." His voice was raspy and hoarse. He coughed once. Those familiar hands shifted him into a position where he wasn't at risk of inhaling the fabric of a medical uniform. "I cannot lose control. Doctor, you don't—you do not understand. You do not r-realize what… what this is…"

"Then explain it to me, Spock. Tell me what this is. Make me understand."

The curtains of his walls were askew, Spock noticed upon tilting his head to the side. The disorder of it perturbed him something terrible, and he wanted nothing more than to adjust them back to neatness. He'd always held such rigid discipline when it came to his belongings and his space; Spock wondered when it had slipped away from him. He also wondered at just how little energy he had to fix it. The thought of reaching out to straighten the curtain somehow felt like dying. Overwhelming, exhausting, and unmooring.

"You cannot." He wished he'd never spoken at all. He wished desperately to take it back. "Please do not ask me… I cannot—you will not understand."

He felt the doctor shake his head above him. Spock knew he should let go. He knew he should pull away, gather the shredded, tattered remains of his dignity, and attempt to salvage this this situation before it grew any more out of control. He rather thought he was too late, however. What was said, was said. And somehow, the thought of letting go of the doctor's shirt felt like dying too.

"You can't keep doing this, Spock," McCoy told him softly. "You might think you're being strong by trying to hide it, or by refusing to talk about it, but that's not strength, that's suffering. You're suffering like this, don't you realize that? And hell, you're right; I don't understand. I don't get it why you'd rather suffer than speak up. This right here? This can't be worth it, can it?"

Spock pressed his lips together, fighting the response he wanted to give. That he didn't believe he was being strong by avoiding it, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He thought it a great weakness that he couldn't bring himself to face it directly, as one of his rank and species should be able to. Easily spoken of, easily dismissed, easily suppressed.

He said nothing, and heard a soft sigh above him. McCoy's hand continued to pat him on the back, the beats of it keeping in time to his breathing. Five beats in, pause, five beats out, pause, repeat. Spock followed them as best he could, willing his lungs to heed his control. ("Your body hasn't forgotten how to breathe, you just need to slow your brain down a little bit so it can play catch up.")

It hurt and ached and he felt close to gagging from it, but, after another few moments, he began to manage more successful respiratory cycles than not. It was not perfect, nowhere close to it, but it was… something. Better, if in only a minute way. In any case, it made the suffocating sensation of his lungs ebb, and that was beneficial to improved thought.

It occurred to him that, outside of moments of externally-forced episodes of emotional lapsing, he'd never been so horrendously emotional in front of someone before. There had been moments, of course, where his usually unyielding grasp had slipped ("Don't you think you better check with me first?" "Captain! Jim!") but outside of those incredibly rare instances, he'd never shamed himself like this before an audience. Not since childhood, at least.

A day prior, he would have still felt humiliation, yes, but also relief in the knowledge that McCoy would not have shared it with others. He would have been reassured that the doctor—his friend—would have kept such an incident between them, with naught a word said beyond this room to anyone. Now, however…

Select medical staff would know. Vulcan would know.

…. Jim would know.

Spock closed his eyes, feeling such overwhelming, abject shame. The doctor was correct, as he unfortunately often was in matters of emotion. He was suffering. This was not acceptable, and this feeling inside of him, crushing and consuming and strangling, was not worth the silence any longer. He wanted to speak; he wanted to pour it all into the open and let it run where it would. Anything to make this stop…

But his voice would not emerge, and his throat tightened when he tried. And such shame he felt; shame for not speaking, shame for wanting to, shame for having something he needed to speak about, shame for being unable to overcome it himself, and shame for feeling shame at all.

McCoy's voice startled him when he finally spoke.

"So, you're a pretty crappy liar, Spock, you know that?"

His stomach sank. "I… apologize."

A snort jolted Spock where his forehead rested on McCoy's sternum. The hand patted him roughly, almost fondly. "You don't even know what you're apologizing for."

He didn't. There'd been so many lies said as of late, that he could not pinpoint which one, specifically, the doctor might be alluding to. The fact that he did not know immediately was abhorrent; it should never have reached the point where he lost track of them all entirely. Lies after lies…

"Breakfast, Mr. Spock. You said you had breakfast. You lied."

A modicum of relief. Of all the many dishonest statements he'd made, either verbally or by omission, that one carried less consequence. "I had breakfast with… w-with Lieutenant Uhura." Truth, albeit only in an abstract etymological sense. "You c-can… verify it w-with her. I did n-not lie."

"Yeah, you did. Wanna take a guess as to how I know that?" McCoy asked, in what Spock knew was clearly meant to be a rhetorical question. "'Cause your supposed breakfast is all over the carpet. So, unless your oatmeal and biscuit were both made entirely out of stomach acid, yeah, Spock, you lied to me."

"I do not w-wish to speak with you any longer."

McCoy chuckled at him. "That's fine. You shouldn't be speaking anyways. Just focus on your breathing; it's already sounding better."

Negative, that had not been what Spock had meant, and he was certain the doctor knew it. He frowned, irritated at the purposeful evasion of his request. It was frustrating that McCoy, who so often spoke with implied, unstated meanings to the vast majority of his words, refused to acknowledge when others did it back. Spock took a shuddering breath and tried again, rephrasing it accordingly this time. "I want you to leave."

"Not a chance in hell. This is helping you."

There was an immediate, sharp anger that flooded him like an awful wave, hot and boiling. He tried to temper it, attempted to push it away and shove it down, but all he could think was violation, and how he felt too seen, too vulnerable, too exposed. All thought of breathing, or efforts to breathe, had been washed away, leaving him pale and shaking.

"You… you believe this… that this-ss is helpful t-to me…?" Spock asked tightly. His breath stuttered out and his jaw grit tightly. He spoke through clenched teeth. "This… this ep-p-pisode doesn't… f-feel helpful."

McCoy shook his head, hand stilling briefly before resuming the even beats that had slowly begun to taper off the stronger Spock's respiratory patterns had become. Clearly, the doctor felt he had backslid. "Oh, no, not at all. No, this isn't helping anything. I didn't mean to suggest it was."

Spock unlocked his jaw to speak. McCoy beat him to it.

"Me, Spock. I'm the helpful thing!" McCoy told him in a rush. It was said with exasperation and frustration, which Spock knew was feigned, along with such fond warmth, which Spock knew was not. "See, unlike some people, I'm not a big liar. I said I'd help you through this and I'm gonna do just that. Whether you like it or not, Spock; whether I gotta drag you kicking and screaming and hollerin' all the way to the finish line, I'm gonna help you through this, understand?"

The anger drained just as quickly as it washed in, leaving him feeling exhausted from treading it. He nodded against the fabric of McCoy's blue medical shirt, feeling the steady, rhythmic pounding of the doctor's hand against his back. Five beats in, pause, five beats out, pause, repeat.

"No, nuh-uh." Spock was purposely jostled. "Answer me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He paused, jaw working to formulate his request. "However… I ask… I ask that you… please do not touch me," he finally croaked out, begging, even knowing that begging was useless. "I… c-cannot… I cannot explain…"

There was a low shhing sound, the even beats of the doctor's hand, the rustle of fabric. But the doctor did not let go of him as he'd requested. The rhythmic pats on his back concluded as McCoy wrapped his arms around him tightly, pulling him in even closer. Spock stiffened, tensing at the pressure. It was unfamiliar, unwelcome, and unwanted… but it was not uncomfortable. No… it felt soothing. It felt safe.

"Do not t-touch—"

"Alright, Spock," McCoy murmured to him softly. "It's alright."

But the doctor did not let go.

If anything, he only squeezed tighter.

---

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Lit'dhae — Cry out; utter aloud; often with surprise, horror, or joy; yell; howl.
B'lltarr — A porridge made from a mixture of ground nuts and herbs, resembling Earth's oatmeal. Humans find it too gritty and have described it as tasting like sawdust and burnt popcorn kernels. Typically served for breakfast.
Krei'la — Biscuit; a Vulcan breakfast food resembling biscuits; a flat bread-like food.
Theris-masu — Herbal tea.
Pon farr — Mating time. the entirety of the Vulcan mating phenomena; occurs generally once every seven years.
Kae'at k'lasa — Mind-rape; a crime.
Esh-tor — Breathe; to inhale and exhale air, especially when naturally and freely.
Vi-esh-tor — Inhale; to draw into the lungs by breathing; inspire; breathe in.
Sa'le-esh-tor — Exhale; to breathe out.