Operation: Annihilate!
Title: Operation: Annhiliate!
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Summary: If he'd only waited a few minutes more, Spock wouldn't be blind. It was his fault. His fault, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
Warnings: None
Knowing that it had been a calculated risk didn't serve to ease McCoy's guilt at all. Knowing that he'd saved Spock's life… it was a minor victory, shadowed by the fact that Spock was now blind, and he, McCoy, was personally responsible. He should have felt… Hell, he didn't know what he should have felt, but removing that creature from Spock's nervous system should have been cause for celebration. Instead, he could only focus on the fact that he'd efficiently and effectively ended Spock's Starfleet career. An equitable trade, Spock had called it. McCoy knew better.
Part of him, still, expected Spock to blame him for what had happened. Part of him wanted Spock to blame him. But Spock was Vulcan, and Vulcans weren't the sort to point fingers and lay blame.
He almost wished they were.
He hadn't been back to sick bay since the incident. He'd have to go back, eventually, when it was time to go back on shift, but until then… His quarters were dark. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights on. Why should he allow himself the luxury of being able to see, when it was something Spock would never have again? He lay in the darkness for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, mentally replaying the incident over and over again. If he'd held out against Spock and Jim just a few minutes more… If he'd protested, if he'd fought their decision just long enough for Christine to bring him the report before he'd tested his theory on Spock. If. Too many ifs. The past was past, immutable, unchangeable. And for Spock, it seemed that the future held the same inevitability.
Unable to get comfortable, McCoy turned over, shoving a hand beneath his pillow, moving his gaze to the wall, though there was just as little to see there as there was on the ceiling. Spock would be discharged from Starfleet. There was no telling where he'd go, what he'd do. And Spock hadn't stopped by at all since the incident… The Incident. It had earned itself the capital letter in McCoy's thoughts. He'd have to ask Jim to report him for… for negligence. A dereliction of duty. Do no harm? He'd done more harm in five minutes than he'd ever done in his entire career.
He rolled over again, facing the opposite wall. What gave a man the right to destroy another man's career, even if his intentions had been good? Some people were of the philosophy that the ends justified the means; in this case, McCoy thought, it would be damned nice if he could convince himself that the means justified the end.
He didn't stir when the door to his quarters slid open, despite the fact that his visitor had come in unannounced. It was probably Jim, come to lecture him about locking himself up and sulking. They'd argue, and neither of them would win, and McCoy would offer Jim his resignation and… And do what? Return to civilian practice?
It wasn't Jim. If it had been Jim, he'd have said something by now. McCoy turned over, propping himself up on an elbow. His eyes had become adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out a familiar silhouette, a darker shadow in a room of shadows. "Doctor." Spock stood by the door. For a painful moment, McCoy entertained the wild possibility that Spock had somehow regained his eyesight. "The fault was not yours," the Vulcan added, moving forward cautiously.
McCoy could tell from his hesitant steps that he was still blind. Still adjusting to being blind. He didn't speak. Couldn't trust himself to speak without his voice cracking with emotion.
As if unaware of the doctor's inner turmoil, Spock continued, "It has been a most interesting experience." He paused then, turning his head from side to side, before fixing his unseeing eyes on McCoy. "The senses adapt remarkably quickly." He'd reached McCoy's bed by then, and ran into it, stumbling. McCoy reached out to steady him, and he sank down slowly. "Your concern is unnecessary, Doctor," Spock protested, though he made no move to remove his arm from McCoy's grip.
He thought about replying. Didn't. There wasn't anything to say.
Spock reclaimed his arm slowly, with that damnable implacable Vulcan dignity. Hell, he'd even managed to trip with dignity, and McCoy - normally always ready with a friendly jibe for the first officer - couldn't find it within himself to tease Spock now. Even in the darkness, he could see Spock's dark eyes, still fixed on his. He closed his own eyes, to shut out his own sight, but it was a mockery of what had happened to Spock, that he could open his eyes and see again, and Spock couldn't.
"Leonard." Spock's voice was a rough whisper. He didn't open his eyes, but he felt Spock's hand on his, felt Spock press two fingers against his. Even without the use of his eyes, the Vulcan's touch was steady and sure, unhesitating. And with that touch came something else. All is forgiven.
Only then he did he open his eyes, to see Spock not-quite-smiling at him, and he clasped Spock's hand in his own, holding him close, still unable to find his voice. Spock's skin was hot and dry under his fingers, a sharp contrast to his own cool, human flesh. He brushed Spock's fingertips with his own, slowly. He didn't deserve such forgiveness, wouldn't even have been able to ask it, and Spock had given it, and freely.
Spock spoke again, suddenly, not pausing as he worked his fingers deftly around McCoy's. "If any of us are to blame, Doctor, I submit to you that it should be myself." His voice was rock-steady as always, but a faint green blush had begun to creep up the edges of his ears, barely visible in the shadows. "You cannot imagine the pain the creature inflicted upon me, Doctor. I assure you again that the loss of my eyesight is far preferable to the alternative. Had it not been for my haste in endeavoring to ensure the destruction of the creature and its removal from my body-"
McCoy's fingers tightened convulsively, stopping both the one-sided conversation and the sinuous twining of Spock's hand in his. Though Spock's words were no doubt meant to be reassuring - inasmuch as the Vulcan could be reassuring - they served only to remind him that he'd been just as irresponsible in his haste as Spock had been, and he had no excuse. A fresh stab of guilt twisted in his gut, and the world seemed to spin for a moment before his eyes. There was no excuse for a mistake of this magnitude; he was a doctor, a professional, and he'd let his own feelings on the matter cloud his judgment, had let himself be swayed by Spock and by Jim because he couldn't bear the thought of Spock in so much pain. He'd allowed himself to be blinded by his own emotion, and in return…
An entire planet was saved, but at what cost?
Reluctantly, McCoy drew his hand away. "I have to report for duty," he muttered, his voice heavy and thick.
Spock inclined his head. "As I have been relieved of duty for the time being, and as it would be pointless to sit in the dark and do nothing, I believe I shall accompany you."
How, McCoy wondered, had Spock known that the lights were out? Had he retained, at least, some ability to differentiate between light and dark? If he had… if he had, was there hope of regenerating the optic nerves? It was a wild possibility; modern medicine was good, but was it good enough? "A logical idea," he conceded, his voice still rough. "I'll want to keep you under observation." They both knew that was McCoy's version of a teary-eyed expression of gratitude for Spock not avoiding him, and his way of telling Spock that though he blamed himself, he wasn't going to keep hiding and avoiding Spock.
McCoy pushed himself up and stood, and Spock rose as well, placing a hand on McCoy's arm. "I will require some measure of guidance until I am certain I am capable of maneuvering about the ship without walking into the walls," Spock said, as matter-of-fact as a textbook. "It would be ill-advised to allow the younger crewmembers to see their First Officer so clearly incapacitated." That was Spock's way of creating an excuse for McCoy to assist him, to help alleviate McCoy's feeling of uselessness. But as well intentioned as it was, McCoy could only focus on the fact that Spock wouldn't need such help if they'd waited but a few minutes more before blasting that light at him.
The two of them set a slow pace, walking silently down the corridor to the turbolift. Neither of them spoke until they had reached sick bay, where McCoy directed Spock to one of the biobeds. "Now, you just stay put, you hear?" McCoy admonished. "I'm not fixing your nose if you break it walking into a wall because you've thought of something you need to tell the captain."
Spock arched an eyebrow. "I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of leaving sick bay." He shifted, settling himself a bit more comfortably on the biobed, and closed his eyes, ending the conversation.
A couple hours into his shift, McCoy was in his office, sorting through microtapes, when Christine came in, bearing a handful of the things, and she set them on his desk and said, "The boy is waking up, Doctor. Shall I call the captain?
He glanced up, rubbing his eyes. He'd been poring over medical texts, hoping to find something to help Spock. By now, one hell of a knot had worked itself between his shoulder blades, and he rubbed at the back of his beck, wincing. "No," he replied, rising. "He's got enough on his mind organizing this whole affair. We'll let him see the boy off when he beams back down to the planet."
The two of them made their way to the ward the boy was in, both of them standing by with hypos in case something went wrong. The boy shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, but after a few moments he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes slowly. A moment more and he turned, looking at McCoy and Christine with wonder. "The… the pain," he breathed. "It's gone."
Christine smiled and laid a hand on the boy's arm. "If you're hungry, I'll have someone send something up," she told him.
He nodded, and looked back at McCoy, beaming. "Thank you, Doctor. I don't know you did it, but thank you."
McCoy looked back into the boy's eyes - the boy's working, seeing eyes, and something within him snapped. He turned away, angry, guilty, hopeless, and left. Behind him he could hear the continuing conversation, the boy asking how they'd done it, Christine telling him how McCoy was a wonderful doctor - and he felt another stab of guilt - the boy asking about his parents and his Uncle Jim.
He stumbled back into the ward that held Spock, feeling numb. Cold. The world seemed to have lost focus, and his head was buzzing, and he couldn't see straight. His stomach churned; he resented the boy, and hated himself for it. The boy would have a minor sunburn for a few days from the high dosage of UV rays. But he could see.
Disgusted with himself - what sort of doctor despised a patient for responding well to a cure? - he threw himself against the wall, slamming it with both fists. Spock didn't stir. The biobed monitoring him indicated that the Vulcan had put himself in a trance. McCoy raised an arm up against the wall, leaned his forehead on it, closed his eyes. He should have asked Jim to have him relieved of duty for a few days.
There were hours yet to go in his shift, but he'd be useless now if any medical emergency were to crop up. He'd have to tell Jim to write him up, to put him on report.
A sudden change in the speed of Spock's heartbeat alerted him, breaking him out of his misery, and he turned. He was Spock's side before he realized he'd crossed the intervening space. Gripping the side of the bed tightly, he leaned over, his throat tight, hardly daring to breathe. He knew it was useless to hope, but…
Spock was still, save for the gentle rising and falling of his chest. Slowly, and with what seemed to be almost a sigh, Spock opened his eyes. He blinked once, and then he fixed his eyes on McCoy. Blinked again, and then McCoy realized that Spock was looking at him.
He seized Spock's hand without a word, his fingers pressed tightly against the Vulcan's, and he sank onto the bed, keeping his eyes locked on Spock's. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. Had they both been human, they would have embraced, would have danced around the room shouting and laughing - but one of them was Vulcan, and simply touching fingertip to fingertip was celebration enough.
McCoy couldn't help the grin that plastered itself on his face, and even Spock allowed himself a slight twitch of the lips. He stared into Spock's eyes until the rest of the world faded away and the only thing left was the sensation of their fingers twining together, pressing almost desperately together.
Eventually they let go of each other and McCoy took his hand back slowly, his grin fading. "How?" he demanded roughly. "How did you do it, you pointy-eared bastard?"
Spock crossed his arms over his chest, looking smug - though he'd deny it, if McCoy accused him of it. "I would suggest, Doctor, that you examine my eyes a little more closely next time. Vulcan eyes are vastly different from humans."
"Fascinating," McCoy replied wryly. "So that Vulcan physiology of yours is good for something after all." Spock inclined his head in agreement. "But tell me this, Spock. If you knew-"
"But I did not know, Doctor," Spock said evenly, before McCoy had time to work himself up into a sullen resentment for being uninformed. "I assure you, the recovery of my sight is as much a surprise to myself as it is to you."
"Well, you'd best get up to the bridge, at any rate," McCoy said, as though he hadn't been ready to throttle Spock. "Before Jim sends a request for a new science officer."
"A most logical idea, Doctor," Spock replied, sitting up.
"Oh, well, I don't like to brag," McCoy said, smug, "but I do get a brilliant flash of genius every once in a while."
"Yes," Spock said, raising his eyebrows. "Your capacity for it is quite astounding, taking into consideration the illogic of your thought patterns the majority of the time."
"The illogic of my thought patterns?" McCoy repeated, rising. "Now would you mind explaining to this mere human just what you mean by that?"
"Really, Doctor," Spock said, standing as well. "I am needed on the bridge." McCoy couldn't argue that, and Spock had achieved what he'd meant to - a diffusing of the argument before it could go too far, before it got serious and feelings got hurt. Not his own, of course, but despite having - or at least claiming to have - none, he was mindful of McCoy's.
He needn't have worried. McCoy was in turns both delighted with Spock's recovery and aggravated at him for pulling such a trick out of thin air - completely and totally illogical, but completely human of him as well - and he was grateful to be able to indulge in a bit of harmless bickering. He clapped a hand on Spock's shoulder, chuckling quietly. "Illogical I may be, Spock, but it's a damn relief, knowing you'll be around to keep reminding me of the fact." Spock merely shook his head. Sometimes it seemed to him that McCoy went out of his way to be so illogical, and the truth of the matter was that, on occasion, McCoy did.
The two of them left sick bay in haste, with McCoy following Spock closely, though there was no real reason for him to go up to the bridge. After all, it was entirely unlikely that Spock would suddenly become blinded again, or that anything would happen in the few minutes it took to get into the turbolift, but had anyone asked, McCoy would have said only that he wanted to see the look on Jim's face when Spock reported to the bridge, seemingly miraculously healed. That was, of course, only part of the reason McCoy followed the Vulcan so closely.
They were alone in the turbolift. McCoy rocked on his heels impatiently, his hands clasped behind his back; Spock was still and as calm and unruffled as if he'd never lost his eyesight at all. There'd be time later, for a proper celebration. For now, McCoy kept his smile of relief to himself, and kept a respectful distance from Spock, the very image of discretion.
The turbolift stopped; the door opened. Spock stepped out. McCoy followed, keeping his eyes trained on the back of Kirk's chair. "Captain!" Uhura gasped. "It's Mister Spock!" Kirk turned, and McCoy caught his eye, schooling his expression into one of good-natured exasperation as Kirk got up to question Spock.
He caught the look Uhura gave him when Spock named him as the catalyst behind his 'emotional reaction' to regaining his eyesight, and wondered, briefly, if the two of them hadn't been as discreet as they'd thought. But the matter wasn't questioned further, and after the initial excitement of Spock's return, things settled down fairly quickly. Normalcy, such as it was, was restored to the bridge of the Enterprise, and nothing was said further of the matter.
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Summary: If he'd only waited a few minutes more, Spock wouldn't be blind. It was his fault. His fault, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
Warnings: None
Knowing that it had been a calculated risk didn't serve to ease McCoy's guilt at all. Knowing that he'd saved Spock's life… it was a minor victory, shadowed by the fact that Spock was now blind, and he, McCoy, was personally responsible. He should have felt… Hell, he didn't know what he should have felt, but removing that creature from Spock's nervous system should have been cause for celebration. Instead, he could only focus on the fact that he'd efficiently and effectively ended Spock's Starfleet career. An equitable trade, Spock had called it. McCoy knew better.
Part of him, still, expected Spock to blame him for what had happened. Part of him wanted Spock to blame him. But Spock was Vulcan, and Vulcans weren't the sort to point fingers and lay blame.
He almost wished they were.
He hadn't been back to sick bay since the incident. He'd have to go back, eventually, when it was time to go back on shift, but until then… His quarters were dark. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights on. Why should he allow himself the luxury of being able to see, when it was something Spock would never have again? He lay in the darkness for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, mentally replaying the incident over and over again. If he'd held out against Spock and Jim just a few minutes more… If he'd protested, if he'd fought their decision just long enough for Christine to bring him the report before he'd tested his theory on Spock. If. Too many ifs. The past was past, immutable, unchangeable. And for Spock, it seemed that the future held the same inevitability.
Unable to get comfortable, McCoy turned over, shoving a hand beneath his pillow, moving his gaze to the wall, though there was just as little to see there as there was on the ceiling. Spock would be discharged from Starfleet. There was no telling where he'd go, what he'd do. And Spock hadn't stopped by at all since the incident… The Incident. It had earned itself the capital letter in McCoy's thoughts. He'd have to ask Jim to report him for… for negligence. A dereliction of duty. Do no harm? He'd done more harm in five minutes than he'd ever done in his entire career.
He rolled over again, facing the opposite wall. What gave a man the right to destroy another man's career, even if his intentions had been good? Some people were of the philosophy that the ends justified the means; in this case, McCoy thought, it would be damned nice if he could convince himself that the means justified the end.
He didn't stir when the door to his quarters slid open, despite the fact that his visitor had come in unannounced. It was probably Jim, come to lecture him about locking himself up and sulking. They'd argue, and neither of them would win, and McCoy would offer Jim his resignation and… And do what? Return to civilian practice?
It wasn't Jim. If it had been Jim, he'd have said something by now. McCoy turned over, propping himself up on an elbow. His eyes had become adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out a familiar silhouette, a darker shadow in a room of shadows. "Doctor." Spock stood by the door. For a painful moment, McCoy entertained the wild possibility that Spock had somehow regained his eyesight. "The fault was not yours," the Vulcan added, moving forward cautiously.
McCoy could tell from his hesitant steps that he was still blind. Still adjusting to being blind. He didn't speak. Couldn't trust himself to speak without his voice cracking with emotion.
As if unaware of the doctor's inner turmoil, Spock continued, "It has been a most interesting experience." He paused then, turning his head from side to side, before fixing his unseeing eyes on McCoy. "The senses adapt remarkably quickly." He'd reached McCoy's bed by then, and ran into it, stumbling. McCoy reached out to steady him, and he sank down slowly. "Your concern is unnecessary, Doctor," Spock protested, though he made no move to remove his arm from McCoy's grip.
He thought about replying. Didn't. There wasn't anything to say.
Spock reclaimed his arm slowly, with that damnable implacable Vulcan dignity. Hell, he'd even managed to trip with dignity, and McCoy - normally always ready with a friendly jibe for the first officer - couldn't find it within himself to tease Spock now. Even in the darkness, he could see Spock's dark eyes, still fixed on his. He closed his own eyes, to shut out his own sight, but it was a mockery of what had happened to Spock, that he could open his eyes and see again, and Spock couldn't.
"Leonard." Spock's voice was a rough whisper. He didn't open his eyes, but he felt Spock's hand on his, felt Spock press two fingers against his. Even without the use of his eyes, the Vulcan's touch was steady and sure, unhesitating. And with that touch came something else. All is forgiven.
Only then he did he open his eyes, to see Spock not-quite-smiling at him, and he clasped Spock's hand in his own, holding him close, still unable to find his voice. Spock's skin was hot and dry under his fingers, a sharp contrast to his own cool, human flesh. He brushed Spock's fingertips with his own, slowly. He didn't deserve such forgiveness, wouldn't even have been able to ask it, and Spock had given it, and freely.
Spock spoke again, suddenly, not pausing as he worked his fingers deftly around McCoy's. "If any of us are to blame, Doctor, I submit to you that it should be myself." His voice was rock-steady as always, but a faint green blush had begun to creep up the edges of his ears, barely visible in the shadows. "You cannot imagine the pain the creature inflicted upon me, Doctor. I assure you again that the loss of my eyesight is far preferable to the alternative. Had it not been for my haste in endeavoring to ensure the destruction of the creature and its removal from my body-"
McCoy's fingers tightened convulsively, stopping both the one-sided conversation and the sinuous twining of Spock's hand in his. Though Spock's words were no doubt meant to be reassuring - inasmuch as the Vulcan could be reassuring - they served only to remind him that he'd been just as irresponsible in his haste as Spock had been, and he had no excuse. A fresh stab of guilt twisted in his gut, and the world seemed to spin for a moment before his eyes. There was no excuse for a mistake of this magnitude; he was a doctor, a professional, and he'd let his own feelings on the matter cloud his judgment, had let himself be swayed by Spock and by Jim because he couldn't bear the thought of Spock in so much pain. He'd allowed himself to be blinded by his own emotion, and in return…
An entire planet was saved, but at what cost?
Reluctantly, McCoy drew his hand away. "I have to report for duty," he muttered, his voice heavy and thick.
Spock inclined his head. "As I have been relieved of duty for the time being, and as it would be pointless to sit in the dark and do nothing, I believe I shall accompany you."
How, McCoy wondered, had Spock known that the lights were out? Had he retained, at least, some ability to differentiate between light and dark? If he had… if he had, was there hope of regenerating the optic nerves? It was a wild possibility; modern medicine was good, but was it good enough? "A logical idea," he conceded, his voice still rough. "I'll want to keep you under observation." They both knew that was McCoy's version of a teary-eyed expression of gratitude for Spock not avoiding him, and his way of telling Spock that though he blamed himself, he wasn't going to keep hiding and avoiding Spock.
McCoy pushed himself up and stood, and Spock rose as well, placing a hand on McCoy's arm. "I will require some measure of guidance until I am certain I am capable of maneuvering about the ship without walking into the walls," Spock said, as matter-of-fact as a textbook. "It would be ill-advised to allow the younger crewmembers to see their First Officer so clearly incapacitated." That was Spock's way of creating an excuse for McCoy to assist him, to help alleviate McCoy's feeling of uselessness. But as well intentioned as it was, McCoy could only focus on the fact that Spock wouldn't need such help if they'd waited but a few minutes more before blasting that light at him.
The two of them set a slow pace, walking silently down the corridor to the turbolift. Neither of them spoke until they had reached sick bay, where McCoy directed Spock to one of the biobeds. "Now, you just stay put, you hear?" McCoy admonished. "I'm not fixing your nose if you break it walking into a wall because you've thought of something you need to tell the captain."
Spock arched an eyebrow. "I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of leaving sick bay." He shifted, settling himself a bit more comfortably on the biobed, and closed his eyes, ending the conversation.
A couple hours into his shift, McCoy was in his office, sorting through microtapes, when Christine came in, bearing a handful of the things, and she set them on his desk and said, "The boy is waking up, Doctor. Shall I call the captain?
He glanced up, rubbing his eyes. He'd been poring over medical texts, hoping to find something to help Spock. By now, one hell of a knot had worked itself between his shoulder blades, and he rubbed at the back of his beck, wincing. "No," he replied, rising. "He's got enough on his mind organizing this whole affair. We'll let him see the boy off when he beams back down to the planet."
The two of them made their way to the ward the boy was in, both of them standing by with hypos in case something went wrong. The boy shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, but after a few moments he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes slowly. A moment more and he turned, looking at McCoy and Christine with wonder. "The… the pain," he breathed. "It's gone."
Christine smiled and laid a hand on the boy's arm. "If you're hungry, I'll have someone send something up," she told him.
He nodded, and looked back at McCoy, beaming. "Thank you, Doctor. I don't know you did it, but thank you."
McCoy looked back into the boy's eyes - the boy's working, seeing eyes, and something within him snapped. He turned away, angry, guilty, hopeless, and left. Behind him he could hear the continuing conversation, the boy asking how they'd done it, Christine telling him how McCoy was a wonderful doctor - and he felt another stab of guilt - the boy asking about his parents and his Uncle Jim.
He stumbled back into the ward that held Spock, feeling numb. Cold. The world seemed to have lost focus, and his head was buzzing, and he couldn't see straight. His stomach churned; he resented the boy, and hated himself for it. The boy would have a minor sunburn for a few days from the high dosage of UV rays. But he could see.
Disgusted with himself - what sort of doctor despised a patient for responding well to a cure? - he threw himself against the wall, slamming it with both fists. Spock didn't stir. The biobed monitoring him indicated that the Vulcan had put himself in a trance. McCoy raised an arm up against the wall, leaned his forehead on it, closed his eyes. He should have asked Jim to have him relieved of duty for a few days.
There were hours yet to go in his shift, but he'd be useless now if any medical emergency were to crop up. He'd have to tell Jim to write him up, to put him on report.
A sudden change in the speed of Spock's heartbeat alerted him, breaking him out of his misery, and he turned. He was Spock's side before he realized he'd crossed the intervening space. Gripping the side of the bed tightly, he leaned over, his throat tight, hardly daring to breathe. He knew it was useless to hope, but…
Spock was still, save for the gentle rising and falling of his chest. Slowly, and with what seemed to be almost a sigh, Spock opened his eyes. He blinked once, and then he fixed his eyes on McCoy. Blinked again, and then McCoy realized that Spock was looking at him.
He seized Spock's hand without a word, his fingers pressed tightly against the Vulcan's, and he sank onto the bed, keeping his eyes locked on Spock's. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. Had they both been human, they would have embraced, would have danced around the room shouting and laughing - but one of them was Vulcan, and simply touching fingertip to fingertip was celebration enough.
McCoy couldn't help the grin that plastered itself on his face, and even Spock allowed himself a slight twitch of the lips. He stared into Spock's eyes until the rest of the world faded away and the only thing left was the sensation of their fingers twining together, pressing almost desperately together.
Eventually they let go of each other and McCoy took his hand back slowly, his grin fading. "How?" he demanded roughly. "How did you do it, you pointy-eared bastard?"
Spock crossed his arms over his chest, looking smug - though he'd deny it, if McCoy accused him of it. "I would suggest, Doctor, that you examine my eyes a little more closely next time. Vulcan eyes are vastly different from humans."
"Fascinating," McCoy replied wryly. "So that Vulcan physiology of yours is good for something after all." Spock inclined his head in agreement. "But tell me this, Spock. If you knew-"
"But I did not know, Doctor," Spock said evenly, before McCoy had time to work himself up into a sullen resentment for being uninformed. "I assure you, the recovery of my sight is as much a surprise to myself as it is to you."
"Well, you'd best get up to the bridge, at any rate," McCoy said, as though he hadn't been ready to throttle Spock. "Before Jim sends a request for a new science officer."
"A most logical idea, Doctor," Spock replied, sitting up.
"Oh, well, I don't like to brag," McCoy said, smug, "but I do get a brilliant flash of genius every once in a while."
"Yes," Spock said, raising his eyebrows. "Your capacity for it is quite astounding, taking into consideration the illogic of your thought patterns the majority of the time."
"The illogic of my thought patterns?" McCoy repeated, rising. "Now would you mind explaining to this mere human just what you mean by that?"
"Really, Doctor," Spock said, standing as well. "I am needed on the bridge." McCoy couldn't argue that, and Spock had achieved what he'd meant to - a diffusing of the argument before it could go too far, before it got serious and feelings got hurt. Not his own, of course, but despite having - or at least claiming to have - none, he was mindful of McCoy's.
He needn't have worried. McCoy was in turns both delighted with Spock's recovery and aggravated at him for pulling such a trick out of thin air - completely and totally illogical, but completely human of him as well - and he was grateful to be able to indulge in a bit of harmless bickering. He clapped a hand on Spock's shoulder, chuckling quietly. "Illogical I may be, Spock, but it's a damn relief, knowing you'll be around to keep reminding me of the fact." Spock merely shook his head. Sometimes it seemed to him that McCoy went out of his way to be so illogical, and the truth of the matter was that, on occasion, McCoy did.
The two of them left sick bay in haste, with McCoy following Spock closely, though there was no real reason for him to go up to the bridge. After all, it was entirely unlikely that Spock would suddenly become blinded again, or that anything would happen in the few minutes it took to get into the turbolift, but had anyone asked, McCoy would have said only that he wanted to see the look on Jim's face when Spock reported to the bridge, seemingly miraculously healed. That was, of course, only part of the reason McCoy followed the Vulcan so closely.
They were alone in the turbolift. McCoy rocked on his heels impatiently, his hands clasped behind his back; Spock was still and as calm and unruffled as if he'd never lost his eyesight at all. There'd be time later, for a proper celebration. For now, McCoy kept his smile of relief to himself, and kept a respectful distance from Spock, the very image of discretion.
The turbolift stopped; the door opened. Spock stepped out. McCoy followed, keeping his eyes trained on the back of Kirk's chair. "Captain!" Uhura gasped. "It's Mister Spock!" Kirk turned, and McCoy caught his eye, schooling his expression into one of good-natured exasperation as Kirk got up to question Spock.
He caught the look Uhura gave him when Spock named him as the catalyst behind his 'emotional reaction' to regaining his eyesight, and wondered, briefly, if the two of them hadn't been as discreet as they'd thought. But the matter wasn't questioned further, and after the initial excitement of Spock's return, things settled down fairly quickly. Normalcy, such as it was, was restored to the bridge of the Enterprise, and nothing was said further of the matter.