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“McCoy!”
Dr. Weinhouse jogged over to him, her little body propelling her surprisingly quickly down the hall. McCoy blinked at her sleepily, tired at the tail end of two long shifts.
“Good, I caught you,” she said, not even out of breath. “We’ve got a xeno case that we need you on.”
“A xeno case? Way out here? I wasn’t aware there were any aliens in Quesnel.” McCoy stood up straighter and glanced at the datapadd he was holding. “I still have two patients queued, but then I can take a look.”
“I’ll handle them for you.” She took the padd from him and handed him a different file. “This one is high-priority with orders direct from Starfleet. Vulcan male presenting with loss of feeling to the hands. He seems okay, says he didn’t even want to come in but his supervisor ordered him to. Still, you should take a look.”
McCoy nodded to Weinhouse and glanced through the file as he walked towards the ER. He dodged around other pedestrians without lifting his nose from the datapadd, having perfected the skill of reading and walking long ago in med school. Patient name: a bunch of squiggly lines and then the phonetic in Standard beside it, “Spock.” Presenting with loss of feeling to the hands, grayish pallor to the skin of the face and hands, difficulty moving, sluggish response time. He frowned, considering, and barely remembered to plaster on a smile as he stepped into the patient’s room.
“Mr. Spock,” he said as a greeting. “My name is Dr. McCoy and I’ll be your attending today. What seems to be the trouble?”
“I believe I informed Dr. Weinhouse of all pertinent information.”
McCoy counted to ten and kept his smile in place. “Of course, I’m just making conversation.” He got out his medical tricorder and set it to send data to his padd. “Just let me have a look at you and we’ll fix you up right as rain.”
Spock sat awkwardly on the biobed, hands slightly stiff and bent in his lap. His legs were very straight and he held his head up, craning his neck around to watch McCoy scan him. “You are the fourth doctor to visit me, not counting the sixteen medical students they brought in when I first arrived. Will there be a fifth?”
“Not if I can help it,” McCoy said absent-mindedly as he studied the data. “Far as I know I’m the only one here with any xenobiology training, but they probably wanted to let the big doctors handle it before calling in a lowly resident like me.” He snapped the tricorder shut and Spock looked at him coolly.
He didn’t like what he saw on the tricorder, but just to confirm he needed to perform a physical examination. He remembered Vulcans had something weird about their hands, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. “Mr. Spock, is it alright if I touch your hands to see the extent of the damage?”
Spock paused, studying him, and then slowly lifted his hands up.
McCoy took one and slowly tested Spock’s range of motion. His joints appeared stiff and unyielding, and his skin felt dry to the touch and far too cold. He could see the tips of Spock’s fingers were totally numb and slightly grey. Definitely frostbitten. He repeated the examination with Spock’s other hand and hummed to himself.
“Well, Mr. Spock, what we have here appears to be a simple case of exposure.” He made a note in Spock’s file and then began taking out heating pads and warming gel, as well as a topical dermal gel to help Spock with his frostbitten face. “A bit odd, though. It’s been above zero the last few days. If I recall Vulcans have a copper-based blood, correct?”
Spock nodded, tight-lipped as an Aldebaran shellmouth.
“Copper’s cold and Iron a forge, but for steel-blue blood you must keep royalty warm.” At Spock’s incredulous look, McCoy flushed, realizing he’d spoken aloud. He hid his reaction with a chuckle and began packing the heating pads around Spock’s body. “It’s just a mnemonic to help remember the blood types,” he explained. “Copper’s not as good as iron at regulating heat, hence ‘copper’s cold.’ By comparison, iron blood is hot as a forge. But for steel–not really steel blood, of course, that’s just a shorthand for species whose iron blood is stabilized by carbon and not hydrogen–for them they get cold very easily. And their blood almost always appears blue.”
“Humans associate blue blood with royalty,” Spock said, now frowning at the heating pads..
McCoy shrugged. “I guess we’re supposed to keep royalty warm? I dunno; I think they couldn’t find anything to rhyme with ‘forge.’” He coughed and produced a small bowl of warming gel. “Here, place your hands in this.”
Spock obeyed and then asked, “What is it?” He frowned down at the orange gel, a little line forming at his brow.
“It’s warming gel. You should be able to feel it already?” At Spock’s nod, McCoy smiled. “Good. There’s no actual treatment on record for dealing with frostbitten Vulcans.”
“This is the human remedy?”
“Plus a little dermogel, which has been shown to help Vulcan’s regrow skin in the past.”
“Quite clever, Doctor.”
“I’ll be sure to write a paper about it,” McCoy said, joking. He held up the jar of dermogel. “I’d like to put some of this on your face, to help with the dryness.”
Spock nodded.
McCoy moved in, taking a little bit of the gel on his index finger and carefully dabbing it onto Spock’s nose and the high points of his cheeks. Spock watched him for only a moment before closing his eyes. McCoy felt a little odd about that. Not being able to see those studious brown eyes made him feel like Spock was… vulnerable.
“How’d you get into this mess, anyway?” he asked, voice quiet.
“I was not prepared for this weather,” Spock said. “I am visiting the Starfleet satellite campus located in this city to judge its ability to house a holodeck training facility. As I only intended to stay a few days, I did not bring a jacket.”
“Well, what did you bring?”
Spock opened his eyes and gazed at McCoy. “What I am wearing.”
“That’s it?” McCoy took a step back to study Spock. Spock was wearing only a thin long-sleeved shirt and long black pants. The fabric had been so thin that McCoy hadn’t even seen the need to remove it for the heating pads. “That’s not enough in this weather. You’ll catch your death.”
Spock arched an eyebrow.
“I mean you’ll get sick.”
“I believe I already am.” He shrugged one shoulder in what appeared to be a half-assed attempt to gesture at the hospital room.
McCoy laughed. “You’ve got me there, Mr. Spock. How long will you be in town?”
“Four days.”
“You should run down to the store and get something. At least a hat and some gloves.”
“Clothes of this thickness have served me well throughout a variety of Earth’s weather. And,” he hesitated. “Vulcans do not wear gloves.”
“Things are different this far north. You’ve been living on Starfleet’s main campus right?” At Spock’s nod, McCoy arched an eyebrow of his own. “Do you honestly think California has exposed you to a real winter?”
Spock bowed his head. “Perhaps not.”
“Well, listen, you’ll need to stay here for at least an hour to get your core temperature back up. Your face is already looking better.” He studied Spock for a moment as Spock gazed levelly back, brown eyes warm and curious. McCoy shook himself out of his reverie. “I’m writing you a prescription.”
He took out a prescription wafer and scrawled “one winter jacket and a lick of common sense” onto it. He handed it to Spock, who looked nonplussed.
“I will cede to your greater expertise in this area.” Spock tucked it into his pocket and slipped his hands back in the warming gel. His face relaxed slightly as he did it, and McCoy smiled at that.
“You know where to go to fill that prescription?”
“I will check the train schedule.”
“Shoot.” McCoy whistled. “You want to try public transportation at this hour? You’ll be standing in the cold all over again!” He shook his head. “Look, you get warm and I’ll go see if I’ve been fortunate enough to pick up my third shift in a row. If not, I’ll give you a ride to the store. Sound good?”
Spock studied him for a long moment, perhaps processing. After a moment, he nodded, and McCoy grinned.
Miracle of miracles, he had not picked up a third shift. He informed Dr. Weinhouse of Mr. Spock’s condition and she gave him permission to leave a few minutes early–the only time that had ever happened in his life. He gathered up his things from his locker and went back to Spock’s room.
“Alright, let’s see the damage.”
Spock’s face and hands had healed nicely, and his core body temperature was back up to a much more reasonable level, for a Vulcan. He even seemed more spry, his brown eyes glinting as he watched McCoy testing the reflexes in his hands.
“Put this on,” he said, handing Spock his own jacket, scarf, and gloves. He’d never been one to wear a hat, which he regretted now.
“I cannot accept this. You will be cold.”
“Spock, either take it or I’ll drop it on the ground right now and leave it there where it won’t do either of us any good.” He grinned at Spock’s annoyed look. “I can be pretty damned stubborn when I want to be.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Spock took the jacket and scarf anyway, but refused the gloves. He looked kind of cute, all bundled up with the scarf Joanna had made McCoy high around his ears.
The walk to McCoy’s shuttlecar was cold, but one inside he turned up the heat. Spock studied him closely as he flew towards the store.
“You fly somewhat closer to the ground than I would expect,” Spock commented.
“Just habit,” McCoy explained, not wanting to get into his aviophobia right then. “Adds a little time to the flight, but the store is open all day anyway.”
“Is that where you purchased this scarf?” Spock asked, touching it with his long fingers.
McCoy glanced at him, trying to see the scarf through Spock’s eyes instead of his own, which were probably clouded with fatherly love. It was a chunky scarf, extra long, and it had more missed stitches than completed ones, but it did its job and kept him warm. “No, why do you ask?”
“The craftsmanship is somewhat haphazard.”
“Hey, watch it. My daughter made me that scarf.” He smiled a little, intending it as a joke.
Spock still seemed to take him seriously. “That gives it sentimental value to you?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“A curious human condition, sentiment,” Spock went on. He almost seemed to be talking to himself. He studied the uneven tassels on the end of the scarf. “It blinds humans to incorrectly completed tasks.”
“You really ought to watch it,” McCoy said, not joking at all now.
“…I apologize if I have offended you.”
“No.” McCoy sighed and stared out the window at the gently falling snow. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be fighting with you. My momma always used to say not to start a fight when the other person can’t escape.”
“Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.”
There was silence for a moment, and McCoy cursed himself for bringing up something so dark. He glanced askance and saw Spock staring out the window, contemplative.
“That was something my father once said.”
“What?”
“About humans, and sentiment. He told this to my mother when she praised me for playing the lyre despite my many mistakes.”
McCoy wasn’t at all sure what to say to that, so he stupidly said, “You’re half human?”
“Yes.”
“You should have said something. Your medical record didn’t, and there could have been complications with—” He looked at Spock, who was frowning again. McCoy snapped off the rest of his words and cleared his throat. “Anyway, we’re here.”
The store was mostly empty at this late hour. McCoy lead the way directly to the jackets and gestured big. “Well, Mr. Spock. Choose your poison.”
Spock looked at him funny and then scanned the rows of coats. It took him only a few moments to reach out and pluck a somber grey coat from the rack. “This will suffice.”
“…You aren’t even going to try it on?”
“I do not need to.”
McCoy took it from him and checked the material it was made out of and what temperature it was rated to. It looked fine. He just hoped it fit. “Let’s get you a hat, too. Sill a ‘no’ on the gloves?”
Spock nodded.
They got Spock a matching grey beanie which covered his ears and eyebrows and made McCoy’s chest do a funny little thing as he tried to suppress a giggle. Spock didn’t seem too impressed. They checked out and Spock gave him back his jacket
“I can drop you off where you need to be,” he said, smothering a yawn behind his closed fist.
Spock gave him the address and they lifted off again, tooling into downtown. When they landed at the outskirts of campus, McCoy turned in his seat and smiled at Spock.
“Well, here you are. Now, I’m going to need some assurances that I won’t see you back in the hospital any time soon.”
“I will endeavor to ensure you do not.” Spock brushed a hand against his scarf and McCoy realized with a jolt he was still wearing it. Slowly, Spock unraveled the scarf. “I believe this belongs to you?”
McCoy started to reach out, but before he could take it back Spock had already begun looping it around his neck. He let his hand fall and watched Spock studiously tying off the scarf, face cast in shadow and streetlight. Spock’s hand lingered on the knot for a bit too long to be casual.
“It must pain you to be away from your daughter during your work at the hospital.”
Spock’s words were like a knife to McCoy’s heart. He sat back so Spock’s hands fell away from him and adjusted the scarf a bit, just to be ornery. “She doesn’t live with me,” was all he said.
“I see. I apologize again.”
McCoy let out an explosive sigh. Spock seemed to have a natural knack for riling him up. “You didn’t know,” he said.
Spock was silent for a moment before finally sitting up. A great calm seemed to come over him as if he had finally resolved a difficult question. “Would you like to know why Vulcans do not wear gloves?”
McCoy blinked. He did have a burning curiosity about the subject. “If you’re comfortable telling me.”
“Vulcans have an additional psi-sense not fully captured by terms like ‘touch’ and ‘hearing.’” Spock studied his own hands closely, splaying his long fingers out. “The sense is strongest in the hands. To wear fabric over them deadens it in a way most Vulcans find uncomfortable. Not unlike a human pinching closed their nose for an extended period.”
“Huh, well that makes sense. I knew there was something about the hands, but medical textbooks weren’t that specific.”
Spock raised a brow. “Perhaps you can write a paper about it.”
McCoy laughed and then his voice strangled as Spock reached out and took his left hand. Slowly, Spock removed his glove.
“Observe,” he said.
McCoy felt… something. He couldn’t quite place what. Intellectually he knew Spock’s hands were on his skin, but what he felt was absence. Not just like no one was touching him, but like he was empty. Then, slowly, the emptiness filled as Spock skated his fingers over McCoy’s pinky ring. Spock rested the tips of his fingers on McCoy’s palm and McCoy had the distinct feeling he was drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day.
“You are thinking of a drink which is also sentimental to you,” Spock said.
“How did–It’s just, the feeling is sort of like that.”
Spock nodded and gradually the feeling pulled away, cycling back into plain emptiness and then out again, until all he could feel was Spock’s cool hands on him. “Most species without natural psi abilities begin first by likening it to other experiences. That drink was pleasurable to you?”
“It was.”
Spock’s face was soft, or maybe it was just the shadow. McCoy was certain the light was playing tricks on him. “Thank you for assisting me in filling my prescription, Dr. McCoy.” Spock released his hand.
McCoy placed his hand on his thigh, feeling stunned. “Don’t mention it,” he managed.
Spock nodded to him. “Perhaps we will meet again, under better circumstances.”
“I’d like that an awful lot, Spock.”
Spock opened the door and stuck one foot out before pausing. “As would I,” he said, and then disappeared into the night.
McCoy kept his glove off as he lifted into the sky, fist closed to keep in the sensation of Spock’s long, cool fingers on his skin.