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McCoy knows that, despite the fact his uniform is no longer in tatters, he looks more than worse for wear as he settles on the transporter pad. He’s grateful not to have the garish gold sash secured around his waist and even more so not to have gaping holes torn in his blues. The grip of the other Spock still lingers on his biceps, one hip where fingers had dug into his skin only briefly. The meld points on his face feel as though they’re still burning from the touch long gone.
He leans over, grabs Jim by the shoulder, and hisses a quick, short version of what happened in the captain’s ear. His throat feels raw as he whispers, and he lets go of Jim with a final squeeze. He doesn’t let Jim stop him from leaving.
McCoy stumbles off the transporter without a word—without sparing a glance at this universe’s Spock—and makes a beeline for his quarters. The ghostly linger of fingertips drives him to shiver and the moment the door snaps shut behind him, McCoy is stripping out of his uniform and heading toward his shower. Once under the hot spray he starts to scrub at his skin until he’s turning red as a ripe apple, skin raw and tender.
Even after he’s scrubbed every inch of his body he can reach, he stays under the spray. The worst part of it all, he muses, is that the sensations still clinging to his body aren’t ones he can bring himself to hate. He doesn’t mind the memory of the other Spock’s touch, and while he’s less than keen on the idea of melding again, he feels suspiciously empty being so far from the other universe—the other Spock. His mind is as sane as ever, nothing fundamental is gone, and he’s lived through thirty some odd years of his life without the other Spock carving out a space in his brain. And yet…
And yet, it feels like there’s a gaping hole in the cortex of his thoughts, a void that McCoy just knows will never shrink and will never be replaced. Not easily, at least. As far as McCoy can feel (when he reaches out tentative tendrils of thought to probe at the hole) the only remedy would be to somehow get back to the other universe, and meld with Spock again.
He shudders. It’s true that the other Spock wasn’t quite so different from the one McCoy knows. Both driven by logic and a firmly set desire to fulfill all their duties. Both endearingly, dangerously loyal to Kirk. Level-headed in the fact of virtually everything, menacing when the time calls for it and yet, not all that terrifying at all. McCoy closes his eyes only to draw up the memory of being backed against the wall, the other Spock’s hands all over him, gripping and touching and poking into his thoughts.
Eventually, McCoy shuts down the water and clambers out of the bathroom. He dries his hair haphazardly and slings a towel around his waist. He’s not even made it to his bedroom, to change into a clean uniform, when an alarm chimes to inform him someone is at the door. McCoy has every intention to ignore it—probably just Jim, coming to check on him—and makes determined strides toward his bedroom. The chiming continues until McCoy decides he can’t take it anymore. He throws on a black undershirt and abandons digging around his room for a fresh pair of briefs.
He makes sure the towel is suitably tight around his waist, covering up plenty of his lower half, before letting the door slide open slowly. He lets it open just enough to catch a glimpse of a pale green expression and McCoy barely resists letting the door snap shut again.
“Doctor, may I come in?”
“Not exactly decent right now, Spock.” McCoy makes a vague gesture to his lower half.
As though that would deter the half Vulcan. “Human concepts of modesty are illogical and unnecessary. I only wish to speak for a moment.” Though, McCoy is certain he’s not imagining the soft, darker green flush that spreads momentarily across Spock’s expression.
McCoy sighs, resigned, and nods. “Alright, come on, hurry up,” he chides as he lets the door slide entirely open. He takes a few steps back to allow Spock into the room, but doesn’t go far. He doesn’t offer Spock a seat, either. This is meant to be a quick conversation, and McCoy isn’t going to do anything to encourage it go on any longer than absolutely necessary. “Come on, out with it.”
Suddenly, Spock seems to clam up. Or, well, as much as someone like Spock could clam up. His expression doesn’t change except to turn, perhaps, more contemplative. His body doesn’t relax or tense one way or the other, and his eyes give nothing away. It’s unsettling, more so in a way it never has been before. Internally, McCoy curses the other Spock, his damn goatee, his damn haunting hands.
“Look, Spock, it’s late and—?”
“I believe my alternative self melded with you, during your visit to the other universe.” Spock blurts; there’s no other way to title his outburst. He blurts, looks surprised with himself even, a bit embarrassed if McCoy had to guess. Spock seems to accept that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, and evidently decides to keep on speaking. “I have stopped by to check that the meld has not adversely impacted you, Doctor. I cannot say what melds entail in the other universe, but if they are anything like the ones here, they are not to be taken lightly.”
Spock takes a few curious steps forward and McCoy counters them with cautious steps back. “I’m fine.” The words feel like rocks in his mouth—a dirty lie, is what they are. But he’s certainly not about to go crying to Spock about this.
“Your reluctance to be honest with me is most illogical, Doctor.”
How does the damn pointy-eared bastard do that? Like he’s reading McCoy’s mind or some other such nonsense.
Something curls at the corners of Spock’s lips; amusement, maybe. “You are simply most expressive of your emotions; it is easy to understand what you are thinking. You are what many consider to be an open book.”
McCoy puts all the force he can into a sneer. It feels weak, though, and he lets it drop just as quick as it started. “I’m fine, Spock,” he says again.
Spock isn’t deterred. “If a meld is done in haste or otherwise done incorrectly, there is a great potential for damage. Particular with a species not already familiar with the telepathic connection.” Spock steps forward even slower than before and this time McCoy doesn’t back away. He’s just too tired. “A meld is a most intense and intimate experience. I would not judge you, Doctor, if you were feeling deeply unsettled by the after effects of the experience.”
McCoy sighs again. “If we’re going to talk about this, I’m going to put on some real pants.” He holds up a single finger to Spock before departing for his bedroom again. He digs up a pair of briefs and yanks them on without care; in much the same way, he pulls on a random pair of trousers before returning to the main room of his quarters again.
“Doctor, I must implore you to be honest with me.”
“It feels like there’s a gaping hole in the back of my head, alright?” McCoy snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest and grips his sides tight, as though that will offer some sort of comfort. “Feels like he carved a hole in my head, made himself at home, and left me high and dry with a gaping wound.” McCoy raises a hand and pokes gently at the base of his neck, where the sensation lingers. “It’ll go away, right?” He asks in a hushed tone.
“It recede, with time,” Spock agrees. “However, it is unlikely that it would ever dissipate entirely.” Spock tilts his head just slightly. “I can assist, if you would allow me, Doctor.” Spock raises his hand, fingers poised in the same way the other Spock’s had been, but this Spock doesn’t move any closer. His hand is extended like an invitation but he doesn’t actively reach for McCoy.
“Wouldn’t that mean it’d be you kickin’ around in my thoughts, rather than him?” He says it to be nasty and childish, but even as he does he knows it’s a better option. Better to have this Spock lingering in his thoughts, this Spock that’s nearby and willing to help him and only wants to meld to save McCoy’s sanity. This Spock is better. He nods then. McCoy nods and beckons Spock closer. “C’mon then, let’s get this over with.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to sit.”
It’s as though Spock’s words awaken the exhaustion in McCoy’s whole body. His legs are suddenly sore and tired and he nods numbly. He staggers over to the couch pressed against a far wall and clumsily pats the seat beside him. Spock takes the invitation and sits facing McCoy practically head on. “You’ve melded with other things before, do you—can you still feel them?”
“Not much,” Spock admits. “However, I have been trained from birth to understand what it means to be Vulcan, and therefore what it means to be a telepath. I am better equipped in dealing with melding because of this.” Spock raises his hand again. “The only reason I believe it would be close to impossible for you to rid yourself of the other Spock’s presence, is because you lack the training.”
“Are you trying to compliment me, hobgoblin?” As he says it, McCoy can’t help but grin a bit. He gestures to Spock’s hand, then to his own face. “On with it,” he urges.
Spock doesn’t speak any other words of encouragement or anything else placating. He touches his fingertips delicately to McCoy’s face. In a voice much softer, somehow more comforting than the Spock, this Spock murmurs, “my mind to your mind.” There’s no hint of malice or ill-intent in his touch or words. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”
A familiar feeling overtakes McCoy, and for a split second he feels nauseous; he feels a lurch in his stomach and the room starts to spin. He gulps and the sound echoes in his ears. Just as quickly, the sensations settle and he can feel the slimy feeling of the other universe’s Spock seeping away from his thoughts. Instead it’s replaced with this Spock, the one McCoy knows, the one McCoy can admit he trusts implicitly. The hole feels smaller, not only for being filled with the sensation of Spock’s mind melding with McCoy’s, but as though the hole itself is less intrusive.
The meld breaks much more smoothly than the one before. It feels like waking up from a deep sleep rather than struggling to come up for air. All the same, he breathes heavily and eyes Spock. Spock who is blushing that faintly darker green again and whose lips are parted ever so slightly. “That good, huh?” McCoy teases with a tired grin.
Spock hums, and he doesn’t smile, but McCoy is certain it’s a near thing. “I hope this will allow you to rest, Doctor.”
“For god’s sake, Spock, you’re in my personal quarters and we just melded, the least you could do is call me by my name.”
Spock doesn’t seem at all startled by McCoy’s outburst. “Very well, then, Leonard. I hope this will allow you to rest.”
Spock makes to stand but McCoy grips him carefully by the wrist. He doesn’t feel so bad, given that Spock is still in his long sleeved science blues and there’s no skin to skin contact happening. “Wait, Spock.” He pulls gently and Spock sits again. His posture is still rigid but he doesn’t look like he’s about to flee. “Why did you do this?”
“It was only logical, Leonard.” Spock answers though his eyes flicker away from McCoy’s gaze for a single moment before returning. “I had suspicions you might experience negative effects after such a meld and—?”
“How did you know it was ‘such a meld,’ anyways? I never said it was a botched try or anything like that.”
“Given the circumstances of your visit to the other universe, and given what your counterparts were like when they were here, I felt it was reasonable to assume a meld would not be a pleasant experience.” Spock looks concerned, still. “Did our meld help?”
McCoy wants to retort with something quick and snappy, but nothing comes to mind. He settles on honestly, instead. “It did, Spock, thank you.” McCoy bows his head in a short thanks. “Does this mean you can read my thoughts now?” He asks, a touch suspicious.
“Negative, Leonard.” Spock’s lips definitely curl in a small grin. “No more so than before, at least. As I said, you are a very expressive being, and it is not a struggle to glean—?”
“Alright, alright, ya greenblooded bastard.” McCoy waves him off. “Thank you.” He speaks up only after Spock has stood and taken a few steps away.
Spock turns to face him again. “It is not a problem, Leonard.” Spock seems to deeply contemplate his next words very carefully. “Perhaps you would be amenable to joining me for dinner a few times a week, just to ensure there are no lingering effects of my other self.” Spock doesn’t stumble over his words—a ludicrous thought, the very idea of such a thing happening—but he does look suspiciously nervous.
(Idly, McCoy wonders when he developed a knack for reading Vulcans)
A blush burns along McCoy’s neck. “Sounds alright to me, Spock.”
Spock’s form shifts just slightly, and if McCoy had to put a name to it he’d say there’s a certain spring in Spock’s step as the Vulcan makes to leave again. “Very well, Leonard. I shall see you later tonight for dinner.”
“Roger that,” McCoy teases. Spock doesn’t respond, and the door to McCoy’s quarters slips shut yet again.
McCoy’s skin still feels raw and tender to the touch, but his mind doesn’t. He doesn’t feel quite as haunted by the other universe now. The memories still linger, of course, and if he thinks about it too hard he can feel the other Spock’s grip on his wrist like a vice. But he feels more confident that these sensations will fade in time.
And, in all honestly, he’s not all that upset by the idea of those sensations being replaced by new ones with this universe’s own Mister Spock.