Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sheets are thinner in Spock’s bed. It's comfortable - even if the bed is not. Leonard wakes all at once to the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters. He can barely feel the sheets and the mattress beneath him, and the single square pillow that Spock likes to employ could be a rock against his head. Typical Vulcan.

Leonard's hand finds the edge of the bed before his eyes find Spock across the room: meditating, eyes closed, and knelt by a golden wick candle. He doesn’t stir at Leonard’s sharp awakening. The candle doesn’t flicker as Leonard swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Spock?” he calls, although he knows it’s useless. Only an alert from the ship could rouse Spock from a deep meditation. The same can be said for Leonard’s sleep - in which he begrudgingly snores - so it’s strange for him to have woken so quickly, without apparent reason.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He must have been dead on his feet. At least he had the forethought to change into his sleep clothes. Leonard pulls his robe around his shoulders, unusually chilled. It’s always so warm in Spock’s quarters. But he hardly spares it a thought.

He yawns. Rubs a knot out of his neck. The bed is hard and unforgiving, and he’s still not used to sleeping in it. This thing he’s got going with Spock is pretty new. He’d call it a relationship if he wasn’t so sure he’d curse himself. It is what it is. Friendship. Partnership. Something left undefined. His track record is all the better for it. So is his sex life. And his mood.

Jim’s happy they’re getting along, too. When they aren’t making out in the shared Captain-XO bathroom, that is. Leonard’s quarters aren't that much safer, sharing their bathroom with Scotty. He’d rather Jim’s surprising discretion (and well-meaning teasing) than Scotty’s wolf-whistling any day.

Leonard bites back a smile and crosses into the living space. The open archway connecting the two rooms lets him look back at Spock in the bedroom, undisturbed in meditation. Maybe he will wake soon. He never meditates for long. Leonard wishes he could function on so little sleep, but that’s a peril of being Human, he supposes. Even with seven hours of sleep, he still isn’t functional until his first cup of coffee. He yawns again, reaching blindly for the meal card atop of the synthesiser. He pats the machine once, twice, three times, and doesn’t find a thing.

“Ah, to hell with it.”

Leonard manually jabs in the code instead. Nothing happens. He tries again, focusing on the number pad. Still nothing happens, not even a light. He tries a few more codes - his usual breakfast, some porridge, a plate of toast, soup, anything - but the synthesiser ignores his commands.

Of course it’s broken. Why wouldn’t it be? Just as well he seems to have misplaced his meal card because Starfleet’s flagship clearly just can’t keep itself together now, huh?

“Computer. Log a maintenance ticket. Broken food synthesiser in Commander Spock’s quarters. Stardate 2262.283.”

The familiar chime of the computer doesn’t come. Leonard’s eyebrows hit the ceiling.

“Computer, acknowledge.”

No response.

“Damn strange,” he says. He tries the comm unit on the wall. “McCoy to Engineering. Engineering? Someone respond.”

Nothing, not even comm static. Leonard scrubs a hand down his face, wondering if it’s too late to simply go back to sleep. God knows what time it is right now, and he doesn’t have the computer to tell him. Hopefully it’s the middle of the gamma shift and he’s not expected anywhere. Hopefully the ship isn’t in trouble. Or being attacked.

“Don’t be stupid, Leonard,” he tells himself. The emergency alerts run on seperate systems - and he would have noticed one going off in the room. Plus, Spock is here. The day Spock meditates through a crisis is the day pigs fly.

It’s strange, though. Something about the ship being in danger… nags at him. Is it in danger? Why would he think that? Aside from the obvious lack of internal communications and whatever-the-hell circuits the synthesiser runs on, something about all of this doesn’t feel right.

Unease stirs in Leonard’s gut. Nothing seems to have gone right since he woke up - and the thing is, he really doesn’t remember falling asleep.

What had he been doing before this? Dinner? Sex? The living and sleeping areas look untouched, but Spock’s pedantic about those sorts of things, so it’s hard to tell. No, before that. He must have been on-duty in Sickbay. A double shift? Had there been an emergency?

His feet carry him to the door. There’s no need to disturb Spock over a bit of worrying. Leonard will just poke his head out into the corridor and hope the comm unit around the hall is working. Or maybe he’ll bump into another senior crewman and ask what the hell is going on. If he’s lucky, he might even pass Scotty. Or Jim. Or -

The door doesn’t open. A quick yelp and a flinch save him from breaking his nose.

"What the hell?"

These doors aren't supposed to lock on this side. Leonard punches the manual override and vows to give the Engineering team a piece of his mind.

Nothing happens.

"Shitsake," he hisses, starting to feel a little freaked out. A broken synthesiser is one thing, and the comms on this ship are as delicate as all get out, but the doors can function on emergency power. And given that the lights are still working, the ship at the very least has that.

Now feels like a good time to wake Spock.

Leonard marches back into the bedroom. It's not often he has to pull Spock from meditation, and he bites his tongue to distract himself from the guilt. But Spock will understand.

"Hey. Hey, Spock. Wake up."

And just like everything else in the room, there's no reply. Leonard rolls his eyes, shoving aside a thought about Vulcans and computers. He'll have to shake Spock awake then - or shout. Neither of which will be fun ways to wake. Let it be said that he tried to be nice. But if they can figure out a way to get something in this damn room working, then the ends will justify the means.

Leonard wraps his hands around the inch of Spock's wrist peeking out from his sleeve. Immediately, his sense of unease intensifies. Spock is cold. He's almost numb to the touch, in fact. Leonard's fingers start to tingle. He pulls his hand back sharply with a horrified gasp.

"Christ. Computer -"

There's no computer. Leonard swears loudly and shoves his hands against Spock's neck to feel for a pulse. The fact that this doesn't wake him is alarming, but what's more alarming is the complete lack of anything under Leonard's hands. Of course there's skin, muscle, bone, and Spock, but there's nothing but that same numb sensation from a second ago - no warmth, no feedback, no movement, no pulse.

But Spock's - breathing. He's breathing. His skin has colour. He's holding himself up - not quite asleep, and not in pain. Leonard can hear his controlled breaths on every quiet inhale, exhale, and inhale.

He needs a tricorder. As soon as yesterday. Leonard nearly trips over the candle as he vaults to his feet; and of course that would be what wakes Spock, not Leonard's calls or stomping around, and not his hands against Spock's body, pressing into his clothes and his skin and the little fledgling thing they have would one might call a bond.

Spock opens his eyes and the sight of them freezes Leonard in place. His heart hammers. There's a medkit in the compartment by Spock's bed, just out of reach. He could turn and grab it in two seconds flat, but he knows then, without a doubt, that there's nothing he could do.

Spock's fine. Totally fine. He snuffs out the candle and gets to his feet. He looks like some sort of storybook nurse standing there in his long, Vulcan robes and carrying the curved hook of the candle holder. His face is entirely emotionless except for the drop of his eyelids as he looks straight at Leonard and then away.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

It's not Spock that's cold, Leonard realises, with a bitten-off laugh. It's not the room. There's nothing wrong with the room. Not the electronics, or the alarms, or the synthesiser, or the doors. There's not even anything wrong with the computer, which Spock proves by calling out:

"Computer, report time."

And the computer chimes, "It is 0500."

It's Leonard. Whatever the hell is going wrong, it's with him.

"Spock? Spock. Tell me you can hear me."

Spock sets the candle holder onto a shelf. Then he turns back around as though searching for something - or someone - and Leonard feels a dash of hope.

Maybe it's cruel to have hope. That's what Jocelyn used to say. But right now, it's all Leonard's got.

Spock's gaze slides across the room right to Leonard - and then beyond him, unpausing, to the perfectly flat sheets tucked into the empty bed.

He says nothing to Leonard at all.

##

If Leonard ever gets to experience this moment in retrospect when he's old, safe, and not goddamn invisible anymore, he'll consider his ensuing freak-out justified.

As it happens, he feels awfully stupid shouting at the computer like an anxiously-attached dog, and he wears himself out after ten minutes. It doesn’t acknowledge him - and neither does Spock. Leonard’s come to expect Spock’s unflappable non-reaction in response to everything he says or does, but Spock has never downright ignored him before. It’s hardly Spock’s fault, and Leonard would be the first to say so, but it does sting.

There are a lot of things out here in the ass-end of space that Leonard doesn’t understand, but he likes to think he knows the people - the crew, his friends, hell, even the aliens they meet along the way. The people are what he relies on to keep him sane. And Spock is one of his closest friends. Leonard could deal with being invisible to the ship’s systems for the rest of his life if Spock would just look at him and see.

But he doesn’t. He fetches himself a glass of water, reads some things on his PADD, and then disappears into the bathroom for an unusually long shower.

Not once does he give any indication that he’s aware of Leonard. Not even when Leonard waves his arms about or tries to check his pulse again.

“C’mon Spock,” Leonard tries. “My heart can only take so much.”

He still can’t feel Spock’s pulse. But that’s less about Spock’s heartbeat, he’s quickly realising, and more about the fact that he can’t interact with anything. The medkit was also a moot point, in the end, because he can’t pick it up. So it’s just as well Spock wasn’t actually dying because there's fuck all he could have done about it

He tries the door again for the hell of it. Naturally, it doesn’t open, and that’s almost as bad as Spock being completely oblivious to him.

He can’t leave.

“Bet that’s gonna be a problem,” Leonard says, shoving a hand through his hair.

If he could leave Spock’s quarters, then he could try and find out what’s going on. But as it stands, he’s trapped in here with nothing to do and no-one to talk to. Great. And Spock is still in the bathroom. Doubly great.

His attempt to access his PADD is futile. He doesn’t bother trying with Spock’s, because he couldn’t get into it even if he could pick it up. Plus, being invisible is already weird enough. He doesn’t need to add rifling through Spock’s belongings into the mix.

For the lack of anything better to do, Leonard sits on the bed. He can’t pass through things, at least. As his mishap with the door has proven. Not being able to talk to Spock would be the least of his troubles when he inevitably fell through the ship - or out of the ship, which is a fate too frightening to think about.

Leonard shivers, clutching his robe. He feels very small.

What a joke.

Eventually, Spock returns from the bathroom. As much as he appreciates the view, Leonard averts his eyes as Spock dresses, feeling increasingly unpleasant. He doubts Spock would mind if he had any idea of Leonard’s current state, but it doesn’t seem like there’s any chance of that in the near future. Leonard's a lot of things - least of all a saint - but he's definitely not a creep.

“The hell do I do, Spock?” he grumbles.

Spock moves into the living area, and loath for a better idea, Leonard follows him. He synthesises a cup of tea and seats himself at the table with a PADD, and Leonard lingers nearby after trying and failing to move a chair and join him. It’s almost comical. No, it is comical. Jim’s going to have a field day when he finds out about this. Leonard McCoy, doctor extraordinaire, can’t even pull out a chair.

Watching Spock work is about as exciting as paint drying. Leonard redoubles his efforts to draw attention himself, but after an indistinct amount of time calling and shouting and pleading, he admits it isn’t working.

Jim would know what to do. Hell, he’d probably already be visible again if this was happening to him. Few things in the world can deny the force of James T. Kirk with his mind set on something, and whatever or whoever the hell is messing with Leonard right now is not one of those things.

Something about that idea gives him pause. In fact, he can’t believe he hadn’t taken a second to think about it before. People don’t just wake up invisible - not to Leonard’s knowledge, anyway, and definitely not Humans. That means something or someone has done this to him - deliberately or otherwise.

But who? Or what? And why him?

Somehow, it feels like Jim’s fault. It’s always Jim’s fault.

To postulate the Captain’s blame is illogical, Doctor, he can imagine Spock saying.

“Call it a gut-feeling,” Leonard grumbles to himself, thinking back on the previous day. The problem is, the days all blur together on the Enterprise. It’s the same routine, the same faces, the same silver walls every day. Even the days are artificial. The ship functions around the clock - and so does her crew. The only difference between the alpha, beta, and gamma shifts is who’s awake and who’s asleep. The computer reported 0500 a little while ago now, so it’s the tailend of gamma shift. Leonard had probably worked alpha, and maybe half of beta if he’d been stuck in surgery. Or if there had been an emergency.

That feels right. Something had interrupted the daily grind - and not just an accident in Engineering, or a training mishap. Something substantial.

A memory of something flashes across his mind - a bright white disturbed by a nauseating red - and then it’s gone.

The communicator chimes. “Commander Spock to Sickbay. Repeat. Commander Spock to Sickbay. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged,” says Spock. He stands and tucks in his chair in one swift motion. He pockets his PADD and comm. Then he’s across the room before Leonard’s heart has finished leaping into his mouth.

The door.

“Spock!” Leonard cries as the entrance swishes open.

The second’s delay almost costs him. He throws himself out of the room just a half-step behind, bracing preemptively for the crash of the door against his shoulders - but it never comes.

He tumbles into the hallway unscathed.

For a moment, the abrupt change of scenery unbalances him, and he swears that he’s back under the headlights of Sickbay; he can see the bright walls and a sea of white scrubs, the beep of the monitors, the red and green lights. A gold shape seems to lean into his vision. Then he hears Spock’s determined footsteps and remembers where he is.

The turbolift is only a brisk walk away. He runs.

“Deck seven,” Spock commands, oblivious to Leonard crashing into the lift beside him.

It takes all of five seconds for the lift to arrive. Spock steps out again before Leonard has the chance to get his bearings.

"Dammit man, slow down!"

Deck seven is never empty. Leonard feels himself clam-up as he remembers he’s still wearing his sleep clothes, and he’s glad he’s gotten into the habit of wearing longer robes when he’s in private with Spock. But the relief is short-lived. A few officers nod and smile at Spock, and a couple more quickly dart out of his way, but nobody spares Leonard a second glance.

Sweet Mary and Jesus, he really is invisible. This isn’t just some elusive prank from Engineering or silent treatment from Spock. Not that he ever really thought it was, but now there’s not a shadow of a doubt. Not a single Medical officer greets him as they enter Sickbay. He lets out a wobbly laugh.

Spock goes straight to the emergency ward which is - worrying. Both of Leonard’s fellow doctors are on-duty: Geoff and two of the nurses are struggling with a patient on the furthest biobed, their white scrubs like seafoam around an indistinct shape.

Leonard doesn’t immediately recognise their patient - black hair, black clothes (or maybe blue?), humanoid. It could be anyone. Lauretta is at the next biobed with a Security officer, of all things, at her shoulder, and the blur of gold fighting against her hands snaps Leonard’s attention away.

It’s Jim.

“Captain,” Spock starts, and even Leonard barely catches the fraction of surprise in his step. He recovers in the blink of an eye, stopping at parade rest between the two biobeds. “Doctors. Report.”

If Leonard was slightly more corporeal, he would have knocked them both over. As it is, he bustles straight over to Jim and starts barking questions on autopilot. He tries to grab a tricorder and a better angle from the biobed screen before he remembers that he can’t. Of course, nobody notices him throw up his hands, least of all Jim, who doesn’t even flash a guilty grin as Leonard unsuccessfully bodies him back into the biobed.

It’s like touching ice. He can’t seem to get a good grip on Jim, no matter how hard he tries. By the time Spock steps in, Leonard’s hands are tingling with pain.

“I’m fine, Spock,” Jim insists with his usual exasperation. He’s pale except for the dark circles under his eyes, and there’s something frazzled about him - unsettled, but not hurt. He waves a dismissive hand, adding with more urgency, “I just got a little dizzy for a second. Go check on -”

“Dizzy?” Leonard cries, drowning out Jim’s orders. “Did you faint? Did you fall over? I swear, if you’ve cracked your head -”

He reaches for the back of Jim’s head but catches himself at the last second, his fingers still numb. Spock says something behind him but it’s lost to the roar in rage in Leonard’s ears.

“GodDAMMIT. I hate this!”

He slams his hands against the biobed. Why is he even trying to help? There’s nothing he can do here. He can’t even get in the way. Anger swells behind his eyes and he screws them shut, refusing to lose his cool in front of his team. It doesn’t matter that they can’t see him. Leonard presses his knuckles into his eyes. He’s the CMO, dammit, and he has to keep his head.

It's hard. Jim’s gaze darting right past him is a shot to the heart. He’s always said there’s only so much bullshit he can take out in space, but he never really meant it. But this might be more than he can handle.

He’s useless here. How is he supposed to be a doctor? How is he supposed to help Jim?

How is anyone supposed to help him?

“ - was awake,” Jim is saying when Leonard takes a deep breath and comes back to himself. “He looked right at me.”

Leonard turns around. Spock is at the other biobed with the black-haired stranger, reading a medical PADD. Unlike Jim, the stranger is motionless; likely sedated. Geoff’s expression is serious. That’s a bad sign. Geoffrey is lightyears more optimistic than Lauretta or Leonard himself, so whatever he’s telling Spock must be grave.

Leonard can’t quite make out whatever it is over the bustle of the Sickbay - Jim, half-frantic, and the nurses trying to calm him. The biobeds beeping. The Security officer reporting in a low tone. The surge of blood in his ears.

The shouting. Voices. The rush of sterile air against his face as he falls.

Darkness in his vision. A spinning red.

Blistering pain.

##

Leonard wakes up in the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters. The sheets are thinner in this bed than his own. He’s still not used to sleeping in it, and he rubs out an ache in his neck as he pushes himself up. Spock is one of those crazy, only-sleeps-with-one-pillow kinds of people, and Leonard glares at it balefully as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

The room is quiet. There’s a candle flickering across the room and Leonard squints at it painfully. His head hurts like a motherfucker. He presses his fingers into his temple, wondering what he had drunk last night to leave him feeling like this.

“Spock?” he calls, eyes watering as he looks at the little gold candle. A wave of nausea threatens to make him hurl. Leonard claps a hand over his mouth, feeling the room spin. He feels like he hit his head against something. He hopes he didn’t. “Ugh. Spock?”

There’s no response. He peels one eye open and spots Spock knelt on the meditation step by the bed. His eyes are closed and his hands held gently on his knees. He doesn’t stir at the call, but then only an alert from the ship could rouse him from a meditative slumber. It’s the same for Leonard when he’s sleeping.

At least, it usually is. His pounding headache must have woken him. Go figure. He’s not nineteen-years-old with a liver of steel anymore.

“Computer,” Leonard calls, as he stumbles into the living space. “What time is it?”

The familiar chime never comes. He tries again, louder. “Computer! Acknowledge.”

Nothing. That’s odd. Maybe the voice recognition software is having trouble. He doesn’t know enough about computers to try and explain why, so he heads over to the comm unit in the wall. Someone from Engineering will know what’s going on.

“McCoy to Engineering. Engineering, respond. Hey!” He slaps his hand against the panel. “McCoy to Communications. Hello? Can someone patch me through to the most senior Engineering officer on-duty?”

It’s not like Communications not to reply. That’s their job. There must be something wrong with this comm unit too - or maybe everything in Spock’s quarters, or maybe the ship. Is the ship in danger?

Unease stirs in Leonard’s gut. He shoves aside his hungover self-loathing and tries to think back to the day before. What had he been doing before this? Had he even been drinking? It’s not like him to get wasted, not anymore. And definitely not in Spock’s rooms. And doubly definitely not if there was any indication that the ship might be approaching some sort of trouble.

He remembers… being in Sickbay. The white walls. Specks of black at the edges of his vision. The world fading in sound and colour to red.

Something about that red feels… important. It nags at him, but he couldn’t say why.

He turns back to the sleeping area, which is visible through the open archway. Spock is still there beside the candle, but now he seems to be waking. He hasn’t moved an inch despite Leonard punching various electronics. Typical Spock. Unflappable. The ship probably isn’t in any real danger if he’s here.

Leonard takes a deep breath. He watches Spock pull himself from meditation and snuff out the candle. There’s no urgency to his movements, but he’s a Vulcan, so there rarely is. He’s always so calm. And Leonard would rather chew a brick than admit it, but he takes comfort from that. It’s the only reason being around Spock is even halfway bearable.

Well. Maybe not the only reason. Spock’s awfully easy on the eyes.

Leonard allows himself a smile. He walks over, drawing his robe tighter around his shoulders. It’s a little chilly, actually, even for him. Spock's quarters are usually so lovely and warm.

“Hey. You cold?”

Spock says nothing. He passes right by Leonard with the candle holder hooked in his hand.

“Hey. Spock. You’re not still meditating in that pretty head of yours, are you? Don’t you reckon it’s kind of -”

“Computer,” Spock interrupts, turning back with the blankest expression Leonard’s ever seen. And that’s saying a lot, for a Vulcan. Especially if that Vulcan is Spock. “Report time.”

“It is 0500,” the computer chimes.

Leonard immediately forgets his indignation in place of shock. “What? I tried that! I swear, that wasn’t working a second ago -”

Spock steps by him and into the living space. Leonard snaps his mouth shut, stunned by the snub. He’s certainly not one to rely on a Vulcan’s emotional reaction to anything, but there’s a difference between unruffled and rude. Spock has never downright ignored him before. He can’t prevent a sharp intake of hurt.

“Hey. I'm right here. Are you even listening to me?”

Clearly not. Spock fetches himself a glass of water and stands by the coffee table with his PADD. He doesn’t acknowledge Leonard at all, not even with a good morning, or a nod, or a glance. And that’s - this is silent treatment. That’s what this is. And that’s not like Spock at all. If anything, that was all Jocelyn.

Leonard isn’t taking that lying down, not anymore. “Now look here -”

He reaches for Spock’s wrist - and snaps his hand back immediately. It’s like touching ice. He hisses at the unexpected pain and curls his fingers in tight. They’re numb.

It’s the same as before, he remembers. In Sickbay. There were white lights and black shapes and gold.

“Jim,” Leonard breathes - and he swears, he swears for a second, that Spock frowns. “Jesus. You can’t hear me, can you? Hell, you can’t even see me.”

He’s done this before. This morning in Spock’s quarters. The food synthesiser wasn’t working. And neither was the computer nor the comm. At least, that’s what he had thought. But then Spock had woken from his meditation and used everything fine - the synthesiser, the communicator, the PADDs, the doors.

They’d gone to Sickbay. And Jim had been there. Of course he had. This feels like his fault, whatever this is.

To postulate the Captain’s blame is illogical, Leonard, he can imagine Spock saying.

“Yeah, well. Call it a gut-feeling,” Leonard grumbles. He holds his hand to his chest, officially freaked out. The pain is faint, now, like the ache in his head. The hammering of his heart more than makes up for it. His knees feel weak. He stumbles over to the sofa, hoping he isn’t prone to passing through objects. Like the floor. Or the ship.

Bile rises in his throat. Could he fall out of the ship? Surely not. Surely he would have… done that already.

Leonard presses his forehead into his knees. “Oh god. Oh Jesus.”

It doesn’t bear thinking about. And he doesn’t think - not for the next few minutes. When he manages to catch his breath and look up again, Spock is gone. The surge of alarm almost throws him back up off the couch, but then he hears the shower running in the bathroom.

Right. Right. And what next? Spock will have breakfast at the table and read some reports. Leonard will hang around uselessly, shouting and waving his arms. Nothing will succeed in gaining Spock’s attention because he’s goddamn invisible.

And then what? They go to Sickbay. Jim’s there. And then Leonard’s - back here?

To do it all again?

Spock emerges from the bathroom right on cue. He dresses. His shirt is perfectly ironed and his Commander stripes shine. He tugs his sleeves into place over the pale skin that Leonard had tried to touch, none-the-wiser for the attempt. He doesn’t seem to mind Leonard’s lack of presence at all.

And that’s strange, too, thinking about it now. Leonard must have fallen asleep here last night - or the night before, or whatever’s going on. He’s wearing sleeping robes. And he’s waking up in Spock’s bed. And yet Spock isn’t behaving as though he expects Leonard to be here. Which is a damn shame, because asking the definitely-working-computer to locate Leonard (and presumably not finding him aboard) might actually give Spock a head’s up that something is wrong.

And it’s also a damn shame because… this thing they have isn’t casual - despite Leonard’s reluctance to name it. They’ve talked about this like adults. And they can behave like adults. He doesn’t make a habit of disappearing on his lovers at the ass-crack of dawn. He’s not some hotshot with his tail tucked between his legs.

Spock… knows that, right?

“Dammit Spock,” Leonard says, although he knows it’s futile. “For once in your life, stop being so noble. Can’t you do something about this?”

But Spock’s gaze slides right on by him - and he says nothing at all.

##

The summon to Sickbay comes as expected, although Leonard can’t guess how much time has passed since he woke up. He follows Spock down the hall and into the turbolift. This time, he doesn’t have to catch his breath after sprinting out of the room, so he has a second to watch the lights of the passing floors flash over Spock’s face. It feels like the type of moment where one of them might say something profound - the small enclosure of the turbolift seems to create the illusion of privacy - but of course, it would be pointless. Leonard doesn't know what to say anyway. Spock would.

They step out into deck seven, pass the same faces and greetings, and then rejoin the bustle of Sickbay once again. Leonard hangs back this time, tasting vomit in his mouth.

Not a single Medical officer notices him - not even Geoff, who always has a piece of gossip to share. He and two nurses are struggling with a patient on the furthest biobed - but from this distance, Leonard can’t make out who it is.

In the next biobed over is Jim.

He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is so pale that his freckles look like bruises. Leonard’s hunch that there’s an emergency somewhere on the ship is gaining traction. Jim clearly hasn’t slept - and probably hasn’t eaten. His heart rate is flashing red. He waves off Spock’s questions with a vague explanation about passing out. Knowing Jim, he’s probably hypoglycaemic. Idiot.

“I’m fine, Spock. I just got a little dizzy for a second,” Jim says, gesturing towards the other patient. “Go check on him, I can see you restraining yourself.”

Spock steps over to the biobed as though he’s going to attempt a diagnosis himself, and Leonard can’t help but roll his eyes. Spock’s a damn good scientist and a quick study, but he’s no doctor. Give it a few more years and maybe he’ll pick some things up from Leonard, but that’s assuming they’ll even have any more years together. Leonard’s not liking his chances right now.

“What’s the statistical probability of getting out of this one, huh Spock?” he grumbles. “Can’t you two just bash your heads together or something? God knows you’re both bull-headed enough to fix your problems that way.”

Of course, no one answers. Leonard sighs.

If even Spock and Jim can't see him, then really, what hope does he have?

Spock peers over the motionless patient. The nurses move around the bed like a sea of white scrubs. The poor patient is going to get a shock if he wakes up now.

“Has there been any change?” Spock asks.

“Change, Commander? Certainly,” Geoff says, in a tone which suggests that change may not be in the patient's favour. “He has started exhibiting symptoms of parasomnia which we would most certainly not usually find in a comatose patient. Sudden movements and vocalisations. Sleepwalking behaviours. Possible hallucinations.”

Comatose? Leonard shoves aside the self-pity about own situation and focuses his attention on the patient. He leans closer, trying to read the medical PADD.

Spock picks it up before he can get a good look. “I gather from your ambiguity that extrapolating he is therefore asleep would be an expeditious conclusion?”

“Correct,” says Geoff - but it’s such an obvious point that Spock must be indulging him. Damn Vulcans and their compulsion to be the smartest people in the room. Geoff will be used to it. Leonard’s used to it, too, and he feels a surge of affection at the affirming tilt to Spock’s head.

Geoff continues, “His EEG is still showing large fluctuations in brain activity which don’t match the typical patterns of sleep, especially NREM, where we would expect most disordered sleep behaviour to occur. So -”

“He was awake,” Jim interrupts, trying to wave away the nurses. “He looked right at me.”

Spock quirking an eyebrow is an obvious fish for more information. Jim immediately sits a little straighter - which is endearing, sure, but more importantly it’s something Leonard would take advantage of if he was at Jim’s bedside

Luckily, he’s taught his doctors well. Lauretta stabs Jim with a hypospray before he can get any more words out of his mouth.

Watching Jim hit the biobed, Spock wisely lifts his other eyebrow at Geoff.

“His GCS is severe - no verbal or motor response, and fluctuating eye response. His EEG is… confusing. We're not sure what state of consciousness he's in,” Geoff says with a little shrug. “You can see his brain waves have most closely resembled a coma until about an hour ago - yes, there, see the increase in frequency. He sat upright very suddenly about five minutes ago, but given his GCS and the fact I can’t completely rule-out parasomnia, that’s a far cry from being awake."

"The baseline comparison is his own EEG?"

"Yes, awake and asleep. Scroll down. Unfortunately, he's never been in a coma before so we don't have a baseline for that. We can only compare against an average Human brain pattern."

Leonard huffs. Spock hums. At the same time they say, "Unfortunately."

Geoff doesn’t laugh. "It would make my life easier right now if he had. All brains behave a little differently when they're comatose, so there’s only so much the generalised species data can tell me.”

Spock takes a moment to process this. “Have you thought to expand the comparison to that of another species?"

"You mean our -?"

"Affirmative."

Geoff’s expression is grave. “I can run a scan and pull up a preliminary analysis, but I don't think it'll tell us anything we don't already know. I try not to make a habit of inferring conclusions from single-patient case studies. It's a shot in the dark."

"The study of all scientific phenomena begins with a single instance," Spock says. "There must always be a First Contact from which a pattern emerges."

“That’s poetic of you, Spock, but I’d rather have a Second Contact right now if it meant we knew what we were dealing with,” Jim says. “He was attacked. In Sickbay!”

Attacked? By what? Surely not another member of the crew. Maybe it’s just his Human tendency towards blind-faith swaying his opinion, but this crew looks out for each other. Trauma or a disease are far more likely possibilities for disturbed sleep - or unconsciousness, or a coma, or whatever the hell’s going on with this patient, whoever this patient is. Leonard casts his gaze over the officer. Black hair, black clothes (or maybe a dark blue?), humanoid. It could be anyone.

But it’s not anyone. It’s… it’s… who is it? Leonard should know. He’s the CMO, dammit, and he has to know everybody on the ship.

And yet, it’s as though he can’t get a good grip on the patient’s name, no matter how hard he tries. Trying to recall it is like touching ice. Or being underwater. There’s a surge of blood in his ears like being far beneath the waves. It all sounds so far away. Jim. The nurses. The doctors. Spock.

No, Leonard thinks. Not again.

He tries to stop himself from falling but it’s futile. His arms don’t respond. His legs buckle. There’s nothing to catch himself on, even if he could.

All at once, he feels numb - almost paralysed. Fear compels him to call out but he can’t speak. He can’t move. The bustle of Sickbay fades at the edge of his vision. The red lights spin in front of his eyes.

Darkness. Pain.

##

Leonard wakes with a shout in the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters. The sheets are thinner in this bed. He throws himself from them and falls onto his hands and knees on the floor.

"Lights! Lights,” he croaks, the pain in his head making the bedroom spin. He slaps a hand over his mouth, fighting back vomit. “One hundred percent."

Nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t. Of course. Leonard groans and presses the back of his hand into his eyes, trying to will the pain away. It feels like he’s cracked his head against something - hard. And he can guess what it was: the edge of Jim’s biobed. For the second time. Or the third time.

And probably for the fourth time, soon. He peels his hand away from his face, taking in the eerily familiar surroundings. Everything is exactly as it was a few hours ago. Spock’s quarters change little on a good day (everything has its place, even Leonard, which is unabashedly the bed), but Leonard’s definitely not having a ‘good day’.

It’s the same morning over and over again. Spock’s quarters - deck seven - Sickbay. And that’s apparently as far as the day gets before Leonard ends up back here.

This is definitely some alien bullshit. He's never heard of a disease that can do this - this time looping thing.

“This has got to be the dumbest thing that's ever happened to me," Leonard groans. And he went to the Academy with Jim.

He waits until his headache eases before sitting back onto his heels. The taste of vomit lingers. Wonderful. Couldn’t he be re-living a good glass of brandy or something? He’d even take a cup of Spock’s favourite fruit tea.

Spock is, as expected, knelt on the meditation step. The room is dimly lit - perhaps five percent - and a candle flickers in front of him. He hasn’t stirred at Leonard’s sharp awakening. Few things can disturb him from deep meditation and Leonard’s shouting isn’t one of them. Spock’s been immune to it for years. Their friendly bickering is all the more fun for it, but it doesn’t exactly do any good in this situation.

“I could really use your help right now,” Leonard mutters. He pulls his robe around his shoulders and sits down beside Spock. He’ll be coming out of the meditation soon enough. There’s no point yelling at the computer or the comm, so Leonard figures he might as well waste time trying something different.

Not that there’s much to do when he can’t interact with anything. His medkit and PADD are beyond his reach. He probably can’t even change clothes. He spares a thought to the candlelight - could it burn him? - but he decides not to test it. Sticking his hand into an open flame is something Jim would do.

Jim would know what to do. He’s down in Sickbay, though, and Leonard has no way of getting to him any faster than he did last time. Maybe if the doors magically started working and he could go where he pleases, then he could, but what are the chances of that?

If only he could get Spock to notice him.

“You’d think being friends with a Vulcan would have some benefits,” Leonard grumbles, imagining Spock’s unimpressed stare.

For a species that doesn’t do the whole emoting thing, Spock sure can pull off exasperation like a pro. The crew are inexplicably fond of it.

“What else do we keep you around for, if not for getting us all out of trouble?”

He lays a hand on Spock’s knee, needing that reassurance. The adjustment to touching and being touched has been a bit of a challenge for their relationship - but an exciting one.

Physical affection comes easily to Leonard, and it was difficult, when they first set-out on the Enterprise together, to hold himself back from Spock. That's probably half the reason he went so hard on the bickering. It was something they could both appreciate without crossing too many cultural wires. Touch is so intentional with Vulcans.

And that's without considering the telepathy. Leonard still doesn't completely understand the nuances of touch telepathy and he knows he never will. He's bound to mess up. He already has. And he's not entirely sure why Vulcans even need to communicate through their hands when they've got a perfectly good language and the tongues to speak it but, whatever.

Now that he and Spock are doing their thing, they've had to find a new middle ground. Touching Spock through his clothes is generally safe, unless it's his hands or face. They usually only indulge in skin-to-skin contact in private - partly because it is private but mostly because Spock's a surprisingly horny bastard and they usually end up in bed. Or on the couch. Sometimes a table. The floor.

The point is - touching Spock is exciting. Novel. It makes him a little nervous. And if Leonard was slightly more corporeal, Spock could probably feel all that through their little fledgling bond.

"Our bond," Leonard realises. Would that work?

He lays his hands over Spock’s before he can second-guess himself. It’s hard to ignore the unnatural chill of Spock’s skin but Leonard holds tight. They’ve never really talked about Spock’s telepathy. And it’s hard for Leonard to imagine what it feels like since he scored a big fat nothing on the psionic test. He’s no Betazoid, that’s for sure. Thank god. One telepathic species is more than enough in this relationship.

But he’s not looking to read Spock’s mind - or his intentions, or whatever the hell else Vulcans think about when their hands get a little frisky. No, what he needs is for Spock to sense him. It’s a total shot in the dark, he’s aware of that. But Spock has always had an uncanny sense of the people around him. He shows up when he’s needed, no matter where he’s needed: with Jim on the Bridge; the crew on away missions; in the labs; Engineering; and always, always in Sickbay. It’s a skill all but wasted on a Vulcan - except that Vulcan is Spock. And Spock’s not just a Vulcan now, is he?

“Nah, you’re more than that,” Leonard mutters, running his thumb over Spock’s wrist. He shuts his eyes, trying to visualise their bond. “I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

I, too, consider myself fortunate, Spock might say, with a frustrating tilt of his head.

“Thought you didn’t believe in luck?”

You are correct. I do not give credence to the notion of an unquantifiable force that operates over one’s life, for good or for bad, as you Humans do. However, my time among your species has taught me that many things I once thought impossible are, in fact, quite possible. Most notably in relation to the crew of the Enterprise.

“You mean Jim.”

That is one conclusion that can be inferred, says the imaginary Spock. Jim often remarks that he is ‘lucky’ after he has overcome an obstacle, often at the expense of his skill. It is difficult to deny his reasoning - illogical although it may be - when I have knowledge of how few phenomena across the known universe can deny Jim Kirk. It is a number too small to ignore its significance.

“So, there’s just too many darn coincidences, ey?”

Yes. And as I do not believe the Captain has precognitive capabilities, it may be wise to accept that he does, indeed, utilise luck as well as skill.

“Oh, he hasn’t got any precognition, that’s for sure,” Leonard huffs. “His mouth runs too fast for that.”

That is, in itself, a skill.

“Now you’re just sprouting horseshit. I bet his mouth’s the thing that’s gotten me into this mess. He probably insulted some alien ambassador and now we’re all forced to live out our nightmares. You remember that time with the Horta? Just like that.”

It is illogical to assign blame, Spock chides. We would have never placed you in harm’s way had we known of the risk.

Leonard’s eyes snap open. “What? What’s this ‘we’ business?”

Spock’s eyes open too. There is a moment where he appears to focus on Leonard (there's recognition in his eyes, Leonard would swear on it; he knows exactly what having Spock's undivided attention is like and he sits straighter, hope leaping into his throat) but then Spock gathers himself and the candle between them, and slides to his feet.

Leonard tries to grab him. “No, Spock! You're in there, aren't you? You can hear me. Spock. Spock! Dammit man, don’t ignore me! And don't -!"

The bathroom door swishes open. Leonard doesn't delay this time - in fact, he doesn't even think. He throws himself into the bathroom just a half-step behind and is immediately struck with that cold not-quite-there sensation as he bumps into Spock. The force pushes him back into the doorway and he almost yelps as the bathroom door snaps shut just inches behind him.

The lights burst on. They're near-blinding in comparison to the bedroom and the abrupt change of scenery unbalances him. He swears he's in Sickbay again, lying under the headlights in the emergency room. People move about him in a sea of white scrubs. The biobed is blissfully cold.

Leonard groans and doubles over, clutching his head. Monitors beep and voices ring in his ears. Nausea rushes into his mouth and his eyes blur with colour and pain: blue and green and gold and so, so much red.

Then he hears Spock’s determined footsteps and remembers where he is. The bathroom. With the door shut behind him. Shit.

"Spock -" he starts, hoping against hope to find a way out of this. Sharing in Spock's morning routine is usually something to look forward to, but not like this.

This is… awkward. Embarrassment overwhelms the taste of vomit in his mouth - but Leonard would rather the vomit. He punches the manual override on the door in case it feels like freeing him from this stupidly textbook mistake - but no, nope, of course it doesn't.

"Holy fucking sweet Mary and -"

Spock ignores the swearing. And the shower. And the sink. He steps over to the door at the other end of the room and walks straight on through.

To Jim's quarters.

" - beJESUS SPOCK -"

"Captain," Spock begins, settling into a parade rest just a few feet into Jim's goddamn room because of course he hasn't been taking an aeons-long shower the last two times they've been here. Leonard was stupid to even consider it. "Forgive the intrusion."

Spock can hardly be considered intrusive. The same can't be said for Leonard, all but falling out of the bathroom and landing in a heap on Jim's floor.

Jim appears around the partition which hides his desk. This is an early wake-up call for him, even for the days he's on alpha shift. He doesn't seem to notice his ridiculous bedhead - or Leonard.

He smiles and beckons Spock over. "I figured you'd drop by at some point, Spock, and you know I'd lock the door if I didn't want you coming in. You haven't walked into it yet, have you?"

"As a Vulcan, I am capable of a reaction time which would prevent such an occurrence."

"Well, maybe you'll get to test that one day," Jim says good-naturedly. "Did you get any rest?"

"Affirmative, Captain. You, it seems, did not."

"Bless yer heart, that's an understatement," Leonard grumbles. Jim looks like he's running on caffeine and fumes. If he looks this bad now, it's no wonder he passes out in Sickbay later.

"I'll sleep when the crew’s safe," Jim says, much to the surprise of absolutely no-one. He swivels around in his chair, gesturing to the PADDS and paperwork strewn over his desk. "I can't just sit here and do nothing."

Of course not. God-forbid Jim Kirk takes ten minutes out of his day to shove some food down his gullet.

"Talk some sense into him, Spock," Leonard says.

As though he can hear the plea, Spock obliges. “Sleeping for the recommended seven-to-nine hours for an adult Human male does not constitute ‘nothing’, Captain.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant, Spock. Sleeping's not going to help us get to the bottom of this. I’ve been going over the transcript from our conversation with the No'ahkon."

The what? Leonard steps closer, listening intently. It sounds alien, whatever it is; and not one he’s heard of.

Spock inclines his head, apparently understanding this strange word. "What facts have you uncovered?"

"Well, other than their language being pretty cool, not much. The universal translator can't handle all of the repetition so it's been slow-going unscrambling everything with the Comms team. Uhura's gone through the whole thing at least five or six times already. The way they talk about things is all… circular. Picking out the relevant details at the right time is a pain in the ass."

"There was no explanation as to how they came to approach the Enterprise?"

“Approach?” Leonard echoes, muttering to himself. So, this is definitely some alien malarkey. Typical. He was half-joking when he suggested Jim might have insulted some foreign ambassador but now it looks like that’s exactly what’s happened. It’s strange that Leonard can’t remember anything about it, though. An unknown alien presence aboard the ship is at minimum a yellow alert.

"Through warp, I imagine, so we don't have to worry about the Prime Directive at least, but Scotty’s looking into it,” Jim replies. “But no - you don't have to frown at me, Spock, I'm being deliberately obtuse here - we haven't got any idea how they got marooned out here, but I’d guess they’ve been here for a few weeks at least. Ion storm maybe? We haven’t detected any in this quadrant recently, but you know what they’re like.”

Marooned? That implies possible trauma - starvation, dehydration, psychological concerns. Sickbay would have been prepared for an emergency. Leonard would have been there - not sleeping in Spock’s quarters.

Unless… he’s missing more time than he’d thought. His memories before falling asleep are fuzzy. He had assumed he’d been on shift as normal, maybe even a double shift.

Surely, he would have remembered a ship’s worth of aliens coming aboard. Rescuing the marooned ship from deep space would have been a challenging operation - it could have taken hours. Has he really lost that much time?

"You do not suspect foul play?" Spock asks.

Jim looks too tired to suspect anything. "From who? There's no-one else out here."

"It was not a distress call the Enterprise received."

"You think this is some sort of ploy? To get aboard?"

That's awfully paranoid for a Vulcan. Leonard crosses his arms, not liking the sound of this one bit. If only he had more of the facts - or a way of getting them. Hell, he’d take a PADD and access to the security cameras if nothing else. All he has is a splitting headache and one hell of the crazies.

"Their first act upon the ship was to assault a crewmember,” Spock says - and Leonard could kick himself with realisation.

The patient. There’s a stranger down in Sickbay with Security detail. That must be who Jim and Spock are discussing. Black hair, black clothes, humanoid. A member of the crew, he had assumed, and now he feels terrible for not giving it a second thought. He hadn’t questioned the Security officer at all. As soon as he had seen Jim on the other biobed, every other thought had fled from his mind.

“Dammit Jim,” Leonard grumbles. He needs to get back to Sickbay. He needs information.

"Spock," Jim says softly, shaking his head. "People do crazy things when they're scared. We both know that."

Spock shifts his weight. "Has there been no change?"

"I haven't been down to Sickbay," Jim admits. "I'll go in a bit. M'Benga hasn't commed so I think everything's all right."

Spock inclines his head. "You are avoiding him."

The alien? Leonard would avoid him too, if he was prone to assaulting the crew.

But Jim flushes, of all things. "No! No. I'm just more use up on the Bridge."

"We are not on the Bridge."

"Same difference."

"By all accounts, your quarters and the Bridge are not the same,” Spock says, and Leonard can’t help but laugh. Winding Jim up really is their favourite shared pastime. “You could conduct your analysis in Sickbay if you so desired. Therefore, I theorise that you are purposely -"

"Okay Spock," Jim huffs. "I hear you. I feel guilty, all right?"

"You are not at fault. To postulate blame over something which you had no control -"

"It's my ship. My crew. I sent him to Sickbay."

"There is nowhere else he could have gone, Jim."

Jim sighs. "I know, okay? It’s just - I’m worried. But you don’t seem to be."

"Worry is an emotional response to a stimulus typically out of one's control," says Spock. "I do not worry -"

"Bullshit -"

"I merely attempt to regain control over that which I have lost."

Leonard rolls his eyes. Typical Spock. Why say something in two words when he can use twenty? Darn Vulcans and their compulsion to be the smartest people in the room. Jim will be used to it. Leonard’s used to it, too, and he feels a surge of affection at the almost challenging tilt to Spock’s head.

Jim cracks a smile. "So, you will be going down to Sickbay then?"

"Once I have refreshed my personal hygiene and outfitted myself in a more appropriate uniform, I shall."

"You can admit it, you know,” Jim says, taking the words right out of Leonard’s mouth. “Commander Spock, a worrywart. I won't tell a soul."

"I am neither of those things,” says Spock. “It is not who may hear me that concerns me.”

“Wish you’d hear me,” Leonard grumbles.

Jim shakes his head. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be. Saying things aloud doesn't make them any more or less real. It's already all there in your head. What more is there to be afraid of? Bones is just like that, you know.”

Leonard startles at the use of his name. He was almost starting to think that he’d been wiped from the face of existence, with how little anyone has been acknowledging his disappearance. He shouldn’t be so reassured by such a stupid nickname, but he feels tears swell in his eyes.

“Jim -”

"Go on then, scram," Jim interrupts, dismissing Spock with a cheeky wave of his hand. "We can go over this after breakfast. Computer - schedule a senior officer’s meeting at 0800 sharp. What’s the date today? Stardate 2262.258. Invite all senior officers on today’s alpha shift and any who have not yet logged a sleep cycle. I want to find out everything there is to know about this guest of ours.”

“Yes Captain,” Spock says, turning back to the bathroom.

The door swooshes open. His gaze passes unceasingly over Leonard - still not recognition, not even a goddamn flicker - and it’s that, more than anything, more than knowing how the next hour in Spock’s quarters will play out, that compels Leonard to stay.

The door swooshes shut.

“Sickbay then?” Leonard asks hopefully, but Jim just sighs and turns back to his PADD.

He’ll have to go down there soon if he’s going to beat Spock - and he will beat Spock, because he has done the last two times they’ve gone through this. Only this time, Leonard will be with him. Whatever strange things are going on with this alien patient and Jim passing out, he’ll finally be there to witness it.

“And now, we wait,” Leonard says, and he leans up against the door to do just that.

##

The turbolift is only a brisk walk away. Leonard worries his hands together as they wait for the lift to arrive, half a step behind Jim’s shoulder. Trying to get a good read of Jim’s PADD is near impossible at this angle, and he can’t exactly bark at Jim to stop fidgeting. They’ve both got their nervous habits. Leonard is due a nice cool glass of brandy after all this is over to finally calm those nerves.

They squeeze into the lift. Chekov is already there.

“Keptin!” he cries, oblivious to Leonard nearly taking him out with an elbow. Three is a bit of a push in a space this tight, especially with Leonard’s shoulders. Jim and Chekov are both as thin as reeds so they’ll be fine. “Where are you heading?”

Jim’s eyes dart upwards. He smiles easily, slipping into his role. “Deck seven please, Chekov. Don’t tell me we’re all pulling all-nighters up here?”

Chekov ducks his head. His accent is heavier when he’s tired, just like Leonard’s. “Sorry Keptin, I am on my way to the shuttlebay. I promised Mr. Scott I vould help him.”

“Well, remind Mr. Scott there’s a senior officer’s meeting at 0800 and that if he hasn’t sent you to get some sleep by then, I’ll be having words with him. All right?”

“Aye sir,” says Chekov. “And Keptin - if you are going to Sickbay, vould you pass on my well wishes? They were invented in Russia, you know.”

Deck seven is never empty. A few officers turn and smile as Jim’s laughter spills out of the turbolift. He waves Chekov goodbye and strides straight to the emergency ward, his gold uniform a beacon to the Medical staff within. Geoff cuts away from a conversation at the nurse’s station and immediately falls into step with Jim.

“Good morning, Captain. I daresay you haven’t slept, sir.”

“Looks like we’re all having sleeping troubles today,” Jim replies. “Can I see him?”

“He’s in for another MRI at the moment - should be five, ten more minutes. Would you like an update in the meantime? Although, if Commander Spock will be joining us…?"

"He's on his way. Skip the details for now. Anything I should know about? How is he, I mean?"

"He's not in any pain, and his condition isn't deteriorating, as far as we can tell. There aren't any immediate signs to be alarmed."

"Except he won't wake up,” Jim says.

"Except for that," Geoff agrees. "I wish I had better news for you, Captain."

"No. No news is good news, right? As long as it isn't killing him."

"It may well be, sir. There's only so long the Human body can withstand a coma - or a vegetative state."

Jim’s voice rises in alarm. "I thought you said he was sleeping?"

I thought you said this was an alien, Leonard thinks. Frowning, he thinks back to the report Geoff had given last time. A patient with severe GCS and unusual EEG readings. Spock had suggested comparing the brain wave patterns against other species… right, that’s right, because Geoff only had an average Human brain pattern as a baseline.

The patient in question returns from the MRI, questionably-unconscious on a biobed. Lauretta and the radiologist on-duty float the bed back over to the ward, and the nurses swoop in like gulls to reconnect the monitors. The Security officer lingers nearby. Leonard marches over. This time, he ignores Jim, Geoff, and his other colleagues, and focuses only on the man on the bed.

It’s probably a man. Humanoid. Masculine. Long black hair and plain clothes. His face is waxy and unwell, and dotted with small, tear-drop like markings. There must be a reason the nurses haven’t changed him into scrubs. He looks remarkably Human from a distance, so Leonard should be forgiven for his mistake. Up close, however, he sees a cluster of organic, black somethings peeking out from under the man’s collar. It’s difficult to say what they are without removing the man’s shirt, but at a glance he’d say they were… feathers. A large patch of them at the back of his neck, and probably all the way down his spine.

This must be the No'ahkon. Or, one of them. It’s not clear how many were rescued from the marooned ship. Leonard can’t believe he’d mistaken this man for a crewman before. It hardly makes sense. Sure, he hadn’t given this No'ahkon much thought, but he’s a doctor dammit. The CMO. He has to pay attention and keep his head.

One thing is clear, though. This isn’t a Human. So why are Geoff and Jim talking about one?

“He looks… dead,” says Jim, transfixed on the No'ahkon. His voice is small, like he’s afraid to use it. Leonard’s heart aches at the sound. “I’ve never seen him like this. Spock’s gonna flip.”

That surprises a laugh out of Geoff. “I certainly hope that’s not the case, Captain. My heart can only take so much.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Can I - ?”

“Of course. I’ll just be having a word with Lauretta. Shout if you need anything.”

Jim steps closer to the biobed and lays his hand on the edge. He doesn’t say anything, and for a long moment, staring down at the motionless No'ahkon is all he does. It’s impossible to tell what’s going through his head. Leonard steps around the other side of the biobed to watch Jim’s face, but his expression remains stubbornly closed-off. His knuckles are white. His back is ramrod straight. A single twitch of his jaw hints at the anger driving him on.

If he’s worried about Spock losing his cool, then Jim must already be most of the way there.

“The hell’s going on, Jim?” Leonard asks. He sets his hands on the other side of the biobed, wishing he could do more than just stand there. Spock had almost seemed to hear him earlier. But Jim only has eyes for the No'ahkon - and his eyes are hard. “What sorta trouble have you brought into my Sickbay this time? Aliens I can deal with. Hell, even aliens trying to kill me I can deal with. But this whole invisible, time-looping thing is taking the cake. Am I going crazy?”

“We’re going to figure this out,” Jim says. “The whole team’s on the case. We’ve got the best Medical staff in the whole galaxy working for us.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Leonard huffs. “They’re my staff. And they’d work a hell of a lot better if I was here to whip ‘em into shape. Why hasn’t anyone called for me? Why aren’t you wonderin’ where the hell I am?”

“I wish you’d wake up. Spock's accusing me of avoiding you, which - I'd say I wouldn't but, you know what I'm like,” Jim says. He finally reaches across and brushes his fingers against the No'ahkon’s shoulder, only to snap his hand back as the No'ahkon’s entire body gives a sudden jerk.

It doesn’t look like anything more serious than a mild sleep-related behaviour, maybe the beginnings of a sleepwalk at worst, but Leonard’s gaze still darts to the monitors to check.

The No'ahkon’s EEG is a shitshow. Geoff had said as such last time, but damn. If Leonard couldn’t see the No'ahkon practically trying to shake himself from the biobed, he’d assume the guy was comatose.

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” Jim pants, as the No'ahkon’s flailing kicks up a notch. He keeps his hands to himself, luckily, instead of trying to hold the No'ahkon down. He throws a shout over his shoulder, “Uh - M’Benga? Nurse? Need a little help over - whoa!”

The No'ahkon bolts upright. Jim throws himself backwards to avoid the collision, and the biobed alarms whine as the monitoring lines snag and rip free. The pulse and BP readings sky-rocket. The No'ahkon’s head slops forward until his chin hits his chest with a dull thunk; he’s not awake, Leonard realises, aborting a futile motion to catch the No'ahkon before he rolls onto the floor.

There’s no tension in the No'ahkon’s body, nothing to keep his neck or shoulders upright. He starts to list backwards almost as soon as he sits up; falling with the graceless weight of a dead animal back onto the biobed.

Jim recognises the danger of the uncontrolled slump almost as fast as Leonard does, leaping forward to catch the No'ahkon’s shoulders with a bitten-off cry.

“Bo -!”

And now they collide - the No'ahkon’s head shoots upward and belts Jim right across the jaw, and then his neck snaps back with a broken sort-of fluidity; his eyes are open and wide and red, they’re a bright and spinning and nauseating red and Leonard stumbles back at the same time as Jim does, captivated and horrified and recognising that gaze.

“Sir!”

"Sir, don't touch him!"

Lauretta and the Security officer dive into the scene. Voices ring out. Shouting. People swarm through the sterile air of the ward, flashing in blue and white and red. Jim leans against the next biobed over, his face scrunched in pain. Blood pounds in Leonard’s ears. Darkness swirls in his vision. The No'ahkon goes down again like a broken doll, swallowed by a sea of white scrubs and the bright, bright red of the Security officer’s clothes. Leonard shoves his head down to his knees.

"Is he waking up?" someone asks in a heavily accented voice, sounding very far away. "Should we call for the Keptin?"

Disbelieving laughter. "Maybe a doctor, first -" The squeak of a chair. Footsteps. Someone approaching or moving further away.

And then, a nurse’s voice above it all:

“Commander Spock to Sickbay. Repeat. Commander Spock to Sickbay -”

##

Leonard bolts upright in the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters and claps a hand over his mouth to muffle a yell.

The No'ahkon. He could have sworn - he could have sworn it had looked like -

"Get a grip," Leonard hisses, pressing his face into his hands. "It's these loops. You're just seeing things. Remembering them wrong."

That doesn't explain the things he's been hearing. Jim and Spock's conversation. The report on the Human patient. The EEG readings. Chekov's well wishes. The fact that nobody seems to give a damn about where Leonard is.

They all know where he is, don't they?

"Fuck," says Leonard. Spock would know what to do.

He throws himself onto the edge of the meditation step. A sharp frown unsettles Spock’s typical composure; his ungodly eyebrows are furrowed deep into his forehead, and though he doesn’t wake at Leonard’s panic, something does appear to disturb him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t visibly react as Leonard all-but crashes down on top of him, but Leonard will take any sort of acknowledgement right now.

“Spock! Spock.” He manages a deep breath before laying his hands over Spock’s. No need to spook the poor man. He’s still not entirely convinced Spock had any sort of awareness of him last time, but being friends with a Vulcan has to have some benefits.

Leonard pushes aside his doubts and thinks of their bond; visualises it like a string, or a hallway, or - no, a pathway to an old country house, with wide, bending stone and a white picket fence. Cream walls. A red roof. The McCoy homestead: a real Georgian dime.

He doubts Spock has ever seen an American country home. As though beckoned, he watches the Spock in his mind step out onto the porch, looking as prim and proper as always, and decked out in his crisp, Science blues.

The overalls not working for you? Leonard calls over, helpless not to laugh. A Vulcan on his granddaddy’s porch. Who'd've thought?

Spock finishes his slow examination of the house before settling his attention on Leonard. He’s as close to the real thing as Leonard could ever imagine: maybe he is. This Vulcan mind-melding voodoo will forever be a mystery.

This depiction of our subconscious affiliation is most peculiar, Doctor. This building holds meaning to you?

Leonard strolls up the path. ‘Course it does. This is my ol’ nanna and granddaddy's place. Been in my family for generations.

Spock accepts that with a nod. This was a significant part of your childhood. It is an unforeseen representation of our mental bond.

Is that disapproval I’m hearing there, Spock?

Unforeseen but not unwelcome, he clarifies, regarding Leonard gently as they meet on the porch. He looks real up close, too, tall and broad shouldered and beautiful. This place is a refuge for you. Should I surmise that you view our accord in a similar manner?

At least Leonard’s not the only one coming up with different names for their relationship. A refuge, huh? I'd say so. S’where I grew up. Moved out when me and Joce got our own place. Things might've been mighty different if I'd stayed. No Starfleet, for one.

Your absence would have been an unquantifiable loss, says Spock, holding out two fingers.

Nah, I doubt you would’ve even noticed, Leonard says, accepting them. He returns his own kiss to Spock’s cheek, a quick brush of his mouth to the edge of Spock’s ear. If he closes his eyes and lingers there for an extra moment, then Spock will never tell. God, I’ve missed you. Are you really here right now? I’ve been trying to get you to notice me for hours.

Please explain.

In your quarters? And Jim’s quarters. Sickbay. Anywhere, really. It’s like I’m invisible. I’ve been following you around like an idiot but nothing I do seems to change anything. I’ve gone through this day three or four times now.

Fascinating, Spock says, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment this time. I have also been attempting to communicate with you for the past six-point-eight hours. My pursuit has been hindered by the Captain’s insistence that I periodically take nourishment and, in his words, get out of the doctors’ hair.

You’re not allowed to drive my staff crazy, Spock.

I shall endeavour not to do so.

In a pig’s eye you will, Leonard laughs. But when did Jim say that? I’ve hardly left your side during any of these loops. And don’t be flattered - believe me, I’m sick of not being able to open doors by myself.

Spock eyes dart to the side in thought. When they settle on Leonard again, they are pinched in confusion. It is I, Leonard, who has passed little time away from your bedside. Your rank combined with the automatic nature of most entryways on the Enterprise should allow you unhindered access throughout the ship.

Tell me something I don’t know, Leonard grumbles. Hang on, what bedside?

Your bedside in Sickbay.

Sickbay?

The memory of the No'ahkon flashes across his mind. Those red eyes bursting open. That terrified gaze. The slump of the No'ahkon’s body back into slumber; how he had folded like a ragdoll into Jim’s arms.

Leonard can’t forget that gaze. It was his gaze. The No'ahkon’s gaze. It had red eyes, and his eyes, and brown eyes. Black hair and brown hair. Blue clothes. A gold shape leaning over him. Skin covered in strange markings and stubble and it had Leonard’s face.

Just for a second. But Leonard had seen it. He’d swear on it.

The No'ahkon had looked like him.

Spock, he starts, only for his family home to shatter into the silver of the Enterprise. He lurches off the porch and lands in a heap in the low gleem of Spock’s quarters.

Fuck, he thinks, unable to find the breath to gasp the word. It feels like he ran a marathon. Sweat drips down his face. He feels cold though, unbearably so. He pushes himself up onto numb hands. Spock’s quarters right themselves into place: the blue walls, the artsy shelves, the ever-tidy bed. It’s all so dark in comparison to the sun-lit Georgia in his mind.

But at least there’s Spock.

Who’s hunched forward over his knees, the candle flame swaying before him with each laboured breath.

“Spock!”

Leonard needs a tricorder. As soon as yesterday. He nearly falls over the candle to get to him; and of course that would be what rouses Spock. Sitting back onto his heels, Spock draws in a deep, calming breath and opens his eyes, and the sight of them freezes Leonard in place.

“Oh no, c’mon Spock, put that Vulcan telepathy to use! Don’t do this to me again -”

But there’s no recognition in Spock’s gaze. He snuffs out the candle and gets to his feet, apparently none the worse for wear. He looks like some sort of Jane Eyre standing there in his long, Vulcan robes with the curved hook of the candle holder cupped behind his hand. He looks straight at Leonard and then turns away, moving beyond him, unpausing, to the perfectly flat sheets and the empty bed, to the archway and the living space, and the tall, moon-skinned alien standing there with the red, red eyes.

“Tell me you can hear me,” says the No'ahkon, those strange, tear-drop like markings distorting as his face twists in pain.

Spock strides past the No'ahkon without acknowledgement, but Leonard vaults to his feet at the plea. “Jesus man! Where’d the hell’d you come from?”

The No'ahkon presses back into the archway as though trying to hide from Leonard’s wrath. It’s an almost laughable concept given how tall he is - far taller than he looked lying on the biobed, pale and ill.

Leonard’s not a small man but he has to take a step backward to fully appreciate the No'ahkon’s statue - all seven feet of it, towering over even Spock. He’s cloaked entirely in black - and his hair is black, and long, and spitting apart at the ends like the twigs of a bird’s nest.

The patch of feathers around his neck look like bruises. They quiver as the No'ahkon swallows nervously.

“I could really use your help right now.”

Well, that makes a nice change from the usual brand of aliens they encounter. But Leonard’s been powerless and invisible for the past-how-many-hours, and he can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You’re the one doing this to me, aren’t you? I’m going crazy because of you, aren’t I?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunate - !? Okay. Okay.” Leonard shoves his hands under his armpits instead of throwing them into the air. “Interspecies protocols. Right. Okay. You’re… a No'ahkon, right? I don’t know what you’re playing at but people tend not to like it when someone messes around in their head. At least, Humans don’t. And I’m a Human. You know what that means?”

He can't say what he's expecting from the No'ahkon, but not for him to pout.

Ah hell, Leonard realises, a bolt of shame hitting him right between the ribs. He's been shouting at a goddamn kid. A seven foot tall kid, mind you, but that's no excuse. Youngsters are the same across the galaxy. The No'ahkon's body language is a dead giveaway.

That may or may not complicate things. Children are easy to handle. Distressed children marooned in the ass-end of space who have been brought onto an alien starship and left unsupervised are not.

"My name's Leonard. What's your name, kid?"

The No'ahkon thinks about it for a moment and then settles on, "Damn strange."

Leonard barks a laugh. "Is that your way of telling me I wouldn't be able to pronounce it? Hang on, that's a good point. How can I understand you? Jim said the translator couldn’t make sense of your language. That it was all about… repeating."

“That’s… gonna be a problem," the No'ahkon decides. He flexes his hands as though physically trying to pluck the right words from the air. "Can't you do something about this?"

"Me? I'm a doctor, kiddo, not a linguist."

"What else do we keep you around for?"

Leonard's eyebrow ticks upwards. "What’s this ‘we’ business? I'm a doctor, a healer. I help sick and injured people - like you."

He nods. "Someone… respond."

"Yeah, I reckon we did," Leonard says, his heart going out to this kid. Dammit, ten minutes ago he was ready to go kicking and raging back into Sickbay to fix this mess. That doesn't look like an option anymore. "We brought you aboard, right? From your ship? Granted, I don't remember a darn thing but Spock an' Jim were talking about ya."

The No'ahkon thinks long and hard on that one. Hopefully he'll remember something from the rescue, but if he doesn't, then that's hardly his fault. Would be nice if he does, though. Leonard's not entirely comfortable dealing with a hypnotising, traumatised, possibly reality-bending child if they both have amnesia.

"...Sickbay?"

Leonard perks up. "Yeah, that's right kid. You remember that? We like to wear blue and white down there."

A slow nod. "You're… seeing things."

"What?"

"This whole invisible, time-looping thing."

"Kid, where in the blue blazes have you been picking up our language from?" Leonard blurts, mentally kicking himself. "I mean, yeah, yeah that's right! The time-loops. Or whatever this is. Is that something you're doing to me?"

The No'ahkon scuffs his feet, which is as good of an admission as any. It's been a while since Leonard's had any dealing with kids - unless the new recruits at the Academy count - but he's well-tuned to the sight of a child caught stealing from the cookie jar.

"I hate this," the No'ahkon mumbles, and Leonard sighs, hearing I'm sorry.

Finding a way out of this mess isn't looking too promising. Which is great. Just great. It's just as well this is happening to him rather than someone like Jim or Spock. Diplomacy, violence, and/or long-winded Vulcan logic probably aren't the best ways to approach this. Children tend not to respond well to at least two of those things, depending on their species.

That doesn't leave Leonard with many options.

He shoves a hand through his hair. "Well look here, people do crazy things when they're scared. And I'm guessing you were scared, right? My staff are all nice and friendly, but Sickbay's a big an' weird place, I know. I just… I said before I'm Human, right? Humans don't have any sort of mind-alternating telepathic powers or nothin'. If you can't undo what you've done, then I'm probably gonna need some help on this one. Is there any way you can - I dunno -?"

He gestures lamely into the living space to where Spock is sipping a cup of tea. The No'ahkon peers around the archway as though he's afraid of what he might find.

"That's Spock," Leonard says. "He's a Vulcan. He's a touch-telepath. If we can get through to him - the, uh, real him - then he can help both of us."

The No'ahkon's eyes widen hopefully. Leonard does his best not to look directly at them, just in case. The way they're spinning is unnatural. "He can help?"

"Yeah, definitely sweetheart. He's smarter than the rest of us combined. Can you do that?"

The No'ahkon nods. The feathers around his neck fluff upwards like an agitated cat. "Yeah, yeah. A Vulcan. A touch-telepath. Approach. Talk some sense into him."

"Well now, I don't know if you'll quite manage that," Leonard laughs, blindsided by the logic. This damn kid. It's like listening to himself through a broken comm. Absolutely buck-wild. "But sure. Whatever. Go for it."

Seriously, what else does he have to lose at this point?

"Just give me a head's up before you do anything too crazy, all right?"

"All right," the No'ahkon parrots - and then he's gone.

##

The rest of the loop continues. Leonard follows Spock into Jim’s quarters with his heart hammering in his chest, expecting the No'ahkon to appear at any moment, or for Spock to suddenly turn around and notice him, but it doesn’t happen. Their conversation plays out almost exactly the same as before, only Leonard’s understanding of it has altered.

“Their first action upon the ship was to assault a crewmember,” Spock recounts - and Leonard could kick himself with realisation.

Of course Spock meant him. He hasn’t spotted anyone else running around Sickbay like a headless chicken, so he’s hopefully the only person who has befallen this out-of-sorts, time-looping fate.

Only two beds were occupied in the emergency ward - his and Jim’s. He should have noticed that detail earlier. As soon as he had seen Jim on the other biobed, every other thought had fled from his mind. He really does have a one-track mind when it comes to Jim.

“Embarrassing,” Leonard grumbles. Jim has had a “kick me” sign stuck to his back since day one of the Academy though, so Leonard’s hyperfocus should be forgiven.

“Spock, people do crazy things when they’re scared,” Jim says, which is definitely true in the No'ahkon’s case. It’s only a child. Maybe Jim’s picked up on that already - he has a sixth sense when it comes to previously unknown aliens. “We both know that.”

Spock shifts his weight. Darn Vulcan doesn’t want to admit he’s concerned. Leonard bites back a few choice words of anger. Standing around and watching his friends worry about him is a special brand of nightmare he hadn’t thought to be afraid of. It’s maddening.

“Has there been no change?” Spock asks.

“I haven’t been down to Sickbay,” Jim admits with a little flush. “I’ll go in a bit. M’Benga hasn’t commed so I think everything’s all right.”

“You are avoiding him,” Spock says, and Leonard kicks himself harder. He can’t believe he’d concluded this conversation was about anyone but him. That’s a rookie mistake. Sure, he’s not primed for logic like Spock, but he knows better.

The conversation ends as it had before. “Computer, schedule a senior officer’s meeting at 0800 sharp. What’s the date today? Stardate 2262.258. Invite all…”

Leonard tunes it out. He stays with Jim again, this time, and follows him down to Sickbay. Chekov’s bright eyes greet them in the turbolift. Leonard side-steps into the lift beside him, claustrophobic and ridiculous in his sleep robes. He’s still not wearing any shoes.

He spares a thought to follow Chekov down to the shuttlebay, but decides it’s probably wise to remain near Jim and Spock. It’s hard to imagine anything down in the shuttlebay would be of any use - except maybe the No'ahkon’s spacecraft.

If there’s anything left of it. Details of the No'ahkon’s marooning and subsequent rescue have been limited so far. It’s hardly as though there’s anyone he can ask. Not right now, at least. The next time the No'ahkon makes an appearance, Leonard will try for more details.

Jim strides into the emergency ward, his gold uniform a beacon. Geoff cuts away from a conversation at the nurse’s station and falls into step, and he looks weary, Leonard notices with a stab of guilt. Geoff’s a good friend and a great doctor, but he’s never had the heart or ambition for the Chief Medical Officer post. It’s also the tailend of gamma shift, which Lauretta usually oversees, so he should be heading to bed soon. That’s not going to happen while Leonard is indisposed.

“Guess I’ll owe you both a drink,” Leonard says, struggling against the urge to clap Geoff on the shoulder. He doesn’t have to worry about that with Lauretta. Her don’t fuck with me aura is potent enough to keep even Leonard’s genteel Southerness away. And there are people who think he’s the scariest doctor on this ship. Ha!

“Anything I should know about?” Jim asks, and Leonard can sure think of a few things right about now. “How is he, I mean?”

“He’s not in any pain, and his condition isn’t deteriorating, as far as we can tell,” says Geoff. “There aren’t any immediate signs to be alarmed.”

“I’m fine, Jim,” Leonard says, watching the wary relief play out across Jim’s face. “You know, just invisible, talking to myself, hypnotised by an alien, seeing the same few hours again and again. A typical day for the Enterprise. What're we fixin' for next?"

“As long as it isn’t killing him,” says Jim.

“Can’t promise that,” Leonard says, and is immediately echoed by Geoff. “I can’t stay in a coma till the cows come home. I’ll go crazy if this is the rest of my life.”

Jim’s voice rises in alarm. "I thought you said he was sleeping?"

“And I thought you said this was an alien, so I guess we’re both wrong,” Leonard says, watching Lauretta and the radiologist on-duty return in the corner of his eye.

They float the No'ahkon’s biobed back over to the care of the nurses - except he knows, now, that the patient isn’t the No'ahkon at all. He’s seen the truth for himself, as hard as it is to believe.

The man in the biobed is humanoid, masculine, and dressed in familiar, blue clothes. Short brown hair and a welcome lack of feathers. A waxy, unwell face without any unusual markings. Almost middle aged. Permanently stressed. Definitely in need of a shave.

“Well I'll be, look at that,” Leonard muses. “That really is me.”

His mind must have tried to rationalise what it was seeing. It made sense for the patient to be the No'ahkon and so it was. Leonard can’t be in two places at once, no matter what Jim sometimes thinks.

The nurses reconnect his body to the monitors and recalibrate the biobed. Lauretta pulls a blanket up to his waist. She shares a significant look with Geoff that doesn’t bode well, and then backs off to update Leonard’s chart.

“Christ Almighty, what’s with all the long faces?” Leonard says, scanning the small crowd. He refuses to lose his cool in front of his team, regardless of whether or not they can see him. “Best Medical team in the whole galaxy, ain’tcha? You’ll figure it out. If you don’t, Spock an’ Jim’ll beat you to it and you know we can’t have that.”

At this point, he doesn’t really care who pulls the rabbit out of the hat, but what’s a bit of friendly competition between divisions? He can’t have his staff slacking off just because he’s not around.

“He looks… dead,” Jim says, transfixed on Leonard’s veritably not dead body. “I’ve never seen him like this. Spock’s gonna flip.”

Leonard can confidently say that Spock won’t flip, partly because it’s Spock, but mostly because he’s seen the next fifteen minutes play out a couple of times already and knows exactly how Spock reacts.

He arrives on cue. Firstly, he accepts Jim’s lacklustre explanation about passing out. Secondly, he grills Geoffrey for a report. Thirdly, he makes a vaguely poetic comparison between First Contacts and Leonard’s brainwaves, and then looks less-vaguely uncomfortable about Jim snapping at him for it. And finally, just as the world spins once again to blackness and pain and the quiet of Spock’s room, a hand snaps around Leonard’s elbow and thrusts him back to the porch of the McCoy country home.

Holy hells, I told you to warn me! Leonard shouts, wrenching himself free. He stumbles back, expecting the candlelit silver of the sleeping quarters and the hum of the ship. As he nearly brains himself on his nanna’s hanging plants, he realises where he is. The No'ahkon is nowhere to be seen - but swiftly collecting himself from Leonard’s struggling is - Spock?

It is I, Leonard, Spock says, folding his arms behind his back. It was not my intention to startle you.

He’s got that kicked puppy look down pat. Jim’s a bad influence. Dammit, you’re fine, Leonard says, offering his hand in apology. I thought you were the No'ahkon. You’re not, are you?

Spock lays their palms together, fingers curled. I am wholly myself. I do not believe the No'ahkon possess the ability to penetrate our shared mindspace.

Well, I’m not sure what he’s capable of, Spock. But it’s good to see you.

Then I shall remain attentive, Spock assures, standing a little taller. He’s the strangest guard dog the McCoys have ever had at their front door, that’s for sure. Naturally, he’s also the best. Just knowing he’s here is enough to calm Leonard’s heart. And it is - good - to reach you once again, Doctor. It is disquieting to seek your consciousness and fail to obtain a response.

Yeah, I’ve been hollerin’ at you, too, says Leonard. He gives Spock the run-down of his conversation with the No'ahkon, and explains the time-loops in greater detail. Differentiating between the loops is near impossible, but he tries to recount everything in the right order.

Spock nods. I now understand your previous claim regarding your trouble operating the ship’s doorways. You are neither invisible nor enduring an enclosed repetition of space-time. You are currently situated in Sickbay, in a trance placed upon you by the No'ahkon, Ia’tich.

Sickbay huh? Funnily enough, I noticed that.

The events you are experiencing are not real. The conversations you have overheard between myself, the Captain, and other members of the crew have not taken place. You are in a state of disordered unconsciousness.

Trust a Vulcan to be blunt. Leonard’s face reddens. I know that!

I do not think you do. You have reported that you re-start each ‘loop’ at the point of waking in my quarters? That I am there, meditating?

Yeah, that’s what I said. Where are you going with this?

I am not presently in my quarters, I am at your bedside in Sickbay. You were on-duty when Ia’tich and his ship - the Ae’gokymn - was brought aboard, and triaged the patient yourself in the shuttlebay. You transported Ia’tich to Sickbay and began treatment for minor injuries, shock, and prolonged malnutrition. He woke during this treatment and ‘lashed out’.

That sounds… reasonable. Leonard nods. Okay.

Ia’tich has stated that you are ‘seeing things’, Doctor. Have you not questioned why you find yourself dressed in your sleeping clothes?

Of course I have. That doesn’t really make sense. Surely I didn’t triage in my pyjamas?

You did not, Spock assures. The reality you are experiencing is a mental assault constructed by Ia’tich - it is likely that your mind is attempting to rationalise the intrusion.

He’d started to figure that one out for himself. So, I’m not actually following y’all around like a ghost?

Correct.

Leonard frowns long and hard. All right. All right. I’m not saying I don’t believe you Spock, it’s just, it feels so real.

Affirmative. But Doctor - does this building not also ‘feel real’? And yet you accept that it is not.

Of course it’s not. We’re in space, man, not Georgia. And you’re here. Unless you’re hiding something from me, Spock, I don’t think you’ve ever been to my family home, so how would you know where it is?

That is a valid observation. Are there any details about the Ia’tich’s reality that are equally incongruent? Perhaps recalling one may convince you of its fabrication.

You mean, apart from my pyjamas?

Yes.

Leonard thinks back. He’s sure there’s some small detail that he’s overlooked, something that doesn’t quite make sense. Spock’s right - waking up in his quarters definitely doesn’t fit the narrative - at least, the narrative he’s trying to convince Leonard of - but it’s not entirely implausible.

The same for being invisible. Hell, even being in two places at once. Leonard’s seen stranger things out in the ass-end of space.

So, he needs something that cannot be possible. Something that contradicts itself. But trying to grasp the memory is like touching ice. He can’t get a good grip.

God, I don’t know, he says, rubbing his forehead. He’s going to have a splitting headache when he wakes up. I don’t know, Spock. It’s been a long day, all right? I trust you. If you’re saying this whole thing’s made up then, sure. Vulcans can’t lie and all that. Can we focus on getting me outta this mess?

The Captain and I are attempting to do so, says Spock. Unfortunately, we are limited by our understanding of the No'ahkon language. We have managed to infer that Ia’tich is, among his people, an individual referred to as an ia’hnangsr. Lieutenant Uhura has translated this to mean, ‘one who sees beyond the circle’. The Captain and I have a tentative but established communication with Ia’tich. Moreso on my part, due to the nature of our bond.

Jim Kirk, taking a back seat. Bet he loves that, Leonard says, grinning at the flutter of amusement in his mind.

The Captain has been amenable.

You mean bitchy.

Spock’s mouth twitches. I would not use that word.

And that’s why I love you.

I concur.

Leonard throws his head back with laughter. You know, that’s typically when a Human would say ‘I love you too.’

I believe you are aware of the depths of my regard for you.

Live long and prosper to you too, then, and all that shite.

Sochya eh dif, Spock replies without so much as a blink. In Vulcan, of course, because he knows Leonard is terrible at picking up intergalactic languages. And he gets a kick out of being difficult.

Yeah, yeah, says Leonard, helpless not to smile. You’ll have to give me a crash course once -

He lurches awake in the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters. The sheets are thinner in this bed. Leonard can barely feel the mattress as he rolls over and spits bile onto the floor.

Guess the time limit applies in the meld, too.

Typical.

He lies there in a daze until the communicator summons Spock down to Sickbay. He thinks about tagging along, but that would mean facing the fact he almost threw-up the entire invisible, questionably-real contents of his stomach onto Spock’s floor. And he doesn't want to do that.

"Ugh. Can't I just have one complete conversation with someone?"

Nobody answers. But he's used to that by now.

##

He wakes up the next time with his hand already clamped over his mouth. The blue-dark of Spock’s quarters sharpens through the red haze of Ia’tich’s hypnosis until Leonard’s staring at the candlelight flickering on the ceiling.

“This has got to be the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Nobody replies (although, at this point, he half-expects it) so he swings his legs over the side of the bed and draws his sleeping robes around his shoulders. Spock is knelt on the meditation step, undisturbed by Leonard’s awakening. Leonard shuffles over and brushes his fingers over Spock’s shoulder, ignoring the immediate chill.

So, this Spock is just a rationalisation? An image Ia’tich created to trick Leonard’s mind. If this is some sort of No'ahkon hunting method, then it’s an unusual one. There would be worse ways to go, than trapped in an endless loop with Spock. Leonard supposes he has effectively been rendered defenceless - or at least, his body has - stuck in a half-asleep state and unable to fight back. The No'ahkon could be predators. Heck, they could prey on Humans. Ia’tich didn’t seem particularly interested in that, but Leonard’s not exactly in a position to do anything about it.

Unless… he can break free. He understands, now, the extent of the illusion. And he knows his perception of it can change: seeing himself in the biobed in place of Ia’tich proved that. Occasionally, he can even reach into his bond with Spock, and communicate with the “real” world. And Ia’tich can communicate with him - unless that conversation had been a figment of his imagination, too.

It had been a strange conversation. Like talking to a sense of déjà vu. Ia’tich’s choice of language had a scripted feel about it, as though he was picking from pre-formed phrases. He must have learned from a highly specific source - maybe only one source, like a person. But that begs the question of why Spock and the Comms team still can’t understand him. Is Ia’tich using a different language with them? If so, why?

Children are unpredictable. Leonard considers the matter as he ducks through to Jim’s quarters. He half-listens to the conversation, watching both Spock and the room at large for any unexpected movements. Ia’tich could reappear at any time. And this dream-Spock hadn’t looked any different before the real-Spock reached through and threw open their meld.

But nothing happens. Jim dismisses dream-Spock with the same spiel about the 0800 meeting (“What’s the date today? Stardate 2262.258.”) and they both listen to the bathroom door lock shut just a minute later. Jim busies himself with work on his PADD and Leonard hangs around until it’s time to go down to Sickbay once again.

They meet Chekov in the turbolift. Leonard stays with Jim.

The next time, he follows Chekov. Retracing his steps from the rescue and triaging Ia’tich could jog his memory for… something. They ride the lift all the way down to deck nineteen. Leonard tries to track the time. It’s a noticeable walk from one end of the hangar to the other, and Chekov isn’t in any rush. He greets and chats with multiple red-shirted officers on their way, and Leonard knows they’re not going to reach Scotty and Ia’tich’s ship before the world fades into that familiar red swirl.

He wakes up in the blue-dark of Spock’s quarters and thinks, well, it was worth a shot.

"Personal log, stardate 2262.283," Leonard grouses, moving into the living room. "Still going crazy. Still Jim's fault. Still in my pyjamas."

For the hell of it, he tries the synthesiser. He'd kill for a cup of coffee right now, medical oath be damned. Then he tries the comm unit, calling the Bridge and Sickbay to equal luck. He rolls his eyes and punches in Jim's personal code to no avail, then Spock's, and then his own.

"I'm probably gonna need some help on this one," the comm unit says in Ia'tich's quiet tone.

Leonard slams his hand against the comm. "Ia'tich? You there, kiddo?"

There's no chime to indicate the incoming message, but Ia'tich's voice comes through. "I'm right here."

"Great. Okay, great." He literally can't believe checking the communicator worked. What sort of logic is that? "How're ya feeling, kid? Anything I need to be worried about?"

"Aliens I can deal with."

"Yeah? Jim an' Spock treatin' you all right? Good. Spock told me you're helping him out trying to help me, yeah? Take it you can't just shake me awake or nothin'?"

"I tried that. People tend not to like it when someone messes around in their head."

Leonard laughs. The cheek! "Well, at least you're learning. How does this communication thing work anyhow? My friends are having trouble figuring out your language, but here we are chattin'."

"Because of you," says Ia'tich. "This communication thing. It was all about… repeating."

"Like talking in circles? Spock said you're someone who can break the circle - see beyond it."

"You know what that means?"

"Not really. But I'm guessing what's happening to me is one of your circles? And I'm stuck in it. Or, we both are?"

"We both are," Ia'tich agrees.

"And it won't just wear off over time?"

"What time?"

Leonard sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. "I was hoping you know but all right, fair point. Guess we've already established we look at space-time differently. This is all some sort of illusion, right? Like a dream?"

Ia’tich makes a sound that might be amusement. Or guilt. It’s hard to tell. "Our bond."

"Right. So then, I can control it? From the inside? I can talk to you an' Spock. And I saw myself. I gotta admit, I thought it was you at first. You woke up for a second and -"

He trails off, remembering that first visit to deck seven with Jim.

"You attacked a crewmember," Leonard recalls. "In Sickbay."

Could it be that simple? He feels a dash of hope. The way out might have been staring him in the face the whole time.

Across the room, he hears Spock tidy away the meditation step and candle. Leonard curses. Maybe it's cruel to have hope. That's what Jocelyn used to say. But right now, it's all he’s got. That, and a stupid idea.

Naturally, it's Jim's fault.

"I have to go. Will you be okay?"

“A typical day for the Enterprise,” Ia’tich says, and it almost sounds like he laughs.

##

Deck seven is never empty. A few officers turn and smile as Jim strides into Sickbay’s emergency ward, his bright uniform drawing the attention of Geoffrey and the nurses. Leonard ignores them all, bee-lining straight for radiology. The MRI scanner has just finished taking images when he breezes inside; Lauretta and the radiologist on-duty are both there as Leonard’s body slides out of the scanner. She re-magnetises the biobed and it floats up with Leonard’s unconscious body lying like a corpse upon it. He reaches past Lauretta’s shoulder and grabs his body’s arm.

What had Jim done last time? Leonard had paid too much attention to Jim nearly passing out and not enough to what that might mean.

“Hey!” he barks at himself, watching as his body gives a sudden jerk. Lauretta and the radiologist startle back, but Leonard presses his advance. “Wake the fuck up! I’m right here. Attack me again!”

There aren’t any monitors to check this time: no EEG. But if Leonard hadn’t already watched his body practically shake itself from the biobed multiple times already, he’d assume it was having a seizure. Lauretta snaps into action. The radiologist hits the alarm.

“Trust me, Laurie, this is a good thing,” Leonard says. His body’s flailing kicks up a notch. He leans over it, wearing neither blue nor gold, but sleeping robes will have to do. “Look at me. Hey! Look at me!”

More people spill into the room. Nurses. A paramedic. Jim. “Sir, don’t touch him!” a voice shouts, but it’s unclear who it’s addressing. “Is he waking up?” asks another, “Should we call for the Keptin?” in a heavily accented voice.

There’s disbelieving laughter. Alarms. Quick-fire instructions and medical staff scattering around. Leonard’s body bolts upright and startles one of the nurses away. His head slops forward until his chin hits his chest with a dull thunk; and then at once he’s awake, head snapping backwards with wide-open eyes.

“Bones?” the room cries. “Doctor McCoy?”

“Goddammit,” Leonard shouts - both of them shout - and then one of them keels over and throws up on the floor.

##

He wakes up all at once in the white-light of Sickbay. The sheets over his waist are cool and someone has amped-up the biobed’s mattress mode. He has three pillows propping him up and none of them are the rocks Spock likes to employ in his bed. Someone’s clearly sucking up to him. Leonard rolls his head to examine the monitors, wincing at the weight of the EEG crown.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

Leonard squints, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His head is splitting open. His eyes fucking kill.

There’s no candle. But there is - “Sp’ck.”

Spock sets down his PADD bedside Leonard’s leg. He looks as prim and proper as ever, decked out in his Science blues. It’s almost weird seeing him here and not on the McCoy family porch.

“Oh Jesus,” Leonard groans, raising a hand to his mouth. The short blue sleeve of the patient scrubs falls back to his armpit. Is he awake? Or is he prone to passing through objects now? Could he fall through the ship? It doesn’t bear thinking about. He can barely even think. “Did any’ne see me in my pjs?”

Spock very valiantly tries not to smile. “They did not.”

“Oh good,” Leonard says stupidly, unusually tired. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. A struggle to remember where he was before this. He hums into the pillow and thinks about how much he’d rather be in Spock’s bed. He likes that bed. He’s woken up in it so many times.

“It is advised that you rest, Leonard,” Spock says. “You have been in a state of disturbed sleep for twelve-point-one hours. Adult Humans require seven-to-nine hours of rest per day.”

Twelve hours? It feels longer than that. Leonard frowns. “What’s the st’rdate?”

“You may ask the computer yourself.”

Typical Vulcans. Always have to make everything so long-winded. “Comp’ter. Report time an’ date.”

The computer chimes. “It is 0913. Stardate 2262.284.”

“Great,” says Leonard, losing the fight against sleep. There’s something important going on. Maybe an emergency. He keeps his eyes open just long enough to get a good look at Spock, and decides that whatever it is, it can’t be that much of a problem. The day Spock ignores a crisis is the day pig’s fly. “Jim c’n figure it out.”

“Indeed,” says Spock. “The Captain has been most amenable to my desire to remain at your bedside. He has been kept busy with the First Contact with the No'ahkon, and overseeing the safe return of Ia’tich to his ship.”

“‘Course he has,” Leonard mumbles, vaguely recalling a different answer to that observation. He smiles and slides his arm out from under the bedsheets, offering two fingers to Spock. “Last time, you said -”

And Spock accepts the kiss and says, “I concur.”