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There are plenty of doctors on Yorktown, plenty of non-Bones doctors who haven’t just been through the trauma of traipsing around a hostile planet, getting shot at, and saving the goddamn day (again -- and isn’t that just so typical of his life), but he finds himself outside of Spock’s temporary quarters anyway, unable to chase away the concern simmering in his head.
It’s a strictly professional interest, he tells himself. He became a doctor for a reason and the reason was to help people, even if those people are aggravating, pointy-eared bastards. He could certainly leave the follow up work to the no doubt incredibly competent Federation doctors stationed on Yorktown, but Spock is his patient, for better or for worse.
(Usually worse.)
He presses the door sensor, already regretting it once he remembers how Spock and Uhura had been looking at each other during the (nigh endless) debriefing. Maybe there’s still time to hightail it out of there before he finds out if there should be a sock on the door.
Before he can make up his mind, the door slides open to reveal the room’s occupant, mercifully alone from what Bones can tell. He looks well, prim and put together as always, as if Bones hadn’t had to drag his impossible ass down a damn mountain. His patchwork surgery doesn’t appear to be having any deleterious effects, in any case.
“Doctor,” Spock greets, his voice just barely on the pleased side of surprised. “This is unexpected. Is there something you needed?”
Familiar irritation surges up in Bones’s chest. He’s earned his leave, damn it -- he should be in a bar somewhere, trying to erase the memory of the last few days with Scotch and pleasurable company, and this is neither. “No, I don’t need something,” he says, permanent scowl crawling into his voice. “I came to see how your wound is healing.”
Spock tilts his head just slightly, confused. “It has already been attended to by doctors assigned to this station,” he says. “There is no need for additional care from you.”
Bones might be offended at the implied insult to his skills had that comment come from anyone else, but he knows Spock means exactly what he’s said. And if Spock weren’t always so damn cagey about his well-being, hearing that, and seeing him up and about, would be enough to confirm he’s not harboring effects from his injury. Unfortunately, a lie by omission isn’t a lie by Vulcan standards, something that comes up in Bones’s life far too often.
“Consider it a professional obligation,” he tells Spock. “Since I’m the reason you’re not dead and all.”
“There were a variety of factors contributing to--” Spock starts, but something in Bones’s expression makes him reconsider. There’s nothing to see of course -- and how insightful can someone who pretends not to have emotions really be -- but when he speaks again, his voice is much softer. “Of course,” he says. “Come in. Please allow me to reiterate my gratitude for your skilled ministrations.” He steps aside so Bones can enter.
Bones brushes past him, giving the room a cursory glance. Spock’s quarters are infuriatingly precise, just like him. There isn’t so much as a spare data clip on the coffee table -- Spock had apparently taken his Starfleet-issue replacement uniforms, toiletries, et cetera, and properly unpacked them.
Still scowling, Bones waves Spock over to the station-standard sofa and Spock sits down, his back ramrod straight. Bones rolls his eyes -- he’d seen the man giggle for Christ’s sake; there was no need to be so damn formal. He gestures for Spock to lean back so he can access the injury site and leans over, balancing one knee on the sofa beside him.
“Doctor,” Spock says, and if Bones didn’t know better, he’d almost call Spock’s tone amused. “How do you intend to perform a medical examination without a tricorder?”
That is an irritatingly good point, made all the more irritating by his own failure to realize it until hearing it pointed out in Spock’s matter-of-fact voice. “Shut up, Spock,” he says, shoving Spock’s shirt out of the way.
Whatever Yorktown doctors had cleaned up Bones’s handiwork had done a good job -- there’s no sign of an injury at all, no bruising or lacerations; not even a scar. The possibility of internal damage still exists, so he runs probing fingers over Spock’s skin with a forced degree of clinical detachment that Spock would probably be jealous of. It’s an extremely old-fashioned technique, but since he’s here for his own peace of mind, it’s sufficient. “Any pain?”
“None,” says Spock in a tone that leaves Bones with the distinct impression that Spock is humoring him.
The steady rhythm of Spock’s heart beats just under Bones’s fingers. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the injury’s location -- Spock had been extraordinarily lucky. The difference between life and death was less than the scant distance between his knee and Spock’s hip. It had been fine a moment ago, the closeness necessitated by the task, but suddenly it seems much, much too close.
He can feel Spock’s eyes on the top of his head, trying to bore holes into his skull. He jabs his finger into Spock’s side harder than is strictly necessary. “Does this hurt?”
“I believe that would be uncomfortable even if I had not been injured,” Spock says. He’s quiet for a long moment while Bones makes certain there’s no lingering metal fragments abandoned by careless doctors, and then he says, “Doctor, why are you here?”
“I told you,” Bones says gruffly, and if he doesn’t meet Spock’s eyes, it’s because he’s focused on the task at hand. “To check on your injury.”
“We both know that is a pretense.”
“‘Pretense’?” Bones repeats. Of all the presumptuous -- he’s a doctor; following up with patients is part of his job. And the ungrateful hobgoblin had the nerve to--
He’s only concerned for Jim’s sake anyway -- Lord knows he’d be a wreck without the constant presence of his friend and first officer. Bones, well, he’d be fine. Thrilled even. Life had been so much less complicated before he’d met Spock.
“You are out of your Vulcan mind, as usual,” Bones says. He yanks Spock’s shirt back down and then nearly trips over the coffee table in his haste to back away.
Spock sits up straight again, but he just looks at Bones, one infuriating eyebrow raised.
Bones crosses his arms, glaring. “Y’know what, the next time you’re impaled by shrapnel and stranded somewhere without adequate medical facilities, I’m gonna let you die,” he says. “Don’t ask me for help, Spock, cause you’re not gonna get it.”
Spock’s mouth twitches, like he’s thinking of smirking. “The odds of those exact circumstances recurring are approximately--”
“Don’t,” Bones cuts in, stepping forward so he can wag his finger at Spock. “You know I don’t want to hear the odds.” Odds are meaningless -- the odds said Spock should be dead, that they all should be dead, a hundred times over. The odds say they’ll probably all die tomorrow or the next day or the next, just a thin shell of probability between himself and oblivion. Bones already knows enough ways he’s likely to die without being worried about the numbers, and he’ll be damned if he lets math stop him from staring death in the face until it blinks.
“Leonard,” Spock says gently, and the uncharacteristic use of his given name for the second time makes Bones’s head jerk up sharply. Spock crosses to him and touches his hand, just the barest brush of fingers against his. “It’s alright. You do not have to say it.”
Bones recognizes his own words being echoed back to him, and he looks down at the places where their fingers touch. He frowns hard to forestall the smile that’s itching at the corners of his mouth. “Nothin’ to say anyway.”