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Early on in their missions, when they have known each other for mere days, Doctor Leonard McCoy brushes his fingers as he hands him a PADD. Spock is meant to hold it while the doctor squints at a readout on his monitor. There is no way he can know what he has just done, but Spock is thrown by the split second’s glimpse he has into the man’s emotional state. It is empty. Hollow, like a void, like the strange muffled mute sound inside an airlock. It is comforting.
“You are in remarkably good control of your emotions, for a human,” says Spock.
He wants to ask Doctor McCoy how he does it, but upon being told to “keep your damn insults to yourself,” he reconsiders. He has made a mistake here, but he cannot for the life of him tell what it is.
*
Doctor McCoy becomes something of an obsession for Spock. The man is endlessly fascinating to him.
It’s the way his presence on the bridge is at once calming and challenging for Jim. Spock cannot deny that despite often being wrong, it is the irrational and emotional outbursts from the doctor that often jog the correct course of action out of their Captain. He is like a compass - steadfast, true, reliable. Yet Spock cannot help but think of the memory of what he had seen in the man’s mind.
Does Doctor McCoy genuinely believe the things that come out of his mouth? Or is this calculated - a way of guiding other humans that Spock is perhaps not privy to? Doctor McCoy is a psychologist as well, so perhaps this is his way of looking after the Captain. No matter how grating Spock finds his methods, he cannot deny the fact that time and time again, they seem to work.
He makes his own attempts at challenging the doctor, when he tells Doctor McCoy that he apologises for his bluntness, but he is unaccustomed to having to wait this long for results. Vulcan scientists would have easily been able to discover a cure for the strange ailment that has stolen their Captain’s voice. Doctor McCoy shoulders his way past him without a word, and by the end of the day Jim is back on the bridge, giving orders and assuming command like he was never ill. The results are most satisfying, and he wonders where McCoy got the idea from.
*
In a manner of speaking, Spock gets his answer by accident one morning, when he has command of the bridge. Jim is sleeping off seventy-two hours of exhaustion from an away mission gone awry, and Doctor McCoy should be too. Spock informs him as such when the doctor appears on the bridge, swaying slightly in the turbolift with eyes that are puffy and bloodshot.
Doctor McCoy blinks at him and opens his mouth, leaving it like that for far too long. Whatever he wanted to say is overtaken by the fact that he lists sideways, grabbing for Spock, his fingers closing around the Vulcan’s hand. Spock’s eyes go wide and he fights the urge to draw back, to retreat from the sudden assault on his mind. The doctor’s emotional state is nothing like the calm void he remembers - it hurts him in a way that he catalogues through sensations that pass through him like waves. Hands that are numb and trembling, lungs that can’t seem to get enough air, and eyes that burn and itch. Through it all, a strange buzzing sensation - one that seems to be screeching through his veins, making his heart race.
“‘s Jim?” comes the slurred question. Spock takes exactly two seconds to clear his head, holding the weary doctor up by his clothed arms.
“The Captain has returned to his quarters to rest. As should you, doctor.”
McCoy nods, and this more than anything disturbs Spock, who is now accustomed to McCoy’s abrasiveness.
The doctor pulls away and reminds him that he shouldn’t leave the bridge. He can find his own way back to his quarters. Spock does not admit that he is shaken as he takes his seat on the bridge once more - but he realises that despite the physical sensations he had felt through their brief meld, he had not been able to identify a single emotion in the mix.
*
There is one illogical indulgence that Spock allows himself from now on: he has a daydream. Just one. In this daydream, he and Doctor McCoy are trapped together somewhere. Sometimes it is in a broken down turbolift, other times it is in a cave somewhere on an icy planet, other times it is in an empty conference room, just the two of them, while the Captain is called away. In this daydream, he speaks freely to the doctor, tells him of his fascination with his methods for keeping their Captain in check. The doctor is always in one of his more amiable moods, the ones that come when he is happily productive, when his work has been pleasant and fulfilling instead of harrowing and exhausting. The doctor answers all of his questions about his emotional state. They talk about this in detached, clinical terms that make sense, and can be compartmentalised, and Spock always feels a spark of lightness in his chest at the prospect. A tingle he cannot quite describe. Perhaps this is how Doctor McCoy manages; he categorises his emotions into their physical sensations. It is a technique Spock is eager to try, when he finds out how. For now, he continues to daydream.
*
There is a doll, a child’s toy on the side of the road in a pre-warp town. The town itself is empty. No, empty is an inaccurate word choice. It is lifeless. Bodies sit frozen in time, forever mid-conversation, mid-argument, mid-whisper of a confession of love. They do not know why, or how, but they will find out. They always do.
Doctor McCoy falls behind, and Spock expects he is trying to take some readings so that they can begin their research. This is quite logical.
When he hears a soft gasp, he turns to find that McCoy is kneeling beside the doll, his arms wrapped around his chest like he is protecting himself from cold, despite it being a temperate day by human standards. His shoulders shake three times, then he takes a deep breath and rises, rubbing at his eyes.
“The hell are you lookin’ at?” he says, and his voice sounds like it has been shredded to pieces.
*
Doctor McCoy is not at their debriefing, and Jim will not say why. Spock knows him well enough by now to know that the hidden thing there, the thing he will not say or explain, is large. He hides it well, but something has developed between the two of them now, a kind of language he cannot translate into words. They speak to each other with a flick of their eyes, the angle of a chin. It feels satisfyingly private (and strangely intimate, though he squashes this thought the moment it crosses his mind).
It doesn’t matter; Spock decides he will find out for himself. He can only imagine that McCoy is working on something important that is taking up his time. Perhaps he will benefit from Spock’s help-
(Spock’s curiosity is getting the better of him, but no. It is logical for him to check on a fellow scientist to see if he requires aid)
Doctor McCoy does not open his door, but he is in his quarters. Spock stands at the door, his hands behind his back, puzzled at the doctor’s reluctance to open up.
“Go away, Spock.”
“Doctor McCoy, if you require assistance, I am here at your disposal.”
“Go dispose of yourself somewhere else.”
McCoy’s tone is that of barely restrained anger, and Spock is confused. Is this another challenge, another test?
“Doctor, you are being illogical.”
“ Go away.”
“Doctor-”
The door opens, and Doctor McCoy is there. He is in his rumpled black undershirt, his hair sticking up at strange angles. His eyes are red and shiny with - with tears? His eyes have a hunted look to them, the skittish danger of a cornered animal. Spock freezes, unsure of where to go from here.
This is where they go. Doctor McCoy shoves at him, and on reflex, Spock puts his hands up to defend himself. Their hands meet in a tangle of angry movement, and for a moment, Spock is near blinded by the sudden onslaught of feeling that tears through his chest. He recognises despair that threatens to burn him from the inside out, sorrow churning in his stomach, and the agony of guilt perched under his chin like a scream begging to be released. It is all too much, too overwhelming for him, and he stumbles backwards in shock.
“Spock. Spock!”
Spock resurfaces from the barrage of secondhand emotional distress to see that he has been propped up against the wall. Doctor McCoy’s face is in front of him but he is now at full alertness, his eyes wide and worried. Spock realises that once again, he has gotten something very, very wrong.
*
Doctor McCoy is unable to contain his anger when he discovers what Spock’s hands are capable of. He prowls sickbay like a wild cat, the muscles in his shoulders taut with the strain of keeping himself together enough to give Spock a checkup.
Spock explains himself, and it is like he can see the fragile amiability the two of them had built being pushed behind a door that slams shut in his face.
Doctor McCoy is trembling, and something in Spock’s chest starts to hurt.
“Should’ve kept your damn hands to yourself,” McCoy mutters as he runs the tricorder over Spock once more, just to be sure. The doctor has always been so thorough when it comes to matters of his care. It is a logical decision, given that Vulcan anatomy is not his area of expertise. Spock is, however, beginning to suspect that this may not be the entirety of the doctor’s motivation.
“Well, that’s it,” said McCoy, not meeting his eyes, “I guess my human emotions were just… too much for your Vulcan brain to handle.”
McCoy snaps the tricorder shut with far more force than is strictly necessary, and walks away. However, he pauses halfway to the door.
“We’ve touched hands before,” he says flatly, still not looking at Spock.
Spock takes a moment to choose his words carefully.
“Previous times, you have had your emotions under an impressive degree of control.”
McCoy scoffs, “now when would that ever have-”
His voice trails off, and a realisation seems to dawn on him, one that colours his cheeks with… embarrassment? His hands clench, then unclench.
“Ah.”
McCoy’s entire posture seems to have changed. He is hunched over, his head dipped, every line of his body on the defensive, like he is trying to protect something. Spock watches this with fascination, and then realises he has been staring. Humans do not take kindly to this, he has found.
“Yeah, that’s ah - well, it’s none of your damn business,” he mutters, “and I’d thank you to not go talking about it to anyone else on the ship either.”
Spock blinks.
“On the contrary doctor, I was hoping that you would teach me. How to achieve your level of control, that is.”
McCoy barks out a laugh that is frightening in its lack of humour.
“Have depression, I guess,” he says. He turns on his heel and leaves to put his equipment away.
The revelation hits Spock like a physical force that knocks the wind from him. He can feel everything he has built around his knowledge of the doctor crumbling to pieces. Every interaction he has had with the man needs to be carefully picked apart and re-evaluated.
It seems so obvious, now that McCoy has explained. Not an intentional control of emotion, but an illness .
An illness he had congratulated him on.
Spock scrambles to get up from the biobed, knowing if nothing else, he must make an attempt at fixing this.
Doctor McCoy is in his office. In one hand he is holding a stylus, while the other rakes through his hair. He appears to have been pacing aimlessly when Spock enters, though he stops the second he realises someone else is in there.
“Clean bill of health, Spock. You can go.”
His voice is monotonous, devoid of life. Another piece slots into place, and Spock decides that he does not like this side of Doctor McCoy at all, nor does he envy it. The absence of emotion feels more like an absence of life here, like the doctor’s very soul has packed up and left, leaving this in its place. Spock feels that grating feeling in his veins again, and realises that this time, the sensation is his own and he must put a name to it.
“I am worried about you,” he says, and regrets this immediately. He has done it incorrectly again, focused the attention on himself when the doctor is clearly in need of-
“I’m fine, Spock.”
Doctor McCoy does not look fine. He looks exhausted.
“I have been unkind. I did not intend to be, but I-”
“Spock, you don’t have to say anything to make me feel better, it’s fine. Just forget it. You don’t have to - to pretend to like me or anything because you feel bad,” a deep breath, “just do what you normally do and we’ll go on our way.”
The last remnants of his understanding of McCoy crumble beneath him, and Spock realises they will have to rebuild this. From the ground up.
“Doctor McCoy,” says Spock, and his voice is slightly breathless. If he were human he would curse.
“Doctor McCoy,” he tries again, “it appears I have made a terrible mistake.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” replies McCoy, crossing his arms, “you sure you’re feeling okay? I might have to give you another once over with the-”
“Doctor, please, ” says Spock, “I implore you, listen. I have - there are too many errors I have made to count. My initial assessment of your emotional state was incorrect to start with, and I fear it has made my actions… less indicative. Of what I truly mean.”
McCoy blinks at him. He has not understood. For a brief, wild moment, Spock curses the Vulcan way of teaching precision in language. It does not translate. None of this does.
“I think you are,” says Spock, drawing a deep breath to calm the way his heart flutters, “extraordinary.”
McCoy’s eyes widen for a second, but then they narrow.
“I don’t go for any of that “you’re so brave” nonsense if that’s what you’re trying to”
“No!” said Spock, more forcefully than he has ever said anything to any member of this crew.
“No,” he said again, more softly this time, “no, doctor, you misunderstand me. I have always found you extraordinary. I would, regardless of whether we had this conversation or not.”
McCoy exhales, and Spock mentally notes how much tension he had been holding in his shoulders. Is he always like this?
“Hell of a misunderstanding,” he says, and to Spock’s relief there is warmth in his eyes again. Suddenly, they both can breathe once more.
“As I said,” says Spock, “I have made a terrible mistake.”
“You could say that again,” says McCoy, “I thought you hated me.”
McCoy wipes his hands down the front of his scrubs, and sighs.
“Listen,” he says, “I’m beat. I don’t - I don’t think I’ve got the energy in me right now to make you explain. But if you wanna, you know, clear the air a bit. You know where to find me. And I’d like to know how the hell you managed to turn “I find you extraordinary” or whatever into… whatever that is.”
A thought pops into Spock’s head.
“I imagine it is perhaps something akin to insisting on ascertaining my wellbeing while simultaneously complaining about my status as a “goddamned Vulcan””
“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” says McCoy, ushering him out of the office.
The two of them part with a smile - one that twitches at the sides of McCoy’s mouth and hides in the crinkles at the corners of Spock’s eyes. As the two of them make their way back to their quarters, the little inner voice that has been rebuilding Spock’s thoughts throws one more brick on the pile. Perhaps his daydreams have not been of a purely logical nature, either. This one though, is not something he is willing to pick up and examine just yet. For now, he has some meditating to do, and a standing invitation he will not miss for anything in the universe.