Chapter Text
The first time Leonard’s hands had shaken on the bridge; he’d covered the movement with a signature flourish and pitched his voice louder to compensate. Even he’d lost track of what he was talking about, the brief embarrassment of little consequence as he prevailed and those calculating eyes finally took their leave. The moment they did, the uncomfortable sensation building in the back of his head receded to a more tolerable level.
The second time it happened, Bones busied himself with the reports and hyposprays which had been conveniently placed atop his desk. The flow of conversation around him didn’t stall and he was hopeful that nobody had noticed his sharp intake of breath or the sheen of cold sweat now coating his skin and soaking his uniform.
The third time was only a minor shudder, but still significant enough for someone who took professional pride in their steady hands. Leonard had, for a moment, felt the ghost of another’s fingers and bit his tongue in an attempt to focus his attention, channelling the sharp coppery pain into the unnatural rigidity of his stance and at least trying not to appear as crazy as he felt.
As the weeks on board slowly stretched into months, Leonard somehow managed to slip under the radar and avoid being called out on his involuntary reactions. The overly watchful eyes of Spock had also stopped critically following his every movement, which was another good sign. He was getting better. Or, at least, he thought bitterly, he was getting better at masking his errant thoughts and feelings.
Despondently pushing his food around his plate, Leonard grumbled under his breath, it wasn’t fair. Since his return, nothing had felt or tasted right. Not even his family’s peach cobbler recipe had managed to reach him. The comforting sweetness of the dessert normally drew forth a sense of nostalgia and the safety of his grandparents’ home cooking, and even the poor version produced by the ship's replicator was a close enough facsimile to be enjoyable on some level. As he finished the last of his portion, chasing down that elusive warm feeling with his spoon, not even the satisfaction of a full belly positively registered. Nothing. If he didn’t know better, this emptiness could well be the slippery descent into a depressive episode, and he was staring down the barrel of that particular loaded gun. Something he was, unfortunately, intimately familiar with. Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered.
Bones didn’t know what to do. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, he knew what he should do. He should be approaching this from a clinical perspective. Yeah right! Jim and the ship needed their CMO fighting fit, and how in the world could anyone, least of all him, explain this complicated mess to a 3rd party? There were too many variables, too many oddities, and just too many unanswerable questions. They wouldn’t understand. Hell, he barely understood it himself. And he’d witnessed it. Kind of… Not to mention, he couldn’t risk the others finding out, especially Spock. Oh god, Spock, he felt sick at the thought of his reaction.
Grimacing, Leonard knew there was nothing else for it, he simply had to get a hold of himself. Although that was easier said than done. As he returned his canteen tray for recycling, he was starting to understand why so many patients were resistant to seek his help. He certainly wasn’t inclined share his own demons with anyone. The bedside manner he applied would have to change going forward; there were a lot of incorrect presumptions he would have made on trauma responses. He now knew that forcing victims to talk through what had happened to them, as a way of healing themselves, wasn’t always feasible or even advisable.
Leonard couldn’t suppress a subconscious shiver at the word victim. Enrolment in Starfleet had always been risky but, despite that, he’d never truly considered the possibility of that word applying to him. Finding his arms wrapped tightly around himself, he raised his head and marched in the direction of his quarters. It was overwhelmingly noisy in here and there were too many curious eyes. He wished he could disappear. Dammit, understanding really was a bitch.
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Spock had noticed several changes in his colleagues over the last few months, with each one handling the stresses of their accumulated missions and alien altercations differently. Amongst everyone, however, was a shared relief when problems were overcome and normal working patterns aboard the Enterprise resumed. That was, all of them but one. The prominent exception amongst their group was Dr McCoy. The doctor hadn’t returned to his normal levels in quite some time. In fact, Spock would go as far as to speculate that he was continuing to worsen, the further into unchartered space they travelled. Arguably, McCoy still barged uninvited onto the bridge and offered his opinions when called upon, however, his insults seemed half-hearted and had started to lack his usual nonsensical humour. The doctor’s own reports and logs offered Spock no explanation for his altered demeanour, and he’d been unable to identify a single incident that would have affected their expressive CMO more than anyone else.
Wanting to help his fellow officer, Spock had initially paid excessive attention to the doctor’s movements as he tried to categorise any trigger points or patterns to this new and strange behaviour. Although, he’d been forced to change his tactics when McCoy noticeably worsened each time he was directly observed. That was interesting, for it was under his scrutiny that the man was most likely to falter. Spock felt ill-equipped to navigate this sudden shift in their professional dynamic and tried to continue as though nothing had changed, hoping that things would eventually fix themselves... which they didn’t. Instead, to his dissatisfaction, they only got worse. Had he been a paranoid person, prone to so-called ‘human flights of fancy’, he would go as far to suggest the doctor had developed a problem with him personally.
It was in the little things. Dr McCoy never met Spock’s eye anymore, always kept a clear foot of space between them and he had stopped referring to him within group discussions (even in jest). Any solo interactions they would have had, with just the two of them present, had ceased entirely. Last week, for example, he’d found the doctor alone in the ready room and, for a split second, he could have sworn the man had looked almost afraid of him. An expression he’d never seen directed at himself from McCoy. Anger and irritation, yes, he knew those two well, but nothing like this. Stilling his body, McCoy had, for a moment, resembled a trapped animal who was resigned to their fate. It was so unexpected that it wasn’t until Spock’s meditation session that night, before retiring for bed, that he’d pinpointed precisely which negative emotions were being projected his way: a myriad of fear, disgust, and horror.
In the days that followed, McCoy went to great lengths to distance himself from Spock further. By chance, they’d crossed paths in the science corridor, and their shoulders had brushed against each other’s in the narrow space. Even that minor touch had the doctor recoiling as though burned and he’d pressed himself bodily against the bulkhead. Before Spock could turn his head to acknowledge their collision, or to ask after the wellbeing of his fellow officer, the contrary man had gathered himself and strode off without a word. Indeed, something was very wrong with their usually self-assured CMO. Spock had tried mentioning his fears to the captain, but Jim had seemed surprised by his observations and insisted that he “give Bones a break”. The captain made it clear he didn’t share his concerns and confirmed he hadn’t noticed anything amiss himself.
It wasn’t until weeks later, following an away mission, that Spock was forced to play his hand. Doctor McCoy and himself had been paired up to work together. Jim, oblivious to the hesitation and clear dismay on the face of the ship’s doctor when the group assignments were confirmed, had given the briefing and left the shuttle bay without further comment.
Spock was aware that this situation, although not ideal, had presented him with a unique opportunity to freely observe the doctor’s reactions once again and he dedicated himself to the task of cataloguing anything of note. What he saw within those first 10 minutes planet-side shocked him. Doctor McCoy looked as though he wasn’t sleeping. Deep purple discolouration framed the doctor’s eyes, and his uniform hung loosely on his diminished frame. His tired appearance was out of character, but it wasn’t unheard of for the self-admitted ‘workaholic’. However, it was the defeated look in McCoy’s usually vibrant eyes that did it for Spock. They were utterly lifeless and unfocused, as though he was walking in a dissociative state. Seemingly, the only way the doctor could work alongside him was to pretend that it wasn’t happening at all.
Reuniting at the end of the day, the pair needed to compile their individual specimens before heading back to the ship. This final task meant they’d stood in close proximity, working side by side. When Spock reached for the PADD to add his time stamp and McCoy noticeably flinched once more, he tilted his head at his colleague and concluded he could afford to wait no longer.
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