Chapter Text
A soft melody drifted through the room, slender fingers plucking the strings of the lyre with care to create a song speaking of the deepest love and the agonizing longing to bond with one who was unreachable. If any Vulcans had been present to hear the, as of yet, unfinished song, they would have turned away from him in disgust and no small amount of fear. While music was an acceptable medium for a Vulcan to express emotions in a controlled way, the melody Spock was playing was too reminiscent of the ancient songs to be considered anything but scandalous.
Humming to himself, secure in the knowledge that he was off-duty for the duration of the nightshift and therefore unlikely to be disturbed, Spock allowed himself to get immersed in the composition of the song. He recalled the brightness of Kirk’s smile, the sparkle in his hazel eyes, the confident tilt of his head, and the beauty of his mind, weaving a melody to encompass it all even as he knew that it was wrong. He shouldn’t think of the meld with his Captain with a fondness that was only appropriate between bondmates, and their meld had been one born from necessity.
A crooked note was torn from the lyre, and Spock stopped, stilling the strings, and staring straight ahead. While melding with his Captain had been a rare pleasure – despite the urgency of the situation – it would be illogical to deny the harsh truth the closeness of their minds had revealed.
“And why aren’t you resting as I’ve ordered?”
It was only due to years of living amongst humans that Spock didn’t jerk in surprise at the voice of his unexpected visitor. He should have been prepared for a visit from McCoy, but he had falsely assumed that the CMO would be too busy worrying about Kirk to visit him.
“I am resting.” Spock returned the Doctor’s glare with a raised eyebrow. “I understand that humans require sleep…”
“Vulcans require sleep, too, and half-Vulcans double so.”
“While it is true that my mixed physiology makes a difference, your statement is not based on facts. I am perfectly capable of finding rest by meditating, and music is considered to be helpful to reach a deeper level of meditation.” It wasn’t why he was playing the lyre but Spock didn’t plan on informing McCoy of that little detail. The Doctor had been unbearable enough over the last couple of months, and Spock didn’t want a repeat performance of his fussing.
“I don’t care if you go deep enough in your Vulcan relaxation techniques to find the center of the galaxy, I’m ordering you to get some real rest.” McCoy ran his tricorder over Spock, glaring first at the instrument and then at him. “I’ve let you get away with running yourself into the ground for the past two months, but that’s over now. Jim’s back on board, and he needs his First Officer at his side and not a sleep-deprived, moping Vulcan.”
“Vulcans do not mope, Doctor.”
“Sure, they don’t,” McCoy snorted. “They all wear the same pinched expression all the time anyway, but you,” a finger came awfully close to poking Spock in the chest, “aren’t like that lot.”
“I do not see the need for insults, Doctor McCoy,” Spock said stiffly. He should be used to the reminders of his differentness, having experienced them from early childhood on, but it still stung. Especially when the insults weren’t delivered by his logical Vulcan peers but by someone he had come to consider a friend.
“Insults? I’m not insulting you! Dear God, Spock!” McCoy brought his hands down on the desk, glaring at him. “How can you think it’s an insult when I tell you that you aren’t like that aloof prick your cold-hearted ex-bride chose over you? Do you think the Captain could be friends with him?”
“No.” Stonn would never have agreed to Jim’s almost daily visits in his quarters nor would he have appreciated the warmth of his touch or the beauty of his smile.
“Good, we agree on something then. Now, can we agree that you need to get a few solid hours of sleep to get back to your usual cold-blooded self the Captain is so taken with for some reason, or do I have to order you?”
Spock didn’t doubt that the order would be accompanied by a hypo, and while most human medications didn’t work on him, Doctor McCoy had created some strong narcotics adapted to Vulcan physiology, which would sedate him for ten hours at least. To spend such an amount of time unproductive while not fatally injured was unacceptable, and would only serve to worry the Captain when Spock should take work off his shoulders to allow Kirk to settle back in. Even after days back on board, he didn’t seem as at home on the Enterprise as before.
“I will rest…”
“Sleep,” McCoy corrected him.
“I will sleep,” Spock amended, “for an adequate amount of time…”
“Eight hours at least, or I’ll put you on sick leave for a week.”
“Do you not think that would be detrimental to the Captain’s health?” Spock looked challengingly at the Doctor. “Priorly you stated he would need me as his First Officer, but by taking me off duty you would only add to his workload which would be unadvisable in his present condition.”
“Present condition?” McCoy frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jim’s as fit as a fiddle if still a little down after that girl’s death.” He narrowed his eyes at Spock when he didn’t reply. “If you saw anything in his mind that suggests there’s more going on with him then you have to tell me.”
“I did not find anything that could be remedied by medical intervention, but,” Spock paused, plucking at a string absentmindedly, “I find myself disquieted at the prospect that the Captain will not find the kind of happiness he experienced on the planet and still wishes for on the ship.”
Spock hadn’t intended to share his findings with anyone, but McCoy was Jim’s best friend, and while the doctor wouldn’t be able to quell his Captain’s thirst for happiness, he might be able to relieve its burn.
“Remind me to never let you near my mind if that’s the kind of stuff you find while poking around.” Wariness clouded the vast blue of McCoy’s eyes before it was pushed aside by something sly. “You know Jim wasn’t himself on the planet, if he had remembered his life he wouldn’t have been half as happy to stay dirtside as he was. Captain James T. Kirk needs more than a hut and a beautiful girl to be happy. I’d say a starship, a crew and some stupid stunts that almost kill him are a good start, but maybe you’re right.” McCoy massaged his upper lip with his fingers, usually, a clear sign that he was close to a scientific breakthrough.
“Jim might miss something he had on the planet he doesn’t have here. You know,” one side of the Doctor’s lips tilted upwards, “he might want someone at his side who loves him. Someone who goes out of their way to show him how much he means to them, someone who proclaims their love to him every day.” McCoy paused, but Spock got the distinct impression it wasn’t out of necessity. “Someone who woos him instead of taking his affections for granted.”
Spock considered McCoy’s words carefully and, deciding they had merit, nodded. “For once, I think you might be correct, Doctor. The Captain is a highly emotional and tactile man, love – as you described it – would be beneficial for him.”
McCoy gaped at him for all of 2.37 seconds before visibly reining himself in, his costumery scowl settling on his face. “Good, glad we could agree on something, then. You might want to get to it after you’ve slept.”
“I do not believe I understand your meaning, Doctor.”
Blue eyes pierced him from where McCoy was standing at the door but they softened at whatever they saw when they met Spock’s eyes. “I’m sure you don’t, Spock. Just remember that small gestures are just as important as the grand ones.”
Breathing a sigh of relief when the door had closed behind his unexpected visitor, Spock gently put the lyre away, aware he wouldn’t be able to play in his compromised state. Meditation would be necessary to order his thoughts and decide on a course of action. He couldn’t allow the hope McCoy had planted with his words to dictate his steps, and it would neither be wise to let the longing for Jim rule his head.
Changing into his robes, Spock lit the flame and took up the position for meditation. He came out of it 2.47 hours later, his thoughts well-ordered and his decision made.