Nothing Lay Between (6/?), Kirk/Spock, R
During the afternoon with Jim, while they were sorting out applications together, Spock reached an epiphany. While he could possibly exercise all of his talents while serving Jim (his memory was not as spotty as he would lead the Captain to believe), the man’s insistence for platonic friendship meant that this possibility was highly unlikely. If Spock wanted to keep himself from feeling so useless on the ship, useless to him, he would have to find a way serve in other ways.
While Jim was agonizing over applications-reading over qualifications and biographies-Spock realized that the man regarded his crew less from the point of view of a manager and more as a head of house, the patriarch of a clan. There was something intimate and familial about the way he looked upon his existing crew, and the scrutinizing suspicion he gave those who wished to wish to join them. Protective.
As he rose to retrieve a second cup of coffee for Jim from the replicator in the office, Spock thought of all the relevant rules and history he knew about his profession. There were certain conventions he had paid little mind to because of his place of employment; his duty had been to Vulcan in general, to the V'Shar more specifically, with his immediate superior as the Director himself. In such a setting, Spock had singular and consecutive orders, given to him with little room for interpretation. Yet, he had still been meant to serve the entirety of Vulcan, despite becoming comfortable in that small niche. Not a singular man, department, or agency, but the race, the people, the planet. That was what they had told him.
Now he would have to apply it to Jim. While he had been given to Jim and Jim alone, to laud his actions and bravery, tradition and precedent told Spock that his service could expand to Jim's clan, as skewed as the definition would be on this ship. Too broad of a brush could easily include all twelve hundred people aboard the ship; Spock would not consider this for his own sanity. But there were people Jim interacted with every day, and it was these people Spock would try to cater to as well, for their happiness and the efficiency of the bridge would surely please Jim, too.
Setting the mug on the desk, Spock wondered who he would approach first.
He did not make the decision himself.
Spock had been standing at the replicator for dinner when Uhura approached him. "Spock." She made herself known, standing at his side, leaning in slightly. He could only see a hint of her nervousness in the quick movement of her eyes; otherwise she was as confident as always. "Why don't you sit with us tonight?" For whatever reason, Spock always noticed that she did not say me, but rather spoke for the entire table as their chosen diplomat.
"If I am welcomed, t'sai." The door of the replicator came up on the rice and curry stew, close enough to Vulcan food he knew he would never have again.
"Nyota," She corrected him with a smile. "And you're always welcomed." Spock glanced to her, nodded, and walked with her to the table with his tray in hand.
They were an odd collection of women from various divisions, including one blond-haired nurse he had seen passing between his laboratories and the medical division. The other tables were occupied in a co-gendered fashion, males assembling in packs of two or three. Not that he felt odd sitting at the table of women-he was not unfamiliar with the situation-but hoped that they would, in turn, not feel uncomfortable.
Entertaining them throughout the meal was refreshingly simple and easy, as they all seemed to prefer lighter topics of conversation: work, unrequited love, little observations among the crew, humorous stories traded among their circle. Not the subtle-serious discussion of diplomacy. Spock quietly relished not having the V'Shar's intentions nagging at the back of his mind.
Each of the ladies excused themselves as the night wore on, finally leaving Nyota, him, and the nurse, though she soon excused herself with a smile and a light blush ("See you tomorrow, Christine," Nyota said with a wave). They fell into a long conversation about her: where she was from, how she got into Starfleet, her interests outside of her work. Her choir work was of particular interest to both of them, genuinely so.
"How about this," Nyota began. She brought her hands in front of her as she spoke, punctuating her words with indistinct movements of her fingers. Lovely hands. "Why don't you play your lyre one night, and I'll sing on another?"
He had not played his lyre since the destruction of Vulcan. It was logical to practice, so that he may be in his top condition should he ever be called to the opportunity, but there was something illogical in his path. To draw it out of the trunk would acknowledge why it had been there in the first place, not destroyed on the planet like the rest of his life.
Spock had been entertaining a delegation from Betazed when the ambassador had approached him at the end of his performance. She lavished him with praise that was entirely unnecessary, and then invited him for some after-party company. They had been in the shuttle to transport cross-planet when the distress call had appeared, forcing them to jettison out of the atmosphere and into deep space, as far as they could from the planet until bits and pieces of Vulcan's interstellar armada found them in the middle of nowhere.
Though her empathic powers had been strong, enough to make Spock put up more shields than necessary, she had not needed any in that shuttle to just know, once he felt Vulcan disappear into nothing. He felt the planet rip away from his mind, felt everything he had lived with implode. His grief, his shock, and his helpless were strong enough to penetrate his shields when he didn't even realize it. As he had sat absolutely still, almost unbreathing, in that seat at the back of the shuttle, the ambassador had comforted him, putting her hand on his arm, but he couldn't thank her for the gesture until three days later, when he found his voice again.
Betazed had been a pleasant planet, too. More lush than Vulcan had ever been outside of carefully maintained botanical gardens, nice people, and interesting cuisine. He had stayed there no more than eight days, almost allowing himself to forget Vulcan entirely, before the surviving Elders found him and called him to the colony, to resume his proper place again.
"That is an acceptable agreement," Spock finally answered Nyota, with a nod. "I shall prepare a repertoire."
He didn't have reason to ignore it any longer. He needed to be something to Jim, by extension his crew, and Nyota had requested a performance affectionate Vulcan terms. There was no point to deny her--didn't want to deny the crew a little bit of entertainment--no matter how difficult it was to take out the lyre form the bottom of his trunk. Spock sat on his bed and held the instrument for a long time that evening, simply feeling the wood and the strings beneath his fingertips, before he actually started to tune the instrument. He nearly cringed as he plucked the strings--the travel and climate changes had undone the tuning to a horribly flat tone.
By the time he entered the recreational room the next evening, the lyre was tuned and he had practiced extensively into last night. To a curious crowd, ever-shifting as the crew moved in and out of the room, he played. Traditional Vulcan melodies, from every era of musical history he could recall. While Spock was aware that he was being watched, it was different than being judged. Recitals of his youth had always entertained stoic Vulcan bureaucrats and his teachers, looking down from their seats with sharp eyes and untelling expressions. It had only marginally improved as he grew older and the audience shifted more towards foreign diplomats, but their judgement had only been limited by their ignorance of the craft. This, however, was more relaxed, easy. Almost...pleasing.
In the middle of the evening, just as he was approaching the ballads famous in the aftermath of the Time of Awakening, he glimpsed Jim and McCoy entering for dinner. Both men peered through the room to where the music was coming from, their eyes settling on Spock almost immediately. McCoy's eyebrow raised slightly, studying the strange instrument from afar, then shrugged and went for the replicator. Jim, on the other hand, walked over to Spock with a grin on his lips.
"...Didn't know you played an instrument, but I probably should of guessed." Jim's eyes slid up and down the lyre, then gestured. "Don't stop because of me." And stepped past Spock to join McCoy at the replicator. Spock didn't stop playing, proceeding as he planned through the songs he had memorized years ago. When he glanced at them at their table it was with the general glance he gave the whole of the room, surveying, playing the crowd like he played the strings.
Overall, it turned out to be a successful evening. Once returned to his quarters, Spock returned the lyre to its velvet wrap, placed it neatly in one of the shelves along the bed, and then attended to the infant blisters on his fingertips.
During lunch, Spock would often sit with Chekov and Sulu. Chekov would talk about physics or any number of simulations he would do at his station when not plotting navigation courses, and Sulu would make small comments about how he still really wasn't sure he should be First Officer, what with the workload and his own inexperience. Not that the latter mattered, Spock would remind him in turn, as the entire bridge crew appeared to be at least somewhat young, though not completely new given the Narada incident. They were an odd couple, but Spock had the tact to never say that aloud. He only knew that whenever he sat that close to somebody, he was usually on assignment.
When they wasn't eating, and more frequently in the middle of when they were, Chekov and he would play tri-dimensional chess. For being so young, Chekov was quite skilled, but not so much that Spock couldn't advise on opening moves and strategies not seen often in human championships. Chekov played with a constant offense, while Spock had always preferred a passive-aggressive, almost defensive, approach, of laying traps along the way until finally the mate happened. Once in a while, the young man would come close to victory--right before said traps would activate. Yet it was less about the end result and more of the exercise itself; Chekov always faced defeat with a smile and an insistence for a rematch.
The demeanor very nearly matched his own attitude towards the game as a child. Learning it had been more of an accident than a required skill. He had played many of his tutors between lessons, during quiet afternoons in sunny rooms of stone walls. When he grew older, he challenged his peers, often sitting on a shaded community patio on the edges of the summer compound in Vulcana Regar. The wide, slow river trickling down from the mountains would be off to the south, a stark blue against red-brown sands. Spock and his opponet would each have padds in one arm, reminding them there was more important activities to do. He usually opted to move a black stone piece instead.
There was one evening, though, where Spock saw that the enthusiasm had dropped from his features, and the previous strategies that Spock had taught Chekov seemed to have dropped out of the young man's mind completely. The board was a literal road map of mistakes and misplaced rooks. There was an obvious checkmate in four moves if Spock wasn't stopped, and it was about this time that he noticed his opponent's melancholy.
"Mister Chekov, is there something troubling you?" Spock allowed some concern to filter into his expression so that the young man might feel more open to discussion.
Chekov sighed, an elbow propped on the table and his cheek in hand, slumped in a horrible posture that spoke loudly of teenage depression and indecision. "It is...personal, Mister Spock," He let on reluctantly. Of course it was personal, Spock thought to himself--any professional problems were always solved within a day or so. Humans never languished like this unless it was personal.
Immediately upon hearing this, Spock began to formulate what may be the cause of all this. From what he knew of young humans, both from studies and personal experience, it was either romance, friendship, or both. "May I provide any assistance?" He meant all the different meanings of the word, but he doubted that Chekov would pull this meaning.
And he was right; the young man looked no different at his offer, merely shifted position to mirror that horrible posture, but now his cheek was held in the other hand. "No. It is... about Mister Sulu." Correct again, though not without a little bit of confusion. Chekov had just denied that he could offer assistance, and yet he had proceeded to tell him what the problem was. And then continued on, chess game forgotten, to unload every single problem between Sulu and him, as if this were some impromptu counseling session and Spock had any expertise with human relationships.
Despite his own fledgling experience with the complexities of interhuman relations, the situation appeared simple enough, and oddly similar to his own problem, if lacking in the complexities of ancient Vulcan customs and cultural ignorance. Chekov was, for lack of a better word, pining after Sulu, though reluctantly. He was smart enough to value the close and almost impossible friendship between the two of them, not to mention their working relationship, and he (or so he said) would be happy to settle for that, if Sulu wasn't interested in him. The next problem came in that he didn't know how to tell if Sulu was interested--a subject that dipped quite low into depressed helplessness until Spock stopped his morose soliloquy.
"Mister Chekov." Spock began to carefully set the chess pieces back into their case. "If it would provide you with some peace of mind, I may propose the situation to Mister Sulu, in order to see if he reciprocates your affections." He held up one hand calmly as Chekov made a panicked lunge to speak. "You will not be implicated in any way."
Chekov blinked at him, as if processing what Spock had just said. "I..." He sighed. "Thank you, Mister Spock." A bit of a sheepish murmur as he helped Spock put away the set.
Once they were done in the recreational room, Spock escorted Chekov back to his quarters, since they were en route to his own, but didn't enter. To break the threshold would invite complications he would rather not handle at this moment. He bid the young man good night with a nod (and got a good night and a short wave in response), and retired for the evening.
As Spock stared up at the ceiling of his quarters, he questioned the magnitude of the project he had just undertaken, and his own ability to fulfill it. Humans were always so complicated.
Engineering was not his specialty. The only apparatuses that he actually constructed were explicitly for his research projects at the Academy. They were always small-scale, delicate, mostly glass, and only meant to be used once before it was dismantled or reused for another project. The insides of a star ship, one even greater than the Excalibur, was a wondrous sight indeed, and it piqued his curiosity in a childlike way, because he knew he would never have the time to understand it fully, given his status, his current project, and what he had to study to get his official qualifications from Starfleet. He had already taken two tests, and he knew the next one he had in mind: warp engineering.
What he knew of it was only as much as he could glean from slipping into the back of courses at the Vulcan Science Academy, bribing professors, and asking for tours of ships from the various captains he had escorted. The problem with this learning technique was that none of the designs were consistent with one another, even among Starfleet vessels, and so actually learning anything fundamental about basic designs was guesswork at best. He knew isolated parts and how they functioned: the dilithium crystals mediating the reaction between matter and anti-matter, the plasma flows, the artificial gravity, but not exactly how each part fitted with each other, how excess thermal and nuclear energy were dealt with in a self-sustaining ship, how everything fitted seamlessly from one pipe to the next, coupling to coupling.
Thus, he had wandered through engineering during the middle of shift; excusing himself from the laboratory had been easy enough when all of his research was stuck in simulation and he had already pushed several projects ahead of schedule by at least one week. Through his search, he descended farther and farther into the bowels of the ship until he met the man he was looking for: Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer. The man had been fiddling around with some control panel while eating a meat sandwich with one hand, and only blinked once at Spock's innocent request for a detailed tour of the alpha section before leaping from his seat and conducting a practical lesson in warp engineering.
The likes of the tour, the details and the absolutely genuine love the man had for the Enterprise put his own touring skills to shame. Spock realized this not without some bitter reminiscence, though most of his mind was focused on taking in anything and everything the man said about the basic mechanics of the star ship. Occasionally he asked questions that would connect all the information together, things he had seen referenced in the other texts he was reading, but otherwise the engineer gave him all the information he requested, and more that he hadn't but found just as useful.
Towards the end of the walk, they began to talk about research. While the Lieutenant Commander was not a scientist, his understanding of theoretical physics was enough to rival Spock's own knowledge. Coupled with the intimate knowledge of the physical practicalities, Spock was rather sure that Mister Scott could aid him with his own research, if only he coax it out with something in return.
When Mister Scott began to talk about his transwarp theory, Spock's interest piqued. He had read of various theories while on Vulcan, noticed variously similarities between it and his own scientific objectives. He needed more information about it--and this was the perfect opportunity.
Spock offered to assist him in the testing and refining of his theory, though there was only so much either of them could do with only one ship. The man did mention something about an unfortunate incident with a beagle, too, which didn't put any great confidence in him for their practical research.
Yet he still felt like he had accomplished something, and was on the verge of accomplishing more, even if it was not his primary goal. He could see just peaks of Jim's stress when they saw each other at random intervals, knew exactly how to make him relax--statistically speaking, one of more than twenty methods had to work--but knew Jim wouldn't allow him close enough to try eighteen of them.
He knew, if this research was Mister Scott proved fruitful for his own purposes, he would not actually need to play this delicate game of getting into Jim's confidence and validating his own existence.
Hopefully by the time they actually activated the experimental transporters, nothing would explode, implode, combust, demateralize, or otherwise not reappear in the same way that it disappeared.
Sulu was the last person on the bridge he had yet to extended his courtesies to, and he was rather at a lost of how to approach him. Spock could possibly extend an offer to help him with paperwork, but that would seem too startling without any clear segue. Subsequently, in order to do that, he would have had to been in Sulu's inner circle to approach him with this help and at least an officer to handle the delicate paperwork and security communications. Unfortunately, Spock was neither, though their mutual acquaintance with Chekov and frequent meal times with each other were eroding such barriers.
Soon enough, though, on his explorations of the ship, he found something else by which he could possibly entertain Sulu. Spock had been surveying the gym on one evening that he was neither researching, playing chess, or allowing his fingers to feel from the thin strings of the lyre. He saw familiar faces among the exercise machines, among the pool, but continued on towards one of the many partitioned areas on the side. He glimpsed Jim doing some strange motions and remembered self-defense lessons from his late adolescence, a necessary step before he could enter his practical training as a thol'es-kafeh.
But then he kept walking forward along the hallway and saw Sulu by himself in one of the rooms at the end, a strange silver saber propped up against one of the walls on the edge of the mat. The man himself was standing in the middle of the mat, going through some motions that Spock had seen Jim move through, but these were of a different style that looked unfamiliar to him. He lingered in the open archway of the partitioned area, and when Sulu finally saw him, he tentatively ventured forward a few questions about the style of this combat - whether it was offensive or defensive, its geographic origin, and its purpose. He also questioned how the saber fit in with the hand-to-hand, if at all, and stood back and watched as several techniques were demonstrated for him.
Then, during his casual observations, Sulu turned to him and asked if he had any particular combat training that he had learned on Vulcan (with a pointed avoidance of mentioning Spock's profession or education at all). Spock hesitated, lingering on the side of the room and wondering for a moment if he should be talking about rather secretive Vulcan melee combat techniques that he had been taught as a younger man, but then he focused on his objective here. He recalled the exact reason why he had wandered down here into the gym in the first place. He was not here to spy for the V'Shar or to keep Vulcan secrets to himself. His allegiance was to Jim, and now expanded to the most senior of his crew.
Spock elaborated on his combat training with demonstrations, stepping up onto the mat as he began to explain, in general terms, what he had been trained in throughout his years on Vulcan when it came to combat and self-defense.
To be a thol'es-kafeh was to accept an ancient position in society, and thus the ancient teachings had accompanied it. There had been many before him, not always in the service of the V'Shar, the Vulcan government, but more likely under private employ. Yet no matter where one was to be stationed, the training was similar. Languages, manners, the art of conversation, intimacy, music...they were groomed--Spock had been groomed--to be a person to cater to others. The only difference between himself and those of his profession from thousands of years ago was the diversity of his clientele (and thus the expanded skill set)--aliens with interplanetary delegations and strange sensibilities.
With that history, there were certain expectations. Not all nights or assignments go as planned. It was an inevitable fact, that of hundreds of clients there would be at least one that would have an unfavourable reaction--such as attempted murder. Spock had known these dangers before he had begun working, so he trained as they told him, learned how to defend himself against a variety of species, and hoped (though hope was illogical) that he would never have to utilize such skills.
Because of the situations he was expected to engage in, most of the maneuvers were of a certain unnamed style: ankle sweeps, blocks, quick hand movements that went for delicate soft spots on a variety of humanoids. Quick, deadly, and silent, sometimes requiring a strange contortion of his body, sometimes breaking an imaginary neck without mercy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sulu standing at the edge of the mat, watching his demonstration with shocked interest. The helmsman probably did not expect a courtesan to fight like Spock showed him, soft touches and gentle moves all forgotten in a unforgiving haze of self-preservation.
By the end of the night, they had compared their respective combat styles and Spock had some fledgling experience with Sulu's saber and katana, which turned out to be interesting Terran weapons in their own right. While they fought, sparred, and mutually taught each other, they talked. The topic of conversation wandered to ship business, personal histories (of which Spock kept quite vague when the attention was briefly focused on himself), and then, finally, to people. The captain and the heroics Sulu had engaged in with him, the dynamics of the bridge crew, and in the end, Chekov.
It amused Spock to hear the man dance around his own affections for the young navigator. Sulu would give several different reasons why he didn't want to pursue something serious and then begin a a tangent that would disprove his initial statements completely. For Spock to orchestrate something that would cease this needless self-denial--among both parties--would require a bit of time and patience. The former he was always in short supply of now that he was beginning to spread himself thin with the interests of now-four-going-on-five people.
On Vulcan, it had been a simple task of devoting himself to a dignitary once a week, maybe two if the conferences swept through Shi'Kahr. Now it was these people, Jim's people, every hour of every day, each one with their complex issues and requiring separate courtesies.
Spock told himself that he wouldn't let himself grow fatigued under the weight of his multiple projects, but he found himself sleeping at later and later times, dipping into hours that were not suitable, even for Vulcans. He would lay in the darkness, still as a statue with eyes open, thinking over the lives of Nyota, Chekov, Mister Scott, Sulu, and of course, Jim. At least he could affect the first four, offer them advice in his limited capacity, his labour, his skills. Jim remained a self-sustaining entity, rendering his existence practically unnecessary. They could talk, but Spock had more than just words at his disposal, and it was a shame to allow the rest of the arsenal to grow dusty with misuse.
His quarters were dark and quiet, save for the hum of the ship. Spock tuned onto his side, and looked unblinking at the green glow of the chronometer on the bedside table, 0327. There was one more person he had yet to talk to properly, who could possibly aid him in his approach towards Jim.
McCoy was technically not a member of the bridge crew in that he did not actually work on the bridge. Though from Spock's frequent trips to said bridge, either on an errand for his department or for any of the other officers in the process of currying their favour and friendship, half the time McCoy was there anyway, acting his role as Chief Medical Officer. The manner with which he visited was nearly always the same: annoyed, stern, waving a hypo spray in one hand and yelling about either Jim or medical realities versus miracles. When it wasn't somewhat intimidating it intrigued Spock, and every time he saw McCoy and Jim in the same room his initial hypothesis about the measure of this man's power was further supported.
The way Jim seemed to both brush McCoy off and simultaneously cower from him suggested to Spock that perhaps, if he wanted another method to get closer to Jim, the Doctor would provide an effective avenue. This whole process was almost as if he were getting to know Jim without Jim knowing--which, at this point, Spock preferred. Whenever Jim seemed to remember who he was, what he was, those pieces that were intrinsic to Spock's identity, a chasm would open between them. It pained Spock, it pained his reason especially, to be chastised for an immutable part of his existence, but he could subdue it if that was what it took to fulfill his purpose.
He also needed to formally thank McCoy for services rendered when they had been on Earth that one night. This was the pretense he carried internally as he entered sickbay after his shift one day, hands clasped behind his back as he glanced around the area. He knew from errands, working, and rumours that sickbay hours tended to drag later by the simple nature of the job, but as the crew were all healthy and young...
"You brought this on yourself." Came the displeased growl of the doctor as Spock came into the main area of sickbay, "I shouldn't even be treatin' you for it, punishment for your stupidity." Off to the side, a scowling McCoy was looming over a red shirted ensign who looked far more like a child being berated by their parents then the engineer he was.
"Yessir, but I--"
"No buts!" With the skill of a deadly warrior, McCoy brought a hypo from seemingly no where and caught the ensign in the neck with far more force then was necessary. It brought a high-pitched yelp out of the young man, who winced hard enough to nearly pitch off the biobed he was perched on. "Now get out of my sickbay." The doctor growled, pointing towards the door without looking at it.
"Y-Yessir!" The ensign, holding his neck, practically bolted from the room. McCoy sighed, shook his head, and muttered as he started digging into a closet nearby, seemingly oblivious to Spock standing nearby. Slowly, through observation from afar, Spock was learning the difference between severely displeased and simply fatigued; he was rather sure that this was the latter. If he approached without aggravating him, this could possibly be yet another successful venture.
"Doctor McCoy?" He called across the short distance between them as he stepped forward, still in his easy parade rest. As McCoy was unequipped with a hypo, the danger here was considerably less, but the thought of his power pressed ever-present in Spock's mind. He would not be here otherwise.
McCoy looked over his shoulder with a dark glare, obviously ready to see another patient, but the sight of Spock made his expression change to one of surprise. He turned around to face him, a box in his hands, and eyed the Vulcan up and down. "Spock. What brings you here?"
"I wanted to thank you for your assistance towards the Captain and myself while on Earth." As easy as it might have been to avert his gaze to the box and lessen the weight of the scrutiny he felt he was suffering, Spock kept his eyes up, watching McCoy's expression for any sudden changes towards annoyance, anger, and irritation. He also offered to carry the box with a silent gesture of his open hands.
"I got it," McCoy grumbled, gesturing with his head for Spock to follow him. "No need to thank me. Last thing Jim needs on his shiny golden boy record is being caught plastered with one of his crew." He walked into his office, putting the box down on the desk with a thump.
"I would still prefer to offer you something in return." Spock lingered as close as he could within a polite distance and without crowding. When he peered over the top of the box to see its cargo, it was interesting, but not surprising, to see a pile of unused hypos, silver metal shining in the overhead lights. He arched an eyebrow at the stash. "...is it necessary to have such quantity?"
That earned Spock a raised eyebrow from the doctor, "Didn't know you were suddenly in charge of sickbay supplies." He snorted, voice dry in its tone dusted with annoyance, "Someone took to stealing them when my back's turned, someone good with security cameras." He sat down heavily in his chair, studying the man in front of him. "What do you mean, offer me something in return?" The gruff voice now held a sense of wariness.
While there was another chair by the desk, Spock kept standing, having not been offered and to keep his escape options quick and immediate. He had already thought about what McCoy may want (and that could be given) throughout the day. Referencing his time with Christopher and his crew, alongside his experience with surgeon generals (including Starfleet's) and other important physicians, Spock predicted that a certain curiosity must exist in this doctor, too. "Knowledge, perhaps." He knew what McCoy was thinking, but he wouldn't, couldn't, offer that. "I have perused through the medical database on this ship, and the information regarding Vulcans is quite lacking." For a brief moment, he had the same thought that had occurred with Sulu about divulging intimate Vulcan details--and he reached the same unyielding conclusion.
The other brow joined the first to turn it into an expression of surprise on McCoy's face. "That's because you Vulcans are more tight lipped than a prisoner under torture." He leaned forward, his curiosity caught. "You'd be willing to fill in or help fill in some of that missing information?" Disbelief reigned in his voice.
Spock nodded once. McCoy may have been skeptical, but he was sure of his intentions and what he was willing to do here. "I will reveal as much as I am able with my limited medical knowledge, though you are more than welcome to draw more accurate conclusions where I am uncertain." He knew how the Vulcan body tended to work, how it was technically supposed to work, but as he was not truly Vulcan, there were some oddities to deal with. Oddities that had not avoided the curiosity of doctors before.
McCoy gave Spock a distrusting look, but his curiosity was definitely had. "Alright, if you feel you want to. When do you got the time to do this?" He pulled up a quick schedule on the screen beside him, frowning at it.
While Spock looked at this schedule as well, glancing at the screen, in the back of his mind he kept an idea bout his own schedule, of the chess games he would have to play and other reserch he would have to conduct and the night he had set aside to play with and for Nyota. Mentally, he overlaid these plans with those on the screen, moved around an appointment and laboratory work in order to open up an afternoon not far from the day they were currently in. "Two days from now, assuming you remain unoccupied, I may work with you onwards from fifteen-hundred."
A slight tilt of his head, and McCoy gave a quick nod, "Can't promise it'll stay open, what with this damn ship, but for now I can agree with that." Some quick movements of his fingers took up a block of time at that set date and time.
Seeing the appointment in the system brought a significant amount of relief to his thoughts. Spock had predicted that getting McCoy to accept any sort of return gift would be the most difficult part, now, with that accomplished, it was only a matter of making it worthwhile. "I shall see you at the appointed time."
Spock never admitted excitement when it came to clients and wouldn't allow himself to do the same thing here. These people, these officers, were not really clients in the first place, though he didn't know what else to call them that seemed reasonable and honest at the same time. However, he did check his inner chronometer and the one on the wall of the laboratory more often than normal on the second day after his brief conversation with McCoy. He'd glanced to the chronometer, the microbe beneath the glass, and back again, and then he would shift these duties to an ensign nearby so he could go to the physics division. This type of time dilation was unacceptable.
What was more infuriating about this, when he acknowledged his own nervous energy, was that he could not pinpoint from what this energy originated. Perhaps he expected something significant to come out of this, given McCoy's position in Jim's confidence. Perhaps it had something to do with the man himself. He dispensed with both of those thoughts, as they were illogical and dangerous: to enter a situation with low expectations ensured he would never be disappointed.
Finally, fifteen-hundred arrived on the ship, at which point Spock stepped in through the doors to sickbay, ever punctual and calm. McCoy was there, arms crossed over his chest, obviously ready for Spock. He looked to the Vulcan and nodded, gesturing for Spock to follow. Spock was led into a private room, back to where they kept patients for longer term. "Figured we could at least get an hour before someone ignores my orders to not bother me."
"Of course." In the back of his mind he calculated the odds that somebody would interrupt them--rather high given this ship, McCoy was right--and then who that person might be. Most likely the captain, just for boredom's sake. Spock lingered by one of the machines in standby, examining its dimmed meters curiously as he asked, "Is there a particular area you would like to begin, Doctor, or shall I cover it systematically?"
"We'll start with the basics and work our way up." McCoy rumbled, bringing out a pad, "We've got... average height, weight, blood types, a few common diseases but surprisingly little on them, anatomy layouts, but in the end, basically a lot of nothing." He sounded displeased about the idea, "For one of the founders of the Federation you'd think they might trust us to treat you guys more." The displeasure continued, but not focused at Spock. "But you..."
McCoy eyed Spock critically, "Considering your parentage and all, I'm wondering what the differences between you and a full blooded Vulcan would be."
Spock stepped away from the machine to stand by one of the biobeds nearer McCoy, currently off and dimmed like the other equipment in the room. "I believe that I know most of the anatomical differences between myself and full Vulcans, and I will inform you of them as they become relevant." There was a certain difference that he would not make mention of, and hoped that it would not become a topic so outright lying would not be necessary. Spock doubted that it would come up without his own insistence, as it was something out of human medical expertise completely.
Well, with that start, a slow but thorough examination began. McCoy asked careful questions, everything being recorded aurally so he did not have to stop as they worked. He asked about diseases, aliments, their life span, absolutely anything that came to mind. Questions panned out into other questions, answers listened to in silence before being picked apart.
It was evident over the course of their discussions that McCoy was less then comfortable. Not in any mental sense, the man was a doctor after all, but a physical one. As time crawled on, his shoulders were becoming further and further hunched, his brows furrowing in a way that suggested the doctor had a headache behind the eyes. It was a look Spock was familiar with. Not because he caused it to happen, but because it tended to plague people of importance, people he catered to, and he always made it a point to eliminate that expression and tension before progressing into more...involved activities.
(Not that such acitivites were necessary. Spock could very well allow an evening to pass with only this initial step. Satisfaction on both sides could come in many flavours, though his was mostly in a professional capacity. )
"Doctor." Spock slid off the edge of the biobed from where he had been sitting throughout this discussion. "If you are fatigued, we may continue this report at another time."
McCoy snorted loudly and stepped back, looking to Spock. "M'fine, Spock. Just a long few days." All spoken in a 'nothing I can't handle' tone, another typical reaction for people of importance. Spock didn't trust such a tone out of experience and habit. When he worked, he merely reasoned it to be that he wouldn't be here if he wasn't needed. Here, that line of logic did not quite apply, but there were other reasons supporting his presence here.
Spock tilted his head to the side slightly, looking over McCoy, and decided to proceed with his venture. "Vulcans have methods for easing tension from the body, that I believe you may find interesting from a scientific standpoint. I may demonstrate some techniques, if you will allow me."
There was a near full body twitch from the doctor, and the wary look returned for just a moment before McCoy gave a light grunt, "Just tell me what you're gonna do before you do it." The doctor was like any doctor was when they became a patient - distrusting, grumpy, and nervous. That anxiety would be remedied as well.
"It would be more comfortable if you sat," Spock suggested as he gestured to the biobed. The process would be more relaxing, too, if the doctor would remove his shirt, but Spock doubted that second request would be received well. McCoy eyed Spock for a moment before doing as suggested, putting his hands up on the edge of the biobed and sitting down on the edge, shifting back so he was comfortable in his seat before giving Spock a look that was somehow sarcastic.
Moving behind McCoy allowed Spock time to plan how he was going to go about this. There were several different variations on technique, though it was easy to assume that he would have to use the most platonic methods if he was going to finish without being reported or attacked with a hypo. Sitting on the bed behind McCoy, legs folded underneath him, he flexed his fingers, curling them into the palm as he concentrated his sensitivities to the very tips.
"It is necessary that I begin from your shoulders and work downwards over your back," He explained, and then his fingers touched the back of McCoy's shoulders. Almost immediately, with the very first touch, there was a bowstring tensing across McCoy's shoulders. Spock closed his eyes as his mind reached out, looking for the nerves through the fabric. Once found, he opened his eyes and began to knead gently, coaxing those muscles to relax and those nerves to send soothing pleasure to the brain.
McCoy let out a breath through his teeth and some more of his tension flowed out of him. There was a surprisingly strong set of shoulders beneath Spock's fingertips, as if the doctor regularly exercise or had before taking up his position in space. He remained silent, but occasionally there was a very quiet breath in or out as Spock hit a particular spot or a deep laying knot with skilled fingers.
"You may be aware that Vulcans are touch telepaths," Spock said as he pressed his thumbs along McCoy's spine, applying a light amount of pressure but in strategic places, coaxing muscles throughout the body into relaxation. If he had his usual end-goal in mind, touching further down would enable him to entice the doctor's body into arousal--but, for now, that technique would go unused. "Neuropressure, as this has been called in Standard, relies on such telepathy to identify the specific nerves necessary to touch in order to achieve a relaxing effect. Your shirt prevents any access to your thoughts."
A low rumble came from McCoy, "Then how exactly are you doin' it now?" His body was sagging forward a little, leaning a little on his elbows to keep from toppling forward. That small amount of drawl to his voice, too--that had some inherent merit.
"The electrical impulses caused by your nerves are easily felt by my telepathy, regardless of the fabric." Spock's hands moved lower over McCoy's back, keeping his thumbs on or near his spine. "Thoughts are 'fainter', and require direct contact to be discerned correctly."
"I see." In that tone that might have been severely disproving if McCoy wasn't melting. "...not possible for... humans to do." Definitely his voice was fading with his relaxation. To hear that tell-tale sign brought a small inkling of satisfaction to Spock; he didn't pause in his movements.
"I possess many abilities that humans lack." It wasn't meant to be taken in a sexual fashion, merely as the truth. Many of his abilities had their roots in his telepathy or his mind in general, only present because of his Vulcan heritage. "Yet simply because you cannot replicate the technique should not colour your opinion of it."
That brought another grunt out of McCoy, quiet. "Nn." Just a sound of agreement, and he started to lean a little into Spock's hands, probably (definitely) unconsciously.
Spock had power, now. There were certain parts of his profession that he actively noted, not out of simple enjoyment (he--enjoyed--all of his work, if he was asked), but because the sensations were unique. Sometimes they were intoxicating, or caused a sense of disembodiment, or made him feel extremely pleased with himself and his talents, and sometimes, even more rarely, they afforded him opportunities that could not be reached in any other way. Such was this: having the power of McCoy's pleasure under his fingertips, the distant, indistinct murmur of thoughts crackling beneath the fabric and skin, tingling against his hands. From his position, he could do anything, could have the man aroused, almost aching, within seventeen point four three seconds (if he took the average from past clients).
Yet he couldn't, wouldn't. Not only would it be potentially hazardous to his plan to curry the favour of those who could get him close to Jim, but it would be a blatant abuse of power. Corruption was something he had grown distasteful of during his practical training due to its regularity among his clients, and to indulge in it here would erode the few tenets of his life he held constant. It would also be selfish to act in such a manner, just to see the doctor squirm and groan.
This did not mean he would resist treating McCoy to the less well-known applications of neuropressure. It was a skill secret enough to be limited among the Vulcan population. Spock only knew of several other people who knew--had known--the complex technique, and they had all been colleagues in his profession. There may have been others; they did not learn it from each other, after all, but no one he knew of.
Spock shifted closer, rising slightly on his knees as he leaned without touching towards over McCoy's back, while his hands sank to the small of his back. He kept his voice professional, to offset the rest of the pseudo-intimacy and the fact he may have, almost, been breathing by his ear. "Are you comfortable, doctor?"
A low, deep rumble echoed from McCoy and he shifted slightly, reacting consciously or unconsciously to Spock's closeness. His eyes partly opened, staring at the sickbay floor. "...am." The slightly gruff tone had returned, but it was still mellow compared to its normal sting.
As the massage continued along the tight muscles of the lower back, Spock became vaguely aware of how compromising the pose between them might look, him standing on his knees behind the doctor like this. The thought only lingered for a moment before being disappearing under his own focus and concentration. Working his fingers into a certain position against McCoy's spine, he felt the cluster of sparks along the vertebrae, and then flooded his thoughts forward to his fingertips. The words wouldn't get through, the fabric was still in the way, but pointed movement of his fingers against others that held steady, the lightest pressure into his back, and now the barest hints of electricity...
It made McCoy's eyes open wide for a moment, then a louder groan fell from his lips. His shoulders tensed then loosened completely as the electricity shot up his spine from nerve endings being played like the keys on a piano. His fingers fell and tightened on the edge of the biobed.
Spock allowed the pressure to fade slightly from that spot before shifting his hands farther up the spine. A gentle kneading, fingers pressed towards the muscles of his sides. While his thumb graced over a vertebra, he spoke again. "You often scold the captain for working too long, to the detriment of his health. However, it is clear to me now that he is not the only one guilty of this folly." He sank in his fingertips into the muscle and nerves again, six electrified pressure points at once.
"Kid doesn't know how--!" His voice dissolved into a sound of shock and bliss. McCoy was pressing back into those fingers and melting at the same time, breathing having picked up in those last few moments.
The pressure faded again like before. Spock rolled the heel of his palms over the points he had excited, easing it into the soothing warmth that should have, right about now, been rising up McCoy's spine. This entire exercise was purely mental, though among humans it still tended to manifest itself physically, such as the change in breathing. Mainly that occurred because of inexperience of the mind, unable to handle the direct stimulation. "Perhaps he may learn through example? There is no reason to listen to a doctor who does not subscribe to his own medication." His hands moved up, fanning out a little to attend to the muscle over the shoulder blades. A minor reprieve.
McCoy's lips closed and his sped breathing kept up through his nostrils alone. The tone of his voice was surprisingly steady though, "I know how to handle myself, Spock." But he switched back into a doctor's role only a moment later enough to ask, "Yer using your mind to make those feelings happen or just your fingers?"
"You are still wearing your shirt," Spock reminded him, fingers reaching up to the back of his shoulders for a brief moment before moving back down again. "Without direct contact, I am unable to touch my mind with yours. The sensations you are experiencing are results of extremely localized pressure against your nerves." He avoided using the word manipulation, though that was what it was. "Pressure applied by my fingers, accompanied by minute electrical impulses."
The doctor was talking far too much to be properly immersed in the procedure, however. Spock pushed his thumbs in on either side of the fourth thoracic vertebra, between the shoulder blades, with another pulse. The result was no surprise: McCoy groaned low, his shoulders slumping as he pressed backwards, only to let his head finally fall forward.
"There is a technique that usually concludes a neuropressure session." At least, the neuropressure sessions that he conducted. Spock was aware that it wasn't standard fare among other Vulcans, but he doubted it would be questioned soon, given that he was the only Vulcan on board. "It involves the stimulation of one cervical vertebra and one lumbar vertebra, and delivers to the mind a euphoric feeling that some humans may consider overwhelming." Spock shifted his hands away from McCoy's spine as he talked, until his hands were at his shoulders again, slowly moving to touch over the human's triceps. He leaned closer, feeling the bare friction of their blue command shirts brushing each other, and spoke into McCoy's ear. "Would you like to experience it?"
There was silence, broken only for a moment by a sound that might have been denial. McCoy was still loose beneath his hands, breathing deep and low in his chest, body responding neatly to not only Spock's hands but his voice. Fingers clenched, loosened, clenched again. "Yes." Breathed out very quietly, the tone something almost embarrassed to let it fall from his lips, yet still somehow keeping its tone of gruffness that was generally McCoy.
"Very well." Spock pulled his body back and moved his hands back up McCoy's arms, over his shoulders, agonizing slow and allowing the heat of his hands to seep through the uniform. One hand came to rest against the top of the spine, just below the back of the neck, pressing and rubbing in almost non-existent circles. Spock's other hand slowly cascaded down the length of his spine until it rested at the small of McCoy's back. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the nerves beneath his fingertips as he arranged them over the exact spots. "Sadalau," He whispered, and pressed all ten of his fingers into the pressure points while allowing a flood of thoughts to race to his fingertips and shock what they could through the fabric.
If he were doing this procedure in the normal method, with skin-to-skin contact, his client would receive his thoughts of pleasure, compliments, and relaxation directly alongside the wave of massage-induced euphoria. It was not the passion he had saved for Christopher (and would save for Jim, as his only client for an indefinite period of time) since that was foreign and too intimate for this purpose. The limit of this exercise was the body itself, delivering pleasure in the greatest extent it could; all he did was unlock this potential. McCoy sucked in a hard breath before a moan left his lips, his entire body shaking with the reaction that Spock had set off. The spine cradled the strongest of nerves in the body, carrying with it the information that powered limbs and mind alike, and with his delicate, knowing touch Spock had forced a reaction that should have taken time and hands and mouths in other places.
It was a well known medical knowledge among patients with permanent spinal cord injuries that orgasm could be achieved with the mind alone, since despite a lack of feeling in the regions below the neck it did not stop the patient's sexual desires. It was also known that electrical stimulation in males and females could produce an orgasm without any touching whatsoever except the electrodes at the spine from the inside.
This, in McCoy's later records that were private to himself alone (and that Spock would quietly access by his own devices; an A7 computer degree had been viewed as a superfluous addition to his skill set by some, but he could argue otherwise), would be what he referenced in describing the Vulcan ability to do neuropressure massage.
Spock himself felt satisfied with the conclusion. Not in the manner that McCoy was feeling at this moment, but just the realization of his own efficacy after this impossibly long break in his work, this evidence that he could do something to cause someone to enjoy themselves without the usual stifling of his ingrained training. Pleased, Spock drew his hands away from McCoy's back, and then shifted his position on the bed. For a moment he sat next to him, legs off the edge, before standing, moving in front of him with his hands clasp loosely behind his back. Looking over McCoy from this position, he tilted his head slightly and asked, "Did you enjoy this, Doctor?"
It took several long moments for McCoy to lift his head, his eyebrows at odd angles as if unable to decide how to settle into the appropriate expression to show the emotions he was feeling. Finally, he said in a rough voice, "Don't... play innocent with me, you pointy eared bastard." But the insult was far from insulting in tone, and the unsteady nature of the doctor's voice said everything he was hiding with his words. "You damn well know I did."
"I only wished to confirm my observations," Spock answered, honest with his words. It was possible to elicit such a reaction against someone's will, regardless if he had asked for permission several times during the massage. "Is your headache still present?" There were other ways to get rid of it if it was still stubbornly present, but he doubted either of them would be comfortable with such methods.
That caused the doctor to blink, then give the slightest sarcastic smirk, "No." There was almost a laugh to his voice. "Thanks, Spock."
Spock gave a small nod in return for McCoy's gratitude. "The privilege is mine, though I hope the treatment will aid you in managing the captain's stress-compromised health."
McCoy gave Spock a long look, and the very most corner of his lips came up in a twitch. "I see. Trust me when I say that that is probably the best way to get Jim to relax."
Skil. Victory.
Chapter Seven, Part A
While Jim was agonizing over applications-reading over qualifications and biographies-Spock realized that the man regarded his crew less from the point of view of a manager and more as a head of house, the patriarch of a clan. There was something intimate and familial about the way he looked upon his existing crew, and the scrutinizing suspicion he gave those who wished to wish to join them. Protective.
As he rose to retrieve a second cup of coffee for Jim from the replicator in the office, Spock thought of all the relevant rules and history he knew about his profession. There were certain conventions he had paid little mind to because of his place of employment; his duty had been to Vulcan in general, to the V'Shar more specifically, with his immediate superior as the Director himself. In such a setting, Spock had singular and consecutive orders, given to him with little room for interpretation. Yet, he had still been meant to serve the entirety of Vulcan, despite becoming comfortable in that small niche. Not a singular man, department, or agency, but the race, the people, the planet. That was what they had told him.
Now he would have to apply it to Jim. While he had been given to Jim and Jim alone, to laud his actions and bravery, tradition and precedent told Spock that his service could expand to Jim's clan, as skewed as the definition would be on this ship. Too broad of a brush could easily include all twelve hundred people aboard the ship; Spock would not consider this for his own sanity. But there were people Jim interacted with every day, and it was these people Spock would try to cater to as well, for their happiness and the efficiency of the bridge would surely please Jim, too.
Setting the mug on the desk, Spock wondered who he would approach first.
He did not make the decision himself.
Spock had been standing at the replicator for dinner when Uhura approached him. "Spock." She made herself known, standing at his side, leaning in slightly. He could only see a hint of her nervousness in the quick movement of her eyes; otherwise she was as confident as always. "Why don't you sit with us tonight?" For whatever reason, Spock always noticed that she did not say me, but rather spoke for the entire table as their chosen diplomat.
"If I am welcomed, t'sai." The door of the replicator came up on the rice and curry stew, close enough to Vulcan food he knew he would never have again.
"Nyota," She corrected him with a smile. "And you're always welcomed." Spock glanced to her, nodded, and walked with her to the table with his tray in hand.
They were an odd collection of women from various divisions, including one blond-haired nurse he had seen passing between his laboratories and the medical division. The other tables were occupied in a co-gendered fashion, males assembling in packs of two or three. Not that he felt odd sitting at the table of women-he was not unfamiliar with the situation-but hoped that they would, in turn, not feel uncomfortable.
Entertaining them throughout the meal was refreshingly simple and easy, as they all seemed to prefer lighter topics of conversation: work, unrequited love, little observations among the crew, humorous stories traded among their circle. Not the subtle-serious discussion of diplomacy. Spock quietly relished not having the V'Shar's intentions nagging at the back of his mind.
Each of the ladies excused themselves as the night wore on, finally leaving Nyota, him, and the nurse, though she soon excused herself with a smile and a light blush ("See you tomorrow, Christine," Nyota said with a wave). They fell into a long conversation about her: where she was from, how she got into Starfleet, her interests outside of her work. Her choir work was of particular interest to both of them, genuinely so.
"How about this," Nyota began. She brought her hands in front of her as she spoke, punctuating her words with indistinct movements of her fingers. Lovely hands. "Why don't you play your lyre one night, and I'll sing on another?"
He had not played his lyre since the destruction of Vulcan. It was logical to practice, so that he may be in his top condition should he ever be called to the opportunity, but there was something illogical in his path. To draw it out of the trunk would acknowledge why it had been there in the first place, not destroyed on the planet like the rest of his life.
Spock had been entertaining a delegation from Betazed when the ambassador had approached him at the end of his performance. She lavished him with praise that was entirely unnecessary, and then invited him for some after-party company. They had been in the shuttle to transport cross-planet when the distress call had appeared, forcing them to jettison out of the atmosphere and into deep space, as far as they could from the planet until bits and pieces of Vulcan's interstellar armada found them in the middle of nowhere.
Though her empathic powers had been strong, enough to make Spock put up more shields than necessary, she had not needed any in that shuttle to just know, once he felt Vulcan disappear into nothing. He felt the planet rip away from his mind, felt everything he had lived with implode. His grief, his shock, and his helpless were strong enough to penetrate his shields when he didn't even realize it. As he had sat absolutely still, almost unbreathing, in that seat at the back of the shuttle, the ambassador had comforted him, putting her hand on his arm, but he couldn't thank her for the gesture until three days later, when he found his voice again.
Betazed had been a pleasant planet, too. More lush than Vulcan had ever been outside of carefully maintained botanical gardens, nice people, and interesting cuisine. He had stayed there no more than eight days, almost allowing himself to forget Vulcan entirely, before the surviving Elders found him and called him to the colony, to resume his proper place again.
"That is an acceptable agreement," Spock finally answered Nyota, with a nod. "I shall prepare a repertoire."
He didn't have reason to ignore it any longer. He needed to be something to Jim, by extension his crew, and Nyota had requested a performance affectionate Vulcan terms. There was no point to deny her--didn't want to deny the crew a little bit of entertainment--no matter how difficult it was to take out the lyre form the bottom of his trunk. Spock sat on his bed and held the instrument for a long time that evening, simply feeling the wood and the strings beneath his fingertips, before he actually started to tune the instrument. He nearly cringed as he plucked the strings--the travel and climate changes had undone the tuning to a horribly flat tone.
By the time he entered the recreational room the next evening, the lyre was tuned and he had practiced extensively into last night. To a curious crowd, ever-shifting as the crew moved in and out of the room, he played. Traditional Vulcan melodies, from every era of musical history he could recall. While Spock was aware that he was being watched, it was different than being judged. Recitals of his youth had always entertained stoic Vulcan bureaucrats and his teachers, looking down from their seats with sharp eyes and untelling expressions. It had only marginally improved as he grew older and the audience shifted more towards foreign diplomats, but their judgement had only been limited by their ignorance of the craft. This, however, was more relaxed, easy. Almost...pleasing.
In the middle of the evening, just as he was approaching the ballads famous in the aftermath of the Time of Awakening, he glimpsed Jim and McCoy entering for dinner. Both men peered through the room to where the music was coming from, their eyes settling on Spock almost immediately. McCoy's eyebrow raised slightly, studying the strange instrument from afar, then shrugged and went for the replicator. Jim, on the other hand, walked over to Spock with a grin on his lips.
"...Didn't know you played an instrument, but I probably should of guessed." Jim's eyes slid up and down the lyre, then gestured. "Don't stop because of me." And stepped past Spock to join McCoy at the replicator. Spock didn't stop playing, proceeding as he planned through the songs he had memorized years ago. When he glanced at them at their table it was with the general glance he gave the whole of the room, surveying, playing the crowd like he played the strings.
Overall, it turned out to be a successful evening. Once returned to his quarters, Spock returned the lyre to its velvet wrap, placed it neatly in one of the shelves along the bed, and then attended to the infant blisters on his fingertips.
During lunch, Spock would often sit with Chekov and Sulu. Chekov would talk about physics or any number of simulations he would do at his station when not plotting navigation courses, and Sulu would make small comments about how he still really wasn't sure he should be First Officer, what with the workload and his own inexperience. Not that the latter mattered, Spock would remind him in turn, as the entire bridge crew appeared to be at least somewhat young, though not completely new given the Narada incident. They were an odd couple, but Spock had the tact to never say that aloud. He only knew that whenever he sat that close to somebody, he was usually on assignment.
When they wasn't eating, and more frequently in the middle of when they were, Chekov and he would play tri-dimensional chess. For being so young, Chekov was quite skilled, but not so much that Spock couldn't advise on opening moves and strategies not seen often in human championships. Chekov played with a constant offense, while Spock had always preferred a passive-aggressive, almost defensive, approach, of laying traps along the way until finally the mate happened. Once in a while, the young man would come close to victory--right before said traps would activate. Yet it was less about the end result and more of the exercise itself; Chekov always faced defeat with a smile and an insistence for a rematch.
The demeanor very nearly matched his own attitude towards the game as a child. Learning it had been more of an accident than a required skill. He had played many of his tutors between lessons, during quiet afternoons in sunny rooms of stone walls. When he grew older, he challenged his peers, often sitting on a shaded community patio on the edges of the summer compound in Vulcana Regar. The wide, slow river trickling down from the mountains would be off to the south, a stark blue against red-brown sands. Spock and his opponet would each have padds in one arm, reminding them there was more important activities to do. He usually opted to move a black stone piece instead.
There was one evening, though, where Spock saw that the enthusiasm had dropped from his features, and the previous strategies that Spock had taught Chekov seemed to have dropped out of the young man's mind completely. The board was a literal road map of mistakes and misplaced rooks. There was an obvious checkmate in four moves if Spock wasn't stopped, and it was about this time that he noticed his opponent's melancholy.
"Mister Chekov, is there something troubling you?" Spock allowed some concern to filter into his expression so that the young man might feel more open to discussion.
Chekov sighed, an elbow propped on the table and his cheek in hand, slumped in a horrible posture that spoke loudly of teenage depression and indecision. "It is...personal, Mister Spock," He let on reluctantly. Of course it was personal, Spock thought to himself--any professional problems were always solved within a day or so. Humans never languished like this unless it was personal.
Immediately upon hearing this, Spock began to formulate what may be the cause of all this. From what he knew of young humans, both from studies and personal experience, it was either romance, friendship, or both. "May I provide any assistance?" He meant all the different meanings of the word, but he doubted that Chekov would pull this meaning.
And he was right; the young man looked no different at his offer, merely shifted position to mirror that horrible posture, but now his cheek was held in the other hand. "No. It is... about Mister Sulu." Correct again, though not without a little bit of confusion. Chekov had just denied that he could offer assistance, and yet he had proceeded to tell him what the problem was. And then continued on, chess game forgotten, to unload every single problem between Sulu and him, as if this were some impromptu counseling session and Spock had any expertise with human relationships.
Despite his own fledgling experience with the complexities of interhuman relations, the situation appeared simple enough, and oddly similar to his own problem, if lacking in the complexities of ancient Vulcan customs and cultural ignorance. Chekov was, for lack of a better word, pining after Sulu, though reluctantly. He was smart enough to value the close and almost impossible friendship between the two of them, not to mention their working relationship, and he (or so he said) would be happy to settle for that, if Sulu wasn't interested in him. The next problem came in that he didn't know how to tell if Sulu was interested--a subject that dipped quite low into depressed helplessness until Spock stopped his morose soliloquy.
"Mister Chekov." Spock began to carefully set the chess pieces back into their case. "If it would provide you with some peace of mind, I may propose the situation to Mister Sulu, in order to see if he reciprocates your affections." He held up one hand calmly as Chekov made a panicked lunge to speak. "You will not be implicated in any way."
Chekov blinked at him, as if processing what Spock had just said. "I..." He sighed. "Thank you, Mister Spock." A bit of a sheepish murmur as he helped Spock put away the set.
Once they were done in the recreational room, Spock escorted Chekov back to his quarters, since they were en route to his own, but didn't enter. To break the threshold would invite complications he would rather not handle at this moment. He bid the young man good night with a nod (and got a good night and a short wave in response), and retired for the evening.
As Spock stared up at the ceiling of his quarters, he questioned the magnitude of the project he had just undertaken, and his own ability to fulfill it. Humans were always so complicated.
Engineering was not his specialty. The only apparatuses that he actually constructed were explicitly for his research projects at the Academy. They were always small-scale, delicate, mostly glass, and only meant to be used once before it was dismantled or reused for another project. The insides of a star ship, one even greater than the Excalibur, was a wondrous sight indeed, and it piqued his curiosity in a childlike way, because he knew he would never have the time to understand it fully, given his status, his current project, and what he had to study to get his official qualifications from Starfleet. He had already taken two tests, and he knew the next one he had in mind: warp engineering.
What he knew of it was only as much as he could glean from slipping into the back of courses at the Vulcan Science Academy, bribing professors, and asking for tours of ships from the various captains he had escorted. The problem with this learning technique was that none of the designs were consistent with one another, even among Starfleet vessels, and so actually learning anything fundamental about basic designs was guesswork at best. He knew isolated parts and how they functioned: the dilithium crystals mediating the reaction between matter and anti-matter, the plasma flows, the artificial gravity, but not exactly how each part fitted with each other, how excess thermal and nuclear energy were dealt with in a self-sustaining ship, how everything fitted seamlessly from one pipe to the next, coupling to coupling.
Thus, he had wandered through engineering during the middle of shift; excusing himself from the laboratory had been easy enough when all of his research was stuck in simulation and he had already pushed several projects ahead of schedule by at least one week. Through his search, he descended farther and farther into the bowels of the ship until he met the man he was looking for: Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer. The man had been fiddling around with some control panel while eating a meat sandwich with one hand, and only blinked once at Spock's innocent request for a detailed tour of the alpha section before leaping from his seat and conducting a practical lesson in warp engineering.
The likes of the tour, the details and the absolutely genuine love the man had for the Enterprise put his own touring skills to shame. Spock realized this not without some bitter reminiscence, though most of his mind was focused on taking in anything and everything the man said about the basic mechanics of the star ship. Occasionally he asked questions that would connect all the information together, things he had seen referenced in the other texts he was reading, but otherwise the engineer gave him all the information he requested, and more that he hadn't but found just as useful.
Towards the end of the walk, they began to talk about research. While the Lieutenant Commander was not a scientist, his understanding of theoretical physics was enough to rival Spock's own knowledge. Coupled with the intimate knowledge of the physical practicalities, Spock was rather sure that Mister Scott could aid him with his own research, if only he coax it out with something in return.
When Mister Scott began to talk about his transwarp theory, Spock's interest piqued. He had read of various theories while on Vulcan, noticed variously similarities between it and his own scientific objectives. He needed more information about it--and this was the perfect opportunity.
Spock offered to assist him in the testing and refining of his theory, though there was only so much either of them could do with only one ship. The man did mention something about an unfortunate incident with a beagle, too, which didn't put any great confidence in him for their practical research.
Yet he still felt like he had accomplished something, and was on the verge of accomplishing more, even if it was not his primary goal. He could see just peaks of Jim's stress when they saw each other at random intervals, knew exactly how to make him relax--statistically speaking, one of more than twenty methods had to work--but knew Jim wouldn't allow him close enough to try eighteen of them.
He knew, if this research was Mister Scott proved fruitful for his own purposes, he would not actually need to play this delicate game of getting into Jim's confidence and validating his own existence.
Hopefully by the time they actually activated the experimental transporters, nothing would explode, implode, combust, demateralize, or otherwise not reappear in the same way that it disappeared.
Sulu was the last person on the bridge he had yet to extended his courtesies to, and he was rather at a lost of how to approach him. Spock could possibly extend an offer to help him with paperwork, but that would seem too startling without any clear segue. Subsequently, in order to do that, he would have had to been in Sulu's inner circle to approach him with this help and at least an officer to handle the delicate paperwork and security communications. Unfortunately, Spock was neither, though their mutual acquaintance with Chekov and frequent meal times with each other were eroding such barriers.
Soon enough, though, on his explorations of the ship, he found something else by which he could possibly entertain Sulu. Spock had been surveying the gym on one evening that he was neither researching, playing chess, or allowing his fingers to feel from the thin strings of the lyre. He saw familiar faces among the exercise machines, among the pool, but continued on towards one of the many partitioned areas on the side. He glimpsed Jim doing some strange motions and remembered self-defense lessons from his late adolescence, a necessary step before he could enter his practical training as a thol'es-kafeh.
But then he kept walking forward along the hallway and saw Sulu by himself in one of the rooms at the end, a strange silver saber propped up against one of the walls on the edge of the mat. The man himself was standing in the middle of the mat, going through some motions that Spock had seen Jim move through, but these were of a different style that looked unfamiliar to him. He lingered in the open archway of the partitioned area, and when Sulu finally saw him, he tentatively ventured forward a few questions about the style of this combat - whether it was offensive or defensive, its geographic origin, and its purpose. He also questioned how the saber fit in with the hand-to-hand, if at all, and stood back and watched as several techniques were demonstrated for him.
Then, during his casual observations, Sulu turned to him and asked if he had any particular combat training that he had learned on Vulcan (with a pointed avoidance of mentioning Spock's profession or education at all). Spock hesitated, lingering on the side of the room and wondering for a moment if he should be talking about rather secretive Vulcan melee combat techniques that he had been taught as a younger man, but then he focused on his objective here. He recalled the exact reason why he had wandered down here into the gym in the first place. He was not here to spy for the V'Shar or to keep Vulcan secrets to himself. His allegiance was to Jim, and now expanded to the most senior of his crew.
Spock elaborated on his combat training with demonstrations, stepping up onto the mat as he began to explain, in general terms, what he had been trained in throughout his years on Vulcan when it came to combat and self-defense.
To be a thol'es-kafeh was to accept an ancient position in society, and thus the ancient teachings had accompanied it. There had been many before him, not always in the service of the V'Shar, the Vulcan government, but more likely under private employ. Yet no matter where one was to be stationed, the training was similar. Languages, manners, the art of conversation, intimacy, music...they were groomed--Spock had been groomed--to be a person to cater to others. The only difference between himself and those of his profession from thousands of years ago was the diversity of his clientele (and thus the expanded skill set)--aliens with interplanetary delegations and strange sensibilities.
With that history, there were certain expectations. Not all nights or assignments go as planned. It was an inevitable fact, that of hundreds of clients there would be at least one that would have an unfavourable reaction--such as attempted murder. Spock had known these dangers before he had begun working, so he trained as they told him, learned how to defend himself against a variety of species, and hoped (though hope was illogical) that he would never have to utilize such skills.
Because of the situations he was expected to engage in, most of the maneuvers were of a certain unnamed style: ankle sweeps, blocks, quick hand movements that went for delicate soft spots on a variety of humanoids. Quick, deadly, and silent, sometimes requiring a strange contortion of his body, sometimes breaking an imaginary neck without mercy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sulu standing at the edge of the mat, watching his demonstration with shocked interest. The helmsman probably did not expect a courtesan to fight like Spock showed him, soft touches and gentle moves all forgotten in a unforgiving haze of self-preservation.
By the end of the night, they had compared their respective combat styles and Spock had some fledgling experience with Sulu's saber and katana, which turned out to be interesting Terran weapons in their own right. While they fought, sparred, and mutually taught each other, they talked. The topic of conversation wandered to ship business, personal histories (of which Spock kept quite vague when the attention was briefly focused on himself), and then, finally, to people. The captain and the heroics Sulu had engaged in with him, the dynamics of the bridge crew, and in the end, Chekov.
It amused Spock to hear the man dance around his own affections for the young navigator. Sulu would give several different reasons why he didn't want to pursue something serious and then begin a a tangent that would disprove his initial statements completely. For Spock to orchestrate something that would cease this needless self-denial--among both parties--would require a bit of time and patience. The former he was always in short supply of now that he was beginning to spread himself thin with the interests of now-four-going-on-five people.
On Vulcan, it had been a simple task of devoting himself to a dignitary once a week, maybe two if the conferences swept through Shi'Kahr. Now it was these people, Jim's people, every hour of every day, each one with their complex issues and requiring separate courtesies.
Spock told himself that he wouldn't let himself grow fatigued under the weight of his multiple projects, but he found himself sleeping at later and later times, dipping into hours that were not suitable, even for Vulcans. He would lay in the darkness, still as a statue with eyes open, thinking over the lives of Nyota, Chekov, Mister Scott, Sulu, and of course, Jim. At least he could affect the first four, offer them advice in his limited capacity, his labour, his skills. Jim remained a self-sustaining entity, rendering his existence practically unnecessary. They could talk, but Spock had more than just words at his disposal, and it was a shame to allow the rest of the arsenal to grow dusty with misuse.
His quarters were dark and quiet, save for the hum of the ship. Spock tuned onto his side, and looked unblinking at the green glow of the chronometer on the bedside table, 0327. There was one more person he had yet to talk to properly, who could possibly aid him in his approach towards Jim.
McCoy was technically not a member of the bridge crew in that he did not actually work on the bridge. Though from Spock's frequent trips to said bridge, either on an errand for his department or for any of the other officers in the process of currying their favour and friendship, half the time McCoy was there anyway, acting his role as Chief Medical Officer. The manner with which he visited was nearly always the same: annoyed, stern, waving a hypo spray in one hand and yelling about either Jim or medical realities versus miracles. When it wasn't somewhat intimidating it intrigued Spock, and every time he saw McCoy and Jim in the same room his initial hypothesis about the measure of this man's power was further supported.
The way Jim seemed to both brush McCoy off and simultaneously cower from him suggested to Spock that perhaps, if he wanted another method to get closer to Jim, the Doctor would provide an effective avenue. This whole process was almost as if he were getting to know Jim without Jim knowing--which, at this point, Spock preferred. Whenever Jim seemed to remember who he was, what he was, those pieces that were intrinsic to Spock's identity, a chasm would open between them. It pained Spock, it pained his reason especially, to be chastised for an immutable part of his existence, but he could subdue it if that was what it took to fulfill his purpose.
He also needed to formally thank McCoy for services rendered when they had been on Earth that one night. This was the pretense he carried internally as he entered sickbay after his shift one day, hands clasped behind his back as he glanced around the area. He knew from errands, working, and rumours that sickbay hours tended to drag later by the simple nature of the job, but as the crew were all healthy and young...
"You brought this on yourself." Came the displeased growl of the doctor as Spock came into the main area of sickbay, "I shouldn't even be treatin' you for it, punishment for your stupidity." Off to the side, a scowling McCoy was looming over a red shirted ensign who looked far more like a child being berated by their parents then the engineer he was.
"Yessir, but I--"
"No buts!" With the skill of a deadly warrior, McCoy brought a hypo from seemingly no where and caught the ensign in the neck with far more force then was necessary. It brought a high-pitched yelp out of the young man, who winced hard enough to nearly pitch off the biobed he was perched on. "Now get out of my sickbay." The doctor growled, pointing towards the door without looking at it.
"Y-Yessir!" The ensign, holding his neck, practically bolted from the room. McCoy sighed, shook his head, and muttered as he started digging into a closet nearby, seemingly oblivious to Spock standing nearby. Slowly, through observation from afar, Spock was learning the difference between severely displeased and simply fatigued; he was rather sure that this was the latter. If he approached without aggravating him, this could possibly be yet another successful venture.
"Doctor McCoy?" He called across the short distance between them as he stepped forward, still in his easy parade rest. As McCoy was unequipped with a hypo, the danger here was considerably less, but the thought of his power pressed ever-present in Spock's mind. He would not be here otherwise.
McCoy looked over his shoulder with a dark glare, obviously ready to see another patient, but the sight of Spock made his expression change to one of surprise. He turned around to face him, a box in his hands, and eyed the Vulcan up and down. "Spock. What brings you here?"
"I wanted to thank you for your assistance towards the Captain and myself while on Earth." As easy as it might have been to avert his gaze to the box and lessen the weight of the scrutiny he felt he was suffering, Spock kept his eyes up, watching McCoy's expression for any sudden changes towards annoyance, anger, and irritation. He also offered to carry the box with a silent gesture of his open hands.
"I got it," McCoy grumbled, gesturing with his head for Spock to follow him. "No need to thank me. Last thing Jim needs on his shiny golden boy record is being caught plastered with one of his crew." He walked into his office, putting the box down on the desk with a thump.
"I would still prefer to offer you something in return." Spock lingered as close as he could within a polite distance and without crowding. When he peered over the top of the box to see its cargo, it was interesting, but not surprising, to see a pile of unused hypos, silver metal shining in the overhead lights. He arched an eyebrow at the stash. "...is it necessary to have such quantity?"
That earned Spock a raised eyebrow from the doctor, "Didn't know you were suddenly in charge of sickbay supplies." He snorted, voice dry in its tone dusted with annoyance, "Someone took to stealing them when my back's turned, someone good with security cameras." He sat down heavily in his chair, studying the man in front of him. "What do you mean, offer me something in return?" The gruff voice now held a sense of wariness.
While there was another chair by the desk, Spock kept standing, having not been offered and to keep his escape options quick and immediate. He had already thought about what McCoy may want (and that could be given) throughout the day. Referencing his time with Christopher and his crew, alongside his experience with surgeon generals (including Starfleet's) and other important physicians, Spock predicted that a certain curiosity must exist in this doctor, too. "Knowledge, perhaps." He knew what McCoy was thinking, but he wouldn't, couldn't, offer that. "I have perused through the medical database on this ship, and the information regarding Vulcans is quite lacking." For a brief moment, he had the same thought that had occurred with Sulu about divulging intimate Vulcan details--and he reached the same unyielding conclusion.
The other brow joined the first to turn it into an expression of surprise on McCoy's face. "That's because you Vulcans are more tight lipped than a prisoner under torture." He leaned forward, his curiosity caught. "You'd be willing to fill in or help fill in some of that missing information?" Disbelief reigned in his voice.
Spock nodded once. McCoy may have been skeptical, but he was sure of his intentions and what he was willing to do here. "I will reveal as much as I am able with my limited medical knowledge, though you are more than welcome to draw more accurate conclusions where I am uncertain." He knew how the Vulcan body tended to work, how it was technically supposed to work, but as he was not truly Vulcan, there were some oddities to deal with. Oddities that had not avoided the curiosity of doctors before.
McCoy gave Spock a distrusting look, but his curiosity was definitely had. "Alright, if you feel you want to. When do you got the time to do this?" He pulled up a quick schedule on the screen beside him, frowning at it.
While Spock looked at this schedule as well, glancing at the screen, in the back of his mind he kept an idea bout his own schedule, of the chess games he would have to play and other reserch he would have to conduct and the night he had set aside to play with and for Nyota. Mentally, he overlaid these plans with those on the screen, moved around an appointment and laboratory work in order to open up an afternoon not far from the day they were currently in. "Two days from now, assuming you remain unoccupied, I may work with you onwards from fifteen-hundred."
A slight tilt of his head, and McCoy gave a quick nod, "Can't promise it'll stay open, what with this damn ship, but for now I can agree with that." Some quick movements of his fingers took up a block of time at that set date and time.
Seeing the appointment in the system brought a significant amount of relief to his thoughts. Spock had predicted that getting McCoy to accept any sort of return gift would be the most difficult part, now, with that accomplished, it was only a matter of making it worthwhile. "I shall see you at the appointed time."
Spock never admitted excitement when it came to clients and wouldn't allow himself to do the same thing here. These people, these officers, were not really clients in the first place, though he didn't know what else to call them that seemed reasonable and honest at the same time. However, he did check his inner chronometer and the one on the wall of the laboratory more often than normal on the second day after his brief conversation with McCoy. He'd glanced to the chronometer, the microbe beneath the glass, and back again, and then he would shift these duties to an ensign nearby so he could go to the physics division. This type of time dilation was unacceptable.
What was more infuriating about this, when he acknowledged his own nervous energy, was that he could not pinpoint from what this energy originated. Perhaps he expected something significant to come out of this, given McCoy's position in Jim's confidence. Perhaps it had something to do with the man himself. He dispensed with both of those thoughts, as they were illogical and dangerous: to enter a situation with low expectations ensured he would never be disappointed.
Finally, fifteen-hundred arrived on the ship, at which point Spock stepped in through the doors to sickbay, ever punctual and calm. McCoy was there, arms crossed over his chest, obviously ready for Spock. He looked to the Vulcan and nodded, gesturing for Spock to follow. Spock was led into a private room, back to where they kept patients for longer term. "Figured we could at least get an hour before someone ignores my orders to not bother me."
"Of course." In the back of his mind he calculated the odds that somebody would interrupt them--rather high given this ship, McCoy was right--and then who that person might be. Most likely the captain, just for boredom's sake. Spock lingered by one of the machines in standby, examining its dimmed meters curiously as he asked, "Is there a particular area you would like to begin, Doctor, or shall I cover it systematically?"
"We'll start with the basics and work our way up." McCoy rumbled, bringing out a pad, "We've got... average height, weight, blood types, a few common diseases but surprisingly little on them, anatomy layouts, but in the end, basically a lot of nothing." He sounded displeased about the idea, "For one of the founders of the Federation you'd think they might trust us to treat you guys more." The displeasure continued, but not focused at Spock. "But you..."
McCoy eyed Spock critically, "Considering your parentage and all, I'm wondering what the differences between you and a full blooded Vulcan would be."
Spock stepped away from the machine to stand by one of the biobeds nearer McCoy, currently off and dimmed like the other equipment in the room. "I believe that I know most of the anatomical differences between myself and full Vulcans, and I will inform you of them as they become relevant." There was a certain difference that he would not make mention of, and hoped that it would not become a topic so outright lying would not be necessary. Spock doubted that it would come up without his own insistence, as it was something out of human medical expertise completely.
Well, with that start, a slow but thorough examination began. McCoy asked careful questions, everything being recorded aurally so he did not have to stop as they worked. He asked about diseases, aliments, their life span, absolutely anything that came to mind. Questions panned out into other questions, answers listened to in silence before being picked apart.
It was evident over the course of their discussions that McCoy was less then comfortable. Not in any mental sense, the man was a doctor after all, but a physical one. As time crawled on, his shoulders were becoming further and further hunched, his brows furrowing in a way that suggested the doctor had a headache behind the eyes. It was a look Spock was familiar with. Not because he caused it to happen, but because it tended to plague people of importance, people he catered to, and he always made it a point to eliminate that expression and tension before progressing into more...involved activities.
(Not that such acitivites were necessary. Spock could very well allow an evening to pass with only this initial step. Satisfaction on both sides could come in many flavours, though his was mostly in a professional capacity. )
"Doctor." Spock slid off the edge of the biobed from where he had been sitting throughout this discussion. "If you are fatigued, we may continue this report at another time."
McCoy snorted loudly and stepped back, looking to Spock. "M'fine, Spock. Just a long few days." All spoken in a 'nothing I can't handle' tone, another typical reaction for people of importance. Spock didn't trust such a tone out of experience and habit. When he worked, he merely reasoned it to be that he wouldn't be here if he wasn't needed. Here, that line of logic did not quite apply, but there were other reasons supporting his presence here.
Spock tilted his head to the side slightly, looking over McCoy, and decided to proceed with his venture. "Vulcans have methods for easing tension from the body, that I believe you may find interesting from a scientific standpoint. I may demonstrate some techniques, if you will allow me."
There was a near full body twitch from the doctor, and the wary look returned for just a moment before McCoy gave a light grunt, "Just tell me what you're gonna do before you do it." The doctor was like any doctor was when they became a patient - distrusting, grumpy, and nervous. That anxiety would be remedied as well.
"It would be more comfortable if you sat," Spock suggested as he gestured to the biobed. The process would be more relaxing, too, if the doctor would remove his shirt, but Spock doubted that second request would be received well. McCoy eyed Spock for a moment before doing as suggested, putting his hands up on the edge of the biobed and sitting down on the edge, shifting back so he was comfortable in his seat before giving Spock a look that was somehow sarcastic.
Moving behind McCoy allowed Spock time to plan how he was going to go about this. There were several different variations on technique, though it was easy to assume that he would have to use the most platonic methods if he was going to finish without being reported or attacked with a hypo. Sitting on the bed behind McCoy, legs folded underneath him, he flexed his fingers, curling them into the palm as he concentrated his sensitivities to the very tips.
"It is necessary that I begin from your shoulders and work downwards over your back," He explained, and then his fingers touched the back of McCoy's shoulders. Almost immediately, with the very first touch, there was a bowstring tensing across McCoy's shoulders. Spock closed his eyes as his mind reached out, looking for the nerves through the fabric. Once found, he opened his eyes and began to knead gently, coaxing those muscles to relax and those nerves to send soothing pleasure to the brain.
McCoy let out a breath through his teeth and some more of his tension flowed out of him. There was a surprisingly strong set of shoulders beneath Spock's fingertips, as if the doctor regularly exercise or had before taking up his position in space. He remained silent, but occasionally there was a very quiet breath in or out as Spock hit a particular spot or a deep laying knot with skilled fingers.
"You may be aware that Vulcans are touch telepaths," Spock said as he pressed his thumbs along McCoy's spine, applying a light amount of pressure but in strategic places, coaxing muscles throughout the body into relaxation. If he had his usual end-goal in mind, touching further down would enable him to entice the doctor's body into arousal--but, for now, that technique would go unused. "Neuropressure, as this has been called in Standard, relies on such telepathy to identify the specific nerves necessary to touch in order to achieve a relaxing effect. Your shirt prevents any access to your thoughts."
A low rumble came from McCoy, "Then how exactly are you doin' it now?" His body was sagging forward a little, leaning a little on his elbows to keep from toppling forward. That small amount of drawl to his voice, too--that had some inherent merit.
"The electrical impulses caused by your nerves are easily felt by my telepathy, regardless of the fabric." Spock's hands moved lower over McCoy's back, keeping his thumbs on or near his spine. "Thoughts are 'fainter', and require direct contact to be discerned correctly."
"I see." In that tone that might have been severely disproving if McCoy wasn't melting. "...not possible for... humans to do." Definitely his voice was fading with his relaxation. To hear that tell-tale sign brought a small inkling of satisfaction to Spock; he didn't pause in his movements.
"I possess many abilities that humans lack." It wasn't meant to be taken in a sexual fashion, merely as the truth. Many of his abilities had their roots in his telepathy or his mind in general, only present because of his Vulcan heritage. "Yet simply because you cannot replicate the technique should not colour your opinion of it."
That brought another grunt out of McCoy, quiet. "Nn." Just a sound of agreement, and he started to lean a little into Spock's hands, probably (definitely) unconsciously.
Spock had power, now. There were certain parts of his profession that he actively noted, not out of simple enjoyment (he--enjoyed--all of his work, if he was asked), but because the sensations were unique. Sometimes they were intoxicating, or caused a sense of disembodiment, or made him feel extremely pleased with himself and his talents, and sometimes, even more rarely, they afforded him opportunities that could not be reached in any other way. Such was this: having the power of McCoy's pleasure under his fingertips, the distant, indistinct murmur of thoughts crackling beneath the fabric and skin, tingling against his hands. From his position, he could do anything, could have the man aroused, almost aching, within seventeen point four three seconds (if he took the average from past clients).
Yet he couldn't, wouldn't. Not only would it be potentially hazardous to his plan to curry the favour of those who could get him close to Jim, but it would be a blatant abuse of power. Corruption was something he had grown distasteful of during his practical training due to its regularity among his clients, and to indulge in it here would erode the few tenets of his life he held constant. It would also be selfish to act in such a manner, just to see the doctor squirm and groan.
This did not mean he would resist treating McCoy to the less well-known applications of neuropressure. It was a skill secret enough to be limited among the Vulcan population. Spock only knew of several other people who knew--had known--the complex technique, and they had all been colleagues in his profession. There may have been others; they did not learn it from each other, after all, but no one he knew of.
Spock shifted closer, rising slightly on his knees as he leaned without touching towards over McCoy's back, while his hands sank to the small of his back. He kept his voice professional, to offset the rest of the pseudo-intimacy and the fact he may have, almost, been breathing by his ear. "Are you comfortable, doctor?"
A low, deep rumble echoed from McCoy and he shifted slightly, reacting consciously or unconsciously to Spock's closeness. His eyes partly opened, staring at the sickbay floor. "...am." The slightly gruff tone had returned, but it was still mellow compared to its normal sting.
As the massage continued along the tight muscles of the lower back, Spock became vaguely aware of how compromising the pose between them might look, him standing on his knees behind the doctor like this. The thought only lingered for a moment before being disappearing under his own focus and concentration. Working his fingers into a certain position against McCoy's spine, he felt the cluster of sparks along the vertebrae, and then flooded his thoughts forward to his fingertips. The words wouldn't get through, the fabric was still in the way, but pointed movement of his fingers against others that held steady, the lightest pressure into his back, and now the barest hints of electricity...
It made McCoy's eyes open wide for a moment, then a louder groan fell from his lips. His shoulders tensed then loosened completely as the electricity shot up his spine from nerve endings being played like the keys on a piano. His fingers fell and tightened on the edge of the biobed.
Spock allowed the pressure to fade slightly from that spot before shifting his hands farther up the spine. A gentle kneading, fingers pressed towards the muscles of his sides. While his thumb graced over a vertebra, he spoke again. "You often scold the captain for working too long, to the detriment of his health. However, it is clear to me now that he is not the only one guilty of this folly." He sank in his fingertips into the muscle and nerves again, six electrified pressure points at once.
"Kid doesn't know how--!" His voice dissolved into a sound of shock and bliss. McCoy was pressing back into those fingers and melting at the same time, breathing having picked up in those last few moments.
The pressure faded again like before. Spock rolled the heel of his palms over the points he had excited, easing it into the soothing warmth that should have, right about now, been rising up McCoy's spine. This entire exercise was purely mental, though among humans it still tended to manifest itself physically, such as the change in breathing. Mainly that occurred because of inexperience of the mind, unable to handle the direct stimulation. "Perhaps he may learn through example? There is no reason to listen to a doctor who does not subscribe to his own medication." His hands moved up, fanning out a little to attend to the muscle over the shoulder blades. A minor reprieve.
McCoy's lips closed and his sped breathing kept up through his nostrils alone. The tone of his voice was surprisingly steady though, "I know how to handle myself, Spock." But he switched back into a doctor's role only a moment later enough to ask, "Yer using your mind to make those feelings happen or just your fingers?"
"You are still wearing your shirt," Spock reminded him, fingers reaching up to the back of his shoulders for a brief moment before moving back down again. "Without direct contact, I am unable to touch my mind with yours. The sensations you are experiencing are results of extremely localized pressure against your nerves." He avoided using the word manipulation, though that was what it was. "Pressure applied by my fingers, accompanied by minute electrical impulses."
The doctor was talking far too much to be properly immersed in the procedure, however. Spock pushed his thumbs in on either side of the fourth thoracic vertebra, between the shoulder blades, with another pulse. The result was no surprise: McCoy groaned low, his shoulders slumping as he pressed backwards, only to let his head finally fall forward.
"There is a technique that usually concludes a neuropressure session." At least, the neuropressure sessions that he conducted. Spock was aware that it wasn't standard fare among other Vulcans, but he doubted it would be questioned soon, given that he was the only Vulcan on board. "It involves the stimulation of one cervical vertebra and one lumbar vertebra, and delivers to the mind a euphoric feeling that some humans may consider overwhelming." Spock shifted his hands away from McCoy's spine as he talked, until his hands were at his shoulders again, slowly moving to touch over the human's triceps. He leaned closer, feeling the bare friction of their blue command shirts brushing each other, and spoke into McCoy's ear. "Would you like to experience it?"
There was silence, broken only for a moment by a sound that might have been denial. McCoy was still loose beneath his hands, breathing deep and low in his chest, body responding neatly to not only Spock's hands but his voice. Fingers clenched, loosened, clenched again. "Yes." Breathed out very quietly, the tone something almost embarrassed to let it fall from his lips, yet still somehow keeping its tone of gruffness that was generally McCoy.
"Very well." Spock pulled his body back and moved his hands back up McCoy's arms, over his shoulders, agonizing slow and allowing the heat of his hands to seep through the uniform. One hand came to rest against the top of the spine, just below the back of the neck, pressing and rubbing in almost non-existent circles. Spock's other hand slowly cascaded down the length of his spine until it rested at the small of McCoy's back. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the nerves beneath his fingertips as he arranged them over the exact spots. "Sadalau," He whispered, and pressed all ten of his fingers into the pressure points while allowing a flood of thoughts to race to his fingertips and shock what they could through the fabric.
If he were doing this procedure in the normal method, with skin-to-skin contact, his client would receive his thoughts of pleasure, compliments, and relaxation directly alongside the wave of massage-induced euphoria. It was not the passion he had saved for Christopher (and would save for Jim, as his only client for an indefinite period of time) since that was foreign and too intimate for this purpose. The limit of this exercise was the body itself, delivering pleasure in the greatest extent it could; all he did was unlock this potential. McCoy sucked in a hard breath before a moan left his lips, his entire body shaking with the reaction that Spock had set off. The spine cradled the strongest of nerves in the body, carrying with it the information that powered limbs and mind alike, and with his delicate, knowing touch Spock had forced a reaction that should have taken time and hands and mouths in other places.
It was a well known medical knowledge among patients with permanent spinal cord injuries that orgasm could be achieved with the mind alone, since despite a lack of feeling in the regions below the neck it did not stop the patient's sexual desires. It was also known that electrical stimulation in males and females could produce an orgasm without any touching whatsoever except the electrodes at the spine from the inside.
This, in McCoy's later records that were private to himself alone (and that Spock would quietly access by his own devices; an A7 computer degree had been viewed as a superfluous addition to his skill set by some, but he could argue otherwise), would be what he referenced in describing the Vulcan ability to do neuropressure massage.
Spock himself felt satisfied with the conclusion. Not in the manner that McCoy was feeling at this moment, but just the realization of his own efficacy after this impossibly long break in his work, this evidence that he could do something to cause someone to enjoy themselves without the usual stifling of his ingrained training. Pleased, Spock drew his hands away from McCoy's back, and then shifted his position on the bed. For a moment he sat next to him, legs off the edge, before standing, moving in front of him with his hands clasp loosely behind his back. Looking over McCoy from this position, he tilted his head slightly and asked, "Did you enjoy this, Doctor?"
It took several long moments for McCoy to lift his head, his eyebrows at odd angles as if unable to decide how to settle into the appropriate expression to show the emotions he was feeling. Finally, he said in a rough voice, "Don't... play innocent with me, you pointy eared bastard." But the insult was far from insulting in tone, and the unsteady nature of the doctor's voice said everything he was hiding with his words. "You damn well know I did."
"I only wished to confirm my observations," Spock answered, honest with his words. It was possible to elicit such a reaction against someone's will, regardless if he had asked for permission several times during the massage. "Is your headache still present?" There were other ways to get rid of it if it was still stubbornly present, but he doubted either of them would be comfortable with such methods.
That caused the doctor to blink, then give the slightest sarcastic smirk, "No." There was almost a laugh to his voice. "Thanks, Spock."
Spock gave a small nod in return for McCoy's gratitude. "The privilege is mine, though I hope the treatment will aid you in managing the captain's stress-compromised health."
McCoy gave Spock a long look, and the very most corner of his lips came up in a twitch. "I see. Trust me when I say that that is probably the best way to get Jim to relax."
Skil. Victory.
Chapter Seven, Part A