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Spock stands the entirety of the first day, a silent watcher.
Because Kirk is unmoving, it is Doctor McCoy that draws Spock’s attention. The doctor flits almost constantly from screen to screen, tricorder in hand, and sometimes even that is not enough. Like a Terran doctor of old, he will reach out, test Kirk’s pulse with his bare fingers.
Sometimes McCoy will just pause, holding the tips of Kirk’s fingers in his own. It is curious. Spock does not know if his own presence has been forgotten or if the doctor does not care. But Spock is not naive enough to wonder if the gesture is as intimate for Terrans as for Vulcans. The quiet, drawn look on McCoy’s face tells enough. He envies McCoy. Since separated by the glass door of the warp core, Spock has ached to feel the sluggish beat of Kirk’s heart. There has been an itch to touch Kirk’s face as well, to wake him and watch the flutter of his too blue eyes as he smiles. Anything to erase the image of Kirk behind glass, eyes a glazed blue-gray, unable to touch.
Instead, Spock stands vigil by the door until his body trembles with exhaustion from standing too straight for too long, from a grief too near to control. Until McCoy remembers him and, with a firm touch to his clothed arm, orders him to rest.
On the third day, there is a chair.
Spock takes a seat only after the second hour has passed and it is clear McCoy will make no use of it. Starfleet Medical regulation standard, the chair is metal and unforgiving. But someone has placed it at the head of the bed, just inches from where Kirk rests. Spock finds this vantage point unsettling. He can see the nearly translucent quality of Kirk’s skin, the pale blue veins beneath, and the weak rise and fall of his chest. It is necessary for Spock to remind himself that this is an improvement. The last time he had seen Kirk moving, his Captain had been dying: breathing labored with radiation poisoning, face red with exertion.
Despite Spock’s misgivings, it is impossible to tear his eyes from Kirk’s form.
When McCoy traverses to the side of the bed Spock is seated at, Spock expects him to check on Kirk. He does not anticipate the hand that settles on his shoulder or the concerned eyes that meet his.
“You weren’t blinking.”
“My inner eyelid allows me to go longer periods than Terrans without blinking.”
McCoy removes his hand to put it on his hip, frowning. “Look, I’m less worried about your crazy hobgoblin physiology and more about your mental and emotional health. You alright being in here with Jim? I don’t have a problem but if it’s hurting your emotional recov--”
“As I am Vulcan, there is no need to worry about my emotio--”
“Goddammit, Spock! Hush!”
Spock’s mouth snaps shut and he stares up at McCoy, unsure. Normally, McCoy was more than willing to banter. Kirk had remarked one day that is was a part of their dynamic, something he regularly looked forward to. In fact, Kirk would initiate many of the arguments they inevitably had. Spock found such discussions a great exercise of his emotional control and of his ability to defend himself. There was also a distinct part of him rooted firmly in his half-human heritage that took great pleasure at needling McCoy. This was a fact that Spock had accepted but would never admit to aloud.
“God, you’re such a pain in the ass. I don’t know why I bother. It sounds like you are doing just peachy,” McCoy diagnoses with a huff and turns away.
Willing to ignore the tension in McCoy’s face to allow the doctor calm down, Spock looks again at Kirk. The pinch and hiss of a hypo at his neck startles him. He covers his neck but McCoy has already withdrawn, looking smug.
“If you were at one hundred percent, you wouldn’t even have been surprised by that. It’s just a compound M’Benga cooked up for me tailored especially to your damn physiology to make sure you get what nutrients you’re likely expending by sitting here all day and not eating or resting. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I...” Spock pauses, taken aback. It is not that he expects McCoy to neglect his medical duties, to ignore the willful fade of an alien being. To think so would be an insult to McCoy, one Spock would never commit in his right mind. He had just assumed they both had their priorities elsewhere. It hits him that he has no idea if McCoy is eating, sleeping, or taking adequate care of himself either. He gives the doctor a once over as he moved again, trying to ascertain what shape the Doctor looks to be in under those white scrubs.
It is hard to tell, maybe too early to tell.
The totality of the fourth and fifth day passes in the unique silence that Spock and McCoy have cultivated since their first encounters. Unlike Kirk, there has never been a constant need in them to fill the silence with their voices. There are no words that hang unsaid between them or words that need to be hidden beneath the veil of rambled, unnecessary speeches.
Though Kirk has never been one for veiled interactions either.
Perhaps, most accurately, McCoy and Spock stay silent in observance of the widening chasm left behind in the wake of Kirk’s death and uncertain recovery.
It is on the sixth day that it becomes clear that McCoy has neglected his health in an effort to maintain Kirk’s flagging vitals.
The biobed’s alarms chime incessantly as Kirk’s heart rate pitters out pitifully. It is the third time this morning and it has proven no less startling with each incident. Spock has barely reached out before McCoy is there, assessing the information the large biofunction monitor is providing. Spock clutches the fabric of his uniform at his knees instead, watching. Once more, McCoy pulls Kirk from the brink of death. With a heavy breath, the doctor leans away from the biobed but sways suddenly, dangerously.
Spock catches him, a hand at his lower back and another wrapped around the doctor’s own hand, still clutching a stimulant hypo. It is the burn of McCoy’s thoughts at the base of his skull that prompts Spock not to pull away but to stand, still holding McCoy.
“Thanks,” McCoy croaks, clearly too far removed from himself to notice the contact beyond its primary purpose.
A spark of affection sizzles down Spock’s back and he shudders, pushing it away for further analysis later. “You have not rested.”
He can hear it, the siren song of fatigue pulsing from McCoy’s mind. Spock can equally feel how long McCoy has resisted the temptation. He can taste the hypos the doctor has taken to avoid sleep. The stimulant hypo clutched in their touching hands had not been for Kirk initially. With great reluctance, Spock slides his hand higher to McCoy’s upper arm. They are still skin to skin but it soothes Spock’s guilt. McCoy needs him, needs someone to firmly guide him to a bed where he can also take care of himself. He does not need a Vulcan barely in control of his own manners to read his mind and clutch his hand.
Spock comms M’Benga and Chapel. One for Kirk, one for McCoy.
Two days drain away before Chapel allows McCoy back into the medical unit. He is a whirlwind of anger, shouting at M’Benga, barely restraining himself from becoming physically aggressive with Spock. It takes seeing Kirk’s face before the fight drains out of him.
Kirk, who under M’Benga’s careful ministrations, is still alive. Has gained some color back to his skin. Is breathing with more regularity. The pinkening of whose lips has reduced Spock to grateful fragments of thoughts and sentences. The dipping of vitals has all but vanished whether by some miracle of M’Benga’s or via Kirk’s sheer will to live Spock is unsure. Spock is careful to convey his gratitude as best as he is possible under the circumstances. Luckily, M’Benga understands the murmur of his Vulcan words, has always understood.
“I had hoped to be stationed on the Enterprise,” M’Benga confides as Spock leads him to the exit of the medical unit. They are providing McCoy a moment alone with Kirk. An illogical action to a Vulcan, perhaps, but one Spock knows is necessary after many disastrous away missions. “I was awarded special permission to study Vulcan medical practices by the VSA after a few spectacular papers on your culture, especially on your birth. Fascinating gestation period, by the way.” The crooked smirk is all Spock needs to know that he is being teased. “I don’t think I’m the only one who’s dedicated their medical study to one person.”
Spock thinks back on the easy camaraderie he has always observed between McCoy and Kirk. He had seen them before the trial for Kirk’s violation of Starfleet rules in passing: winding corridors, in the far corner of his classrooms, arguing with one of Spock’s colleagues, flirting with women of all species on the steps of the main building, and sometimes just huddled together beneath a shaded spot with books scattered around them. Spock had thought they were lovers, the way they seemed inseparable from one another. Even now, he did not think he had been far off in his assessment despite the careful distance they had once cultivated in front of Spock and the rest of the crew.
“I do not think Dr. McCoy’s interest is based solely in medical research.”
M’Benga smiles like Spock’s mother once had, a slow build with a softness at the edges. “No, of course not. I mean to say, dedicating your life to other people is something doctors are well versed in. For me, I chose you and Vulcan’s people. For Leonard, well...” For the first time since they had met a year ago, M’Benga reaches out. It takes more willpower than Spock expected to stay firmly rooted in place, expression stiff and guarded. M’Benga seems to take no offense, just casually brushing the side of Spock’s neck before leaving with a slight nod.
It clarifies many things and soothes Spock’s offense at M’Benga’s forwardness. Done with purpose, the action had been logical and therefore necessary. Spock re-enters the medical unit with the heavy knowledge that once he had been loved by someone who had never met him before it had burned away in the face of something stronger, brighter, and more promising than fleeting fantasy. A notion harder to say in words but easy to press against Spock’s skin. In another life, perhaps, Spock would have found himself with M’Benga. In the same way that another him would have loved only Nyota and worshipped her as she deserved.
Instead, Spock looks on this world where McCoy is brushing hair away from Kirk’s forehead and grumbles, “Let the door shut. You’re letting in the cold.”
With great trepidation, Spock notes his seat has been taken overnight by a curious creature. He has read about tribbles, of course. Like all Fleet cadets, he too has taken an alien lifeforms class. What he does not understand is why it is in this medical facility, cooing at Kirk’s beside, and somehow not multiplying exponentially as tribbles are known to.
“Doctor, there appears to be a polygeminus grex in this seat. May I inquire as to why?”
“A poly what?” McCoy appears from the back room, sipping a synthesized coffee. “Just call it a tribble, Spock. Don’t use Latin terms on me so damn early in the morning.” He hands Spock his coffee without a second thought as he goes to collect the cooing tribble into his arms, stroking it. Spock stares at the cup, unsure what he was meant to do with it under McCoy’s expectant gaze. “Do Vulcans not drink coffee?” McCoy finally asks.
Spock opens his mouth, pausing, before closing it again. He dutifully takes a sip and tries to suppress an illogical reaction to the thought that McCoy’s lips graced this cup not moments ago.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“It is an acceptable flavor. I prefer tea.”
McCoy rolls his eyes and plucks his cup from Spock’s fingers so they do not touch. Spock wonders if the movement is purposeful.
“You have not answered my initial inquiry.” The tribble coos more loudly as McCoy now hands it over to Spock as a replacement. Its mind is a collection of simple biological imperatives, proof of its non-intelligent status, but its vocalization calm Spock nonetheless. Spock makes a note and wonders if he is the first Vulcan of this timeline to encounter this lifeform. He knows Klingons find these creatures to be unpleasant but he is not adverse in the least.
“I’m going to be giving Kirk a sonic shower, by the way.” McCoy deflects, pulling on gloves clearly for the appearance of professionalism although Spock has no doubt the doctor has done this many times without such. “Hate to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
“Are you requesting I leave?”
“Never said anything of the like.”
“You are giving me permission to stay.”
“Well,” McCoy drawls, tilting the medical bed up so he can more easily remove Kirk’s shirt. “As a doctor, I can’t strictly give you permission to do anything that infringes on Jimmy’s privacy but hell if the boy doesn’t love showing off his body anyway. He won’t mind. You could call in Uhura and make his entire coma worth it, if you’d like.”
Spock glances over Kirk’s chest and feels a flash of something dangerous and illogical, possessive and instinctual. “I would rather not. However, I will stay.” They let a long pause stretch between them as McCoy works, leaving Kirk’s undergarments to preserve some dignity. “I must thank you for allowing me to stay by his side... and your side. It has been a trying time.”
McCoy’s face twists into something Spock cannot decipher as he collects the patient slip and covers from the bed. It isn’t until they are deposited into a basket for laundering that McCoy finally speaks, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re admitting this has been a trying time for you too?”
It is clear this response is calculated, hiding an issue of greater vulnerability perhaps. Spock revises his opinion that he and McCoy have never needed to have veiled interactions and hidden meanings in their words. “You have deflected for the second time this morning, Doctor,” Spock counters. He could have let it pass in silence but he is curious. A fatally human reaction to this situation.
The doctor is having none of it, draining his coffee, and removing it from his person to focus on wheeling Kirk’s form to the sonic shower connected to the main recovery unit. The bathroom is large, spacious as is necessary, and McCoy seems at ease focused on his duties. Once again, Spock observes, he is refusing to respond as he readies the sonic shower and pushes Kirk’s bed carefully into it.
Once the gentle hum of the sonic pulses begins, McCoy finally divulges, “I’ve had that damn animal for a while.” He nods at the tribble that Spock had forgotten was in his arms. It responds to McCoy’s voice with a soothing trill. “It was dead but Khan’s blood brought it back. I knew how to save Jim because of it. It’s neutered, by the way, in case you were going to ask about that next. Can’t have a thousand of those things wreaking havoc.”
Spock regards the tribble with new found interest. “It saved his life. You saved his life.”
There is a curious flush to McCoy’s cheeks and he mutters under his breath before clearing his throat. Spock hears him regardless.
“I did not save him, Doctor. Far from it.”
McCoy looks like he wants to fight Spock on this point but a soft sigh from Kirk in the sonic shower draws his attention immediately. When he can find nothing wrong with their captain, he glances back at Spock before staring down at Kirk once more. “When they carried him in, I felt like the air had been punched out of me. No one signs up for the Fleet thinking they’ll make it back even if we are just exploratory. So many things can go wrong in space, so very quickly. We’ve all seen that first hand too many times now. I had still hoped I’d never have to give Jim up like that. Somewhere, alone, he was getting ready to die and I couldn’t stop him or save him. I wasn’t there to hold his hand. I failed him, failed myself.” McCoy blinks rapidly. “I unzipped the body bag in sickbay but I couldn’t look long. I couldn’t even treat the mass of patients clogging up the medbay. I just sat down even though the world was still turning. I can’t even remember the last thing I said to him before we went into the freefall, before he ran off to sacrifice himself for us.”
Spock does not know what to say when McCoy falls silent. Even the tribble in his arm has stilled its squirming as if it understands the depth of McCoy’s sorrow. The sonic shower’s pulsing slows down but McCoy stays still at the controls to open its door.
“I never worked up the courage to tell him that I love him, either. I regret that. He deserves so much to be loved and I held back like an idiot because I was afraid. Now look at us. We can’t even be sure he’ll come back from this, that he’ll ever wake up.”
“He will wake up,” Spock answers because he recognizes the plea for optimism in McCoy’s voice and because he has refused to let himself believe otherwise from the moment Nyota promised Khan was their only chance to save Kirk. McCoy’s eyes are glossy when he finally looks up but he does not argue. “Admiral Pike was fond of discussing the USS Kelvin and exceptionally fond of George Kirk’s youngest son. I could quantify the number of times he has told the story of Kirk’s birth but that statistic is unimportant. What matters is that, once before and inexplicably, Kirk escaped the clutch of death. The likelihood of his birth and the survival of the escape pods returning to a safe location were so incredibly low that only irrational concepts like fate and luck are cited in multiple papers on the Nero Incident. I think that fate and luck have little to do with it, however. As unsound a theory as it is, I believe James Kirk is a force of will too strong. One that, if given the opportunity,will always fight its way back from death even when that death seems most assured.”
The rest of the day passes in silence and, without prompting, McCoy calls M’Benga in for a short shift as he rests. M’Benga believes that McCoy looks as if a large weight has been removed from his shoulders. Spock hopes it is a result of their conversation and of the reassurance Spock hopes he was able to give when it was so clearly needed. Kirk looks at peace and another shade healthier in clean linens and patient clothes. Spock allows himself to smooth an errant wrinkle in the new bedspread under M’Benga’s watchful eye.
“Would you like me to make some tea before Doctor McCoy returns?” is all M’Benga says in reaction to the display.
“No, thank you,” he declines.
When he leans back in his chair to wait for McCoy’s return, the faint taste of coffee is still on his lips.
On the eleventh day, the tribble purrs from its perch of Kirk’s chest. Spock stares at an approximation of where its sensory glands must be and projects his displeasure. He does not even know the tribble’s name yet and it is very likely that McCoy has named it. McCoy has even named one of the plants in the Enterprise’s medbay. The doctor has an affinity for awarding names and nicknames to things that cannot stop him.
Though seven days have passed since Spock was last called hobgoblin.
“Don’t look at him like that. I put him there. The purring seems to help Jim’s vitals.”
Spock represses a frown. “There is no scientific proof to back up your claim that a tribble’s presence can adequately affect a comatose patient’s vital life signs, Doctor, and it would most likely prove best if you would remove--”
“Spock, if you’re so desperate to touch Jim, just do it.”
Spock halts mid-sentence, face heating under McCoy’s steady and undaunted gaze. “I... I do not know what you mean, Doctor. I feel no need to do anything of the sort.”
“Look, you’re wearing holes into the tribble with all your barely controlled jealousy. Would it be better if I turned around and pretended not to look?” McCoy doesn’t wait for an answer, typing quietly on his PADD, most likely filling out another report on Kirk’s progress. He leaves the decision of touching Kirk completely up to Spock alone. It does not make it easier.
He trembles with want to do it, hands tight on his knees to prevent himself from giving in. McCoy touched Kirk often and without embarrassment but a Vulcan freely touching a Terran went again many principles Spock had been taught. Kirk could not consent to the contact, to the flow of emotions and thoughts that Spock would inevitably feel, to the Vulcan kiss that Spock’s contact would provide. Because if Spock intended to go through with touching Kirk, it would be to kiss him, to press their fingertips together in a mimic of McCoy’s touches on the very first day Kirk’s heart began to beat again.
McCoy tsks and Spock looks up at him. There must be something in his gaze that causes the doctor to soften. “M’Benga might have mentioned some... rules Vulcans abide by. I’d just like you to think back on how often Jim’s welcomed your touch if it’s hard for you to decide if he, you know, would want you to or not.” He clears his throat once, twice, before turning away to hide a blush that Spock can already see travelling to his ears and down his neck.
There are many moments Spock could reflect on but he does not. It takes only the memory of Kirk trapped on the other side of the warp core door to help him decide.
Deliberately gentle and slow, Spock ghosts the tips of his fingers over Kirk’s. He is most assuredly alive beneath a fog of sleep and medication. There had been little doubt in Spock’s mind that Kirk would recover but it is more real like this, with his mind strong and heady in even the soft touch of their kissing fingers.
He holds Kirk’s hand next, unashamed even when McCoy turns back to them because the doctor’s expression is so open and accepting. “Jim’ll be sad he missed this side of you,” McCoy says softly, though the teasing tone is barely there beneath his breathlessness. Spock stares at the hand he has locked around Kirk’s, almost hearing the strong pulsing of a Terran heart, and feeling something so...
“This simple feeling...” He starts but cannot finish. Jim, he thinks with fondness.
The heart monitor spikes and Spock yanks his hand away in fear of hurting Kirk. But McCoy is laughing when the adrenaline drains away, barely holding himself up with the edge of Kirk’s bed. “Ah, god, your face. Lord have mercy.” McCoy inhales slowly through his nose to calm down as Spock squirms to resettle. “He’s fine. Try not to think so hard at him next time and he’ll react less strongly.”
Spock nods tightly, glancing up, but he is already reaching for Kirk’s hand once more.
McCoy says nothing but Spock can feel his approval thick in the air even without touch telepathy.
The novelty of touching Kirk does not wane as Spock expects it too but he keeps to himself the next day. Hands in his lap, he watches McCoy bustle around the room instead as Chapel follows him closely. Their excited chatter revolves mainly around Kirk’s neurological readings though there is some discussion on how normalized his vitals are becoming.
Spock hazards looking at Kirk, who appears each day more like himself. It has been twelve Terran days since his death and revival.
Suddenly there is a touch at his shoulder and McCoy sighing. “You know, I think when he wakes up, I’ll just crack jokes at him. He’s not one for... heavy emotionality. Likes to push things under the rug as it were.”
“He will likely want to thank us both for saving him.”
“We ought to give him a hard time about it.”
Spock feels the irrational urge to smile at that, buoyed by McCoy’s touch. The back of McCoy’s fingers slide along the sharp line of his jaw and, without pulling away, Spock looks up at the doctor. It is lucky for Spock that Terrans are psi-null and that Vulcan hearts beat naturally fast. McCoy cannot read how his touch affects Spock or detect the increase in his pulse. Instead, they merely look one another in the eye before McCoy’s drift down to watch his thumb stroke Spock’s cheek.
“You’ve got some stubble starting in. Jim does too. I’ve got to clean him up. Our best estimates say we’ll have him awake by tomorrow.” McCoy’s touch projects his excitement. “Go shave and get some rest. Doctor’s orders,” he nearly whispers but Spock does not have to strain to hear it. There is a surface thought of how handsome McCoy finds him while the doctor’s hand traverses to a pointed Vulcan ear before Spock touches his wrist to stop him.
McCoy makes no excuses for his actions, feels no remorse, and smiles when Spock stands, still holding his wrist.
“I will obey,” Spock answers and waits only until he feels McCoy quell the urge to kiss him before he departs. Chapel is waiting in the hallway, sending him a shy and knowing smile, before gliding back into Kirk’s room to assist McCoy.
On the thirteenth day, Kirk awakens and the flutter of blue eyes is a shock of pleasure Spock will never forget.
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You were barely dead,” McCoy says with fake exasperation as he checks Kirk’s vitals manually. One day, Spock will reveal to Kirk that McCoy had practiced that line no more than five times that morning in hopes that Kirk would wake up today. “It was the transfusion that really took its toll. You were out cold for two weeks.”
The biofunction monitor provides updates as McCoy waves a tricorder over Kirk. Spock watches the temperature of Kirk’s body settle, just a degree below average. The chill of the medical room is clearly at fault in Spock’s mind but he says nothing. McCoy had made him promise he would wait until his cue to be revealed, as if the doctor knew exactly what Kirk would say.
“Transfusion?” Kirk mumbles, eyes trained on McCoy.
Some of the playfulness drains from McCoy as he explains, “Your cells were heavily irradiated. We had no choice.” He looks down at his PADD as he checks Kirk’s pulse.
“Khan?”
“Once we caught him, I synthesized a serum from his super blood. Tell me, are you feeling homicidal? Power mad? Despotic?”
“No more than usual. How’d you catch him?”
“I didn’t.”
Spock startles as McCoy moves away, wary at how perfect McCoy’s prediction of Kirk’s questions had been. He schools his features and steps forward, ignoring McCoy’s barely concealed smugness. It is more pleasing to watch the tug of a small smile light Kirk’s face.
“You saved my life.”
At least Spock had predicted that.
“Uhura and I had something to do with it, too, you know,” McCoy immediately interjects with false heat. Spock has become adept at reading him after these last thirteen days in close proximity. It is refreshing to understand his humor, the grumpiness that McCoy uses as a mask for deeper feeling. He has picked truly remarkable Terrans to become enamoured of.
But his taste in Terrans is not the issue at hand.
“You saved my life, Captain. And the lives...”
“Spock, just...” Kirk weakly interrupts but Spock allows it, waiting quietly. “Thank you.”
With a half-second pause, Spock takes in the blue of Kirk’s eyes, remembers the beat of his pulse in their clasped hands, the simple feeling of love between them not yet expressed, and how close McCoy and himself had come to losing this most important man.
“You are welcome, Jim,” he says with all the softness he can muster behind stern Vulcan control. There will be time for confessions and logistics later.
For now, Spock and McCoy stay at Kirk’s side where fate and luck have deemed they best fit.