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It is late.
Or perhaps, it is early. In either circumstance, Spock realizes his uncertainty of the time far too late. There’s a swift sound of the doors. A raspy command to the ceiling. And Spock—regrettably—cannot prevent the flinch of his eyes in the increase of bright light that opens the room, the inhalation of his own breath—soft, yet resounding when he hears it too sharply in his ears.
Spock straightens immediately at the sound of footsteps, a call of his own name.
“Spock?”
Quickly, he returns to his reports, each punch of his fingers, he acknowledges—and frustratingly—a fraction too slow.
But the Doctor has already noticed.
“How bad is it?” He hears—a question drawled from just beyond the partition. And it’s not about the text, what Spock was or wasn’t pretending to read—or the fact that the lights were dimmed to a near shadowless twenty-five percent.
Although, the latter, he knows, is a part of why Leonard asks.
Spock wants to tell him he is fine, that his pain level is irrelevant when it does not interfere with his duties. Yet milliseconds pass before Spock answers; he cannot lie no matter how much he very nearly wishes to.
“Enough,” the tone is quiet, culled by a narrow hiss born from strain at the backs of Spock’s teeth.
A huff tells him Leonard disapproves. Spock expected this. Nor is he allowed to wait long for a pair of hands—steady and calloused and strong—to find their way into his hair. Spock feels them thread just behind the shell of his ears, combing through dark strands until they’ve cupped around his skull and there are thumbs digging, and nails scratching, into all the right places it aches the most.
“When’d it start?” This, at the crown of Spock’s head. The warmth of Leonard’s breath sinks between each churn of the Doctor’s fingers.
There is no logic in concealment; admission comes at the price of a sigh, “Four point seven hours ago.”
The second noise above him is merely one of acceptance. In truth, Spock expected more—anger or annoyance in the knowledge that Spock has gone this long without proper treatment or personal care.
Inside the desk, a cylinder of metal tubing burns where he left it. Unused. A recipe to assist him through the cracks in his thoughts, places where the desert no longer exists, and his mother falls into darkness. Spock releases air through his nose. It had been—it still is—a determination to prevent dependency or weakness—because he had been improving—that drove his negligence more than any notion of pride.
Those fingers press harder. Spock cannot recall when he closed his eyes. Pressure pushes into skin, a sensation of comfort and calm, burrowing deeper and more aggressively on dense bone. Leonard’s presence is at his back, thumbs traveling to the base of his neck. They move where his skull meets his spine and dig.
Something snaps and Spock can do nothing but sag.
“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Spock feels himself being moved, the hand in his hair slipping to his shoulders, then assisting him in skimming off his uniform shirt. Every touch is methodical, careful, gentle despite the coil of Spock’s strength underneath—the cracks in the desert, fissures that never quite healed. It’s somewhat distantly he notices the Doctor reaching for his second layer. He grabs for Leonard’s wrists to pause them, standing close.
“Leonard.” The name is soft on Spock’s lips when seeks out the Doctor’s mouth, kissing him with every measure of his gratitude and affection—a thank you.
“Yeah,” he hears, pain dissipating inside the sound of that breath, “I know. I love you, too, you big idiot.”