Chapter 26. McCoy's Logic.
McCoy surprises Spock by discharging him from sickbay later that week. Not one to argue with the option of returning to his quarters and avoiding the uncomfortable scrutiny of the medical personnel, Spock is back in uniform and out the door in no time at all.
He realises as he makes his way down the corridor outside sickbay that this is the first time he has really walked anywhere since he lost consciousness in the transporter room.
Unfortunately, it shows. He finds himself walking slowly, almost shuffling, feeling uncomfortably lightheaded from the unaccustomed activity.
It is almost a relief when McCoy joins him a moment later, scowling. "I didn't mean 'leave immediately by yourself'," he gripes.
"You did not say otherwise."
"I did, you just weren't there to hear it. If I'd known you could move so fast after what happened, I would have stayed in the room while you got into uniform, dignity be damned."
Spock finds himself having to pause and get his breath back, tries to make it look like he is drawing himself up indignantly instead. He feels like he is convalescing after a long illness.
McCoy sighs and grabs his arm when he wavers. "That's what happens when you push yourself past your limit," he mutters, so no one else in the corridor can hear. "When the adrenaline wears off, you realise how weak you really are."
Spock does not dare reply.
Fortunately, they reach his quarters without incident, though Spock is certain that the ship's rumour mill will be working in overdrive by the time the hour is out.
By mutual consent, they make their way over to Spock's bed, where he lies down gratefully.
"Well, at least you aren't insisting you can rest at your desk," McCoy mutters gruffly.
"That would be rather redundant, given we are en route for repairs and no emergency is imminent."
McCoy looks at him suspiciously. "Just don't get any ideas when I leave."
Spock raises an eyebrow.
"Don't give me that innocent routine – I know you were humouring me before we found Jim. Why do you think I kept coming back?"
That was a fair observation.
"Right, some ground rules. You don't follow them, I'm hauling your Vulcan ass straight back to sickbay, got it?"
"I would expect no less."
"Good. Right, I don't want you doing anything strenuous – or much of anything at all, really – for a good two days. Exhaustion like that doesn't just vanish overnight, and you still need rest. And no excuses about going stir crazy, either – you just meditate or read or play that weird Vulcan harp thing. Restful activities."
"Lute."
"What?"
"It is a lute."
"I'm delighted for it. Rule number two. I'm confident that you've been making progress in sickbay and that your condition has stabilised. I know you stubborn types tend to prefer to recover in your quarters, which is why I've discharged you early, but if I see any signs of non-cooperation-"
"You will transport my Vulcan posterior to sickbay."
McCoy snorts. "Exactly. Now that means eating regular meals and making some sort of progress. I'm not going to impose any goals or meal plan or type of food – I just want to see some consistent progress."
"Understood."
"Good."
"And once I have rested for two days?"
"We'll see what your progress is like. Jim's not expecting you back on duty any time soon, but I might be nice and upgrade your list of prescribed activities."
"Most kind."
McCoy huffs. "Ingrate. Right, enough jawing. Get some rest. I'll be in sickbay if you need anything."
"I shall endeavour not to."
McCoy rolls his eyes but does not comment, and Spock finds himself alone in his quarters for the first time in days.
Deciding that following McCoy's instructions is the best path towards being declared fit for duty again, he reluctantly goes to sleep.
oOo
He awakens a few hours later, thirsty, and contemplates the replicator on the other side of the room for a few moments before reluctantly clambering out of bed.
The room tilts, and he berates himself for standing too quickly. Fortunately, however, remaining perfectly still seems to help, and he soon feels able to walk over to the replicator.
He programmes in the code for water and is about to walk over to his desk to drink it when he stops, second-guessing himself.
He does not feel hungry, yet his limbs are curiously weak. He knows, logically, that he feels no hunger because he has been denying the impulse for so long, but the disordered part of him is still far too strong, his emotional control still limited.
He walks over to his desk, eases himself into his chair, sips at his drink. As always, the water seems to settle in his stomach like a piece of lead, making him feel disconcertingly full.
Curiously, he feels both panic and satisfaction as a result. Panic because of the sensation of feeling full, satisfaction that this means he is too full to eat. Panic also that he is slipping… He searches within himself for the voice of reason, the steady and dependable logic, and finds it elusive.
This is wrong. He feels wrong. He knows this is wrong.
Yet he is curiously reluctant to do anything about it.
Perhaps if he distracts himself for a while…
He reaches out a hand to turn his monitor on, intending to find some light reading to occupy his mind and distract him from the thoughts, when he notices his hand is shaking slightly.
The walk from sickbay must have fatigued him more than he realised. McCoy is correct in his assessment that he needs rest…
…He is also correct in his assessment that he needs sustenance.
Spock breathes in, breathes out. He can no longer trust his own logic, it seems. He wonders if the idea of distracting himself from the harmful thoughts with light reading is actually a way of giving in to the harmful thoughts.
How long would he sit here, reading, telling himself that in five minutes he will be alright, that the thoughts will be gone? That he will eat once the feeling has passed?
The thoughts are never gone. The thoughts are as much a part of him as logic.
The same logic that is uncertain, drowned out by disorder.
His lips tighten with distaste. When did he reach a point where he has no choice but to trust McCoy's logic over his own? This is unacceptable.
He must do something to rectify this.
Since he is currently still too weak to do anything else, Spock decides to do the one thing he can think of.
Resigned, he stands up carefully and walks over to the replicator. The thought of yet more plomeek soup turns his stomach, so instead he enters the code for his mother's favourite: leek and potato.
Despite his earlier reservations caused by drinking the water, he manages a third of the bowl.
oOo
Such is his routine for what seems like an interminable length of time. He sleeps, he reads, he plays the Vulcan lute.
He persuades himself to eat. Then he persuades himself to eat again.
The food seems to revive him, somewhat, and he soon finds he has the strength to achieve a light meditation – his first attempt in far too long. In fact, he cannot remember the last time.
He is displeased by this, displeased by his body's weakness, his uncertain logic, his lack of control…
Overall, Spock is feeling distinctly unimpressed with himself, but McCoy seems satisfied. As promised, he does indeed 'upgrade his list of prescribed activities' to include chess with Jim.
Spock finds that this helps to distract him from his condition, and he suspects (though he cannot feel, as he has now recovered his shields) that it helps Jim as well. He would not be surprised, in fact, if this is McCoy's unconventional way of administering group therapy, although the doctor himself never attends.
Whatever the reason, it is no matter. Spock is not about to complain or question it, not when it is another step towards normality for them both.
McCoy's conventional therapy sessions continue, of course. Spock finds they fill him with a dependable sense of dread, feels himself growing increasingly frustrated with the amount of emotional discussion it involves, finds himself increasingly berating himself for being un-Vulcan…
McCoy, of course, picks up on this. Confronts it directly, tries to persuade him with the very same logic that Spock used to decide on the treatment initially…
Spock believes McCoy mostly succeeds. There is, of course, a niggling doubt, but he finds light meditation sufficient to push that to the back of his mind. He is accustomed to such doubts.
Pleased by his progress, McCoy declares that it might be a good time to make an appearance among the crew. Spock is forced to agree – Jim has told him of some of the rumours (one of them, incredibly, being that he is secretly dead) and he finds he cannot let them continue.
And so, precisely 14.5 days after he was admitted to sickbay, he finds himself in the mess hall, queuing for lunch with McCoy.
He is not sure what he expected. It is, after all, simply a room outfitted with replicators. Yet somehow it has assumed such a looming presence in his mind that he had half expected to walk into a disaster.
He can observe that the atmosphere is calm, relaxed – he, however, feels the complete opposite. Thankful that his shields and emotional control are now firmly back in place, Spock forces himself to breathe, in, out, in, out, in, out…
"Spock?"
McCoy is speaking.
Spock does not spare the energy to speak, instead shoots McCoy an inquiring glance.
In, out, in, out, in, out, in, out…
"Is this too soon?"
In, out, in, out…
He finds control beginning to reassert itself, at least on the surface. He must do this. It is too late to decide against it now – such an action would only fuel further rumours.
"I am quite alright, Doctor."
McCoy, thankfully, does not press the issue.
They collect their food and head towards their customary table near the back of the room. Spock is somewhat uncertain to see that Mr Scott and Lieutenant Uhura are already sitting there: they look up as he and McCoy approach…
Both of them smile, a hint of relief in their eyes. Spock steels himself for what he knows is coming next.
"Oh, it's good to see you, Mr Spock!" Uhura says, practically beaming.
"Aye. I was beginning to believe the rumours myself."
"Surely you did not believe that I was deceased, Mr Scott?"
"Och, ye never know."
Uhura slaps Scott's arm lightly. "Behave! You're looking much better, Mr Spock – how do you feel?"
"Markedly improved."
It is the truth, yet hearing someone else say it shakes him. 'Much better'? Does he not look ill? Does he still look thin? Does this mean these measures, this treatment, are all invalid? Has his pain and weakness been for nothing?
"…just not the same without you, sir."
"Aye, I could use your eyes in Engineering," Scott agrees. "Half my lads can't tell an ion wrench from their own left foot!"
"Oh, he's not going back on duty yet," McCoy cuts in smoothly. "Just letting him out of his quarters before he drives us both insane."
Does he… need this? He looks 'much better'…
While Uhura and Scott laugh, McCoy shoots him an encouraging look. Spock pushes the emotions back down – he will analyse them later, at a more opportune time.
He picks up his spoon, steeling himself to eat in public, and notices as he does so that McCoy has chosen a chicken salad for himself. Quite a discrepancy from his usual choice, but something he has been known to consume before when not particularly hungry.
Spock finds that he is oddly touched by the gesture.
In, out, in, out…
He finds himself timing the movements with his breath. Puts the spoon in, takes it out… a slight intake of breath, imperceptible to those around him, and he swallows, feels the hot soup sliding down his throat.
His throat closes around it; he forces himself to relax. Forces himself to listen to the conversation of the people around him. Reminds himself that soup is perfectly acceptable, that soup is safe to consume…
He relaxes, begins to focus on the taste, begins to pay more attention to what his companions are saying…
He had forgotten that the replicator in the mess hall has this spice ratio for plomeek soup, reminds himself that he had planned on fixing it as he had the one in his quarters.
He finds it strangely reassuring, however. Perhaps this is what his mother means when she says something 'tastes like home'.
"Any news on what our next mission will be?" Scott is asking.
McCoy snorts. "Something more relaxing, I hope. Never thought I'd say this, but right now I would actually quite enjoy ferrying diplomats around."
"You won't be saying that when you have to put on that dress uniform," Uhura teases.
"Spock!"
He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth, and sees Jim standing in front of him, beaming. Warily, he lowers his spoon back to his bowl.
"You're eating!"
Conversation at their table halts awkwardly, and Spock finds himself wondering who else has heard. Jim's voice always carries so far…
The remnants of the soup taste like ash in his mouth, now. He is vaguely aware of McCoy deliberately continuing the conversation with Scott and Uhura, the pause barely noticeable. He feels as though everyone is watching, though he is aware in reality that no one is paying any attention.
He forces himself to react normally. "Obviously," he replies dryly, raising an eyebrow.
Jim sits down next to him, his own tray clattering onto the table. He has a chicken sandwich, black coffee, and a side dish with a buttered roll on it.
Spock is at a loss as to why he is so preoccupied with the food choices of others.
Jim suddenly looks concerned. "Did you forget your bread? Here, have mine."
He plonks the bread roll in front of Spock unceremoniously.
"…see you later, Mr Spock," he can vaguely hear Uhura saying.
Spock looks up to see Uhura and Scott standing with trays in hand, dishes empty. "Yes," he replies absently, "of course."
Fortunately, Scott and Uhura do not notice his distraction.
As soon as they are out of hearing range, McCoy turns to Jim. "Jim, what are you-"
Spock interrupts him, knowing full well how loud McCoy can also be. "Doctor, it is quite alright."
He turns his attention back to his soup, picks up his spoon. He can feel both men watching him, wonders if the rest of the room is watching him too. He dismisses the thought – the mess hall is busy. Everyone is engaged in their own conversations.
He feels as though the bread roll has assumed sentience and is staring at him accusingly.
He sips his soup, wonders why Jim is not engaging in McCoy's conversation…
He looks up, finds Jim watching him, brow furrowed in concern, jaw clenched tightly, his own meal lying forgotten on his tray. McCoy has noticed too; his conversation is forced.
Keeping his face carefully expressionless, Spock reaches out and takes the bread, inspects it for a moment. Tears off a small piece, pops it into his mouth before he can think better of it. McCoy glances at him, does not comment, but Spock believes he is unimpressed.
He forces himself to swallow the bread… He has not eaten it in so long…
No, not bread, it's not safe, it'll make you gain weight…
Silences the thought. Later. He will think of this later.
One more piece of bread. Another.
The intense stomach cramps and nausea he experiences later are a small price to pay for Jim's small smile.