Two Little Words

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Star Trek; Spock-McCoy)

Rating: PG

Summary: When he can't find the words, Spock grasps for some other way to express his gratitude to McCoy. This takes place between Star Trek III: The Search for Spock and Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.

~

"Doctor?"

Spock watched as McCoy glanced up at him, cocking his head. The doctor was sitting on his bed with an old fashioned terran book in hand. His room was plainly but comfortably furnished: the Vulcan priestesses had clearly attempted to anticipate the human’s needs.

Both men were patients at this facility; both were subject to the invasive mind probes of the Vulcan healers. Spock did not have to guess how little Dr. McCoy enjoyed these procedures; he was keenly aware of the doctor's displeasure.

It was no fault of the healers. They were merely attempting to restore the two men to independence. But Spock knew that he and McCoy would never be completely free of each other. The healers themselves had admitted as much.

"Come on in," McCoy invited, growing tired, no doubt, of the Vulcan's silence. "It's good to see you—we've hardly spoken. What's up?"

Spock took a tentative step inside. "You are having difficulty sleeping, Doctor," he managed.

It was not a question—and McCoy did not take it as such. He flashed Spock a wry grin as he tossed his book aside. "What's wrong? Is my insomnia keeping you up too?"

Spock nodded.

"My apologies," McCoy said. "With all this meditation your damn healers recommend, I suppose I'll learn how to protect you from it eventually."

Given the doctor's extreme hostility to the 'damn healers' and their teachings concerning meditation, Spock did not think that likely. However, noting the expression on McCoy's face, he refrained from estimating the odds. Instead he stood there awkwardly, not quite knowing what he wished to say.

There had been a certain awkwardness with Jim as well, but not to this extent. True, Spock had spoken little to the Admiral, but there had seemed less need for words. Somehow the friendship between them had been enough. And Jim seemed to understand Spock's reticence and unexpressed gratitude; just as Spock understood Jim’s grief for the loss of his son.

Yet it was not that Dr. McCoy did not understand him. There was little that McCoy did not understand of Spock now—and little that Spock did not understand of him. Spock grasped for some logical cause of this awkwardness, but could not find one.

McCoy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Did you come in here to complain, Spock? I'm sorry for keeping you up—but I don't know what to do about it at present."

No, he was not here to complain; Spock knew that much. It went against his Vulcan training, but he wanted to thank the doctor. That notion could not be entirely foreign to Vulcans, for his father had thanked Jim. Spock merely wanted to assure the doctor that he knew and appreciated all that he had gone through on his behalf. It should have been simple to say as much, but Spock found his lips frozen.

Spock was still sorting through his memories, still trying to make sense of the jumble. Some memories were his own; others belonged to McCoy. It would take…it would take some time to separate them.

But one memory stood out: Spock inflicting his katra upon McCoy. He remembered pinching the proper spot between McCoy's neck and shoulder, thereby rendering him unconscious. He remembered the mind meld that he had forced upon the doctor.

At the time it had seemed logical; or so Spock had convinced himself. McCoy was his friend, he was at hand, and he was trustworthy. Moreover, for all their arguments, there had always been an underlying empathy between the two men which seemed to render McCoy a likely candidate.

But Spock had put the doctor at grave risk. His katra nearly drove McCoy mad. If Kirk and Sarek had not figured out what had happened…if McCoy had died trying to recover Spock’s body…or if the ritual to separate Spock and McCoy had gone awry…

And there was the invasion of McCoy's privacy. Just as Spock had no secrets from the doctor, the doctor no longer had any secrets from Spock.

And Spock had not asked permission. There had been no time. He had assumed that the doctor would have agreed, no matter the risk. But looking back at that moment, Spock realized just how much he had taken for granted in that assumption.

Suddenly Spock realized why he had come tonight. This was the first time since the Fal-tor-pan…since the ritual that he was alone with the doctor. This was McCoy's first opportunity to express his anger at Spock in privacy. It seemed only right and fitting to give the doctor a chance to do so.

If McCoy would only explode at him, Spock would know how to respond. However fragmented his memories might be, he knew that he was accustomed to emotional responses from the doctor. Given such a response, Spock would find his voice. He would even find the words to express his gratitude—however human such an expression might be.

But there was no explosion. Why? Even with his jumbled memories, Spock could recall bitter, cutting remarks from the doctor on little provocation. Where were those remarks now? The doctor had every right to them, considering what Spock had subjected him to.

One thing, at least, had not changed: the doctor was growing impatient. "Spock,” he asked, “are you going to say something, or are you going to stand there glowering down at me?"

"I am not glowering, Doctor," Spock objected.

"Well, you're giving a damn good impression of it," he retorted. Then he paused to roll his eyes. "Christ, Spock, don't just stand there. Come here and sit down."

Spock ignored the irrational religious reference as he made his way to the bed and took a seat beside the doctor. But he did not stop staring at McCoy. He was searching for the anger that should be blazing in his eyes.

It was not there. "You—you are not angry." Again, it was not a question.

"About what? This whole katra thing?"

Spock stared at him, wondering how the doctor had managed to refer so offhandedly to the burden of carrying Spock’s very soul—not to mention the pain of the ritual that followed and the danger along the way.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “The ‘whole katra thing.’”

The doctor shrugged. “Could’ve been worse,” he drawled. “Next time, though, just ask me for a kidney.”

Spock raised his eyebrow at that. “Why should I require one of your kidneys? Vulcan anatomy—”

But McCoy’s laughter cut him off. To Spock’s astonishment, the doctor nearly doubled over before resting his head on Spock’s shoulder. Then he flung his arms around Spock, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Oh God, Spock, I’ve missed you,” he said, still laughing.

Spock permitted the embrace and even managed to return it, although he was still bewildered by the doctor’s actions. He had expected anger and biting irony from McCoy—or at least exasperation—not this warmth and affection.

“Doctor,” he began, keeping his arms around the human, “I—” he paused again, trying to form the words of gratitude. But again, his lips seemed frozen. “I—”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Spock,” McCoy said, still holding him. “I know what you’re trying to say and I don’t give a damn if you speak the words out loud or not. You’re welcome—and I’d do it all over again if you ever needed me to.”

His grip was almost painful, Spock noticed. It was as if the doctor feared losing him again. Spock knew he should speak now, but he could manage only a nod.

“But you owe me,” McCoy continued. “If I ever need a kidney, I expect you to donate yours.”

“That is illogical, Doctor,” Spock reprimanded. “Kidney transplants are a thing of the past. And even if they were not, no kidney of mine would ever be compatible with your—”

“Oh for the love of—don’t you think I know that?” McCoy asked. “Christ Almighty, I hope you have a higher opinion of my medical skills than that. I don’t care—I want it anyway.”

“But it would do you no good.”

“On the contrary, it would bring me immense satisfaction,” McCoy assured him, “even sitting in a jar.”

Spock suspected that the human was—what was the terran word? Teasing. But it was difficult to tell. Perhaps before the events surrounding the Genesis planet, he would have been better able to discern the doctor's meaning. Nonetheless, he allowed the subject to drop.

At length Spock felt McCoy’s grip on him loosen. The human had finally drifted off to sleep, with his head still resting on Spock’s shoulder. Spock sighed, but decided that it would be illogical to disturb the doctor when he’d had so much difficulty sleeping of late. So instead of attempting to break apart, he merely shifted so that he could lean back against the wall.

Soon Spock was shutting his own eyes and resting his chin on top of his friend’s head. He was pleased with his decision to remain, despite his customary dislike of such intimate contact. It was one way, perhaps, to show his gratitude.

And, despite the doctor's distressing lack of logic, he might appreciate the undisturbed sleep more than an incompatible kidney.

~The End~