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Whatever else she may be, Christine Chapel is nobody's fool. She's been in the medical profession for long enough to know when the game is up, whether it's in the way a fever breaks or in how a critical patient's breath begins to rattle.
Doctor Leonard McCoy is one of the finest physicians she's ever had the privilege of working with. He also understands that when she says she needs a break, she means it. His nickname suits him.
It's not difficult to see to it she's rarely on the floor when both the Captain and First Officer are in sickbay at the same time, whether it's for routine check-ups or far, far worse. When it's the latter, she finds it difficult not to hover at the window dividing the supply closet from their workspace.
She can't hear much of what McCoy is saying, but judging by the grim, worried line of the Captain's lips, it can't be good. Spock is barely conscious, but his eyes are open the sparest fraction, alert black glimmers that can't seem to help but speak of hope—but not to her.
Not even phaser-proof glass can mask the way they look at each other.