Fears of dreaming
Title Fears of dreaming
Pairing Kirk/Spock
Rating PG
Words 5965 (it's a monster)
Comments This was written as a fill for this prompt on the kink meme: "Spock may be able to control his emotions (more or less) during the day, but he can’t control his dreams - his dreams of Kirk, to be precise. So he logically concludes: no sleep = no dreams, and stays awake. For days, or weeks. As soon as Kirk and/or McCoy find out what he’s doing they set about finding out why & stopping him."
Anything nice you have to say is very much appreciated, my dears. I need to hear it.
If it had not been for the fascinating and hitherto unmapped asteroid field the Enterprise was passing through, it might have been illogical not to report to Sickbay for his routine physical. However, as they were scanning this unknown virgin space (that was what the captain called it - Spock did not see the relevance of the word “virgin“ in this context), Spock stayed at his science station to monitor the scans and feed the data to the astrophysics lab.
He should have known that he was not possible to get away that easily from doctor McCoy. 7.49 minutes after Spock had been due to Sickbay, the doors to the turbolift opened and the CMO entered, barely trying to hide his anger.
‘Alright, mister, aren’t you supposed to be in Sickbay?’ he said, stopping boldly by Spock’s station and jabbing a thumb towards the turbolift.
‘According to the rota for the physicals, yes, but the scanning of this asteroid field…’
‘I don’t give a damn about the scanning of any asteroid field - you’re due for a physical, so come on,’ said the doctor loudly enough to make a yeoman spin around and stare at them. Spock left his scanner and straightened his back, placing his hands behind it, and said in a level tone:
‘I assure you, doctor, I am in complete health. Therefore, let me get on with my duties.’
‘Well, my duty is to be the judge of whether you are or not,’ McCoy almost spat out. At this, the captain’s chair whirled around and Kirk gave them both an amused smile. Spock successfully suppressed the jolt in his stomach at those eyes.
‘I think the scanning can do without you for a few minutes, Mr. Spock. Let’s humour the good doctor,’ he said, smiling as if their constant fighting amused him to no end.
‘Very well, captain,’ Spock said gruffly and surrendered his station, following McCoy to the turbolift. Thankfully, the doctor did not try to open conversation on the way to the right deck, but only drummed an impatient rhytm against the railing. When the doors opened, he spoke.
‘Out you go,’ as if he assumed Spock would try to stay in the turbolift rather than continue to Sickbay. He had surrendered to the inevitability of the situation and followed him obediently into his office. Feigning interest at some corner of the ceiling, he heard McCoy call in a medtech to assist him, and then the sound of the examination table being released into a vertical angle. ‘Lie down, would you? I’ve got a ridiculous number of physicals to get through today,’ McCoy muttered, fibbling with his scanners. Spock complied, and the medtech flipped the table back so that it was horisontal once again. The beeps of the panels above his head set in, accompanied by the whirring of a medical scanner over his body.
‘Odd,’ McCoy murmured, lost in the readings. Spock refrained from commenting on his annoying tendency to see humans as the norm, when the doctor turned to the medtech. ‘Cadioscanner, please.’ He heard the device being placed in the doctor’s hand and then put onto his side. After a few moments, he adressed him. ‘Your heart-rate’s off, Spock - not by much, but it keeps changing.’
‘That is not a great problem, I gather,’ he said, trying to sound unaffected.
‘Well, something causing it. That’s what’s worrying. Blood pressure’s a bit low as well. No massive variations, but certainly enough to be noticeable. Let me have a look at you.’ Despite the unprecise nature of the statement, Spock was able to discern that the doctor wished to study his face. He steadied himself on his elbows and let him shine a light in his eyes and look down his throat. When he was finished he just sighed and scratched his chin. ‘Have you experienced any discomfort of any kind recently? Any pain? Have you been feeling out of sorts?’
‘I am well,’ Spock only said, but something in his voice must have given him away, because McCoy’s eyes narrowed.
‘No, you’re not. I just told you you weren’t. And you tried to dodge physical. What’s wrong?’
‘I assure you, doctor, nothing…’
‘Well, I don’t fall for Vulcan charm, Mr. Spock,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll only have the truth.’ Almost instinctively, Spock shielded his mind, as if McCoy were another telepath who would try to get into his mind.The human sighed at his silence, and said: ‘All right, if you won’t tell me I’ll have to figure it out. Supposedly, Vulcans are suppose not to be able to lie, but you prove that to be false. Anyway, I’ll pin my hopes on it.’ He took out his scanner again and continued. ‘Have you been eating properly?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your case, that probably means as sporadically as you usually do - you could still do with some extra weight, you know. What about work - been taxing yourself? Taking extra shifts?’
‘Only those assigned to me.’
‘All right,’ McCoy said, watching the panels. ‘Have you been sleeping enough?’ The hesitation had only lasted a moment, but it was enough for McCoy to discern. He turned off the scanner and looked down at him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? It’d explain it. You’re not sleeping.’
‘As I have told you before, Vulcans…’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps you can go without sleep, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to. Now, how long did you sleep last night?’ Spock sat up on the bed and did not answer. ‘Not at all? Okay, what about the night before that?’ Only silence. When McCoy spoke again, the annoyed tone was gone; instead it was concerned, almost caring. ‘When did you last sleep, Spock?’
His hesitation to answer was only to calculate the exact answer.
’48.3 days ago,’ he admitted. McCoy looked like he was about to drop the scanner he was holding.
’48 days?’
‘No, doctor…’
‘To hell with decimals, man, you haven’t slept for almost two months!’ he exclaimed, as if the fact appalled him. ‘Why? What have you been thinking?’ McCoy might as well have taken out a scalpel and opened up his heart, asking it why it insisted on beating. His shields clung more firmly to his mind, and he fought against giving an answer.
‘It is a private matter,’ he said at last.
‘Not any more,’ McCoy snorted, pointing at him. ‘This is affecting your health and the well-being of the ship. You’re on the brink of complete exhaustion. What is so important to prove that you go to such lengths?’
‘I do not attempt to prove anything,’ Spock explained and turned his face away. ‘My time is better disposed otherwise.’
‘No, it’s not. Tell me why you’re not sleeping - it has to be a conscious choice, or you would have come to me, at least I hope so.’ Although his voice was agitated, his face, when the Vulcanturned to look at it, was worried. ‘Tell me,’ he repeated.
‘It is no concern of yours,’ was all he could say. McCoy stood still for a moment, then put his scanner and went to his desk.
‘All right, then. Go to your cabin and get some rest. I’m going to make you an appointment with doctor Noel tomorrow.’ Just as he was about to argue he cut him off. ‘You’re dismissed.’ He saw no alternative but to leave, ignoring the surprised look of the medtech as he went through the doors.
*
When Spock returned to the bridge, the captain was not there and did not appear for the rest of his shift. He guessed that he was in sickbay, where he would go willingly if grudgingly. The first officer hoped that his sleeping patterns would not become the objects of rumours, but during the rest of the shift, he could hear nothing which indicated that, which would mean that it had not escaped into the ether. Usually, rumours reached the bridge just after they were generated.
At the end of the shift, Spock returned to his quarters, as the thought of the recretation rooms did not seem welcoming. Instead, he had dinner on his own, pondering what he would do with doctor McCoy. The man was of cousre only doing his duty and it was proper of him to do what he had done, but at the same time, Spock would rather have it that he did not pry in his private matters. This, if anything, was such a thing. He could impossibly discuss it with anyone, let alone stop doing it. They might see it as a risk, while he saw it as a precaution. True, there were risks involved, but Spock knew enough to put minimal strain on his body. It was in no way comfortable; he did it as it was the only alternative open to him. The other was asking for a transfer, which he had thought of and rejected several times over. He was satisfied at his stationing on the Enterprise, and there was no reason to let emotionalism ruin his career. It was petty, but would swallow his existence, were he to surrender to it.
His thoughts were growing too disorderly and he felt the need to meditate, which he usually did through the nights. It gave him some rest, even if there were side-effects to it. When Spock rose from his chair, one of them set in as his head suddenly spun with dizziness. He grabbed the table, concentrated his gaze on a fixed point and started reciting his mantras.
‘I am Vulcan. Weakness is only of the body. Weakness is only of the body. The true self is the mind, and the mind is indestructible. I am Vulcan…’ After a minute or two, the dizziness subsided. It was an inconvenience, but one he could easily hide in public and control with his mind. The advantages were greater, he told himself, kneeling in front of his fire-pot and lighted it. Putting his finger-tips together, he let his mind be lifted, so he grew oblivious of the physical world and rested his mind in a sea of nothingness.
Still, the chime of the door-buzzer penetrated through his meditative state and feeling himself being weighed back into his body, he rose and crossed to the door. He anticipated who waited on the other side of the door, but was still surprised when those hazel eyes and that human smile met him.
‘Hello, Spock. Sorry, did I disturb you?’ the captain said when he saw his meditation robe.
‘It is of no consequence, captain. What may I do for you?’
‘Just thought I’d see if you were up for a game of chess tonight - it’s been a while.’ Spock considered this; he should decline, he knew, and if he did not he would regret it later on. Still, he heard himself say:
‘That would be most pleasant. Please step inside.’ Kirk did so and went to fetch the chess-set while Spock removed his dinner tray, chastising himself for his moment of weakness. But when could he ever refuse that man anything? No. Such thoughts are illogical - they have no place in the mind of a true Vulcan. If you are to give in to such emotionalism, you are scorning your own heritage. He gave himself right, quenching the warm swell within him and turned back, forced back into passivity. They started their game in silence. After a few minutes, Kirk asked him about the scanning of the asteroid field and Spock told him of their progress, annectotally rather than as a report. The captain smiled as he listened and nodded. Once or twice he looked up at him between his moves; there was no jolt, no warmth, no reaction. Whatever there would have been was quickly extinguished; he was in control.
They were a few moves into their second game when Kirk said:
‘McCoy told me you hadn’t been sleeping well recently.’ Not even in his controled state could Spock stop a cold fear from settling in his chest at those words.
‘I thought doctor McCoy had to respect patient confidentiality,’ he only said, hoping he did not sound defensive. Half hidden by the three-dimensional chess board, Kirk smiled joylessly.
‘You know he’s allowed to tell me what he thinks I need to hear,’ he just said.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That you were suffering from insomnia - that he thought something was troubling you.’ Kirk changed his way of sitting, leaning back, and looked at his first officer. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘I am perfectly well, apart from a certain lack of sleep,’ he said, noticing the irony in what he said. Now it was 6,934 weeks since he last slept. He felt the dizziness coming back but suppressed it.
‘If there’s something wrong…’ the human interrupted himself as Spock pressed his lips together in a silent gesture. ‘I’d- happily help, if there’s anything...’
‘Thank you, captain,’ he said. His voice was a little too strained. ‘I’m grateful, but it is nothing that can be changed.’
‘I just want you to know that you can confide in me, when you need it.’ Such a confession was almost too much; suddenly Spock realised how badly beset his controls were. Without noticing he turned away his face and the other man flinched at the motion. ‘Sorry - I didn’t mean to unsettle you,’ he said hastily. He was still looking at him, those eyes carrying so much feeling…
‘You have nothing to apologise for, captain,’ Spock assured him, fighting fatigue and hoping it would not show. ‘Only I do, for my own shortcomings. At present, I am unable to discuss the situation.’ Although he did not look up, he thought he could see Kirk’s eyes, patterned with worry.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t nag.’ He looked at the chess board and then sighed. ‘You know, perhaps we should call it a day. You look like you could do with some shut-eye.’ Spock lowered his head in a consenting gesture, and Kirk smiled suddenly at him. Make him leave. At once.
‘Then I shall retire,’ Spock said and rose slowly, as to stay lucid. ‘Thank you for the game, captain. It has been stimulating.’ Kirk got to his feet as well and smiled at him.
‘Good night, Spock - see you tomorrow.’ As he passed him, he touched his arm, and with a final ‘g’night’, he left. The place where he had been touched through the material seemed to burn. Still he could not understand why it was so unpleasant when the captain left. He did not see why he every time had the illogical urge to touch him back in a way which was in no way Vulcan.
Lighting the fire-pot again, Spock returned to it, but he could not find peace. The chess-game in the prescence of the captain had relaxed him and weakened his controls, and now he realised that his legs were shaking under him and his vision was swimming. Suddenly it struck him that McCoy was right - he was on the brink of exhaustion. Still, he could not give in. If he let his mind even touch those images, he would be lost. There was no control in sleep, and that made it a hateful concept to him. He had dealt well with it before the shift of command aboard the Enterprise, but it was not until recently the distractions grew so grave he had to go to the measure of rejecting sleep. It was necessary in order to keep his calm and agreeable not to be the subject of such unrestratined emotions, but all the same it was painful. To his distaste, he realised he did not only miss sleeping, but the loss of control in his dreaming state. He closed his eyes, blotting out the spinning room. This was nothing to give in to - there was no logic in it, only inappropriate, unprofessional mindlessness. Without opening his eyes he put a hand in the floor to steady him; necessity was all that stopped the shame.
His situation would be much easier to deal with had it not been for the physical earlier that day. When he had returned to his quarters, a message had been waiting for him, saying that he had an appointment with doctor Noel at eleven hundred hours. He knew full well what that meant; Noel was a psychiatrist, which meant that McCoy probably wanted him to have a complete psychscan, besides being pressured into describing his condition, which would be unpleasant even if he insisted not to say anything. Spock shuddered mentally at the thought of such exposure that they were planning - a Vulcan’s mind was by far the most personal part of him, and such a procedure would be most shaming. They would break his shields, plough through his mindand find those images which he had tried to forget. They would bring it into dyalight and turn him inside out in orde to get hold of any other hidden part of him. That was a humiliation he would not be able to stand. He would not let them make him into an object for observation of a pathetic being unable to accept his wishes and desire... But those desires - for those lips to his, his skin against that tanned chest, his hand on his meld-points, to feel both of them slipping and moulding in to one - were never to be given in to. Still, now they would ply his mind open In amanner more demenaing than any other. Perhaps it was better to give in; then they might comply to let his damned thoughts be his own. It would embarrass him and leave him vulnerable, but much less than if they were to dissect his thoughts with their machines. Besides, now he realised that he could not go on like this for much longer. Perhaps there was some way to stop the dreams, which he had not yet found (although he had surveyed all articles and books on the subject). If they could not stop the dreams, perhaps there was an alternative to the far too ineffective meditation.
He had made up his mind; he would rather come willingly than be forced. Now he opened his eyes and saw his own hand by the fire-pot, both slightly blurred by the dizziness. His whole body was begging to go to sleep, every fiber in his body cringed for it, but he refused. If tomorrow would give him some way out of this, he would not let it be ruined tonight. Meditating in this state would be impossible. Although he knew it was foolish, he had to take to more extreme solutions. Cautiously he got up and changed back into uniform. Then he left his cabin and by willpower alone held himself together to the pharmeutic lab, which was empty at this time of night. As science officer, Spock had access to some basic medication, and using that authority he logged out a hypospray filled with a moderately strong stimulant. He had planned to bring it with him to his cabin, but found that his legs now shook so badly he could not supress it. He sought the correct place by his collar bone with his fingers and then placed the hypo there, refraining from wincing at its hissing noise. He experienced a moment of stillness, then he felt his legs steady and the dizziness pass. With no further ado, he returned the now empty hypo and went back to his quarters, managing to meditate for the rest of the night.
*
McCoy seemed just to have arrived from breakfast when Spock entered into his office.
‘You’re early,’ the doctor commented, not looking up from his PADD. When Spock stopped in front of his desk, back straight and hands folded behind him, he looked up. ‘Your appointment isn’t until at eleven hundred hours. Come back by then.’
‘I am aware of when you scheduled my appointment. However, I am here now and wish to conclude it now instead,’ he explained.
‘I got you an appointment with doctor Noel because I think you’ve got some serious mental issues. Talk to her. Eleven o’clock.’ McCoy was just about to return to his PADD when Spock itinerated.
‘Nevertheless, I wish to speak to you.’ Then he added: ‘In confidence.’ At this the human actually looked at him, hesitated and then sighed.
‘All right then. Have a seat,’ he said, getting up and flikcing a switch by the door so that a light indicated that he was busy. Then he returned to his chair, folded his hands and said: ‘So, did you have any sleep last night?’
‘None,’ Spock answered.
‘So you’ve gone without sleep for, what, 49 days? That’s seven weeks.’ The Vulcan nodded, refraining from giving him more accurate calculations. ‘You do realise this is all very self-destructive, don’t you?’ Once again, he showed assent only by gestures. There was no anger in the doctor’s voice now, only professional worry. He swung his chair towards the desk and put his hands on it. ‘So if you know that and you know that it’s about to make you ill, there must be a good reason for you to do this. Care to share?’
He took a few measured breaths and then said, his tone completely controlled:
‘The issue… is dreams.’ McCoy looked at him, swirling his chair a little again.
‘Are you being troubled by nightmares?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Spock admitted, ‘but they are nevertheless… disturbing.’
‘Cutting out sleep won’t ever help,’ McCoy observed. ‘You need it to tick.’ Then he left this and said: ‘What are these dreams about? What makes them so disturbing?’
Spock had not anticipated this would be so hard as it was. He had entered the office with a fully compiled speech on the nature of his problem, but now those thoughts seemed to evade him. Although he tried to verbalise it several times, he failed. McCoy gave him time, but at last he broke the silence.
‘I know you’re not used to talking about things like this, Spock, but trust me, it’ll feel much better when you’ve vented it.’
‘Vulcans do not find release in flaunting their emotions,’ he observed stiffly.
‘But that’s the problem? Emotions?’
‘I…’ Spock found he had to interrupt himself and take a deep breath. ‘I find that my dreams tend to be rather… emotional in nature.’
‘And there’s no way of controling it,’ McCoy concluded, being awarded a short nod for his correct hypothesis. ‘Are these dreams general, or are they about specific emotions?’
‘There are… trends. Certain things tend to reaccure,’ Spock explained. By now, he had clasped his hands in his lap and sat studying them idly.
‘What kind of emotions reaccure?’ At this, the patient pressed his jaws together and looked away. He did not know how to answer. McCoy gave him enough time in which to start answering before he presented his next question. ‘Whatever they are, you find them unpleasant - disturbing. Embarrassing, even?’
‘There are many things men find embarrassing,’ Spock observed coldly.
‘Well, yes. But you’re embarrassed by emotions. Question is what makes some emotions worse than others?’ He did not give him much time to answer. ‘The risk that they might make you loose control outside the dream, perhaps.’ The Vulcan stopped and then gave a minute nod. McCoy leaned back and looked at him in silence for a minute. ‘From here you have to help me,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t want to start speculating - you wouldn’t like that.’ Spock opened his mouth to tell him, but it was as if he could not speak. He tried several times, and then gave up. At last he managed saying:
‘I… am sorry, doctor McCoy. I assumed I would be able to discuss the matter at hand, but it seems I was mistaken.’ He unclasped his hands to leave.
‘You can’t keep going like this, Spock,’ McCoy observed. His tone of voice was unsettling, because there was no sarcasm or annoyance in it; if the Vulcan could discern any emotion, it was sadness.
‘I am aware of that, doctor, but there seems to be no other alternative.’
‘Come back at eleven hundred hours, then,’ he said.
‘I believed I had shown that it would be of no use,’ Spock was almost about to stand up, when the doctor stopped him.
‘Doctor Noel doesn’t need your cooperation - you don’t have to say a word. Perhaps that is better, considering that you can’t make yourself talk about it.’ When he answered he was not entirely succesful at veiling his despite.
‘In this question I will have nothing to do with her.’ McCoy sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘Only you could make the feminine pronoun sound like a curse,’ he observed and then froze. The look he gave him made Spock sink back into his seat, petrified at what he knew the doctor was thinking. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ He did not answer. McCoy seemed to consider it, bit his lip and leaned slightly over the desk, as if to shut out some non-existing eavesdropper. ‘Spock… the thing that bothers you so much with these dreams… is it something sexual?’
He had enough self-control to keep his breath form catching at that abominable word.
‘It is of that nature,’ he managed to say.
‘Are they general or… is there someone in particular?’ Some deeply hidden bit of Spock’s mind commented on the insanity of this kind of discussion. All the same, he felt all the emotions he had hidden away bubbling up, threatening to quench him. He gripped his hands harder and looked down in the floor; his voice was strangled when he spoke.
‘Recently, there has only been one individual.’ McCoy sighed again and lifted his clasped hands to rest his chin against him.
‘You do know that all those emotions - desire, longing, love - are completely crucial to any life,’ he said sounding almost compassionate. ‘If not as a person,then as a scientist.’
‘They are as any emotions destructive,’ Spock argued, not looking at the man opposite the desk.
‘Am I right to assume that this individual is not a woman?’ He could not bear to answer, but McCoy interpreted his silence correctly. ‘Does that bother you? Or would the emotions still be the same if it was a woman?’
‘The Vulcan society lacks Terran taboos,’ he intoned. ‘All the same, it is an impossibility to… act on these impulses, which in itself would be inappropriate.’
‘Why would it be? Because it’s emotion - because you might loose control - because it’d weaken you?’ The doctor looked at him intently for a moment. ‘Do you really think it would?’
‘I would never be able to regain my self-control, were I to give in to these physical urges,’ Spock answered. His voice was filled with disgust; even when I pride myself with my control, I cannot keep emotion out of my voice. Shameful.
‘It’s natural to give in.’
‘No, not for Vulcans,’ he said. Nature has to strip us of our senses to make us give in, he thought to himself. Would that I never have to endure that fire…
‘I really can’t believe that,’ McCoy said, as if he was agreeing to disagree. ‘Is there any other reason apart from the one of control why you can’t let yourself give in to these desires?’
‘It would be unprofessional,’ he answered.
‘Starfleet has no proper rules against fraternization,’ the doctor observed.
‘Still, it would be inappropriate. Also, I believe it would damage the running of the ship.’ Perhaps he had already said too much; still, he had resolved to tell him. Spock tried to say it: it is the captain I dream of, doctor, and I know he would be appalled if he knew of my desires towards him. He could not.
‘Spock, we’re getting to the stage where I think you should tell me who this is. I wouldn’t ask, but I think it’d help. Both of us,’ McCoy said, as if he had known what he had tried to say.
‘I cannot, doctor. I am unable to.’ The human sighed and seemed for a moment to have given up. Then he raised his eyebrows, as if he got an idea, and said:
‘I know you don’t like doing this, but… could you show me?’ It was a strange request, and one he usually only concented to when it came to the captain. First he thought that he could impossibly comply, but then he considered that if he did not, McCoy might try to have him have the psychscan anyway. This way, he could himself decide what to show and what to shield.
‘Very well,’ he said and McCoy moved around the desk, sitting down on the chair beside him. They turned to face each other and tentatively the Vulcan placed his fingers on the man’s face.
‘My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts…’ The connection took a moment to form, and before he closed his eyes he saw McCoy wince when it did. For a moment Spock let there only be void between them, then he opened the memories of those dreams he could permit him to see.
The images were many and most probably, they flickered through the human’s mind much faster than was comfortable. Still, he doubtlessly recognised the hazel eyes, the tousled hair, the gait, and the smile. The smile kept coming back, and Spock felt McCoy thinking: the smile - of course he’d fall for the smile - it must be the most exotic thing for a Vulcan. He held the connection for a moment longer and then broke it, removing his hands.
McCoy gasped, grabbed his forehead at the hollow feeling and then looked up at him. There was a certain amount of surprise, but not much, a little amusement, and still, mostly disbelief.
‘But he loves you,’ he said at last.Spock could only stare at this. ‘He loves you, Spock.’
‘That cannot be true,’ the Vulcan said or rather whispered. ‘He… tolerates me.’ Even as he said it, he knew that it was not true. He was aware that the captain cared for him even beyond their professional roles, but love…
McCoy sighed and stood up in annoyance. After a few steps back toward his place, he turned around.
‘Are you afraid of being rejected?’
‘There will be no rejection,’ the other man intoned, clasping his hands together to hard he might bruise them. ‘There will be no mention of it.’
‘Don’t you understand, you damned fool?’ McCoy exclaimed as he leaned to try to look him in the eyes. ‘It’s not unrequited. Talk to him.’
‘I cannot. My control…’
‘…Could do with being relaxed for a while,’ he interrupted him, already recovered from his outburst. ‘And to be honest I think some sex would be good for you as well.’ Then he stopped and looked him over. ‘But first you need to sleep.’ Spock mouthed no, but in reality he knew that he was lost. His secret was uncovered, his control were ruined and his body was breaking. He did not even notice that McCoy had moved, because he suddenly he heard the familiar whirring of a medical scanner close to him. He tried to brush the doctor’s hand away, but without success. ‘You’re a right-down mess, Spock,’ McCoy sighed as he looked at the readings. ‘I checked, and the longest a Vulcan under stress can go without sleep safely is just over five weeks. You’ve been putting yourself at risk, both by not resting and making your body react as if it was under real stress. Still, I think you’ll be all right in a few weeks.’ He returned to scanning and then asked: ‘What kind of symptoms have you been experiencing?’
‘Only those which are to be expected - dizziness, aching muscles, a certain degree of nausea. Nothing I have not been able to control.’
‘I don’t care much for your control, Spock,’ the doctor murmured. ‘What have you been taking?’
‘I have meditated when I have been in need of rest,’ he only answered.
‘Spock, it’s not natural to stay awake this long. At last, your body will fall asleep on its own accord, if you don’t prevent it. Obvisoulsy you have.’
‘On hand-full of occasions, I have… used stimulants - I have made certain to use different compounds, so as not to form a habit,’ he confessed, trying to keep the shame out of his voice. McCoy snorted.
‘Well, considering the science officer of this vessel is a neurotic wreck, I think it’d be a good idea to withdraw his access to all kinds of medication, however basic.’ Spock snapped into attention.
‘You would speak to the captain?’
‘Yessir, I would,’ the doctor almost spat.
‘Surely you cannot tell him…’
‘No, I won’t tell him how madly in love you are with him, but consider it a favour,’ the human said, his customary sarcasm returning. ‘I’m going to leave that to you.’ At this, Spock straightened his posture, which during the conversation had become more and more dejected, and finding his normal, neutral tone of voice he said:
‘Doctor, my stand-point on this has not changed. Such a thing would be improper and uncalled for.’
‘You’re just not listening, are you?’ McCoy asked. ‘You seem to have two choices - either you accept what you’re feeling and do what will probably make you into a happier man by far, or you keep going like this until your shame and self-destructive tendencies get the better of you. Come to think about it, it’s not your choice to make, but mine, and I don’t intend to let you go that far.’
‘I am Vulcan…’ he started saying, but the human interrupted him once again.
‘And I’m your doctor, so these are my orders: sleep. Either here or in your quarters, but either way I’ll make sure you actually sleep. I’m taking you off duty for a week. When you’re better, I’m sending the captain to talk to you, or you to talk to him.’ He sat down and changed the grave tone of a compassionate one: ‘I promise I won’t tell him what you’ve shown me or what you’ve actually done. I’ll just say you’ve had a… bad case of insomnia, which has been complicated by using stimulants. I can’t make it more vague than that, I’m afraid.’ Spock nodded. It seemed the best offer he would get. ‘Now, shall I have someone bring you a patient’s overall, or would you prefer your own cabin?’
‘My cabin would be preferable,’ he said, rising slowly.
‘All right,’ McCoy said, fetching his bag. When his patient raised an eyebrow at it, he explained: ‘Don’t think I’m letting you get away so easily. I’m coming with you, and I’ll make sure you sleep.’
‘Very well,’ he said. He considered what had happened as they left the office and went to his quarters. This was probably the logical turn of events; in fact, he suddenly realised that his endeavour to stop his dreams had been fuelled by his own emotions of fear and shame. There was nothing in the disciplines of Surak that said whether it was logical to give in to emotions when the reason for ignoring them would in itself be emotional. Such a concept show be distasteful, he knew, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that perhaps McCoy had been right. The burden was easier to carry after he had shared it. Within a week, he would have to confess to the captain - to Jim - what had been troubling him. Perhaps it would go wrong - perhaps it would, as McCoy thought, lead to something new between them. To his surprise, Spock found himself almost longing for that encounter, and anticipating what it might give him.
Pairing Kirk/Spock
Rating PG
Words 5965 (it's a monster)
Comments This was written as a fill for this prompt on the kink meme: "Spock may be able to control his emotions (more or less) during the day, but he can’t control his dreams - his dreams of Kirk, to be precise. So he logically concludes: no sleep = no dreams, and stays awake. For days, or weeks. As soon as Kirk and/or McCoy find out what he’s doing they set about finding out why & stopping him."
Anything nice you have to say is very much appreciated, my dears. I need to hear it.
If it had not been for the fascinating and hitherto unmapped asteroid field the Enterprise was passing through, it might have been illogical not to report to Sickbay for his routine physical. However, as they were scanning this unknown virgin space (that was what the captain called it - Spock did not see the relevance of the word “virgin“ in this context), Spock stayed at his science station to monitor the scans and feed the data to the astrophysics lab.
He should have known that he was not possible to get away that easily from doctor McCoy. 7.49 minutes after Spock had been due to Sickbay, the doors to the turbolift opened and the CMO entered, barely trying to hide his anger.
‘Alright, mister, aren’t you supposed to be in Sickbay?’ he said, stopping boldly by Spock’s station and jabbing a thumb towards the turbolift.
‘According to the rota for the physicals, yes, but the scanning of this asteroid field…’
‘I don’t give a damn about the scanning of any asteroid field - you’re due for a physical, so come on,’ said the doctor loudly enough to make a yeoman spin around and stare at them. Spock left his scanner and straightened his back, placing his hands behind it, and said in a level tone:
‘I assure you, doctor, I am in complete health. Therefore, let me get on with my duties.’
‘Well, my duty is to be the judge of whether you are or not,’ McCoy almost spat out. At this, the captain’s chair whirled around and Kirk gave them both an amused smile. Spock successfully suppressed the jolt in his stomach at those eyes.
‘I think the scanning can do without you for a few minutes, Mr. Spock. Let’s humour the good doctor,’ he said, smiling as if their constant fighting amused him to no end.
‘Very well, captain,’ Spock said gruffly and surrendered his station, following McCoy to the turbolift. Thankfully, the doctor did not try to open conversation on the way to the right deck, but only drummed an impatient rhytm against the railing. When the doors opened, he spoke.
‘Out you go,’ as if he assumed Spock would try to stay in the turbolift rather than continue to Sickbay. He had surrendered to the inevitability of the situation and followed him obediently into his office. Feigning interest at some corner of the ceiling, he heard McCoy call in a medtech to assist him, and then the sound of the examination table being released into a vertical angle. ‘Lie down, would you? I’ve got a ridiculous number of physicals to get through today,’ McCoy muttered, fibbling with his scanners. Spock complied, and the medtech flipped the table back so that it was horisontal once again. The beeps of the panels above his head set in, accompanied by the whirring of a medical scanner over his body.
‘Odd,’ McCoy murmured, lost in the readings. Spock refrained from commenting on his annoying tendency to see humans as the norm, when the doctor turned to the medtech. ‘Cadioscanner, please.’ He heard the device being placed in the doctor’s hand and then put onto his side. After a few moments, he adressed him. ‘Your heart-rate’s off, Spock - not by much, but it keeps changing.’
‘That is not a great problem, I gather,’ he said, trying to sound unaffected.
‘Well, something causing it. That’s what’s worrying. Blood pressure’s a bit low as well. No massive variations, but certainly enough to be noticeable. Let me have a look at you.’ Despite the unprecise nature of the statement, Spock was able to discern that the doctor wished to study his face. He steadied himself on his elbows and let him shine a light in his eyes and look down his throat. When he was finished he just sighed and scratched his chin. ‘Have you experienced any discomfort of any kind recently? Any pain? Have you been feeling out of sorts?’
‘I am well,’ Spock only said, but something in his voice must have given him away, because McCoy’s eyes narrowed.
‘No, you’re not. I just told you you weren’t. And you tried to dodge physical. What’s wrong?’
‘I assure you, doctor, nothing…’
‘Well, I don’t fall for Vulcan charm, Mr. Spock,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll only have the truth.’ Almost instinctively, Spock shielded his mind, as if McCoy were another telepath who would try to get into his mind.The human sighed at his silence, and said: ‘All right, if you won’t tell me I’ll have to figure it out. Supposedly, Vulcans are suppose not to be able to lie, but you prove that to be false. Anyway, I’ll pin my hopes on it.’ He took out his scanner again and continued. ‘Have you been eating properly?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your case, that probably means as sporadically as you usually do - you could still do with some extra weight, you know. What about work - been taxing yourself? Taking extra shifts?’
‘Only those assigned to me.’
‘All right,’ McCoy said, watching the panels. ‘Have you been sleeping enough?’ The hesitation had only lasted a moment, but it was enough for McCoy to discern. He turned off the scanner and looked down at him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? It’d explain it. You’re not sleeping.’
‘As I have told you before, Vulcans…’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps you can go without sleep, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to. Now, how long did you sleep last night?’ Spock sat up on the bed and did not answer. ‘Not at all? Okay, what about the night before that?’ Only silence. When McCoy spoke again, the annoyed tone was gone; instead it was concerned, almost caring. ‘When did you last sleep, Spock?’
His hesitation to answer was only to calculate the exact answer.
’48.3 days ago,’ he admitted. McCoy looked like he was about to drop the scanner he was holding.
’48 days?’
‘No, doctor…’
‘To hell with decimals, man, you haven’t slept for almost two months!’ he exclaimed, as if the fact appalled him. ‘Why? What have you been thinking?’ McCoy might as well have taken out a scalpel and opened up his heart, asking it why it insisted on beating. His shields clung more firmly to his mind, and he fought against giving an answer.
‘It is a private matter,’ he said at last.
‘Not any more,’ McCoy snorted, pointing at him. ‘This is affecting your health and the well-being of the ship. You’re on the brink of complete exhaustion. What is so important to prove that you go to such lengths?’
‘I do not attempt to prove anything,’ Spock explained and turned his face away. ‘My time is better disposed otherwise.’
‘No, it’s not. Tell me why you’re not sleeping - it has to be a conscious choice, or you would have come to me, at least I hope so.’ Although his voice was agitated, his face, when the Vulcanturned to look at it, was worried. ‘Tell me,’ he repeated.
‘It is no concern of yours,’ was all he could say. McCoy stood still for a moment, then put his scanner and went to his desk.
‘All right, then. Go to your cabin and get some rest. I’m going to make you an appointment with doctor Noel tomorrow.’ Just as he was about to argue he cut him off. ‘You’re dismissed.’ He saw no alternative but to leave, ignoring the surprised look of the medtech as he went through the doors.
*
When Spock returned to the bridge, the captain was not there and did not appear for the rest of his shift. He guessed that he was in sickbay, where he would go willingly if grudgingly. The first officer hoped that his sleeping patterns would not become the objects of rumours, but during the rest of the shift, he could hear nothing which indicated that, which would mean that it had not escaped into the ether. Usually, rumours reached the bridge just after they were generated.
At the end of the shift, Spock returned to his quarters, as the thought of the recretation rooms did not seem welcoming. Instead, he had dinner on his own, pondering what he would do with doctor McCoy. The man was of cousre only doing his duty and it was proper of him to do what he had done, but at the same time, Spock would rather have it that he did not pry in his private matters. This, if anything, was such a thing. He could impossibly discuss it with anyone, let alone stop doing it. They might see it as a risk, while he saw it as a precaution. True, there were risks involved, but Spock knew enough to put minimal strain on his body. It was in no way comfortable; he did it as it was the only alternative open to him. The other was asking for a transfer, which he had thought of and rejected several times over. He was satisfied at his stationing on the Enterprise, and there was no reason to let emotionalism ruin his career. It was petty, but would swallow his existence, were he to surrender to it.
His thoughts were growing too disorderly and he felt the need to meditate, which he usually did through the nights. It gave him some rest, even if there were side-effects to it. When Spock rose from his chair, one of them set in as his head suddenly spun with dizziness. He grabbed the table, concentrated his gaze on a fixed point and started reciting his mantras.
‘I am Vulcan. Weakness is only of the body. Weakness is only of the body. The true self is the mind, and the mind is indestructible. I am Vulcan…’ After a minute or two, the dizziness subsided. It was an inconvenience, but one he could easily hide in public and control with his mind. The advantages were greater, he told himself, kneeling in front of his fire-pot and lighted it. Putting his finger-tips together, he let his mind be lifted, so he grew oblivious of the physical world and rested his mind in a sea of nothingness.
Still, the chime of the door-buzzer penetrated through his meditative state and feeling himself being weighed back into his body, he rose and crossed to the door. He anticipated who waited on the other side of the door, but was still surprised when those hazel eyes and that human smile met him.
‘Hello, Spock. Sorry, did I disturb you?’ the captain said when he saw his meditation robe.
‘It is of no consequence, captain. What may I do for you?’
‘Just thought I’d see if you were up for a game of chess tonight - it’s been a while.’ Spock considered this; he should decline, he knew, and if he did not he would regret it later on. Still, he heard himself say:
‘That would be most pleasant. Please step inside.’ Kirk did so and went to fetch the chess-set while Spock removed his dinner tray, chastising himself for his moment of weakness. But when could he ever refuse that man anything? No. Such thoughts are illogical - they have no place in the mind of a true Vulcan. If you are to give in to such emotionalism, you are scorning your own heritage. He gave himself right, quenching the warm swell within him and turned back, forced back into passivity. They started their game in silence. After a few minutes, Kirk asked him about the scanning of the asteroid field and Spock told him of their progress, annectotally rather than as a report. The captain smiled as he listened and nodded. Once or twice he looked up at him between his moves; there was no jolt, no warmth, no reaction. Whatever there would have been was quickly extinguished; he was in control.
They were a few moves into their second game when Kirk said:
‘McCoy told me you hadn’t been sleeping well recently.’ Not even in his controled state could Spock stop a cold fear from settling in his chest at those words.
‘I thought doctor McCoy had to respect patient confidentiality,’ he only said, hoping he did not sound defensive. Half hidden by the three-dimensional chess board, Kirk smiled joylessly.
‘You know he’s allowed to tell me what he thinks I need to hear,’ he just said.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That you were suffering from insomnia - that he thought something was troubling you.’ Kirk changed his way of sitting, leaning back, and looked at his first officer. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘I am perfectly well, apart from a certain lack of sleep,’ he said, noticing the irony in what he said. Now it was 6,934 weeks since he last slept. He felt the dizziness coming back but suppressed it.
‘If there’s something wrong…’ the human interrupted himself as Spock pressed his lips together in a silent gesture. ‘I’d- happily help, if there’s anything...’
‘Thank you, captain,’ he said. His voice was a little too strained. ‘I’m grateful, but it is nothing that can be changed.’
‘I just want you to know that you can confide in me, when you need it.’ Such a confession was almost too much; suddenly Spock realised how badly beset his controls were. Without noticing he turned away his face and the other man flinched at the motion. ‘Sorry - I didn’t mean to unsettle you,’ he said hastily. He was still looking at him, those eyes carrying so much feeling…
‘You have nothing to apologise for, captain,’ Spock assured him, fighting fatigue and hoping it would not show. ‘Only I do, for my own shortcomings. At present, I am unable to discuss the situation.’ Although he did not look up, he thought he could see Kirk’s eyes, patterned with worry.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t nag.’ He looked at the chess board and then sighed. ‘You know, perhaps we should call it a day. You look like you could do with some shut-eye.’ Spock lowered his head in a consenting gesture, and Kirk smiled suddenly at him. Make him leave. At once.
‘Then I shall retire,’ Spock said and rose slowly, as to stay lucid. ‘Thank you for the game, captain. It has been stimulating.’ Kirk got to his feet as well and smiled at him.
‘Good night, Spock - see you tomorrow.’ As he passed him, he touched his arm, and with a final ‘g’night’, he left. The place where he had been touched through the material seemed to burn. Still he could not understand why it was so unpleasant when the captain left. He did not see why he every time had the illogical urge to touch him back in a way which was in no way Vulcan.
Lighting the fire-pot again, Spock returned to it, but he could not find peace. The chess-game in the prescence of the captain had relaxed him and weakened his controls, and now he realised that his legs were shaking under him and his vision was swimming. Suddenly it struck him that McCoy was right - he was on the brink of exhaustion. Still, he could not give in. If he let his mind even touch those images, he would be lost. There was no control in sleep, and that made it a hateful concept to him. He had dealt well with it before the shift of command aboard the Enterprise, but it was not until recently the distractions grew so grave he had to go to the measure of rejecting sleep. It was necessary in order to keep his calm and agreeable not to be the subject of such unrestratined emotions, but all the same it was painful. To his distaste, he realised he did not only miss sleeping, but the loss of control in his dreaming state. He closed his eyes, blotting out the spinning room. This was nothing to give in to - there was no logic in it, only inappropriate, unprofessional mindlessness. Without opening his eyes he put a hand in the floor to steady him; necessity was all that stopped the shame.
His situation would be much easier to deal with had it not been for the physical earlier that day. When he had returned to his quarters, a message had been waiting for him, saying that he had an appointment with doctor Noel at eleven hundred hours. He knew full well what that meant; Noel was a psychiatrist, which meant that McCoy probably wanted him to have a complete psychscan, besides being pressured into describing his condition, which would be unpleasant even if he insisted not to say anything. Spock shuddered mentally at the thought of such exposure that they were planning - a Vulcan’s mind was by far the most personal part of him, and such a procedure would be most shaming. They would break his shields, plough through his mindand find those images which he had tried to forget. They would bring it into dyalight and turn him inside out in orde to get hold of any other hidden part of him. That was a humiliation he would not be able to stand. He would not let them make him into an object for observation of a pathetic being unable to accept his wishes and desire... But those desires - for those lips to his, his skin against that tanned chest, his hand on his meld-points, to feel both of them slipping and moulding in to one - were never to be given in to. Still, now they would ply his mind open In amanner more demenaing than any other. Perhaps it was better to give in; then they might comply to let his damned thoughts be his own. It would embarrass him and leave him vulnerable, but much less than if they were to dissect his thoughts with their machines. Besides, now he realised that he could not go on like this for much longer. Perhaps there was some way to stop the dreams, which he had not yet found (although he had surveyed all articles and books on the subject). If they could not stop the dreams, perhaps there was an alternative to the far too ineffective meditation.
He had made up his mind; he would rather come willingly than be forced. Now he opened his eyes and saw his own hand by the fire-pot, both slightly blurred by the dizziness. His whole body was begging to go to sleep, every fiber in his body cringed for it, but he refused. If tomorrow would give him some way out of this, he would not let it be ruined tonight. Meditating in this state would be impossible. Although he knew it was foolish, he had to take to more extreme solutions. Cautiously he got up and changed back into uniform. Then he left his cabin and by willpower alone held himself together to the pharmeutic lab, which was empty at this time of night. As science officer, Spock had access to some basic medication, and using that authority he logged out a hypospray filled with a moderately strong stimulant. He had planned to bring it with him to his cabin, but found that his legs now shook so badly he could not supress it. He sought the correct place by his collar bone with his fingers and then placed the hypo there, refraining from wincing at its hissing noise. He experienced a moment of stillness, then he felt his legs steady and the dizziness pass. With no further ado, he returned the now empty hypo and went back to his quarters, managing to meditate for the rest of the night.
*
McCoy seemed just to have arrived from breakfast when Spock entered into his office.
‘You’re early,’ the doctor commented, not looking up from his PADD. When Spock stopped in front of his desk, back straight and hands folded behind him, he looked up. ‘Your appointment isn’t until at eleven hundred hours. Come back by then.’
‘I am aware of when you scheduled my appointment. However, I am here now and wish to conclude it now instead,’ he explained.
‘I got you an appointment with doctor Noel because I think you’ve got some serious mental issues. Talk to her. Eleven o’clock.’ McCoy was just about to return to his PADD when Spock itinerated.
‘Nevertheless, I wish to speak to you.’ Then he added: ‘In confidence.’ At this the human actually looked at him, hesitated and then sighed.
‘All right then. Have a seat,’ he said, getting up and flikcing a switch by the door so that a light indicated that he was busy. Then he returned to his chair, folded his hands and said: ‘So, did you have any sleep last night?’
‘None,’ Spock answered.
‘So you’ve gone without sleep for, what, 49 days? That’s seven weeks.’ The Vulcan nodded, refraining from giving him more accurate calculations. ‘You do realise this is all very self-destructive, don’t you?’ Once again, he showed assent only by gestures. There was no anger in the doctor’s voice now, only professional worry. He swung his chair towards the desk and put his hands on it. ‘So if you know that and you know that it’s about to make you ill, there must be a good reason for you to do this. Care to share?’
He took a few measured breaths and then said, his tone completely controlled:
‘The issue… is dreams.’ McCoy looked at him, swirling his chair a little again.
‘Are you being troubled by nightmares?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Spock admitted, ‘but they are nevertheless… disturbing.’
‘Cutting out sleep won’t ever help,’ McCoy observed. ‘You need it to tick.’ Then he left this and said: ‘What are these dreams about? What makes them so disturbing?’
Spock had not anticipated this would be so hard as it was. He had entered the office with a fully compiled speech on the nature of his problem, but now those thoughts seemed to evade him. Although he tried to verbalise it several times, he failed. McCoy gave him time, but at last he broke the silence.
‘I know you’re not used to talking about things like this, Spock, but trust me, it’ll feel much better when you’ve vented it.’
‘Vulcans do not find release in flaunting their emotions,’ he observed stiffly.
‘But that’s the problem? Emotions?’
‘I…’ Spock found he had to interrupt himself and take a deep breath. ‘I find that my dreams tend to be rather… emotional in nature.’
‘And there’s no way of controling it,’ McCoy concluded, being awarded a short nod for his correct hypothesis. ‘Are these dreams general, or are they about specific emotions?’
‘There are… trends. Certain things tend to reaccure,’ Spock explained. By now, he had clasped his hands in his lap and sat studying them idly.
‘What kind of emotions reaccure?’ At this, the patient pressed his jaws together and looked away. He did not know how to answer. McCoy gave him enough time in which to start answering before he presented his next question. ‘Whatever they are, you find them unpleasant - disturbing. Embarrassing, even?’
‘There are many things men find embarrassing,’ Spock observed coldly.
‘Well, yes. But you’re embarrassed by emotions. Question is what makes some emotions worse than others?’ He did not give him much time to answer. ‘The risk that they might make you loose control outside the dream, perhaps.’ The Vulcan stopped and then gave a minute nod. McCoy leaned back and looked at him in silence for a minute. ‘From here you have to help me,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t want to start speculating - you wouldn’t like that.’ Spock opened his mouth to tell him, but it was as if he could not speak. He tried several times, and then gave up. At last he managed saying:
‘I… am sorry, doctor McCoy. I assumed I would be able to discuss the matter at hand, but it seems I was mistaken.’ He unclasped his hands to leave.
‘You can’t keep going like this, Spock,’ McCoy observed. His tone of voice was unsettling, because there was no sarcasm or annoyance in it; if the Vulcan could discern any emotion, it was sadness.
‘I am aware of that, doctor, but there seems to be no other alternative.’
‘Come back at eleven hundred hours, then,’ he said.
‘I believed I had shown that it would be of no use,’ Spock was almost about to stand up, when the doctor stopped him.
‘Doctor Noel doesn’t need your cooperation - you don’t have to say a word. Perhaps that is better, considering that you can’t make yourself talk about it.’ When he answered he was not entirely succesful at veiling his despite.
‘In this question I will have nothing to do with her.’ McCoy sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘Only you could make the feminine pronoun sound like a curse,’ he observed and then froze. The look he gave him made Spock sink back into his seat, petrified at what he knew the doctor was thinking. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ He did not answer. McCoy seemed to consider it, bit his lip and leaned slightly over the desk, as if to shut out some non-existing eavesdropper. ‘Spock… the thing that bothers you so much with these dreams… is it something sexual?’
He had enough self-control to keep his breath form catching at that abominable word.
‘It is of that nature,’ he managed to say.
‘Are they general or… is there someone in particular?’ Some deeply hidden bit of Spock’s mind commented on the insanity of this kind of discussion. All the same, he felt all the emotions he had hidden away bubbling up, threatening to quench him. He gripped his hands harder and looked down in the floor; his voice was strangled when he spoke.
‘Recently, there has only been one individual.’ McCoy sighed again and lifted his clasped hands to rest his chin against him.
‘You do know that all those emotions - desire, longing, love - are completely crucial to any life,’ he said sounding almost compassionate. ‘If not as a person,then as a scientist.’
‘They are as any emotions destructive,’ Spock argued, not looking at the man opposite the desk.
‘Am I right to assume that this individual is not a woman?’ He could not bear to answer, but McCoy interpreted his silence correctly. ‘Does that bother you? Or would the emotions still be the same if it was a woman?’
‘The Vulcan society lacks Terran taboos,’ he intoned. ‘All the same, it is an impossibility to… act on these impulses, which in itself would be inappropriate.’
‘Why would it be? Because it’s emotion - because you might loose control - because it’d weaken you?’ The doctor looked at him intently for a moment. ‘Do you really think it would?’
‘I would never be able to regain my self-control, were I to give in to these physical urges,’ Spock answered. His voice was filled with disgust; even when I pride myself with my control, I cannot keep emotion out of my voice. Shameful.
‘It’s natural to give in.’
‘No, not for Vulcans,’ he said. Nature has to strip us of our senses to make us give in, he thought to himself. Would that I never have to endure that fire…
‘I really can’t believe that,’ McCoy said, as if he was agreeing to disagree. ‘Is there any other reason apart from the one of control why you can’t let yourself give in to these desires?’
‘It would be unprofessional,’ he answered.
‘Starfleet has no proper rules against fraternization,’ the doctor observed.
‘Still, it would be inappropriate. Also, I believe it would damage the running of the ship.’ Perhaps he had already said too much; still, he had resolved to tell him. Spock tried to say it: it is the captain I dream of, doctor, and I know he would be appalled if he knew of my desires towards him. He could not.
‘Spock, we’re getting to the stage where I think you should tell me who this is. I wouldn’t ask, but I think it’d help. Both of us,’ McCoy said, as if he had known what he had tried to say.
‘I cannot, doctor. I am unable to.’ The human sighed and seemed for a moment to have given up. Then he raised his eyebrows, as if he got an idea, and said:
‘I know you don’t like doing this, but… could you show me?’ It was a strange request, and one he usually only concented to when it came to the captain. First he thought that he could impossibly comply, but then he considered that if he did not, McCoy might try to have him have the psychscan anyway. This way, he could himself decide what to show and what to shield.
‘Very well,’ he said and McCoy moved around the desk, sitting down on the chair beside him. They turned to face each other and tentatively the Vulcan placed his fingers on the man’s face.
‘My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts…’ The connection took a moment to form, and before he closed his eyes he saw McCoy wince when it did. For a moment Spock let there only be void between them, then he opened the memories of those dreams he could permit him to see.
The images were many and most probably, they flickered through the human’s mind much faster than was comfortable. Still, he doubtlessly recognised the hazel eyes, the tousled hair, the gait, and the smile. The smile kept coming back, and Spock felt McCoy thinking: the smile - of course he’d fall for the smile - it must be the most exotic thing for a Vulcan. He held the connection for a moment longer and then broke it, removing his hands.
McCoy gasped, grabbed his forehead at the hollow feeling and then looked up at him. There was a certain amount of surprise, but not much, a little amusement, and still, mostly disbelief.
‘But he loves you,’ he said at last.Spock could only stare at this. ‘He loves you, Spock.’
‘That cannot be true,’ the Vulcan said or rather whispered. ‘He… tolerates me.’ Even as he said it, he knew that it was not true. He was aware that the captain cared for him even beyond their professional roles, but love…
McCoy sighed and stood up in annoyance. After a few steps back toward his place, he turned around.
‘Are you afraid of being rejected?’
‘There will be no rejection,’ the other man intoned, clasping his hands together to hard he might bruise them. ‘There will be no mention of it.’
‘Don’t you understand, you damned fool?’ McCoy exclaimed as he leaned to try to look him in the eyes. ‘It’s not unrequited. Talk to him.’
‘I cannot. My control…’
‘…Could do with being relaxed for a while,’ he interrupted him, already recovered from his outburst. ‘And to be honest I think some sex would be good for you as well.’ Then he stopped and looked him over. ‘But first you need to sleep.’ Spock mouthed no, but in reality he knew that he was lost. His secret was uncovered, his control were ruined and his body was breaking. He did not even notice that McCoy had moved, because he suddenly he heard the familiar whirring of a medical scanner close to him. He tried to brush the doctor’s hand away, but without success. ‘You’re a right-down mess, Spock,’ McCoy sighed as he looked at the readings. ‘I checked, and the longest a Vulcan under stress can go without sleep safely is just over five weeks. You’ve been putting yourself at risk, both by not resting and making your body react as if it was under real stress. Still, I think you’ll be all right in a few weeks.’ He returned to scanning and then asked: ‘What kind of symptoms have you been experiencing?’
‘Only those which are to be expected - dizziness, aching muscles, a certain degree of nausea. Nothing I have not been able to control.’
‘I don’t care much for your control, Spock,’ the doctor murmured. ‘What have you been taking?’
‘I have meditated when I have been in need of rest,’ he only answered.
‘Spock, it’s not natural to stay awake this long. At last, your body will fall asleep on its own accord, if you don’t prevent it. Obvisoulsy you have.’
‘On hand-full of occasions, I have… used stimulants - I have made certain to use different compounds, so as not to form a habit,’ he confessed, trying to keep the shame out of his voice. McCoy snorted.
‘Well, considering the science officer of this vessel is a neurotic wreck, I think it’d be a good idea to withdraw his access to all kinds of medication, however basic.’ Spock snapped into attention.
‘You would speak to the captain?’
‘Yessir, I would,’ the doctor almost spat.
‘Surely you cannot tell him…’
‘No, I won’t tell him how madly in love you are with him, but consider it a favour,’ the human said, his customary sarcasm returning. ‘I’m going to leave that to you.’ At this, Spock straightened his posture, which during the conversation had become more and more dejected, and finding his normal, neutral tone of voice he said:
‘Doctor, my stand-point on this has not changed. Such a thing would be improper and uncalled for.’
‘You’re just not listening, are you?’ McCoy asked. ‘You seem to have two choices - either you accept what you’re feeling and do what will probably make you into a happier man by far, or you keep going like this until your shame and self-destructive tendencies get the better of you. Come to think about it, it’s not your choice to make, but mine, and I don’t intend to let you go that far.’
‘I am Vulcan…’ he started saying, but the human interrupted him once again.
‘And I’m your doctor, so these are my orders: sleep. Either here or in your quarters, but either way I’ll make sure you actually sleep. I’m taking you off duty for a week. When you’re better, I’m sending the captain to talk to you, or you to talk to him.’ He sat down and changed the grave tone of a compassionate one: ‘I promise I won’t tell him what you’ve shown me or what you’ve actually done. I’ll just say you’ve had a… bad case of insomnia, which has been complicated by using stimulants. I can’t make it more vague than that, I’m afraid.’ Spock nodded. It seemed the best offer he would get. ‘Now, shall I have someone bring you a patient’s overall, or would you prefer your own cabin?’
‘My cabin would be preferable,’ he said, rising slowly.
‘All right,’ McCoy said, fetching his bag. When his patient raised an eyebrow at it, he explained: ‘Don’t think I’m letting you get away so easily. I’m coming with you, and I’ll make sure you sleep.’
‘Very well,’ he said. He considered what had happened as they left the office and went to his quarters. This was probably the logical turn of events; in fact, he suddenly realised that his endeavour to stop his dreams had been fuelled by his own emotions of fear and shame. There was nothing in the disciplines of Surak that said whether it was logical to give in to emotions when the reason for ignoring them would in itself be emotional. Such a concept show be distasteful, he knew, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that perhaps McCoy had been right. The burden was easier to carry after he had shared it. Within a week, he would have to confess to the captain - to Jim - what had been troubling him. Perhaps it would go wrong - perhaps it would, as McCoy thought, lead to something new between them. To his surprise, Spock found himself almost longing for that encounter, and anticipating what it might give him.