Chapter 2

Sick bay, main ward, 06.41 ship time

"But damn it, Spock – HOW?!"

Several minutes in the bathroom did the doctor some good, but sure didn't help with his hangover and not at all – with this new and unexpected shock of seeing Spock healthy and sharp-eyed again.

"A very nice allusion to treat me to, Doctor – I take it as a compliment", comes the smug reply.

Rolling his eyes in spite of himself (maybe he is still dreaming?), McCoy turns to Christine Chapel, his trusted and competent Head Nurse, for support.

"Sherlock Homes and Doctor Watson", she helpfully supplies with a smile. She is totally beaming today.

"That's NOT what I asked!" bellows the doctor, rolling his eyes high to the ceiling. (Maybe it is worse, maybe he _is_ hallucinating after all).

Clearly satisfied to have caused the doctor's dramatic wrath, and concealing unmistakable mischief in his slightly narrowed eyes (so alive now) under ironical eyebrows, finallythe insufferable Vulcan condescends to explain:

"The reason that I am now back to my full physical capacity is that my blindness was only temporary and my eyesight has restored back to normal in the course of my night's sleep".

"Yeah, I guessed as much". Spock, I am not an idiot, McCoy wants to add – but somehow the words didn't reach his lips. To be completely honest, right now he is feeling like one. "I want to know how".

"This is due to a certain trait of Vulcan physiology that we tend to ignore in our everyday life, but that was specifically developed in the course of our species' evolution with the purpose of protecting our eyesight from the exceedingly high levels of photonic radiation that our suns are capable of producing at certain hours of the day". The fact that Spock isn't even remotely out of breath after intoning this long sentence – that's also evidence that Spock is really fine now.

"Oh? And that thing is?"

The doctor's own breath right now is disturbingly shallow and fit only to produce short or clipped phrases. He must be going crazy from all the stress and all the events and surprises and guilt and exhaustion of this whole cursed mission… Even if he is genuinely relieved about Spock right now, it all doesn't add up. The doctor feels disturbingly close to fainting, which he totally cannot afford in front of Spock. Anyway, how dare this annoying Vulcan play him now?

"It is the rudimentary element in the anatomical construction of our eye, approximately comparable to the rudimentary element called "appendix" in the human system".

"What do you mean, Spock?!"

That did sound a little crazy. Spock doesn't have any appendices anywhere near his eyes, and not even anywhere in his guts, by the way. The doctor has not only scanned the green-blooded hobgoblin a hundred times by now, but has also operated on him a couple.

"This is a third eyelid comparable to what reptiles and birds have on Earth and on Vulcan alike. A valuable protection from dust and bright sunlight, but operated exclusively on a subconscious level. This is not something we can consciously control". A hint of regret flashes briefly in Spock's voice.

"Oh… Is that what it is? Well, together with your cold green blood and your love of heat, I guess this third eyelid can make a very good and convincing reptile out of you, Mr. Spock".

The doctor silently congratulates himself on finding his full breath again. And then McCoy finds himself taking a full lung-load of it, then letting it out in a shamelessly loud sigh of relief – and then sincerely and quite wordily congratulating said Mr. Spock on his unbelievable recovery and his equally unbelievable alien biology that somehow happened to save the day…

Not that the cold-blooded Vulcan gives much in return except a politely neutral "Thank you, Doctor".

"Are you finished with your breakfast yet?" Doctor McCoy asks Spock after that. "I want to perform some scans on you".

"Not yet, Doctor", Spock replies placidly and picks up a small table knife.

"I have already scanned Mr. Spock, Doctor", Nurse Chapel attempts to be helpful again.

"I want to scan him myself!" Then, not wanting to be rude to a lady, the doctor adds in a lower tone, "Not that I don't trust your evaluation, Miss Chapel, but right now I have a hard time trusting my own eyes".

"Actually, Doctor, having a breakfast yourself will do you good and might even clear your head", the impertinent Vulcan remarks, putting down his cutting tool neatly at the tray's edge.

"You wanna treat me to this, Mr. Spock?" the doctor pokes a dubious finger at the remaining overgrown electric blueberries and the now-sliced overgrown orange pear (the knife-attack has caused it to reveal its equally orange succulent flesh with a spongy middle part in an aristocratically complex shade of Marsala wine).

"Actually, to this", Spock picks up the cookie-plate, puts it on the opposite side of the table and makes an inviting gesture. "Kreila* is nutritious and completely agreeable with human digestion. I cannot say the latter about the pla-savas*. But I positively insist that you try what you might call the Vulcan bread".

The doctor begins to protest that he is not at all hungry, but Spock is already up on his feet and fetching a spare chair from another table.

"I'll make you some coffee, Doctor McCoy", says Christine Chapel and resolutely proceeds to the food replicator. With her long legs, it takes her only a couple of seconds to cross the room. She definitely keeps conspiring with Spock against the doctor this morning. So all McCoy can do is nod reluctantly and slump down on the offered chair, gingerly and suspiciously poking at the Vulcan cookies like they could bite him.

"Alright, let's celebrate it", sighs the doctor. And he raises a toast with his newly-arrived mug of coffee. "I drink to your health, Mr. Spock".

The ship corridors and the door to Commander Spock's quarters, 07. 33 - 07.42 ship time

The doctor gave another sideways glance to Spock, trying his best to keep up the pace. The tall Vulcan was gliding silently and fluidly through the corridors in his long pale grayish-blue sickbay bathrobe and slippers like nobody's business, ignoring the startled faces of (thankfully few) passing crewmen and offering them nothing but a usual polite greeting in return.

Were it night and a half-lit corridor, Spock's lanky silent shrouded figure would have had good chances to appear as a ghost to some of the more impressionable individuals. Or maybe a vampire, it depended on individual preferences. No wonder, with that pale greenish-tinted and funereally serious face above the ashen-colored shroud, and with those burning hell-coals of the eyes, and with those devilish pointed ears... McCoy briefly wondered if there were ghost stories or vampire stories in ancient Vulcan mythology. Not that the green hobgoblin who haunted their ship Enterprise would ever tell one at a party, of course… (Damn, and what if he had died from the neural damage? Would Spock's ghost haunt the ship forever?!)

Spock's bedroom, by the way, struck the old country doctor as perfectly passable scenery for some gothic vampire movie, those few times he was allowed into quarters and could peek into the private half. Those usually dim lights, that creepy stone gargoyle (or whatever ancient Vulcan monster that was); those burning candles, those outlandish trinkets on the shelf and those ancient bronze blades on those blood-red curtains, God help us… A perfectly logical unemotional scientist's bedroom interior - in a pig's eye! At least Spock was reflected in mirrors alright, and that was somehow reassuring. Dammit, Spock always looked spooky enough in the night corridors even in just his uniform, with his habit of noiselessly stepping out of the shadows in the way of some unfortunate crewman. (Talking of unhealthy habits, huh... And he hardly ever sleeps too!). Luckily the crew's Starfleet psychological training helped them to survive this walking night terror without heart attacks. The doctor was not so sure about their other bodily functions though.

Now, anyway, it was morning and close to the shift-changing time, and nobody would ever mistake the doctor for a ghost, groomed or disheveled, as he walked beside their very own spooky Vulcan. And Vulcans had a habit of wearing clothes not unlike bathrobes in their daily life anyway, McCoy knew as much. So Spock likely was used to walk around dressed in such a fashion. Or, more likely, Spock just didn't care.

"If you do not mind a short wait in the corridor while I change into my uniform, Doctor, I shall be ready in five minutes".

"What haven't I seen there, including your messed-up Vulcan guts?!" the doctor blurted out indignantly… well, wanted to blurt out. But snarky remarks kept losing their way this morning and continuously failing to reach his mouth. The coffee and cookies… uh, kreila… did alleviate his mood and nausea a little (those Vulcan cookies were spicy as hell, and took ages to chew, and that sure did help him to wake up), but not enough to get well. And the hypo spray he had discreetly pushed into his own neck before leaving sickbay with Spock ("Doctor, I assure you I can find the way to my quarters!")… Well, that stuff had yet to start working its magic properly. Until then… The doctor closed his mouth without any word and only nodded wearily, with a slight wave of his hand. Five minutes it is then, he could use a few minutes alone to gather his thoughts. Probably he should let Spock have some space for a few minutes, too.

The doctor slumped against the bulkhead, ignoring the Vulcan's inquiring glance, and nodded again for good measure. Thankfully, instead of asking the doctor about his unusual quietness, Spock simply disappeared behind the door. "Why'd he care, really?" grumbled some part of McCoy's mind… but the ruins of his dignity were strewn all along his neural pathways today, and so this remark also failed to reach his mouth.

The doctor closed his eyes, oblivious of any possible passing crewmen's reaction to such a strange wall decoration. Wallflower, ha… That's what you've always been, Leonard McCoy, at any social gatherings, medical school and Starfleet Academy both. An awkward outsider, a barely-seen bystander, a third wheel… Even when you met your future wife… Even when you were married to her…

"Don't go there now, you idiot!" said the same sober inner voice, the small part of him that still clung to dignity. "Hell of a timing, too!" it added, to drive the point home. "Oh great", replied the other, now-dominating, bitter, confused and self-loathing part of Leonard McCoy, "if I get locked up for my malpractice, at least I'll have someone sensible to talk to. Or rather, when the trial ends, I'll be simply locked up in a nuthouse, where no one will even be bothered if I talk to myself…"

Because the current person that was called Leonard McCoy was currently sure of only one thing – that he was finally succumbing to stress and going insane.

*Kreila - traditional Vulcan bread in the form of bisquits.

*pla-savas – sweet blue fruit native to Vulcan.