Chapter Text
I.
Ironically, he figures it out because he's worried about Jim.
In the aftermath of Anton Karidan's reveal, McCoy observes the captain carefully for signs of stress. That's his duty as both the ship's CMO and Kirk's friend. There are few outward signs of stress, and nothing unduly alarming – maybe he shuts himself in his quarters a little more than usual, splurges on some chocolate cake and pudding in the officers mess. Excusable, under the circumstances. His working efficiency doesn't drop.
But McCoy keeps watching anyway. Drawing up traumatic events can have unexpected effects, not all of which may be immediate. And one of the things he monitors closely is the captain's caloric intake.
It's the sort of information McCoy can access, as the ship's primary physician, but which he rarely thinks about. Jim's numbers remain fine – a little high, maybe, but he shows no signs of disordered eating. So at least his famine-related stress isn't manifesting in that form.
But Kevin Riley is a different story.
Lieutenant Riley is a relatively recent addition to the ship, but it's no excuse. Because when McCoy looks over the meal-logs – automatically entered by the ship's replicators – he's horrified to discover a cycling pattern of binge-eating and fasting. Technically the calorie-count tends to even out, so the simple computer hasn't raised any alarms. Two weeks binging, two weeks eating almost nothing – probably as self-inflicted punishment – and then a nearly normal month before the cycle begins again, or worse.
He calls down Riley. And the man denies him, lies, and finally says “I've always been like this, Sir.”
He was just a boy on Tarsus. Maybe this is his version of normal.
McCoy doesn't raise the matter with Jim; mental-health issues aren't the sort of thing he reports to the captain unless there's a direct threat involved or a clear need for workplace changes, and Riley has lived this long. Thankfully it seems like a fairly minor case. He signs the lieutenant up for counseling, loads him down with nutrition-supplements and pamphlets and diet plans, and afterward sits at his desk with a bottle of god-awful synthale, thinking.
It's been going on for years, is the thing. Riley must have passed scrutiny at the Academy. At previous postings. And McCoy signed Riley aboard, looked at his psych profiles, his physical, talked to the man – but he didn't notice.
“Christine!” he hollers. Nurse Chapel slinks in with a sigh, crossing her arms reproachfully when she notices the drink. Whatever; he's technically off-duty now. She can disapprove on her own time. “Compile a list. Whole crew, starting with everyone who has a physical coming up. I need to check their records.”
Christine frowns. “What do you want us to look for?”
McCoy tips his head back and squints at the ceiling. “I'll know it when I see it,” he decides. He ignores her faint sigh. “ - All the records, Christine. Let's get to it.”
McCoy keeps the project unofficial. It's a burdensome task, looking through the replicator logs – mostly because the records span years in most cases. Decades, in some. He flags any suspicious behavior – a three-week period a gal down in Engineering stopped eating after a colleague was burnt to death in an explosion right next to her. Three multiple-month periods, years apart, when a lieutenant in Communications ate less than a thousand calories a day for no reason he can discern.
Most of it is probably fairly routine stuff. Starfleet is a high-stress environment, and it's not too odd for people to get so caught up in their work they skip a few meals. Extreme stressors might affect a person's appetite for awhile, and the young officer who dramatically cuts down on calories after being told they could lose a few pounds is probably just ignorant about healthy dieting habits, not exhibiting signs of a neuroses.
But sometimes it's hard to tell. He makes notes to talk with a few crewmen during their physicals, but doesn't find anything major over the first few days. He finds himself eyeing people a bit oddly when he takes lunch though. It's hard to turn off the part of his brain scrutinizing people for bad habits – like noticing the signs of a flu, or exhaustion. Automatic.
He eats lunch with Kirk whenever he can, just in case the captain is less resilient than he seems. “Are you worried about some sort of infection?” Jim asks during one such meeting. McCoy finds himself automatically glancing at his friend's tray. Turkey sandwich, fried vegetables, fruit juice. Disgusting amounts of mayo, but perfectly fine. On Jim's other side Spock picks at a goopy, clearly alien collection of vegetables without much interest. McCoy doesn't blame him; it looks like someone sneezed all over the plate.
“Whaddya mean?” he answers the question.
“Usually you do the annual physicals around the same time – but you've called down half the crew in the past few weeks. It's, what, three months early?”
“The first physicals would typically occur two point eight months from now,” Spock corrects, pushing aside his unappetizing portion. “I have not noticed any increase in sick days among the duty-roster.”
“Yeah, because Starfleet officers are so great about taking time off,” McCoy scoffs. Jim frowns, so he heads off the inevitable question. “But no, everything's fine. I just wanted to get things done early, so sue me.”
Jim squints, clearly not buying it. “An illogical waste of resources,” is Spock's contribution.
“I'm the CMO here, I'll decide what's 'logical' for my department. And you can kindly keep out of it.”
Spock raises an eyebrow and does not bother replying. Jim leans forward. “Bones, if you've noticed something we should know about - “
Ugh. He's activated the captain's mother-hen instincts. “If I find something I'll let you know, Jim. Swear it on the grave.”
“Who's grave?” Spock wants to know.
“Yours.”
Spock squints at McCoy, too, like he's doubting the validity of that promise.
The Enterprise has a lot of assignments where Medical is left with little to do. Aside from tending the various cuts, bruises, and stupidity-related injuries from the crew, his department spends a great deal of their time conducting research. They tend to collaborate closely with Spock's department, much to McCoy's disgust; keeping track of the botany and microbiology projects can often spur new lines of medical research, so it's good to stay informed.
But the Enterprise's current duty is entirely unrelated to anything concerning medicine. They've been assigned to orbit and study an unusual planetary satellite just recently discovered by astrocartographers. Previous ships passing through the area never reported it, so either it recently appeared, was somehow hidden from sensors, or their preliminary data is wrong.
An interesting case for Spock's star-charting team, and the poor bastards who get to study the satellite's oddly-strong magnetic fields. But since there's no chance of injuries – or any other health concerns – the Medical department sequester themselves with their respective projects. McCoy included.
He arrives on the bridge halfway through Alpha Shift after three ignored comm calls and a visit to Spock's quarters. Exiting the turbolift, he announces, “Medical emergency, Captain – I'm dying of boredom.”
The guard stationed outside the lift snorts; Kirk doesn't even turning around, scribbling his signature into a padd before handing it to Rand. “Sounds serious,” he calls back absently. “Maybe you should spend some time with Spock's team in Lab Seven, Bones. I hear they're having fun.”
Chekov makes a disgusted sound from his station. Ha. “Think I'll pass,” McCoy says. “Have you decided if we'll be taking leave on Station eighteen or Andor after this?”
“Worrying about crew morale?”
“Oh, sure,” says McCoy. “That, and I've heard Space-Station Eighteen has some fabulous new hologram technology. Also their mess makes this fantastic dessert down that could trick you into thinking it's a sort of chocolate cheesecake - “
“Ah,” says Kirk. “A very urgent reason to rush this mission, then.”
“Exactly.”
“An illogical habit of humans,” Spock says over his shoulder, “To eat for pleasure rather than need.”
Just who he wanted to speak with. “I honestly wonder how Vulcan has survived this long,” McCoy says. “Spock, tell me this - if you're not going to enjoy life, what's the point?”
“Life can be satisfying without being indulgent.”
“And my appetite can be 'satisfied' with beans and turnips,” McCoy retorts. “But set me up with a good peach cobbler topped with homemade icecream and I'll die a happy man.”
“Given the likely repercussions to your cholesterol, I imagine you would.”
God, he hates it when Spock tries to play doctor. But Jim intervenes because they can really get started. “Bones. Did you have a reason to come up here, or - ?”
“I'm here for Spock, unfortunately. Stealing him for a physical.”
“In the middle of shift?”
“I told him about the appointment two weeks ago; it ain't my fault he forgot.”
Spock leans back in his seat. He shows no intention of leaving. “I did not 'forget,' Dr. McCoy. However, I find it quite illogical that you have decided to move up the annual physicals without due cause - “
“I don't need to defend my choices to you!”
“You do, in fact, if you are determined to disrupt the Enterprise's assigned duty-roster.”
“You create the duty roster. Don't act like you couldn't make the time, you green-blooded - “
“Enough,” Jim interrupts. The stern tone doesn't really work against his twitching lips. “Colorful insults aside, Mr. Spock, he has a point. But this is a bad time, Bones. We've found out this satellite looks artificial, and we need Spock for the risk analysis.”
“...Fine.” McCoy whirls on Spock. The Vulcan somehow radiates smugness without shifting an inch of his expression. “But if you don't report straight after shift, I'll drag you down by your pointy ears and give you a real reason to avoid Sickbay.”
“I will endeavor to save you the effort,” says Spock, unfazed. “But I would first recommend assessing your own health, Doctor. You are in somewhat advanced age for a human, and the flush to your skin is somewhat concerning. I would be unsurprised if you experienced heart difficulties in the attempt.”
“Did you just call me old?”
“Bones,” says Kirk. McCoy throws up his hands and storms off the bridge.
He's going to stick his gloves in ice before Spock's physical. That's what the man gets for being difficult.
Here's something they never emphasize in medical school: most of your job is not critical. Most of a doctor's time, in fact, will be spent curing sniffles, forcing people to answer uncomfortable questions about their privates, and trying very hard to act like your patients are not idiots destined to creatively ravage their fragile bodies in ways that will make you marvel at the fact that humanity has managed to survive this long.
Case in point: engineers.
“How did you even do this to yourself?” McCoy demands.
In his years as a medical fellow Leonard McCoy heard a lot of advice about keeping a good bedside manner to encourage people to share freely. Bullshit. Some people need to be dragged kicking and screaming into good sense. Or beaten over the head with it.
Ensign Jones squirms. Lieutenant Ramirez, a chipper girl infuriatingly unfazed by the 18-centimeter burn sprawling across her arm, just shrugs as McCoy peels away her sleeve. “We were just running routine checks on the engine - it's been having a few fluctuations we can't explain. We were assigned to investigate the cooling system, but the internal sensors are down for maintenance, so we took manual scans...”
“She tripped and fell against some hot pipes,” Ensign Jones offers.
“Yeah, and then I dropped the scanner,” Ramirez offers. “So I had to crawl in after it - “
“It was like a bad game of Operation,” Jones sighs.
McCoy counts to ten. Well, to five.
Okay, he considers counting, but that's a waste of time. Instead he jabs Ramirez with a painkiller.
The hypo doesn't even make her flinch.
“This is your third injury this month,” he grits. Ramirez shrugs. Ugh. “I'm recommending you for a course on workplace safety.”
She just says, “Yeah, that's fair. Hey doc, do you still have that experimental burn cream I used last month? My leg smelt like honey and roses for weeks.”
McCoy sends away Ramirez after threatening to bring down Scotty and have her restricted to transporter-duty. The only thing that pauses him is the thought of this trainwreck of a woman actually operating the transporters – those things have enough issues.
Afterward Nurse Chapel reminds him to please keep his voice down, because some of them aren't old enough to have hearing loss yet and would like to keep it that way. She's getting a bit mouthy these days.
He overviews two more regular check-ups, and then his third appointment bails, which is an excellent excuse to cut away to his office for a break. As he sits at his desk McCoy glances at the computer. It's still open to his partially-finished checklist of the crew. Right – the nutrition checks. Because he doesn't have enough work, so he had to make up a new and entirely unofficial project.
Since he left off halfway through the ship's roster McCoy figures he might as well throw Spock's file into the list while that physical is still fresh in his mind. Maybe the rest of the day's files, too, if this blasted ship can go more than twenty minutes without an emergency. He presses a few keys and the computer starts generating a long list of Spock's meals and eating-schedule as he pulls out the results.
McCoy naturally remembers most of the exam. Nothing wrong with those Vulcan vitals, he recalls at a glance. Frighteningly low blood pressure as usual. Slight signs of anemia – also not strange. He'll have to pester Spock to take his vitamins. Heart-rate fine, for Spock's bizarre definition of 'fine,' and here's what he's looking for - body weight on the lower side of healthy for an average human male. So that's fine -
Oh. Wait. What?
McCoy squints. He notes the numbers again, turning them over in his head. Frowning, he pulls up a page from the Federation Medical Database to confirm.
A page immediately jumps out at him. Vulcan muscle-mass is much denser than that of most humanoids – and any muscle is heavy. So the average Vulcan male of Spock's height should be.... roughly twice his current weight?
That can't be right.
McCoy puzzles over the numbers awhile, sandwich forgotten. Some discrepancy would be expected. Spock isn't living on Vulcan, obviously – continued habitation in a lower-gravity environment can deplete muscles. But Spock also has a specific gym regimen meant to combat those effects, and a whole host of stabilizers and other medications. Plus his quarters are kept in higher gravity, alleviating the worst repercussions.
Have the numbers always looked like this? He would have noticed, surely. Maybe he's just forgetting some obvious fact about Spock's biology.
His human heritage could predictably cause some difference... but Spock was made in a lab, and the Vulcan geneticists who hand-picked his genes carefully allowed Vulcan traits to dominate. McCoy's had first-hand experience with Spock's Vulcan strength. So he should have Vulcan muscle-mass, too. Or at least nearly-Vulcan. That's simple logic.
And yet the numbers on the page remain stubbornly defiant. He scrolls through records of past physicals. Spock's weight never differs by more than a pound or two, except in times of high stress. Like a few months back – it looks like he lost nearly a kilo and never recovered it. And eleven weeks before that, his average weight dropped by about half a kilo...
A sinking feeling in his gut, McCoy scrolls all the way back to Spock's exams at the start of Captain Pike's mission. Spock would have been 22 when he signed aboard; and his weight...
McCoy drops his head in his hands and swears.
II.
When Spock was 11, he went into the desert and disappeared for eight weeks.
He was officially declared 'missing' after nine days. At that age it was not unusual for Spock to venture alone into the unoccupied mountains around ShiKahr, against all warnings from his father. What Sarek never understood – what he still fails to understand – is that the entire capital was watching him, always. A son of the clan of Surak, half-human, already lauded as a genius and a prodigy even as conservatives lambasted him in desperate attempts to forestall his house from keeping power in the future. Wherever Spock went, he was known - and he was human.
But the mountains did not know him. And Vulcan's burning sun did not shine brighter or more fiercely because his eyes were too round and he was missing a few bones in his spine. Climbing through the mountains was easy and freeing – knowing that he could survive, that he could face the wilds that regularly killed curious adults, even moreso.
But when Spock was 11 something happened that he never discussed with his parents.
Spock's body, while a marvel of genetic engineering, is not able to exhibit all advantages of either human or Vulcan physiology. He's supposedly a blend of both – though the geneticists who created him did, of course, highly emphasize Vulcan characteristics. Still, his human heritage sometimes expresses itself in inconvenient ways.
As a child this affected his diet, because Spock requires a Vulcan-normal quantity of calories without the efficiency of a Vulcan digestive system. His mother often complained that humans weren't 'meant' for a vegetarian diet – and Spock seems to be proof of this. Aside from a regiment of supplements and vitamins, he has to consume truly tiresome amounts to keep up his weight. It's always made eating a chore, and even as a toddler he grew familiar with painful cramps from overstuffing his wrong-fitting body. His stomach simply couldn't handle the amount of vegetables he needed for fuel.
During his school's midday break an older student once approached him to question this when Spock was 11. After hearing Spock's explanation of his issues, the student told him, “The amount of food you consume it wasteful.”
Spock replied, “It is not wasteful; it is required for survival.”
The student insisted, “Your existence is unnecessary. Everything you do drains your community without benefit. I have heard the instructors discuss expensive ways to accommodate your body in physical education courses. Your medical needs alone must demand constant attention. Your existence is therefore illogical.”
Ah. Encounters like this increased briefly past the age of 7, then decreased after the age of 10, presumably as children found more interesting pursuits and became accustomed to Spock's presence. His classmates were mostly tolerant, but – it was not the first time he has heard such views. “Your opinion is noted,” said Spock, going back to his lunch with all the haughty dignity he'd once seen Sarek turn toward a fuming Deltan dignitary.
Something clattered to the ground next to him. Spock looked down and saw it: a small, sharp knife.
“It would be more logical to stop wasting resources,” the older boy told him. And then the boy left, and Spock sat there, staring at that knife.
He thought about it, of course.
He wondered, then and after, what the boy would have done if Spock had picked up the knife and slit his throat right at the table. Would he have regretted those words? Such people rarely think through their actions. Or maybe it would have just been proof, all along, that Spock was never meant to survive.
He went away to the desert the next night.
After his physical, Spock heads to the gym.
Doctors, although they often prod Spock about his weight or various nutritional concerns, never seem worried about his reflexes or physical abilities. But the physical tests are always exhaustive, however skilled Spock has become at redistributing oxygen into his muscles, forcing his heart to beat faster, stopping lactic acids from building during exertion. Vulcan mental discipline affords great control of the body, even down to the cellular level. Without it Spock would have much more difficulty with physical tasks.
He doesn't remember needing to focus so much when he was younger. Sometimes he privately thinks that his childhood physicians were wrong, that perhaps he's going to age at a human-normal rate after all; old age could explain his increasing difficulties. Thirty-eight seems fairly old for a human, doesn't it? McCoy's always calls himself old, after all, and Spock's just slightly younger. But it's sometimes hard to tell.
Regardless, the poor results of his physical trouble him. Spock sets himself to running on one of the gym's treadmills, beginning at a rate of roughly 34 kilometers per hour. On the other side of the gym he hears someone swearing.
Spock usually prefers to end his exercises before he can sweat too much. Not that humans find it strange to see him sweat – but Spock knows that a Vulcan should not need to excrete water through their pores. Should not be able to do this. It's undignified, and even if his crewmates are too ignorant to mind, he's still uncomfortable sweating in public areas.
But today, he keeps running. The difficulty of his run rises slowly as time passes and people filter in and out. Thirty-five, thirty-seven, forty kilometers per hour. The artificial track slopes, forcing him to run at new angles. By the end he's sprinting up an incline - breathing rapidly, but not gasping. Spock is able to regulate his breathing just as he regulates anything else.
Usually. Then his heart starts pounding off-beat, so Spock obligingly slows the settings to a light jog. Heart palpitations have been common since childhood, and doctors have always told him they aren't dangerous – but the sensation remains a bit unsettling despite his best efforts. It's a good time to stop.
He takes a sonic shower back in his quarters, but his heart keeps skipping a bit and the rough sonics don't help. He finally ends up lying flat on the bedroom floor, breathing slow and even, using basic techniques to calm his body.
Unfortunate. He'll have to try raising his stamina again later.
Sarek once accused his son of being needlessly rebellious.
It baffled Spock at the time. He's never wanted anything but conformity. It is not his fault that the rest of his world rejected the things in him that were intrinsic. He could be best in the class, he could excel in the arts, he could practice diplomacy and learn new languages and invent new ideas that delighted the scientific community – but he could never change what he is.
When he fled to the desert at the age of 11, it was not an act of rebellion. It was one of many attempts to prove himself Vulcan. The Forge was regarded with wary respect by most of his people. It was a merciless and untamed place; and it was illogical, everyone knew, to venture there if you were not willing to risk your life.
The desert was a refuge only in the sense that it was alone. Spock learned mastery there: mastery of himself, of the things he could control, even if in every place outside that desert he could not seem to change the way he was perceived.
He learned how to move silently, how to hide himself away from predators, how to escape their grasp if he was detected. He foraged from the wild and dug up raw desert plants for his food, and sometimes he hungered. Often, he hungered. It did not matter. Pain was a thing of the body, and the body could be controlled. Hunger could be controlled. He was not a beast – despite what some of Spock's classmates liked to imply – and he was Vulcan. Vulcans can go months without food, if necessary, and so Spock did not worry if he missed out on meals for a day or a week. It was not relevant.
When he returned, at peace for himself for the first time in years, Amanda fussed over his thinness because she was illogical. Sarek was often quiet, and when he did speak, he disapproved. He said that Spock's disappearance was immature, rash. He accused him of emotionalism and illogic.
But even that did not matter for once. Because Sarek had not been there during those weeks in the desert. And Spock knew, as his father did not, that he did not lack anything.
It would have been illogical to judge his father for ignorance.
Spock joins Kirk for dinner.
The revelation of Anton Karidian's identity – and, more relevantly for Spock, Kirk's traumatic past on Tarsus – have explained several nuances of the captain's behavior that he never before considered. Spock usually ignores minor idiosyncrasies among his human crewmates – emotionalism can lead people to erratic behavior, so in his opinion, human oddness is usually just... normal for them.
An interesting contradiction.
But knowing about Kirk's past – that changes things. He's noticed before, for example, that Captain Kirk has a marked tendency to indulge in 'comfort foods.' It never worried him before, but...
Spock isn't sure whether the ship's CMO has noticed these behaviors. He makes a mental note to pull aside the doctor at some point. Spock will observe the captain himself, of course, but Dr. McCoy does better understand the nuances of human psychology, and it can't hurt to have another pair of eyes on the situation.
So Spock sits with Kirk, scrutinizing the captain's piled bowl of beef stir-fry and egg rolls while absently picking at his own plate – approximately 1 and ½ cups of steamed carrots and broccoli.
Helpfully, the captain brings attention to the issue on Spock's mind - in a roundabout fashion – by asking if he's heard any 'concerning talk' about the aftermath of their detour to Planet Q.
Naturally, the crew knows now that Karidian was Kodos the Executioner. Starfleet can't cover up an issue of that magnitude, and didn't really care to try – discovering Kodos was good PR, despite the tragedy of the event. But few people, even now, know about Kirk's personal involvement to the case.
That's not why Kirk is asking, though.
Kevin Riley's bout of hysteria during Macbeth was... understandable, even by Spock's standards. But still problematic for the man's career.
Spock reminds Kirk that the crew does not tend to 'gossip' with him.
“But somehow, you always seem to know what happens around here,” Kirk says.
“...There is some speculation that Mr. Riley may be transferred. Or demoted.”
Kirk straightens, face falling into something more serious. “He's received a reprimand for ignoring orders. Under the circumstances, I don't intend to do anything more – that should be clear. Do you think he'll have issues with the crew?”
“Only self-imposed ones,” Spock replies. “Mr. Riley has been much more isolated than usual – entirely of his own design, I believe.”
“I'll have a talk with him.” Kirk frowns down at his plate. He prods a piece of chicken, scrutinizing it. “I wonder if it would be easier or harder, living through the famine as young as he was... Sometimes it seems like I can barely remember that year, and then something happens, and it's like I was on Tarsus yesterday. Like when I see spoiled food... I couldn't eat vegetables for a year afterward,” Kirk adds. “Half the food we scrounged up was old. Canned carrots and peas people hadn't wanted, and forgot about. You'd think I would have eaten anything I could get my hands on once I got home – but all I wanted was sweets and meat and cheese. The sorts of things that weren't included in the rations, even before the rations ended.”
“It is an understandable impulse,” Spock offers. Understandable, though excessively emotional. “
“And yet those instincts remain, after years and years of new experiences,” Kirk says. “ - Don't mind me, Spock. I suppose I'm just a little maudlin today. Odd to remember how much these fragile, physical bodies limit us...”
“Vulcan philosophy teaches that the body is only a conduit for the mind – that through will, we can control our responses to any stimuli.”
“That's all very nice in theory,” says Kirk. “But I have a feeling your philosophers weren't dying of hunger when they made that conclusion.”
Before Spock can respond, he's interrupted by a whistle from one of the hallway's communication panels. “Sickbay to Mr. Spock,” a tinny voice demands.
Raising an eyebrow, Spock stands and heads over. Presses a button. “Spock here.”
“You're needed in Sickbay, Commander. CMO's orders.”
Raising an eyebrow, Spock presses another button to convey acknowledgment. He turns back. “Excuse me, Captain. We will have to resume this later.”
“Thank you, Spock.” The captain's eyes seem to follow him as he goes.
Spock used to run in Vulcan's Forge.
Students in ShiKahr were required to take classes on desert survival. With the wild mountains all around, and the planet's hottest, driest desert stretching beyond, it was a logical precaution. Among the most basic warnings was, conserve your energy. Do not take risks. Do not make assumptions. Always assume you may be stranded.
It is best to carry plenty of water and food. Carry weapons. Walk, and take frequent breaks in the midday heat.
Spock started journeying the Forge regularly when he was twelve. And he ran, and he never carried water.
Sometimes it might have been hubris – if he was just going for a brief excursion, just an hour or two or four, the odds of injuring himself or becoming trapped were infinitesimal. But on other occasions he would run and run and run, until traitorous sweat ran from his human-ish pores, and only then would he use his survival knowledge to seek out a desert oasis or sticky cactus-water.
Once, when he was fifteen, he didn't find that oasis. Every plant he found was poison, and the sun started to burn his skin. Finally he was tired and dazed enough, when the sun rose to its height, to head toward the dangerous mountains.
He found a cave. Inside were two lematya.
They were huge – each twice his own weight, at least – and when Spock appeared at the cave's mouth they were lying together and resting. They just looked at him, and Spock looked back. There were cracked bones scattered in the cave, picked clean.
He entered the cave. Sat down. He meditated for hours until the heat abated, and the lematya dozed, ignoring him.
There was no conscious logic behind the decision. If asked – if anyone had known to ask – he might have justified the choice. The lematya looked full and well-sated; it was midday, and they were tired; they would have been more likely to pursue if he had ran. But these would have been excuses. He did not run because he did not care, in the end, but by some strange turn of luck the lematya let him live anyway. He went home that day and Mother scolded him for being away so long. She told him he had missed dinner, and he went to his bed not feeling hungry despite the fact that he hadn't eaten in thirty-nine hours.
He never felt hungry.
He never felt anything.
Spock does not report to Sickbay, because before he can reach it he gets an urgent call from the bridge. The engines have stopped working.
That's usually not a good sign.