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Frustration is a human emotion, Spock reminded himself.
It was easy to forget this, especially when circumstances like these made frustration so tempting. A simple away mission gone haywire.
He and Dr. McCoy had been nearing the final hour of their scheduled visit to the caves of Derebia XI. Bacteria research, of all things– the Derebians were an almost-entirely subterranean race, and the microbiomes living deep beneath their planet’s surface were lush and foreign to Starfleet. Well worth studying for future vaccines.
At some point, both men had drifted to opposite sides of a massive cave. They had been so absorbed in specimen collecting, they did not notice as they passed through the faint light of a sensor beam; an invisible tripwire, a relic of a centuries-past civil war.
In an instant, an explosion from deep within the floor had knocked them off their feet, splitting the earth and sending stalactites hurtling to the ground.
Wrenching his leg free from a pile of rocks, Spock had stumbled quite ungracefully over to meet McCoy, who was shaking debris from his hair as he ran. The men had to shout to be heard over the echoing rumbles around them.
“The hell was that?! One minute I’m looking at the tricorder, next minute I’m nearly knocked off my feet.”
“I suggest we move quickly out of these tunnels. A collapse seems imminent.”
“What does it look like I’m trying to do, you pointy-eared son of a–?!”
“Doctor!”
Spock’s hand against McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy’s back against the ground. Spock’s side against falling rocks. McCoy’s chest against Spock. Spock’s body, wheezing. McCoy’s body, sprawled.
The next several minutes were nearly impossible for Spock to recall later when he wrote his report. They landed on top of each other– normally a horribly intimate position, but the physical pain of it took precedence over any embarrassment– and they landed hard.
With a flash of white across his vision and the wind fully knocked from his lungs, Spock could only lay on the ground and try to catch his breath. He had been dimly aware that something was wrong with him, but couldn’t identify what. The earth around him had continued shaking, and he couldn’t tell if it was tremors from the explosion or vertigo. His head throbbed, and each inhale came with spidery tendrils of pain.
The crunch he had felt in the doctor’s shoulder as the pair hit the ground was ever-present, like an echo in his hand. Fighting a wave of nausea, he righted himself and tried to disentangle himself from McCoy.
“Doctor, I did not intend to– ”
The doctor’s eyes were closed. Spock’s heart wrenched in his chest.
“Doctor McCoy?”
Small breaths, in and out. No signs of consciousness– he had not responded as Spock tapped his cheek. At least he was alive.
Emotions, of all things, were starting to bleed into Spock’s muddled mind. Guilt about hurting the doctor. Concern about the extent of his injuries. Anxiety about moving him, which was seeming more and more like a necessary evil at this point.
Spock had shed his science-officer blue, trying not to wince outwardly as he lifted the shirt over his head. He tied it carefully around McCoy’s shoulder and chest to keep his injury from shifting too much– the doctor probably would have berated him for making such a flimsy splint, but in Spock’s defense, he was a little pressed for time.
He had shivered slightly in his black undershirt, the cold dampness of the caves sinking into his skin. Nothing ever went wrong on dry, sunny planets. Whenever they were delayed, it always had to be some miserable, freezing hole in the ground.
Frustration is a human emotion.
And so, here he was: alone, cold, pretending not to be frustrated, pretending not to be in pain– for who, exactly? An unconscious man? A box of bacteria specimens, balancing precariously on the man’s stomach
It…did seem a bit illogical to waste energy carrying the samples still, but after all the trouble they were going through for them, it seemed even more illogical to just leave them behind now.
And besides that, just looking down at the doctor’s youthful resting face, he felt…something. Something horrible, but besides frustration. The mission had been going so well up until this point. Both men had been so excited. It was their only topic of conversation over breakfast— they had all but forgotten to argue. Up until the explosion, the day had been…acceptable. Pleasant, even.
Why did everything have to go wrong?
The next hour– or couple of hours?– blinked by in a terrible blur. Spock remembered picking McCoy up in his arms, through a burst of searing pain in his chest. And at some point he determined that the Enterprise was unreachable via communicator, because he knew that trudging up the winding tunnel to get closer to the surface was of utmost importance.
The exertion of moving uphill while trying not to breathe deeply made him dizzy. He did remember stumbling at one point, but never falling.
Finally, the tunnels began to brighten. He recognized the area of their original beam site, and fumbled to reach his communicator once more.
As he was contemplating whether he should set McCoy down– and whether he would be able to pick him back up again– he felt a familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck. In a flash of white, the horrible damp cave was gone.
The swirling light of the dissipating transport beam made Spock feel even dizzier. He may have even swayed slightly, the weight of McCoy’s limp figure shifting on his forearms, as he took in the change of scenery.
The Enterprise. Worried faces. A team of medical personnel was already waiting for them– the explosion must have been significant to have been picked up on ship sensors. Fascinating. And then all at once, everything leapt into motion.
“Transporter room to bridge, we have ‘em. Dr. McCoy is injured.”
“Good work, Scotty; let’s do a high orbit until we can get an ambassador on–”
“Commander, if you could place the doctor on this gurney–”
“Yes sir. Yes sir, of course–”
“–and Sulu has the con. I’ll be down in a minute. Kirk out.”
“Scott to engineering, main impulse–”
“Sickbay to transporter room, please advise standby personnel–”
“–and patient now en route; head injury suspected–”
“Mr. Spock, are ye’ all right?”
In the midst of the chaos, a warm and friendly human face. Montgomery Scott was as good a friend as a Vulcan could ask for: precise when discussing technical aspects of work, did not ask many personal questions, kept his daily hello’s and other pleasantries short yet kind, and was incredibly devoted to his craft.
Spock wasn't as close with Scott as he was with– well, he wasn’t as close with anyone as he was with those two– but he regarded him highly as a friend nevertheless.
“Affirmative, Mr. Scott.” The words came automatically, before he could even decide if they were correct. He was growing too accustomed to the mindlessness of human chatter– he made a mental note to meditate on this topic when he was feeling a bit better.
Feeling. There it was again, the worst sign that something was wrong; worse than a spinning room or a burning chest. He was dismayed– dismayed!-- to find that the anxiety and unhappiness and the immovable frustration from before were still gripping his mind.
Spock tried again to shake these thoughts away (without literally shaking his head, which he nearly did) and regain control of the situation.
“Lieutenant,” he said to no one in particular. A nervous-looking officer broke away from the medical team that was now whisking McCoy down the hallway. Good. Names and details like that were a bit too difficult at the moment; he simply hoped that at least one person in the room would be a lieutenant.
“Yes, sir?”
“Specimens,” was all he could manage. He handed over the box he managed to save.
“Thank you, sir.” The lieutenant gave a shaky smile as they scurried out the door.
Not long after they departed, there was another swish, and a burst of warm yellow strode in. Even frowning, Captain Kirk practically radiated kindness and strength. Nevermind the words he spoke; his tone alone was enough to command the attention of the room.
Seeing him, Spock felt a part of himself relax instinctively– a deep tension unraveling in his neck and shoulders, leaving him a bit wobbly yet relieved. He nearly sighed, but a sharp twinge in his chest prevented him from doing so. Breathing was admittedly painful while he was carrying the doctor, but surely it shouldn't be this difficult still.
It was only then that Spock realized he had not actually been listening to the captain’s briefing for two, possibly three minutes now. Or thirty seconds? He blinked a few times and forced his focus back.
“...and thanks again, Scotty. Dismissed. Mr. Spock, you’re with me,” Kirk said briskly as he returned out through the transporter room doors.
Alone together in the corridor, Kirk ran a hand through his hair while they walked. In more clear-headed moments, Spock often contemplated the captain’s ability to seamlessly shift between his roles. He was able to perform under pressure as a commander while maintaining compassion and concern as a co-worker and friend. It wasn’t exactly at a Vulcan level of skill, but in a human it was an admirable attempt at emotional management.
“Good to see you in one piece, Spock. You okay?"
Spock hesitated. “Doctor McCoy–”
“I know, I heard over the comm.” Kirk sighed. “Ugh, what a disaster. Before we go check on him, I want to stop at my quarters for a minute and see if the bridge managed to patch us through to the Derebian ambassador.” He glanced quickly at Spock, still in his Starfleet-issue undershirt and uncharacteristically scuffed boots. “We’ll get you a fresh uniform while we’re at it.”
Neither man could bring himself to truly look at the other at the moment, but this worked in Spock’s favor. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to complete simple tasks like talking or breathing or keeping pace with Kirk; at least he didn’t have to also look him in his piercing brown eyes.
“Is it…is it really bad?” Kirk asked quietly, as he rounded the corner.
“He suffered one instance of blunt head trauma,” Spock heard himself say. “One contusion…on his forehead. I believe it is superficial. His shoulder is…damaged. It…I was trying to prevent further damage from the rocks. It is my fault. I…I am uncertain if he has additional injuries.”
“It’s not your fault!” he scoffed in reply.
“Captain–”
“Look. Healing a few broken bones is far easier than planning a memorial service. Honestly, I’m glad you were there watching out for him.” Kirk smiled as assuredly as he could. “He’ll be alright, Spock. Don’t worry.”
Worry. Illogical. Emotion. Something like that. The pain in his chest flared horribly, and the words stuck in his throat.
They walked only a few more meters in complete silence before Spock, overwhelmed with dizziness again, pressed his hand to the corridor wall. As… frustrating as it was, he was beginning to realize that he would have to seek medical attention. Urgently. Kirk was already a pace and a half ahead of him.
“Jim,” he said at last.
Or at least, he tried to say. It felt like his mouth hadn’t moved at all. His lungs burned, and his hands were so numb he wasn’t sure he was even touching the wall anymore.
Kirk did turn around, but he seemed miles away– and somehow unaffected by the corridor tilting dangerously beneath his feet.
“Spock?”
Spock didn’t feel the floor as he hit it. The world went black.
McCoy gasped, and suddenly he was far too awake for his own liking. Even dimmed, the lights of sickbay were disorienting to wake up to after god-knows-how-long of unconsciousness. The beeps and ticks of the monitors had never bothered him before either, but they were a very different experience as a patient. They weren’t exactly helping with his splitting headache, either.
He usually slept like the dead, especially when he was this tired– startling awake meant that some part of him knew something was wrong. His body knew, even if his mind was still trying to break through the grogginess. He was just about to attempt a roll out of bed, until he felt a warm hand press against his chest.
“Easy, Bones, easy. Don’t get up,” came a voice next to him. “Huh. Kinda weird swapping roles like this, isn’t it?”
McCoy turned his head, and the infuriatingly sunny face of James T. Kirk flooded his vision. Great. Just what he needed right now.
“Jim,” he growled. His chest heaved as he tried to slow his own breathing down. “What in the blazes–”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re in sickbay. You took a nasty hit to the head, and you broke your collarbone too. But they told me you’ll be back on your feet in a few days.”
McCoy looked down to see his own arm, neatly tucked into a full shoulder sling and resting on his stomach. Huh.
“Do not get up yet though, I’m serious. You need to rest.”
Kirk tried his best, but he didn’t look very serious. His glee at using McCoy’s well-worn script against him was far too obvious.
Meanwhile, the furrow of McCoy’s brow deepened. A hundred questions in his brain tried to stumble out of his mouth all at once.
“What ha– when did y– how long was I out?”
“That…I’m…not actually sure.” Kirk frowned. “I was going to ask Spock, but after we–”
“Spock! My god, that’s right; we were planetside. What happened to Spock? Don’t tell me he’s still down there, that damned–”
“I’m getting to it, let me finish! He’s fine– well, mostly. He collapsed not long after we beamed you both back, so we didn’t get to talk much.”
“What? Where–”
“Where else?” Kirk gestured to the other side of him.
Ignoring the spike of pain in his shoulder, McCoy swiveled his head to the right.
There was Spock, lying perfectly still in the biobed next to him. He looked more disheveled than usual– hair ruffled, face and undershirt smudged with dirt– but there was still an air of solemn dignity to him. In fact, his posture made him look like a downright caricature of a Vulcan: legs in a neat line, chin tilted up, arms by his side like a soldier at attention.
Someone must’ve put him like that, McCoy thought– Spock usually curled to one side when he slept. His chest seemed to be rising and falling evenly, but his eyebrows were knit slightly together. Didn’t those rookies administer any pain management when he was admitted?
McCoy started to push himself upright with his good arm to get a better look. The hand on his chest returned with more force this time.
“I said you’re supposed to rest.”
McCoy said nothing, blinking owlishly at the captain instead
“And just to be clear, ‘rest’ in this instance means ‘laying in bed and not working.’ I realize that might be a bit of a foreign concept, but I think you might like it if—”
“What happened?
“Uhm, well.” Kirk rubbed the back of his neck. “We know there was an explosion in the cave you were in– we don’t know why, exactly. We talked about it with the Derebians, though, and they said it was likely accidental. And I’m thanking our lucky stars that they’re not pressing charges against the Federation.
“What happened with Spock,” he said exasperatedly.
“Oh, with Spock. Broken ribs, it sounds like. He has a bruise on his head, too, so they’re going to try and confirm if he has a concussion when he wakes up. Maybe you two will match.”
“Tch!”
“And, he either sprained or strained his ankle, but I can’t remember which.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” McCoy grumbled. He weakly attempted to squirm away from Kirk again, but he was no match for the man’s secret weapon– a second, fully-functional arm to hold him down.
“Would you knock it off? I swear, Bones, if it was me in this bed you would’ve tranquilized me five minutes ago. No wonder Chapel told me to–”
“Just let me see his vitals. He might need more meds than whatever they gave him. He’s half-Vulcan, you know.”
“Yeah, I seem to remember that,” Kirk said, his expression somewhere between annoyed and amused. “And so does your staff. You have a whole medical team down here that are just as qualified as you are. Let them do their job.”
“When did we– you said he– he hasn’t woken up yet?”
“Dr. M’Benga thinks he’s in a Vulcan healing trance. I mean, I’m inclined to agree, honestly. I’ve seen him asleep before, and he looked…different, I guess.”
“Hmmph! You know, that’s funny; I don’t recall seeing your medical degree. Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing a xenobiology–”
“All right, look,” Kirk said with a sigh. “I know you’re worried about him. And I know you’re injured, which makes it even worse. But you have to understand that the crew has your back. I have your back!”
McCoy twisted his mouth, but remained silent.
“You’re off duty for a few days; let us take care of Spock. And you, for once.” He smiled. “Captain’s orders.”
The doctor’s expression was unreadable. He looked like he was either going to cry, or punch Kirk in the face. But instead, he pressed his hand to his forehead and released a shaky breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. Kirk’s smile was just a bit sad around the corners.
“I guess I can’t blame you for being concerned. Spock sure does like to give us a scare every now and then. Almost as much as you do.”
“S’rry,” McCoy croaked. Lord, it must’ve been one hell of a hit to his head.
“It’s alright, Bones,” the captain replied softly. “He’ll be alright. Don’t worry.”
Kirk studied the doctor-turned-patient lying on the biobed. Having known the man for years now, he had gotten quite good at identifying what was genuine anger, and what was a combination of worry and just a touch too much adrenaline. He sat as quietly as he could at his bedside, giving the good doctor the time he needed to ground himself a little. It wasn’t until McCoy groaned slightly and pinched the bridge of his nose that Kirk began to speak again.
“Well, as fun as it is to be the one avoiding a sickbay stay, I do hate seeing you like this.” He rose from his chair and produced a small silver tube from a cabinet near the bed. “Here, I have a hypo for you. It’s supposed to help the pain.”
McCoy cracked one eye open. “You’re really putting that imaginary medical degree to work today, huh?”
“Chapel said I could give it!” He grinned. “I sent her back to her quarters to get some rest before alpha shift. But I took Field Medicine 110 at the Academy for the command track, so I–”
McCoy snatched the hypospray from the captain with his good arm.
“Hey! I’ve done it before, you know!” Kirk protested.
But the doctor had already read its label, lined it up with his own carotid artery, and administered it with a soft hiss. Kirk rolled his eyes, but was relieved to see a small smirk on McCoy’s face.
After a few more moments, McCoy dragged a hand over his face and glanced over at the young captain.
“Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“I think…” He cleared his gravelly throat. “I think Spock might’ve saved my life.”
Kirk huffed a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Welcome to the club. We should chip in and get him some flowers or something.”
“I’m serious. I…” He turned his gaze to the biobed next to him. “God, what will I even say to him?”
“I guess you could always start with ‘thanks’ after he wakes up. And after you get some proper rest yourself.”
McCoy scowled and waved his free hand dismissively at the idea. “I’m fine. Sleep isn’t gonna fix what a bone-knitter couldn’t.”
Kirk tried not to smirk too much at the yawn that punctuated the man’s sentence.
“Alright, well…anything I can get you? Otherwise, I’m commandeering your desk to finish some of my reports until day staff comes back.”
McCoy thought for a moment.
“Hmm. Go into the supply closet outside my office, fourth–” he squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “No, sorry. Third shelf. Right-hand side.”
Kirk seemed a bit suspicious of this request, reminding the doctor about the rules against alcohol for sickbay patients, but he obliged anyway. He returned as quickly as he could with a fluffy, dark-colored blanket.
“Wow, it’s heavy! Here, do you–”
“Not me. Give it to Spock, would you?”
Kirk’s face practically melted into a wistful little smile. Ugh. The man hardly ever shut up about duty and kinship-with-your-fellow-officers and all that mushy sort of thing. McCoy was never going to hear the end of this one.
Nevertheless, he supervised the draping of the blanket as thoroughly as a chief medical officer could, while fighting off the sudden drowsiness that had settled into his chest. Satisfied that the captain had followed his request, he sighed and finally let his eyes drift closed.
“He gets cold, tha’s all,” he muttered. “Hard for him to meditate.”
“I know.” Kirk’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Thanks for looking out for him.”
“Hnnh. ‘S fine, Jim.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”
“Mmm.”
The room was still.
Spock awoke the next morning, bleary and a little confused. After a brief scan, it was determined that a minor concussion had kept him from properly entering a meditative trance.
Neither man was very happy about Kirk’s gleeful insistence that they “matched.” They were even less thrilled to learn that he and Dr. M’Benga had removed both of them from duty last night and issued direct orders to remain in sickbay for the next forty-eight hours.
Nevertheless, they spent the next two days side by side. Spock, dozing periodically in the soft folds of his sickbay blanket. McCoy, accepting care from his junior staff under the pretense of “performance assessment.”
McCoy outright refused Spock’s quiet apology for breaking his clavicle. In turn, Spock demurred at McCoy's hoarse, faltering thanks for saving his life. They ended up talking for hours, discussing bacteria sample findings and pestering the science lab for updates over the comm.
And though they would never say so, both men actually enjoyed this time quite a bit.