Chapter Text
“Did you…”
“Yes,” M’Benga said, continuing to monitor Leonard’s vitals as he had been. “Commander, I understand that you’re worried, but Dr. McCoy insisted upon a very specific set of protocol if something were to happen. If you continue to question it, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Spock did not clench his teeth. He did not make fists. There was no indication that he had heard other than the silence that blanketed the room. Leonard was lying there, face pale, his breath coming in short spurts. The triangles on the panel above his head dipped dangerously. Spock loathed that he did not have the proper medical qualifications to assist in a time like this.
There was a piece of slime still clumped to McCoy’s finger. M’Benga had insisted that they not remove it in case it enacted a defense mechanism. He could appreciate the logic, but that made it no easier to watch.
Spock retreated. It was not easy to tear himself from the emotions that tested his control, but he managed to divest his mind of them just in time to see a thin cloth curtain closing around the biobed, isolating his friend from the rest of the ship. McCoy was never behind that curtain. He had been, one time or another, as had Jim, but never McCoy, not in this capacity. An odd feeling that he had not previously examined settled itself in the pit of his stomach.
Leonard was dying, he realized, and M’Benga didn’t want him to see it out of some misplaced attempt at kindness.
“Spock,” said nurse Chapel, looking at him with her brows furrowed.
He wondered if she was there to tell him to leave, if she had the conviction to do so. She was McCoy’s favorite. He had no doubt that she could do anything that was necessary when the time came, regardless of her past affection for him.
“Yes, Nurse?”
“M’Benga has things quite well covered in there. Is there something I can get you from Doctor McCoy’s lab that will help you in your,” she made a vague motion in the direction of the station where Leonard kept his chemistry set, “attempts?”
“No, thank you. I will be returning to the labs. If his status changes, will you inform me?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, pity in her eyes. It made him feel small.
Work was quiet. Too quiet. The ensigns assisting him kept sending him scared little glances as if he was about to burst at any second. There was no threat of him losing control over his emotions, and even if there was, nothing would happen that would endanger them in any way. It was illogical and cut back on their efficiency.
Spock prepared another slide, this one a sample of the doctor’s blood. If he were another man, it might have provoked an emotional response. He was not.
“Here it is, sir.”
“Thank you, Ensign.” Without removing his eyes from the microscope lens, he put his hand behind his back and felt the light panel of glass rest on the pad of his fingers. He slipped it into the slot and watched it autocorrect the focus. He didn’t see anything. There was no sign of the fungi in his blood. There was no sign of it in his CSF. In fact, it looked almost as if there was nothing at all wrong with his doctor.
He sat down and began to assemble a series of tests. Doctor McCoy had fallen ill. He had been next to him, yet there had been no effect to his person. He was, however, a Vulcan, and his biological differences had proven to be immunity enough. But Dr. McCoy was the only human on board—the only individual, human or otherwise—that had been affected. And Spock had been right there, watching him.
He moved the slide to the edge of the table. It was no different than the last. He continued to look at another one, human tissue frozen upon contact with the fungi. All he saw was two separately existing structures. It was clear enough the at the organism itself was in no way dangerous to the average human, so it must have been something about McCoy. Perhaps where he had been, what he had done, his body temperature at the time, something in the air next to him, maybe even his blood pressure, that set him apart from the rest of the crew. Spock would find a way to test everything.
The next time he regained enough atmospheric awareness to look at anything besides a microscope was hours later. There were different lab assistants, rotations perhaps, that he had rarely worked with. The intercom called his name from across the room. It was a voice he did not recognize. His hands were steady as he pushed the button to receive the transmission.
“Spock here,” he said.
“Commander,” said the voice, “the captain is waiting for you in sickbay.”
“I am on my way.” He loathed to leave his tests.
“Yes sir.”
Jim was slumped over Leonard’s sickbed, his hands shaky and his eyes hard. Spock had seen him like this many times, each when he had bad news to deliver but felt as though he couldn’t allow himself to have an emotional response “for the good of the crew.” He was not Vulcan. He was hurting himself more by attempting the stoic façade. McCoy would agree, were he able.
“Captain,” Spock said, approaching from behind. Jim didn’t move.
“Spock,” he said. “You need to get to work on those samples we sent you.”
“I have been,” he said, annoyance simmering though his control like steam through a vent. He had been, but he had found nothing.
“Not fast enough, it seems,” Jim said bitterly. Spock knew not to take it personally. Jim shook his head apologetically. “He can’t breathe on his own anymore.”
It took a lot to conceal the shards of electric panic that crawled up his spine.
“How long?” he asked, wanting to rush to the side of the bed and see for himself. He didn’t.
“Two hours.”
Spock turned toward the door. “Understood, captain.”
“Spock,” Jim called, sounding hesitant. “If…you being Vulcan, if you didn’t get to say goodbye, would you regret it?”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to. Jim seemed to take it as an appropriate response anyway.
“You’d better get over here and do it now, then, Spock. But make it fast.” He turned on his heel and left.
Spock stood where Jim had been at the edge of McCoy’s still figure. He watched a machine pumping blood in place of his heart and another one sending electrical shocks to get his lungs to move. He stared into the other man’s face, unnerved by the lack of a jocular smile and bright blue eyes.
When the Doctor awoke, he wanted to be there. He would let slip the relief that he was sure to feel and he’d relish the delight that would jump from Leonard’s mind to his even over a distance of several feet. Right now, he had managed to recreate a stillness in his own mind akin to meditation. He needed to be completely sure that what he was doing was logical if it was Leonard's life on the line. Perhaps someday he would reveal to McCoy the exact level of emotional turbulence he really created. But for now, a tiny expression would be all he could bring himself to reveal, though it would hardly do it justice.
He left.
It was becoming hard to breathe.