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This is a mistake, McCoy thinks, and wishes like hell that that he'd stayed down in sickbay where he belongs. At the very least, he should have come up with a Plan B, a reason for being here that has nothing at all to do with what's been on his mind since he, Spock, and the captain returned from Sarpeidon.
He can take the coward's route and run, he supposes. He's never been a coward – you don't get far in Starfleet by wilting at the first sign of danger – but the option is appealing. He might make it to the lift in time. He's about half-turned to flee when Spock says, "Enter," and the door to his quarters slides open and McCoy finds himself frozen.
"Doctor," Spock says, looking up from the padd on his desk. His eyebrows rise ever so slightly. It's his And with what can I assist you, Doctor? look, not surprise, not annoyance, not any other damned emotion that McCoy can grasp at and use to pull himself out of this – this paralysis. It's not any damned emotion. Naturally.
"Doctor?" Spock says, pushing the padd away from him and beginning to rise. "Are you not well? Is the captain—"
"The captain's fine, Spock," McCoy says, released by the mention of someone's health. "I'm fine. Everyone's fine, as far as I know. I just—" He stops, unsure of what to say next. This, he thinks, is why you're always supposed to have a plan. This is why you study tactics before they send you out into goddamn space. Plans are good.
It's possible that curiosity flickers in Spock's brown eyes. It's also possible that McCoy imagines it because he wants it to be there. In any case, Spock says placidly, "Doctor. Do come in."
And he's in, with no memory of having moved his feet, and the door is closing behind him and he thinks, Now would be a good time for a medical emergency. But of course nothing of the sort happens, there's just a heavy silence, and Spock's long-fingered hands resting lightly on the desk.
McCoy remembers those hands holding him up as they made their way stumblingly over Sarpeidon's icy mountain passes, sheltering him from the frigid wind. He remembers those hands cupping the back of his head as gently as if he were a child, easing him onto Zarabeth's bed of rough-hewn stone, then laying that thick fur blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. Spock never even asked if he could use it, did he? And of course McCoy remembers those hands grabbing his neck and shoving him against the cave wall, the fingertips digging into his jugular.
Are you trying to kill me? Is that really what you want?
McCoy's mouth is suddenly dry.
Spock watches him patiently for a little while longer. Then he says "Doctor?" again, with just the slightest of emphases. "You are looking at me as if I had more than the usual number of heads for a humanoid." Pause. "That was an attempt at humor, designed to put you at ease. It seems to have failed."
"Jesus, Spock," McCoy says at last and shakes his head. He's being childish, of course. He's a doctor; he's supposed to broach sensitive, perhaps unpleasant subjects. "I wanted to talk to you about Sarpeidon. That is, I thought you might want to talk about it." In fact, he thought no such thing, but what the hell. It's as good a beginning as any.
"Ah." Up go the eyebrows. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Doctor. There is nothing about that planet that requires further discussion."
That's his dismissal right there, and McCoy knows that he can leave now. If he does, everything will be fine; neither of them will ever mention what happened on that godforsaken world, they'll remain the same. But that's just the problem.
"No," McCoy says, striding to the desk and placing his palms on the polished wood. He's leaning forward and his face is maybe a meter from Spock's. "How can you say there's nothing to discuss?" he demands. "You experienced emotions. Strong emotions. You can't tell me you haven't been thinking about that since we got back."
"If I have," Spock replies, apparently unperturbed by McCoy's nearness and tone, "my thoughts are my own and none of your concern."
"That's not true. I was there with you. I bore the brunt of your rage, as well as your – your…"
"My what?" Spock prompts.
"Your – compassion," McCoy says, though he's not certain that that's the right word. Lowering his gaze so he's not looking right into Spock's eyes, he tries to explain: "When you saved me in the mountains – before Zarabeth showed up to guide us. I told you to leave me. Dammit, leaving me would have been the logical thing to do. Even I knew that! It was cold as hell, and you had no way of knowing—"
"Doctor," Spock interrupts, "are you attempting to ascertain whether or not I was – as you would say – out of my Vulcan mind when I elected to ignore your insistence that I abandon you?"
No, thinks McCoy, but, "Yes," he says.
"Impossible to say," muses Spock after barely a moment's reflection. "We had not been in that time for very long, and I was unaware of the exact onset of the degenerative process that led to my experiencing emotions."
"I guess," says McCoy, his glance still on the ends of his fingers, "I just don't like the idea that I'm only alive because you weren't…yourself."
"Doctor," Spock says, "when the Vians had us imprisoned on Minara, they made it quite clear that the captain and I were free to go, provided that we left you behind, either to die at their hands or to be healed by Gem's empathic powers. The captain rejected their offer of freedom; he refused to leave you. Do you suppose that I attempted to dissuade him? As for Sarpeidon," he continues before McCoy can say a word, "a Vulcan's constitution is stronger than that of a human. Moreover, for a full-grown human male, you are comparatively light. You were not a burden."
McCoy studies his bony wrists and half-smiles. Comparatively light. "You almost make it sound like a compliment."
"It is a fact. At no point did I consider leaving you to die, neither on Minara, when I was in my right mind, nor Sarpeidon, when I was not. If indeed that was your concern, do not let it trouble you further. Is that all?"
"Not quite." Since he's come this far, McCoy decides that he can probe a little deeper. Lifting his eyes to Spock's, he says, "Later on, in the cave…the first time you tried to choke me, it was because I'd said something about the nature of Vulcans. I can't remember what it was exactly, but you said—" He licks his lips. "—You said you didn't think you liked it. That you never had."
"Yes," says Spock without inflection.
McCoy feels his cheeks and throat going hot. His fingers curl against the desk. "Is it true? Because if it is, I wish to God you'd said something sooner. Dammit, we serve together. If I've been making you uncomfortable for the past three years—"
But Spock waves this aside as well. "You cannot make me uncomfortable," he says and there's just the slightest ripple of amusement in his tone. "Not with words. In truth, I was offended back in the cave, but that was due to the degeneration. Modern Vulcans are less, shall we say, sensitive than our predecessors. We are above taking offense at verbal slights. Furthermore, to remind a Vulcan that he uses cold logic instead of emotion to guide his actions is, in fact, to compliment him." He tilts his head slightly. "Is that all?"
"No." And now they've come to it, the thing that's been eating at McCoy since Sarpeidon. "Dammit, Spock," he says, all but clawing at the desk in his frustration. "You didn't just feel emotions back on Sarpeidon. You were happy! I saw your face when you were with Zarabeth. You were happy."
And Spock replies, "Five thousand years ago, I would have been happy."
The detachment of his tone causes something to twist in McCoy's belly. "You can't tell me you don't miss it."
"It was an interesting experience, but I do not miss it. I cannot."
"Maybe I do." He only mutters the words, but they seem to fall from his lips like stones, and he imagines them striking the desk between him and Spock.
After a moment's silence, Spock says, "I am afraid that I do not understand."
"Seeing you happy," McCoy goes on, still in that low, low tone. "Maybe I liked it. Maybe – maybe I miss it. There's a part of me that's sorry I pulled you out of there, and a part of me that isn't, and I just don't understand you."
Spock sighs: a soft exhalation that slides between McCoy's ribs. "Perhaps not. But I believe I understand you now." Spock rises, takes McCoy by the shoulders, and pushes him against the door to his quarters. His grip is firm, but not rough. One hand rises to cup McCoy's cheek, the fingers sliding into his hair. The other drifts down to rest just over his heart. McCoy stares at Spock.
In even tones, Spock says, "On Minara, it was your altruism that saved the captain and me from torture and possible death. For that alone, I would not wish for you to be anything other than what you are. And when you were dying, it was my very lack of emotions that enabled me to escape the Vians' force field and save you. And for that alone, I would not wish to be anything other than what I am. I do not regret, either my actions on your behalf, or that which allowed me to take such actions. I do not regret. Do you understand?"
The pad of his thumb moves gently over the ridge of bone below McCoy's eye. A caress. McCoy feels the heat of his palm through the layers of his uniform.
"Do you understand?" Spock says again. Whispers.
"Yes." He breathes the word.
"Then be satisfied."
For a moment they stand very close together, foreheads almost touching. This is not a mind meld, but McCoy imagines that Spock can read his heart perfectly, and a part of him writhes in reaction to being so exposed, but another part of him wants only to lean into the touch and stay there forever.
Be satisfied.
McCoy understands what he's been told, but he can't read Spock.
Another moment, and the door behind him is opening. Then it's closing, and McCoy is alone.
7/6/09