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Spock left his younger counterpart to contemplate the advice he had just received. Do yourself a favour. Put aside logic. Do what feels right . The words came from him, yes, but deeper than that - they came from the little voice in his head that sounded not unlike the good Doctor McCoy.
Speaking of whom…
Spock wended his way through the spaceport towards the medical offices, where the surviving Vulcans now swarming towards Earth had to report for physical examinations. An endangered species, theirs. The Federation wanted to make sure its remaining members were in good health - and offer psychological counselling if necessary. Vulcan leaders assured the Federation their own kind could see to their mental well-being, but the aid in completing less invasive procedures was more than welcome.
Human doctors trained in the physical discretion required for handling a Vulcan’s medical care were few and far between, and Spock knew Doctor McCoy would put himself right in the thick of it. This younger version of the man Spock once called his friend would not yet have the years of experience as Spock’s primary physician, but his scores in xenobiology, Spock knew, had been what got him assigned to the Enterprise . He would be glad to put himself through a trial by fire and learn off the cuff, though he would “bitch and moan,” as Jim would say, afterwards.
The shortage of physicians, however, would mean McCoy would not stop until every single Vulcan had been taken care of or he passed out from exhaustion, whichever came first. He wouldn’t even stop to eat more than a bite at a time in between patients. The circles under his eyes would grow deeper, the bags more pronounced, and his temper swifter with each passing hour.
This, Spock knew as surely as he knew that under different circumstances - in a different universe - Jim would order McCoy to take a break and Spock would make sure the order was enforced. But his Jim is not hear, and likewise it was not his McCoy who was holed up in the infirmary. Nevertheless (or perhaps because of it), Spock stopped at the hospital replicators for a tray of food before proceeding up to the temporary Vulcan ward.
Spock moved through the crowd of Vulcans efficiently, with measured paces. A query to a passing nurse guided him to the correct room where several patients were being seen at once by three attending doctors. The sight caused Spock to pause, a small jolt to his system rocking him out of his placidity. He thought he was over the shock of this new timeline when he saw Jim’s face on Delta Vega, but apparently the universe had yet another surprise to throw to him: not just Doctor McCoy in this room barely big enough to accommodate the three biobeds crammed into it, but none other than Geoffrey M’Benga was working alongside him, with Nurse Chapel flitting between them and a third doctor, getting supplies, drawing blood, and everything else they called out to her and the other nurse. They moved with a synchronicity not quite as practiced as what they had developed on the other Enterprise , but good enough that no one could guess they’d barely known each other two days.
Spock didn’t believe in fate; there must be a reason all three of them would wind up here together, but for once he was content not to pursue the logic of the situation, and instead let the magic be as it was.
Spock slid into the room unnoticed and deposited the tray of food onto the table that seemed to be Doctor McCoy’s workspace. The good doctor was just finishing up with a family of three: a male and two young children. As Spock turned around, he saw McCoy kneel down to get on the children’s level. He spoke so quietly that Spock couldn’t quite make out the words, though the tone was clear; McCoy was attempting to console them. He spoke just for a few moments, then stood and gave the adult a brief nod. He did not attempt to shake the man’s hand or perform the ta’al.
The family left, and McCoy sighed loud enough for Spock to hear this time. “I just don’t know what to say to a grieving Vulcan,” he confided to M’Benga, whose patient had departed just before McCoy’s. “I’ve seen hundreds in the last two days and I still don’t know what to tell them, especially the little ‘uns. I can’t tell them it’s okay to cry like I would a human child.”
M’Benga paused to crack his neck, then smiled kindly at McCoy. “Here, try this. Hold your fingers like this.” He swiftly demonstrated a perfect ta’al. “It means live long and prosper, and it sort of gives the kids a sense that life goes on even after tragedy.”
McCoy struggled fruitlessly to make his fingers go into the correct formation, but no matter what he tried his ring and pinky fingers sprang apart. “Damnit,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry about it,” M’Benga assured him. “It’s the thought that counts.”
McCoy attempted to do the salute one more time before shaking his head and dropping his hand. He spotted Spock, who had been so caught up in the exchange he forgot to slip away. Seeing McCoy struggle with the ta’al had brought back memories of so long ago. “Next? Are you for McCoy or M’Benga?”
Spock nodded slightly. “Neither. It has been noticed, Doctor McCoy, that you have neglected to ingest appropriate amounts of nutrition for someone of your size and stress levels in the last couple of days. Therefore, I took it upon myself to deliver you some sustenance.”
M’Benga made a noise that sounded not unlike a snort covered by a cough. McCoy’s mouth jumped slightly like he wanted to make a retort (“noticed by whom?!” Spock could practically hear his McCoy demand), but he set his jaw and gave a polite smile instead. “Well, that’s mighty nice of you, sir. I’ll dig in as soon as I finish up here.”
“I would recommend ‘digging in’ now before the food grows cold,” Spock said mildly, with just a tiny lift of his eyebrows.
McCoy opened his mouth again, probably to protest, but M’Benga jumped in before he could say anything he might regret. “Sounds like a good idea. We’re up for a break anyway. Right, Kohan?”
The third doctor looked up from her medical scanner. “Yeah, we’ve been going for ages. I just need to finish up a couple things and then I could use a nice hot meal.”
M’Benga tapped at the nearest computer console and with a few quick strokes he logged himself and McCoy out of the duty roster. “They’ll manage without us for half an hour, Leonard,” he said gently.
McCoy threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Fine! But I’m eating right here and logging back in as soon as the half hour is over.”
M’Benga shrugged. “Suit yourself. Christine, would you like to join me?”
Christine gave him a grateful smile. “I would love to.”
They left as McCoy plopped himself down in his chair and peered at the food Spock had brought: beef stew, cornbread with a side of honey, coffee, and peach cobbler for dessert. McCoy raised his eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Doctor Kohan finished up with her patient and logged out with a tired wave at McCoy, who was busy spreading honey on his cornbread.
Spock once again attempted to head for the door, but McCoy noticed him the moment he moved. He was like a raptor: he only seemed to notice Spock was there when he made some sort of movement. “Now, hold on a minute. You still haven’t quite explained why you brought me this food.”
Spock blinked at him, unruffled. “It is illogical for a doctor to work himself to the point of collapse. If you become ill yourself, how will you care for your patients?”
McCoy scowled at him, then shoved a bit of cornbread into his mouth. “You sound like my mother.”
“Then your mother must be a fine woman, indeed,” Spock rejoined. “Doubtless she would also tell you it is rude to speak with your mouth full.”
The words fell from his mouth so easily, like muscle memory. McCoy blinked, then glared at his tray, embarrassed. It had been unwise for Spock to speak to him like he would his own McCoy - this man did not understand the intentions behind Spock’s goading. But it was too late to retract the words, so Spock attempted a different route.
“At least, I have been led to believe that humans consider it quite rude to do so.”
“Yeah,” McCoy murmured, then cleared his throat. He ate another hurried bite of cornbread before leaving the tray on the desk and getting to his feet once more.
“Doctor, I did not mean -”
“Don’t worry about it,” McCoy said dismissively. “It’s not what you said. I just realised that while I’ve got you here I might as well get you up on the biobed.” He grabbed his medical scanner and switched it on.
“You are not logged in for duty,” Spock reminded him.
“I also really shouldn’t be letting my patients bring me food, yet here we are,” McCoy said firmly. “Have you already been checked out by one of the other doctors in the last couple days?”
Spock could not lie, and he could not think of a half-truth that would assuage McCoy’s fastidiousness. “I have not.”
McCoy pointed to the biobed. “Up.”
Spock dug his metaphorical heels into the ground. “Your food will grow cold.”
“I’ll reheat it with a short, directed phaser blast on low settings,” McCoy responded. “Before you relocated to New Vulcan you are required -”
“I am aware of what is required of me, Doctor,” Spock said. “I, too, can cite regulations. As a Starfleet medical officer, you are required to take a half hour break and two fifteen-minute breaks for every eight hour shift you work. You are not fulfilling your duty.”
McCoy glanced at the handheld part of his scanner; without Spock realising, he had surreptitiously been taking readings of Spock’s vital signs. “Hm, your heart rate is a bit unusual for a Vulcan, and I don’t like how fast your respiration is. Tell you what, sir, if you get up on this biobed and let me do an examination, I will go down to the cots they’ve got set up for the doctors and take a real, honest-to-god break. A full hour. Don’t really see why it bothers you so much, but you have my word.”
McCoy’s word was as good as anything. Spock nodded. “Very well.” He eased himself onto the biobed and lay down.
McCoy blinked at him, taken aback by his acquiescence. “Alright. Okay, good. Thanks. This’ll just take a moment.” He tapped on his computer to pull up a new file. “Name?”
“Ambassador S'chn T'gai Spock.”
McCoy’s eyes flickered slightly. “Spock, eh? Is - er, was that a common name on Vulcan?”
Spock met and held his eyes. “My name is as unique as my physiological readings, Doctor.”
McCoy frowned, opened his mouth to protest - then snapped it shut again as realisation dawned. “He - you - I… I thought he was pulling my leg.”
Spock sat up, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the biobed. “I assure you, what Jim has told you of my existence is true.”
McCoy switched his medical scanner off, staring at Spock in wonder. “So what you said about my mother…”
A tiny smile twitched at Spock’s lips. “She truly was a singular woman.”
“Was…? Oh,” McCoy blinked, suddenly looking quite disturbed. “Of course. Look at you, you must be over two hundred years old. McCoys have strong genes, but we’re nowhere near so long lived as a Vulcan.”
Spock could sense his discomfort, but he could do nothing to ease it. “I am forever grateful I had the chance to meet the woman who raised such a man as you, Doctor.”
McCoy set his scanner aside and ran his fingers through his hair. “So, if you came home to meet my mama, then, uh, you and I...we were close? I mean, that other me.” He let out a long breath and muttered, quiet enough Spock assumed he wasn’t meant to hear, “This is really weird.”
“We were close,” Spock confirmed, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly in a hidden smile. “Myself and Jim and you, we were...family.”
“Family,” McCoy repeated softly, mulling over the heft and weight of the word on his tongue, tasting it, testing it, letting it rest between them. “Me, Jim, and Spock.”
“And the other senior officers too, but to a lesser extent. To the best of my knowledge, you never took Mr. Scott home to ‘meet your mama’ as you say.”
McCoy shook his head. “I just can’t imagine me ever getting along with you. With Spock, I mean. My Spock.” He coloured slightly. “The Spock of this universe.”
“No, Doctor,” Spock said solemnly. “Agreement will not come easily to you, if ever. But I hope you find the same harmony I found in my universe in the mutual support and betterment between myself and my Doctor McCoy.”
McCoy snorted. “I bet you never stranded your Jim on a frozen wasteland of a planet and nearly got him killed, though.”
“I can attest to never stranding him on a frozen wasteland of a planet,” Spock concurred. “But I cannot claim to never have put him in a mortally dangerous situation. My Doctor McCoy made sure to give me a piece of his mind at those times, too.”
McCoy barked a dry laugh. “Oh, I just bet. Glad to hear that, at least.”
Spock resisted the temptation to tell him everything - how much he had missed McCoy’s acerbic wit and quick retorts; the way McCoy kept him from going too far on countless occasions; the size of the hole left behind in his life after his McCoy passed away. His hands yearned to reach out and touch, the way they had touched Jim on Delta Vega, letting him know everything. The truth depth and breadth of his feelings, which he had always denied having but McCoy always knew wasn’t exactly the truth.
Spock slid to his feet. “I must apologise, Doctor. Our arguments...I have missed them. When I saw you, I could not resist the desire to incite one more...for posterity. But as you did not understand our connection, I fear I caused genuine insult.”
McCoy roused himself out of deep thought at Spock’s words. “Huh? Oh no, don’t worry about it. Takes a bit more than a little needling to really upset me.”
Spock inclined his head. “Indeed.”
McCoy contemplated him for another second before clapping his hands, suddenly all business again. “Well. Be that as it may, if you’re going to this Vulcan resettlement planet, you need to be cleared by one of our doctors. Since you’re here, I might as well do it.”
“Quite logical,” Spock admitted. “But there is somewhere else I must be shortly. You have my word that I will return soon for clearance.”
McCoy’s keen eyes considered him. “By some other doctor, am I right?”
Spock hesitated. “It is nothing against your abilities, Doctor. Indeed, I hold the highest faith in them. It is myself I do not trust.”
“Trust to what, not to strangle me where I stand?” McCoy’s voice resounded with dry humour, with just a touch more self-deprecation than Spock was used to.
Spock lifted an eyebrow, another memory coursing through his body (hands wrapped around the doctor’s thin neck; he was not himself at that time, it would never happen while he was in his right mind). “Hardly, Leonard.”
McCoy looked away as if embarrassed by the use of his first name. “Alright, then. Guess that means I won’t be taking that rest hour.”
“I will continue to monitor your situation to make sure you take your requisite breaks, Doctor.”
McCoy drew himself up. “Oh, will you now? Tell me, Ambassador, at what point did you get your medical degree?”
Spock’s lips twitched ever so slightly. That sounded exactly like his McCoy, all discomfort thrown to the wind as his indignation rose above it. “Take care of yourself, Leonard. You will be needed in top condition when Jim selects you as his CMO.”
McCoy made a face. “That bastard. I knew it. It’s his revenge for all those hypos I gave him, isn’t it?”
“Someone must keep Jim from harm,” Spock said. “There is no one I trust more than you and my younger self to do so.” He lifted his hand in the ta’al. “Until we meet again.”
McCoy attempted to mimic the gesture and failed. “Live long and prosper, Ambassador.” The soft quirk of his lips indicated to Spock that he truly meant it.
Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement and took his departure.