Chapter Text
Spock strolled down the hall at a leisurely pace. But his reason for such activity was unknown to him. What purpose did he have being on this deck? He glanced around at his surroundings, pausing for a moment.
Several seconds passed, but the reason why he had exited the turbolift on Deck 5 eluded him. Glancing at the room numbers, it seemed he was near-
Ah, so that was it. Three doors ahead, Room 0195 could be seen. It seemed his subconscious had pulled him to his Captain; his t’hy’la.
Exhaling shakily, he walked slowly toward the room, reaching out, brushing his fingers on the cold metal. The door did not open, as it had been locked after the announcement of the Captains injury. A thousand words unsaid lingered here, pressing against his mind like echoes in a cavern.
He quickly withdrew his hand, a wave of shame washing over him. This was illogical. Loitering near the Captains quarters would do nothing to awaken him, neither was it productive. A smaller voice called out for some semblance of comfort, a chance to mourn. He snuffed that voice out immediately.
Turning on his heels, he strode back towards the turbolift, instructing it to go to Deck 12; Sickbay. He inhaled deeply, straightening his back and folding his hands behind him. Several Ensigns and fellow Officers entered and exited the lift, greeting him and smiling. A solemn nod was all they received in return. Spock noted their cheery demeanors with distaste.
For humans, they certainly seemed apathetic about their Captain's current state. The grins and laughter irked him. The blatant disrespect was jarring.
As soon as the turbolift doors opened, he brushed past those in front of him, striding toward his destination.
The smell of sterility, with a hint of antiseptic and a slight whiff of rubbing alcohol. He’d become so accustomed to it, the environment becoming nearly as familiar as his own quarters.
He walked over to Dr McCoy’s office, giving 3 quick knocks.
A gruff voice could be heard behind the door. “Come in.”
As Spock entered, he could hear the sound of glass clinking and a drawer closing. McCoy takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face, before looking up, his cheeks flushed lightly. His posture eased just a bit as he recognized who had just walked in.
“What the hell do you want?” He says curtly. But his eyes reveal relief. Finally seeing a friendly face after all that had transpired was more than welcome. Spock found he could relate to this sentiment, logic be damned.
“How is the Captain?” Spock said, leaning himself on the desk, folding his arms.
McCoy scoffed as he pulled the bottle of liquor back out, procuring two glasses. Spock would have refused had it been any other time, but in the moment, he found he could not bring himself to.
“He’s just as stubborn in that bed as he ever was out here,” McCoy mutters, glancing down into his glass. “Four months, and not a damn thing has changed. It’s like he’s still out there, running around in some other universe only he knows.” He takes a long sip, frowning. “I keep telling him to quit being so damn dramatic and wake up already. But…knowing Jim, he’ll do it when he’s good and ready—and not a second before.”
Beneath the sarcasm, Spock can hear grief and anger, alongside the fierce loyalty that he can’t hide, no matter how much he tries to cover it up with snark.
Spock only nods, sipping his drink idly. The woody taste reminded him of something Jim had told him just before the accident.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Jim had said, his laugh warm, a familiar spark in his eyes. “Like life-it takes a while, but it’s worth it.”
The echo of those words lingers, bittersweet, as Spock places the glass back on the table. For now, he let himself sit with this, just him and McCoy, sharing the silence that Jim’s presence used to fill.