Chapter 7

Leonard H. McCoy, MD's quarters, close to midnight

"The hell again?.." The doctor barely raises his head from his folded arms on the desk.

No answer, the door just chimes again. And again. And again. A piercing sound for his aching head. Jim tried to intrude several hours ago, but McCoy kicked him out furiously. He still had energy for that then, now he hasn't. And of course, as McCoy makes not so much as a voice command, not to mention a move, to open the door – it goes ahead and opens on itself. So much for the privacy settings on this blasted ship.

"Jim, leave me alo…" But that's not Jim.

That's someone much taller and darker, in a blue uniform. Freezing in the entranceway and slowly turning his head, scanning the room. Seeing everything, all the god-awful mess, even in the faint light of a single desk lamp. Fascinating, dammit! The doctor gets an eerie feeling that he and Spock have just thought the same thought at the same time, and huffs joylessly. Hell of a time to suddenly develop a telepathic gift! Unless, of course, it is yet another miracle gift from Saint Spock himself. But the doctor is far too tired and intoxicated for that kind of stuff right now. Just to think of him and Spock sharing the same thoughts – ridiculous…

"Anyway, is the elf gonna stand there all night or is he gonna at least say something?! He has already overridden the privacy lock, so what's the problem now?"

The doctor sighs. He is not yet so senselessly drunk as to not be aware that the whole sight of the room and of himself must look quite problematic to any visitor right now. And even more so to a sober and neat Vulcan. And McCoy's neural pathways, strewn with the debris of his dignity, are now also flooded with waves of alcohol – so the doctor struggles with his voice before he manages to say aloud:

"Came for revenge at last, Mr. Spock? No objection. Guilty as charged. Care for a drink or proceed to kill me right away?"

The Vulcan blinks out of his stupor, frowns and steps forward hastily, letting the sliding door isolate them both from any possible eyes or ears in the corridor.

"Actually, I have come to check on the state of your health, Doctor".

"Oh, yeah?" McCoy actually laughs this time. "And since when d'you do that? Who's the doctor here, dammit?"

"It is obviously you, Doctor McCoy. But I am getting an impression that you do not want to be one anymore".

With these words, Spock starts to prowl carefully, like a cat, around the room, taking a closer look at it and carefully minding the scattered clothes, discs and bottles on the floor. Some of them are broken. The frown on the Vulcan's stern face deepens. He can see in the dark pretty well, the doctor knows it from Spock's (very sketchy, thanks to the elf's stubborn elusiveness) health file. And he can see everything pretty well now… No thanks to any of the ship's CMO's skills or decisions.

"Nice, Spock… Reading minds in this late hour? I'd prefer you to have a drink… Celebrate your victory and my defeat".

Spock turns his head and looks so naively clueless with his highly raised eyebrows and widened eyes that McCoy laughs again – but the next moment all humor, and air, is gone from him. He slumps wearily back in his chair:

"Stay away from my mind, Spock… It's a nasty place". Very quietly, but of course the elf can hear it.

And when Spock finds no answer to that either, except to pull his frown on again, McCoy grumbles:

"Sit down, will you? You're making my neck hurt and I… I still owe you something".

"There is nothing…" Spock begins, still searching the room, and is interrupted by the room inhabitant's impatient shouting:

"Just sit, man, you're making me sick! I can't kick you out – not now – but stop sneaking around, damn you!"

Spock stops in his tracks and turns around with a definitely menacing air - he is totally not pleased with the intonation, the implied threat and the disrespectful choice of the words. Or, to put it in simple human terms, he is angry. The doctor cringes when he hears a jarring crrrrunch of glass under a deliberately lowered and heavily turned boot heel.

There goes another bottle… Come on, Spock, you'd rather wreck the room than say what's really on your mind? Well then, I feel you, I'm no better these days… And now I've finally succeeded in making you angry, but have no strength left to face it…

They are both not men of violence, they are supposed to follow the way of compassion – each in his own way. So what is this damn infuriating effect they often have on each other? Even if Spock always tries to stoically conceal what the doctor always lets out freely…

Two men – human and hybrid - stare at each other through the palpable tension in the room, until McCoy slightly raises his right eyebrow and lip corner in a silent "Please?"

This Spock complies with, after raising an angry eyebrow in what may be translated into plain human language as a silent "What the hell is all this about?"

Spock says nothing aloud though and, three long strides later, scoops up a fallen chair and takes a seat across the doctor in the usual position of concentration – elbows on the desk, fingertips joined in front of his face. His dark eyes focus on the doctor intensely, eyebrows knit together. Silence ensues.

"And now he's gonna stare me down and burn a hole in me! Who needs phasers, really?" the doctor sighs exasperatedly and looks away. And sighs again, now deeper, gathering himself together for what he is about to say. His voice is now shaky and hesitant:

"Spock… you can say anything on the trial, anything. I'll agree with it all. I'll add a lot to it too, 'cause this was… S-Spock, I'm so sorry… More than you can ever imagine. We've had our disagreements, but this whole situation, that experiment… You have every right to hate me, you know?"

"I do not hate you, Doctor, I am incapable of that emotion".

"Uh-huh, right. As I've said, anything on the trial. And then I'll be out of your hair for good. But today, Spock – today just let me have some peace…"

"That. Exactly. Was my intention. To ensure that you have peace".

Sentences chopped for emphasis, Kirk-style? Something new, Spock, you never cease to amaze me… The doctor doesn't get a chance to voice that comment.

"And there shall be NO TRIAL!" The sudden fierce intensity in Spock's voice renders the doctor speechless. "As long as I am First Officer on this ship!".

Just like that.

Leonard H. McCoy, MD's quarters, somewhere after midnight

"Now you are making me eat? It's always the other way round! Since when are you making me eat?"

"Since this morning, Doctor".

Fair enough. The cold-blooded elf doesn't even sound smug – he is merely stating a fact. Such a bore… Then the memories flood again, unasked for: Spock's various face expressions and voice intonations of the past few days flash before McCoy's eyes like a slide show, and McCoy shudders. No, you better be a bore, damn you. Better be a healthy smug Vulcan bore than all that…

Am I even ready for the emotions I'm constantly trying to pull out of him? For all this intensity? This… dark side? Is it even healthy for him? These past few days it was definitely not. For me neither.

Spock uses this moment of the doctor's weakness to act, even if he is not sure what exactly it is the doctor is thinking right now. He steps to the desk with a tray in his arms and elbows a half-empty bottle of bourbon aside – it rolls onto the carpet, thankfully not breaking. This quarters' level of pollution is high enough already. Then Spock carefully settles the tray on the table. The tray he has just retrieved from the food replicator after playing a complex inaudible tune on the keys. The smell of the food is not exactly unpleasant to Spock – even though it is a non-vegetarian dish, chicken-and-noodle soup with chunks of meat floating in it. And a large cup of tea, plain black Earth tea will do. And a rectangular piece of an equally foreign Earth food called "chocolate". His mother enjoyed it sometimes, but his father strictly forbade her to give even a little to Spock, and to Spock – to take even a little. His father probably had his reasons. Anyway, Spock is well enough versed in Earth customs by now to know that both foods on the tray often qualify as "comfort food" and are a welcome nutrition for sick or distressed humans.

The hour is late, but the doctor definitely needs some comfort food. He is looking very sick and distressed. It also seems more productive to Spock to use comfort food than to try to comfort the doctor with words. Spock is not very well versed in comforting words that can satisfy humans. So, comfort food for sick and distressed humans seems a logical choice. Spock briefly counts the odds as to whether this particular annoying human is going to let the first word manifest yet another of its meanings (as in "being sick"). Then he strategically plans the shortest route to the bathroom and the time it may take to haul the doctor there. He would rather prefer it not to happen though.

"As a doctor, you must know that drinking large amounts of alcohol without any food tends to cause headaches and adverse stomach reactions, as well as severely misbalances your blood pressure", he admonishes the doctor sternly, taking a seat at the other side of the desk again. "This food will make you feel better", he adds in a softer tone.

McCoy just snorts and reaches straight for the chocolate bar – only to have it quickly snatched away by a long Vulcan hand.

"No, Doctor, you must eat the soup first. Please".

McCoy turns an alarming shade of red (Spock was right about the blood pressure!) and tries to hide his embarrassment in the bowl of soup. Being caught like a child stealing candy from the table doesn't help to restore his dignity at all. Spock doesn't need to know about it though, about all that "shattered debris of dignity along the neural pathways" stuff. The sole fact that Spock somehow knows about his yet another guilty pleasure – chocolate – is already enough to make McCoy blush.

Leonard H. McCoy, MD's quarters, well after midnight

The question with the official papers is now settled. The captain is promptly notified in a message, typed by Spock on the doctor's PADD. McCoy is not resigning anymore. He will not upset Jim any more than he has already. And there shall be NO TRIAL, to quote Spock. Well, if that's an order, Commander… These two reckless idiots are now unanimously breaking the Starfleet rules for McCoy – and more than that… So how can the doctor leave them? Someone's got to keep an eye on them… Alright, he'll stay. And will try his damn best not to repeat his mistakes.

At least he'll try when he is fit enough to resume his job as Chief Medical Officer. Spock assures him that the captain has already given him three days off. Three days for McCoy, but not a day off for Spock?! Spock assures him that he does not require such a long rest because his Vulcan physiology and mental powers are superior to humans. "Okaaay… we'll see about it tomorrow. The last word is still with The Doctor!"

But there is one more thing that is not exactly settled. And the doctor still doesn't know how to talk about it. This is the hardest thing to talk about. Even now, being drunk and completely off-guard, McCoy can't bring himself to ask that question. He is not sure Spock will even understand. Also he is totally not sure of his own ability to talk coherently about anything anymore tonight. Meanwhile, the Vulcan is saying something…

"Doctor, your uncontrolled consumption of alcohol will finally be your undoing and the reason of your untimely demise".

"Not your business, Mr. Spock".

"As the First Officer of this ship, it unfortunately is".

"Oh yeah, like you care… Well then, when I kick the bucket, Christine will take over. Better for all of us, ain't it?"

"You will not kick anything anymore tonight, Doctor. You will go to bed now".

McCoy puffs out an exasperated blast of air – but deep down he agrees. Spock is unfortunately right in his first statement, the second and the third. And McCoy is by now far beyond tired… Well then, enough of doom and gloom, drinking and talking for one night. He couldn't even finish his soup and chocolate bar, so he might as well leave some delicate ethical matters unaddressed. We'll see…

McCoy rises slowly and heavily from his desk and makes a step for the bed – well, tries to. Losing his balance, the doctor gropes unsuccessfully for something to break his fall – and immediately a pair of thin but steel-strong hands does just that. Catching the doctor's limp body under the arms, the Vulcan straightens him as easily as a parent would a child that is only learning to walk. "So much for the dignity, Doctor", sneers the inner voice. The doctor purposely avoids looking at Spock's face. Not that he is able to focus in his current state anyway. Or feel his legs. Spock has to support the doctor's full weight. Not that he even bats an eyebrow at that.

Then the Vulcan performs something very much like an elaborate aikido move – and the doctor finds his left arm slung across the Vulcan's shoulders and his right side in a firm encircling hold. "Sarlah etek, sha'hassu...* Step by step, proceed carefully", comes a surprisingly gentle order which the doctor is unable to follow anyway. The neural paths that operate his legs have shut down too. So Spock simply lifts him up a few inches from the floor while in the same position and carries him several yards to the bed, ignoring his incoherent babble of protest. The arm that squeezes the doctor's ribs doesn't allow much air for protest anyway.

Lowering the doctor on the mattress as carefully as a china vase, Spock moves out of his line of vision and starts to unzip and pull off McCoy's boots. Then he hefts the doctor's limp legs up, aligning him properly on the bed.

"Feels good to manhandle me like that, huh?" McCoy asks the ceiling. He can hardly hear himself.

"Don't be ridiculous, Doctor", comes a rather amused reply from the side and McCoy wonders if there is an eye roll to go with it. His head has become too heavy to turn and look. But there is still that unspoken thought gnawing at him and he can't sleep if he doesn't get at least a hint now, neural paths be damned. He needs to make it clear. If he's going to stay on this ship, he needs to know.

Shit, Leonard… Spock was able to hold his own against the highest freaking level of pain you've ever seen a bio-bed's indicators show! And you can't hold your own against yourself and a load of bourbon! It was supposed to freaking ease your pain… but failed as usual.

The self-directed anger gives McCoy some strength to turn his head and start his hesitant sentence… but Spock is not there. Oh great! Fasci-freaking-nating! Leaving just like that, without a sound. So like him, the cold-blooded bastard! What does he care?

"At least he didn't leave you on the floor", objects his last sliver of common sense. And then he hears some strange sounds.

The Vulcan is now in the office half of the quarters, gathering the bottles and glass shards from the floor, along with broken discs and other discarded stuff – the doctor's unsuccessful attempt at starting packing. Clinking sounds, rustling sounds, sounds of objects being put on surfaces, sounds of drawers drawn and doors opened… but no sounds of footsteps. Spock is moving around the dim sitting room just as noiselessly as when he has left the bedside a minute ago. Like a ghost.

"Spock!" McCoy calls and winces at how his feeble attempt at shouting reverberates inside his head. Something that must be a garbage bag hits the floor and Spock emerges from the shadows at once, deep frown on his face.

"Is something wrong, Doctor?"

"Yes, dammit! We forgot one thing… " McCoy tries to prop himself on an elbow to face Spock, but a firm hand gently pushes him back.

"My apologies, Doctor, I shall rectify it at once. You don't have to get up". With that, Spock promptly steps to the wardrobe and pulls out two blankets.

McCoy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. I didn't demand bedside manner from you, hobgoblin… I just wanted to say… What did I want to say?

Right now careful hands are silently wrapping blankets around him. McCoy catches a wrist in his (very unsteady) grip and shouts with whatever coherence he has left:

"I'm serious! You hear me?! Don't you get it?! This will never happen again!"

Of course, it comes out as a hoarse and slurred whisper. Delirious. Pathetic. And of course (of course!) the stubborn elusive Vulcan instinctively pulls his hand from the doctor's shaky grip and says nothing. Dammit… Groaning with shame and frustration, McCoy curls up under the blankets, facing the wall and letting out a quiet and almost pleading:

"Go away, Spock…"

Cool fingers press lightly on the doctor's one still exposed temple and… do something to his headache and his frustration both. Taking them away, just like that. McCoy has no strength anymore to feel surprised. Frankly, he has no strength anymore to feel anything at all… except the profound, overwhelming fatigue and sleepiness. His eyes have already refused to stay open, but his ears can still hear the familiar voice behind him. An uncannily warm voice now – well, if only McCoy could feel surprised…

"There is no need to worry, Doctor McCoy. We are still… on good terms".

And just like that, the Vulcan is noiselessly gone from the room, putting out the small desk-light as he disappears.

"Yes, Spock…" the doctor whispers inaudibly as he finally slides into a blissful oblivion and leaves this day behind. "I'm glad we still are".

Put to rest

What you thought of me,

While I clean this slate

With the hands of uncertainty.

So let mercy come

And wash away

What I've done!

(Linkin Park "What I've Done")

.

*Sarlah etek, sha'hassu... – literally "Here we go, my doctor" in Vulcan.