Common Enemy
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairing/Characters: McCoy, Spock. Gen.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: While investigating an unprovoked attack on a civilian settlement, Spock and McCoy are taken prisoner by isolationist rebels.
Words: ~3600
Notes: Written for karanguni in the not_primetime exchange. Thanks to nursedarry for the beta.
McCoy has gotten used to beaming over the years, but it'll never be his favourite way to travel. He's never quite been able to shake the idea that parts of him might get left behind. He clenches his fists and wiggles his toes, but everything seems to have made it down okay.
"Spread out," Spock orders from beside him. "Search the area."
McCoy watches as the landing party scatter in all directions, then turns to Spock who is studying a tricorder.
"You can't really think we're going to find anything?" he asks. "This place is a ghost town." He gestures at the half-demolished buildings around them.
"That is what I intend to find out," Spock replies without looking up. He makes a few adjustments to his tricorder, then points at a cluster of buildings. "I'm picking up unusual readings from that area. I suggest we check it out."
He starts off without another word, leaving McCoy to follow.
The buildings around them are blackened and broken, testament to the violent attack that destroyed the settlement and killed almost all its inhabitants. The Hilarian government has blamed the attack on isolationist rebels, but as yet have not been able to bring the culprits to justice. Looking at the devastation, McCoy vows that will change. No one should get away with something like this.
He follows Spock to a building that is less damaged than the others. Spock hesitates at the doorway, checking his tricorder, then draws his phaser and steps inside. McCoy glances around before following.
The first room they come to seems to be a storage room of some kind. McCoy can see boxes marked as food, blankets, and medical supplies, mostly empty now. Spock consults his tricorder again and moves on.
They move further into the building, following the signal on Spock's tricorder. Finally Spock stops, gesturing to the door in front of them. "The signal appears to originate in there," he says.
He readies his phaser and steps forward. The door swishes open, revealing an empty room. Spock glances at him briefly, then steps inside, heading for what looks like a communication station in the corner.
He consults his tricorder once more and nods slowly. "We have found the source of the signal."
"A recording?" McCoy asks, walking over to him.
"Indeed," Spock replies. He taps a few buttons, frowning. "But for what purpose?"
As if in answer, white smoke begins pouring from the ceiling. McCoy rushes over to the door and is not at all surprised to find it locked. He looks around desperately, but there's no way out.
Spock pushes past him and begins pulling at the door, trying to open it. McCoy can feel himself getting dizzy as the room fills with smoke and leans against the wall, before slipping down to the floor.
He fights to keep his eyes open as Spock's frantic attacks on the door begin to slow, then stop. It isn't long before Spock joins him on the floor, both of them fighting to stay conscious.
But this is one fight they can't win, and McCoy's eyes slip closed as he falls into darkness.
* * *
McCoy comes to slowly. For a moment he thinks he's in sickbay, but then he realises the ceiling is the wrong colour. Looking around, he discovers he's in some kind of cell, and not alone. Spock is lying on a bed across the room, apparently still unconscious. McCoy grimaces as he remembers the signal and the room and the white smoke. A set up. God dammit!
With a sigh, he stands up and begins to explore. One door, locked. Blank, white walls, with only one small window, up near the ceiling. The floor is bare concrete, and the furniture is limited to two beds and what looks like a toilet behind a partition. Not the worst cell he's ever been in, but that's not saying much.
"Least they gave us a toilet," he mutters, then shakes his head and goes to check on Spock.
He tries to ignore the brief flicker of concern as he approaches the bed where Spock is lying. Spock shouldn't still be asleep - he usually shrugs off things like this much faster than a human would.
"Spock," he says, then louder, "Spock!"
When there is no reaction, he reaches out and grasps Spock's shoulder, giving him a shake. "Wake up, dammit!"
Shaking proves to be more effective than yelling, and Spock's eyes drift open. He blinks a few times, looking confused, then asks, "Doctor McCoy?"
"No, it's the Queen of Sheba," McCoy retorts.
Spock ignores the comment as he sits up and looks around. "Where are we?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," McCoy says. "Last thing I remember is getting a lungful of smoke."
Spock nods slowly. "The rebels, no doubt. They must have been lying in wait, knowing that we would pick up on their signal and come to investigate." He leans against the wall, wrapping his arms around his chest as if cold.
It's an odd gesture for Spock, and it dawns on McCoy how pale he is. And - he frowns - it almost looks like he's sweating.
Before Spock can react, he darts out a hand to touch his forehead. Just as he thought; far too warm. Spock's eyes narrow and McCoy removes his hand before Spock can do it for him.
"You're burning up," he says.
Spock doesn't bother to deny it, not that he could. "I believe I am having an adverse reaction to the gas," he replies.
McCoy sighs. "Of course you are." He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Spock's finicky hybrid system has a habit of reacting unexpectedly to common drugs and medications, let alone uncommon ones. And he has no way of knowing just what it was they were dosed with.
"Any tightness in your chest?" he asks, slipping into doctor mode. "Shortness of breath?"
Spock shakes his head. "No."
Well that's something, at least. He reaches out to take Spock's pulse, only for Spock to pull his arm away sharply before McCoy can make contact. "I would prefer if you refrained from touching me," Spock says stiffly.
"How am I supposed to help you if I can't touch you?" McCoy demands.
Spock stares at him, eyebrows raised. "It would be difficult for you to help me regardless," he says, "as we are currently stuck in this room." He shifts slightly and adds, "My condition is… uncomfortable, but not life-threatening. I suggest we focus our energies on planning our escape."
McCoy glares at him. "Fine," he grumbles. "Just don't blame me if you drop dead." Spock opens his mouth, but McCoy cuts him off with a, "And don't tell me that's illogical!"
Spock closes his mouth again and looks around the room. He stops suddenly, and McCoy follows his gaze to the window.
"You can't expect us to get through there?" he asks. "It's tiny. And about eight feet off the ground to boot."
Spock's gaze doesn't waver. "It is logical to explore every possibility." He pushes himself off the bed and stands, only to sit down again almost immediately, his face going pale.
McCoy studies him, feeling the barest tinge of concern. "Dizzy?"
"Indeed," Spock replies quietly. One hand curls around the bed frame until his knuckles turn white. "But do not be alarmed. I shall master it."
McCoy sighs inwardly. "Sit there," he orders. "I'll check out the window."
It takes some doing, but by balancing precariously on the toilet seat he manages to get high enough to look out of the window. The view is not encouraging.
"Looks like we can rule out that plan of escape," he says, as he climbs down. "Even if we made it out there's nowhere to go. It's a straight thirty-foot drop onto solid rock."
"That is unfortunate," Spock replies. He's regained a little of his colour, but seems in no hurry to get up.
McCoy looks around the room once more, but nothing's changed. "Jim and the others will have realised we're missing by now," he says, unsure which of them he's trying to comfort. "It can't be that long until they find us."
"Speed would be appreciated," Spock replies. "I believe I hear our captors approaching."
McCoy listens carefully, and after a few moments he hears it too. Footsteps. He moves closer to Spock and readies himself for action. He's never been all that good at fighting, but if there's even a small chance of getting out of this room and back to the Enterprise, he's damn well going to take it.
The door opens to reveal a short man, flanked by two much larger men. They are obviously Hilarian, with pale blue skin and dark blue hair. The short man is unarmed, but his two guards both carry phaser rifles.
The short man - presumably their leader - steps into the room, rubbing his hands together. "Good, you are awake," he says. "I trust you are enjoying your stay?" His tone is mocking, and McCoy thinks that, even if he weren't holding them prisoner, he would dislike this man.
"What do you want with us?" he asks.
"Nothing, except your presence." The man tilts his head, considering them. "I imagine your captain is looking for you. He must be quite frantic by now."
"You intend to hold us hostage," Spock says.
The man looks at him contemptuously. "No, Vulcan. I have succeeded in holding you hostage. And if your captain wishes to see you alive again, he would do well to give us what we want."
"And what is it you want?" Spock asks, as if the man hadn't just threatened to kill them both.
The man's expression hardens briefly. "What every right thinking Hilarian wants. The immediate and complete expulsion of all outworlders from our territory."
McCoy remembers the blackened buildings and swallows, feeling sick. "You killed all those people."
"Yes," the man replies bluntly. "They were a statement to our government. As you will be."
He turns to the guards and orders, "Rough them up a little. Nothing permanent, just enough so that they know we mean business."
McCoy edges closer to Spock as the guards look at each other and smile.
* * *
After what seems like years, but is probably only minutes, the leader decides Spock and McCoy have been sufficiently 'roughed up' and calls a halt. He takes a few pictures - for evidence, McCoy assumes, then leaves without a second glance. One of the guards gives McCoy's ankle a last kick, then they, too, leave, locking the door behind them.
McCoy waits until he's sure they're gone before groaning and picking himself up off the floor. His nose is bleeding, and he pinches it firmly as he shuffles over to check on Spock.
The guards took it in turns to beat them, one always holding a rifle on them, warning them not to fight back. Even if they wanted to, Hilarians are stronger even than Vulcans, and McCoy quickly gave up any thought of fighting them after Spock's one attempt at the nerve pinch led to him being flung to the floor like a ragdoll.
Spock sits up as he approaches, and McCoy winces inwardly as he takes in Spock's injuries. McCoy himself is badly bruised and suspicious of at least one cracked rib, but Spock wasn't at full strength even before the beating. His face is chalk white, except for the parts that are already turning green and yellow with bruising, and he's cradling his right arm. Judging from the sound when he hit the floor, McCoy suspects it's broken.
"You okay?" he asks cautiously.
Spock gives him an inscrutable look. "'Okay' has varying definitions, Doctor. However, I am functional."
He stands slowly, leaning against the wall with his good arm. McCoy sees a flash of pain cross his face before he's able to master it. Slowly he crosses to the bed and sits down, holding his right arm carefully against his chest.
McCoy stares at him for a long moment, then sighs and sits down next to him. "Let me see your arm."
Spock hesitates, then holds it out. It's already starting to swell, and McCoy only needs a moment to confirm his suspicions. "Your wrist is broken."
"Yes," Spock agrees, taking his arm back.
McCoy taps his fingers on his knee as he looks round the room. Ideally he'd make some sort of splint, but there isn't anything here he can use. He stands up and looks round the room again, searching for anything he might have missed, but there's nothing.
In the end he settles for folding up a blanket to pad Spock's wrist, and using his shirt as a sling to hold it together.
"Not much, I know," he says as he steps back, "but it's the best I can do at the moment."
"It will suffice," Spock replies. He looks at the sling for a moment, then asks quietly, "Will you not be cold?"
It's not quite a 'thank you', but it's close enough. McCoy grins, but ends up wincing when it aggravates his bruises. "Nah," he says. "I'll be fine."
For lack of anything better to do, he sits down next to Spock on the bed and glances around. If it was anyone else he'd suggest a game of I-Spy or Twenty Questions or something, just to pass the time, but he doubts Spock would submit to something so illogical. Probably didn't play children's games even when he was a child.
The room isn't cold, but it's not suited to bare skin, and he rubs his arms absently. Beside him, Spock shifts, then pulls at the blanket with his good hand, offering it to him silently.
McCoy stares at him, then takes the blanket wordlessly and wraps it around his shoulders. It's scratchy and rough, but it's better than nothing.
"Thanks," he murmurs, without looking at Spock. Spock doesn't respond, but McCoy knows he hears it.
He leans back against the wall and taps his fingers on his knee. "Wish I had a pack of cards or something," he grumbles, more to himself than to Spock.
Spock clears his throat quietly. "If it is distraction you require, I may have a suggestion. During one of our previous imprisonments, the captain passed the time by instructing me in a game he played in his youth. It involves asking questions of one's opponent to determine the particular person or object they are thinking of."
McCoy slowly turns to look at him. "You mean Twenty Questions?"
Spock nods. "I believe that was the name he used."
It aggravates his still-sore ribs, but McCoy can't help but laugh.
* * *
They've just started their fifth game - "Is it alive?" "No." - when Spock suddenly goes silent. McCoy opens his mouth to ask what's up, but closes it again as he hears the sound of footsteps approaching.
Just as before, the footsteps stop directly outside their door, and he straightens, the memory of their last encounter far too sharp in his mind.
The door opens to reveal the same guards from before, and McCoy tries to slow his heartbeat, his bruises aching at the possibility of another beating. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Spock go very still, his gaze fixed on the guards.
One of the guards shoves a couple of trays across the floor. "Leader said you should eat," he grunts. "Don't want you dying on us."
He glares at McCoy, then at Spock, then steps back out and re-locks the door.
The footsteps begin moving away again, and McCoy lets out a breath of relief as he gets up to retrieve his tray. It contains a bowl of watery soup - half spilt by the guard's rough treatment, a chunk of bread, and a cup of water. Spock's tray is the same.
He sets Spock's tray on the bed, in easy reach of Spock's good arm, then starts in on his own. The soup is barely lukewarm, but he eats it anyway. Healing takes energy, and he has no idea when they'll next be given anything. He's about to start on his bread when he notices that Spock isn't eating his soup.
"You should eat," he says. "I know it's not exactly high cuisine, but I doubt we're getting anything better."
"The soup is made with animal flesh," Spock replies quietly. "I cannot eat it."
McCoy frowns. He hadn't considered that.
Spock picks up his bowl and holds it out. "I suggest you eat it," he says. "As you say, we are unlikely to get anything else, and there is no logic in it going to waste."
McCoy hesitates for a moment, then accepts the bowl. "Here," he says. "Have my bread in exchange."
"That is not necessary," Spock tells him.
"It wasn't a suggestion." McCoy holds out the bread and is gratified when Spock takes it.
The bread takes longer to finish than the soup, and Spock is still eating when McCoy sets the bowl aside. "How's your arm?" he asks.
Spock chews and swallows. "Bearable," he replies, which McCoy mentally translates as, 'It hurts like hell but I'm too Vulcan to admit it.'
Spock finally finishes the last of his bread and brushes his hand on his uniform. "I believe I shall meditate for a while," he says.
McCoy nods, then asks impulsively, "Does it help?" He has no idea how all that Vulcan stuff works and, to be honest, no real desire to learn, but he'd be lying if he said the idea of being able to ignore or even not feel pain didn't sound appealing right about now.
"Somewhat," is all Spock has to say. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, effectively ending the conversation before it can begin.
McCoy stacks the trays in the corner, then goes to lie down on his own bed. He pulls his blanket-cloak tighter around him and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the multiple aches and pains currently clamouring for his attention.
After a long while, he falls asleep.
* * *
He awakens to the sensation of beaming, and the cell dissolves into the sight of Jim Kirk standing over him. "Sleeping on the job, Doctor?" Kirk asks with a grin, but McCoy can see the relief in his eyes. "I swear, I can't leave you two alone for a minute."
"Took you long enough to find us," McCoy grumbles, but he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.
Kirk holds out a hand to help him up, and McCoy grabs it.
"You look like you've gone ten rounds with a Gorn," Kirk tells him, concern spreading across his face. "What the hell did they do to you?"
"Drugged us, beat us, locked us up, drove us half-mad with boredom, and tried to poison us," McCoy replies. "Not necessarily in that order."
"They did not try to poison us," Spock puts in, and McCoy glances around at him.
"You didn't eat the soup."
Spock just looks at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, before turning to Kirk. "The rest is, unfortunately, accurate, although as a Vulcan I do not experience boredom."
"Did they break your arm?" Kirk asks, looking at Spock's makeshift sling.
"Yes. I don't believe it was intentional, but they did not seem inclined to treat the injury in any way once it had occurred. As their stated goal was to 'rough us up', I suspect it likely played right into their plans." Spock glances at McCoy. "As you can see, Doctor McCoy attempted to offer 'first aid', but we were somewhat lacking in supplies."
Kirk nods slowly, looking pained. "Well, the Hilarian government is moving on the building you were held in as we speak, so they should get what's coming to them soon enough." He takes a step towards the door. "Come on, you two should be in sickbay."
Spock follows obediently, and McCoy breathes a sigh of relief as he falls into place behind them. Finally, they're home.
* * *
A few hours later, McCoy is in his quarters, attempting to relax with a glass of bourbon and an old book that Kirk lent him. It isn't really helping, and he's almost relieved when the door buzzes.
"Come in," he calls.
He expected Kirk, or even Scotty, but it turns out to be Spock. He strides into the room and stops in the centre, hands folded behind his back. He's almost completely healed, the only sign of their savage treatment being a cast on his wrist.
"M'Benga does good work," McCoy notes.
"Indeed," Spock replies. "He believes that my wrist should require no more than one more treatment with the bone knitter to be fully healed."
He shifts slightly on his feet, before continuing, "The captain informed me that the rebel agents have been apprehended."
"Good," McCoy says with feeling.
Spock nods, almost absently. "Doctor," he begins slowly, "I wish to inform you that your… assistance down on the planet was not unappreciated."
McCoy stares at him in shock, before breaking into a broad grin. "Why, Mister Spock," he says. "Are you trying to thank me?"
"Thanks are a human custom," Spock replies immediately. His expression suggests McCoy shouldn't push his luck, but McCoy can't help but notice that he didn't actually say 'no'.
"I have tasks to complete," Spock says abruptly, as if the conversation is over. "Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight, Spock," McCoy replies, then, as Spock begins moving towards the door, "You're welcome."
Spock pauses briefly, but then leaves without another word.
"Pointy-eared hobgoblin," McCoy mutters, but it's almost fond. And when he picks up his book and continues reading, it's with a smile.
Pairing/Characters: McCoy, Spock. Gen.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: While investigating an unprovoked attack on a civilian settlement, Spock and McCoy are taken prisoner by isolationist rebels.
Words: ~3600
Notes: Written for karanguni in the not_primetime exchange. Thanks to nursedarry for the beta.
McCoy has gotten used to beaming over the years, but it'll never be his favourite way to travel. He's never quite been able to shake the idea that parts of him might get left behind. He clenches his fists and wiggles his toes, but everything seems to have made it down okay.
"Spread out," Spock orders from beside him. "Search the area."
McCoy watches as the landing party scatter in all directions, then turns to Spock who is studying a tricorder.
"You can't really think we're going to find anything?" he asks. "This place is a ghost town." He gestures at the half-demolished buildings around them.
"That is what I intend to find out," Spock replies without looking up. He makes a few adjustments to his tricorder, then points at a cluster of buildings. "I'm picking up unusual readings from that area. I suggest we check it out."
He starts off without another word, leaving McCoy to follow.
The buildings around them are blackened and broken, testament to the violent attack that destroyed the settlement and killed almost all its inhabitants. The Hilarian government has blamed the attack on isolationist rebels, but as yet have not been able to bring the culprits to justice. Looking at the devastation, McCoy vows that will change. No one should get away with something like this.
He follows Spock to a building that is less damaged than the others. Spock hesitates at the doorway, checking his tricorder, then draws his phaser and steps inside. McCoy glances around before following.
The first room they come to seems to be a storage room of some kind. McCoy can see boxes marked as food, blankets, and medical supplies, mostly empty now. Spock consults his tricorder again and moves on.
They move further into the building, following the signal on Spock's tricorder. Finally Spock stops, gesturing to the door in front of them. "The signal appears to originate in there," he says.
He readies his phaser and steps forward. The door swishes open, revealing an empty room. Spock glances at him briefly, then steps inside, heading for what looks like a communication station in the corner.
He consults his tricorder once more and nods slowly. "We have found the source of the signal."
"A recording?" McCoy asks, walking over to him.
"Indeed," Spock replies. He taps a few buttons, frowning. "But for what purpose?"
As if in answer, white smoke begins pouring from the ceiling. McCoy rushes over to the door and is not at all surprised to find it locked. He looks around desperately, but there's no way out.
Spock pushes past him and begins pulling at the door, trying to open it. McCoy can feel himself getting dizzy as the room fills with smoke and leans against the wall, before slipping down to the floor.
He fights to keep his eyes open as Spock's frantic attacks on the door begin to slow, then stop. It isn't long before Spock joins him on the floor, both of them fighting to stay conscious.
But this is one fight they can't win, and McCoy's eyes slip closed as he falls into darkness.
* * *
McCoy comes to slowly. For a moment he thinks he's in sickbay, but then he realises the ceiling is the wrong colour. Looking around, he discovers he's in some kind of cell, and not alone. Spock is lying on a bed across the room, apparently still unconscious. McCoy grimaces as he remembers the signal and the room and the white smoke. A set up. God dammit!
With a sigh, he stands up and begins to explore. One door, locked. Blank, white walls, with only one small window, up near the ceiling. The floor is bare concrete, and the furniture is limited to two beds and what looks like a toilet behind a partition. Not the worst cell he's ever been in, but that's not saying much.
"Least they gave us a toilet," he mutters, then shakes his head and goes to check on Spock.
He tries to ignore the brief flicker of concern as he approaches the bed where Spock is lying. Spock shouldn't still be asleep - he usually shrugs off things like this much faster than a human would.
"Spock," he says, then louder, "Spock!"
When there is no reaction, he reaches out and grasps Spock's shoulder, giving him a shake. "Wake up, dammit!"
Shaking proves to be more effective than yelling, and Spock's eyes drift open. He blinks a few times, looking confused, then asks, "Doctor McCoy?"
"No, it's the Queen of Sheba," McCoy retorts.
Spock ignores the comment as he sits up and looks around. "Where are we?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," McCoy says. "Last thing I remember is getting a lungful of smoke."
Spock nods slowly. "The rebels, no doubt. They must have been lying in wait, knowing that we would pick up on their signal and come to investigate." He leans against the wall, wrapping his arms around his chest as if cold.
It's an odd gesture for Spock, and it dawns on McCoy how pale he is. And - he frowns - it almost looks like he's sweating.
Before Spock can react, he darts out a hand to touch his forehead. Just as he thought; far too warm. Spock's eyes narrow and McCoy removes his hand before Spock can do it for him.
"You're burning up," he says.
Spock doesn't bother to deny it, not that he could. "I believe I am having an adverse reaction to the gas," he replies.
McCoy sighs. "Of course you are." He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Spock's finicky hybrid system has a habit of reacting unexpectedly to common drugs and medications, let alone uncommon ones. And he has no way of knowing just what it was they were dosed with.
"Any tightness in your chest?" he asks, slipping into doctor mode. "Shortness of breath?"
Spock shakes his head. "No."
Well that's something, at least. He reaches out to take Spock's pulse, only for Spock to pull his arm away sharply before McCoy can make contact. "I would prefer if you refrained from touching me," Spock says stiffly.
"How am I supposed to help you if I can't touch you?" McCoy demands.
Spock stares at him, eyebrows raised. "It would be difficult for you to help me regardless," he says, "as we are currently stuck in this room." He shifts slightly and adds, "My condition is… uncomfortable, but not life-threatening. I suggest we focus our energies on planning our escape."
McCoy glares at him. "Fine," he grumbles. "Just don't blame me if you drop dead." Spock opens his mouth, but McCoy cuts him off with a, "And don't tell me that's illogical!"
Spock closes his mouth again and looks around the room. He stops suddenly, and McCoy follows his gaze to the window.
"You can't expect us to get through there?" he asks. "It's tiny. And about eight feet off the ground to boot."
Spock's gaze doesn't waver. "It is logical to explore every possibility." He pushes himself off the bed and stands, only to sit down again almost immediately, his face going pale.
McCoy studies him, feeling the barest tinge of concern. "Dizzy?"
"Indeed," Spock replies quietly. One hand curls around the bed frame until his knuckles turn white. "But do not be alarmed. I shall master it."
McCoy sighs inwardly. "Sit there," he orders. "I'll check out the window."
It takes some doing, but by balancing precariously on the toilet seat he manages to get high enough to look out of the window. The view is not encouraging.
"Looks like we can rule out that plan of escape," he says, as he climbs down. "Even if we made it out there's nowhere to go. It's a straight thirty-foot drop onto solid rock."
"That is unfortunate," Spock replies. He's regained a little of his colour, but seems in no hurry to get up.
McCoy looks around the room once more, but nothing's changed. "Jim and the others will have realised we're missing by now," he says, unsure which of them he's trying to comfort. "It can't be that long until they find us."
"Speed would be appreciated," Spock replies. "I believe I hear our captors approaching."
McCoy listens carefully, and after a few moments he hears it too. Footsteps. He moves closer to Spock and readies himself for action. He's never been all that good at fighting, but if there's even a small chance of getting out of this room and back to the Enterprise, he's damn well going to take it.
The door opens to reveal a short man, flanked by two much larger men. They are obviously Hilarian, with pale blue skin and dark blue hair. The short man is unarmed, but his two guards both carry phaser rifles.
The short man - presumably their leader - steps into the room, rubbing his hands together. "Good, you are awake," he says. "I trust you are enjoying your stay?" His tone is mocking, and McCoy thinks that, even if he weren't holding them prisoner, he would dislike this man.
"What do you want with us?" he asks.
"Nothing, except your presence." The man tilts his head, considering them. "I imagine your captain is looking for you. He must be quite frantic by now."
"You intend to hold us hostage," Spock says.
The man looks at him contemptuously. "No, Vulcan. I have succeeded in holding you hostage. And if your captain wishes to see you alive again, he would do well to give us what we want."
"And what is it you want?" Spock asks, as if the man hadn't just threatened to kill them both.
The man's expression hardens briefly. "What every right thinking Hilarian wants. The immediate and complete expulsion of all outworlders from our territory."
McCoy remembers the blackened buildings and swallows, feeling sick. "You killed all those people."
"Yes," the man replies bluntly. "They were a statement to our government. As you will be."
He turns to the guards and orders, "Rough them up a little. Nothing permanent, just enough so that they know we mean business."
McCoy edges closer to Spock as the guards look at each other and smile.
* * *
After what seems like years, but is probably only minutes, the leader decides Spock and McCoy have been sufficiently 'roughed up' and calls a halt. He takes a few pictures - for evidence, McCoy assumes, then leaves without a second glance. One of the guards gives McCoy's ankle a last kick, then they, too, leave, locking the door behind them.
McCoy waits until he's sure they're gone before groaning and picking himself up off the floor. His nose is bleeding, and he pinches it firmly as he shuffles over to check on Spock.
The guards took it in turns to beat them, one always holding a rifle on them, warning them not to fight back. Even if they wanted to, Hilarians are stronger even than Vulcans, and McCoy quickly gave up any thought of fighting them after Spock's one attempt at the nerve pinch led to him being flung to the floor like a ragdoll.
Spock sits up as he approaches, and McCoy winces inwardly as he takes in Spock's injuries. McCoy himself is badly bruised and suspicious of at least one cracked rib, but Spock wasn't at full strength even before the beating. His face is chalk white, except for the parts that are already turning green and yellow with bruising, and he's cradling his right arm. Judging from the sound when he hit the floor, McCoy suspects it's broken.
"You okay?" he asks cautiously.
Spock gives him an inscrutable look. "'Okay' has varying definitions, Doctor. However, I am functional."
He stands slowly, leaning against the wall with his good arm. McCoy sees a flash of pain cross his face before he's able to master it. Slowly he crosses to the bed and sits down, holding his right arm carefully against his chest.
McCoy stares at him for a long moment, then sighs and sits down next to him. "Let me see your arm."
Spock hesitates, then holds it out. It's already starting to swell, and McCoy only needs a moment to confirm his suspicions. "Your wrist is broken."
"Yes," Spock agrees, taking his arm back.
McCoy taps his fingers on his knee as he looks round the room. Ideally he'd make some sort of splint, but there isn't anything here he can use. He stands up and looks round the room again, searching for anything he might have missed, but there's nothing.
In the end he settles for folding up a blanket to pad Spock's wrist, and using his shirt as a sling to hold it together.
"Not much, I know," he says as he steps back, "but it's the best I can do at the moment."
"It will suffice," Spock replies. He looks at the sling for a moment, then asks quietly, "Will you not be cold?"
It's not quite a 'thank you', but it's close enough. McCoy grins, but ends up wincing when it aggravates his bruises. "Nah," he says. "I'll be fine."
For lack of anything better to do, he sits down next to Spock on the bed and glances around. If it was anyone else he'd suggest a game of I-Spy or Twenty Questions or something, just to pass the time, but he doubts Spock would submit to something so illogical. Probably didn't play children's games even when he was a child.
The room isn't cold, but it's not suited to bare skin, and he rubs his arms absently. Beside him, Spock shifts, then pulls at the blanket with his good hand, offering it to him silently.
McCoy stares at him, then takes the blanket wordlessly and wraps it around his shoulders. It's scratchy and rough, but it's better than nothing.
"Thanks," he murmurs, without looking at Spock. Spock doesn't respond, but McCoy knows he hears it.
He leans back against the wall and taps his fingers on his knee. "Wish I had a pack of cards or something," he grumbles, more to himself than to Spock.
Spock clears his throat quietly. "If it is distraction you require, I may have a suggestion. During one of our previous imprisonments, the captain passed the time by instructing me in a game he played in his youth. It involves asking questions of one's opponent to determine the particular person or object they are thinking of."
McCoy slowly turns to look at him. "You mean Twenty Questions?"
Spock nods. "I believe that was the name he used."
It aggravates his still-sore ribs, but McCoy can't help but laugh.
* * *
They've just started their fifth game - "Is it alive?" "No." - when Spock suddenly goes silent. McCoy opens his mouth to ask what's up, but closes it again as he hears the sound of footsteps approaching.
Just as before, the footsteps stop directly outside their door, and he straightens, the memory of their last encounter far too sharp in his mind.
The door opens to reveal the same guards from before, and McCoy tries to slow his heartbeat, his bruises aching at the possibility of another beating. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Spock go very still, his gaze fixed on the guards.
One of the guards shoves a couple of trays across the floor. "Leader said you should eat," he grunts. "Don't want you dying on us."
He glares at McCoy, then at Spock, then steps back out and re-locks the door.
The footsteps begin moving away again, and McCoy lets out a breath of relief as he gets up to retrieve his tray. It contains a bowl of watery soup - half spilt by the guard's rough treatment, a chunk of bread, and a cup of water. Spock's tray is the same.
He sets Spock's tray on the bed, in easy reach of Spock's good arm, then starts in on his own. The soup is barely lukewarm, but he eats it anyway. Healing takes energy, and he has no idea when they'll next be given anything. He's about to start on his bread when he notices that Spock isn't eating his soup.
"You should eat," he says. "I know it's not exactly high cuisine, but I doubt we're getting anything better."
"The soup is made with animal flesh," Spock replies quietly. "I cannot eat it."
McCoy frowns. He hadn't considered that.
Spock picks up his bowl and holds it out. "I suggest you eat it," he says. "As you say, we are unlikely to get anything else, and there is no logic in it going to waste."
McCoy hesitates for a moment, then accepts the bowl. "Here," he says. "Have my bread in exchange."
"That is not necessary," Spock tells him.
"It wasn't a suggestion." McCoy holds out the bread and is gratified when Spock takes it.
The bread takes longer to finish than the soup, and Spock is still eating when McCoy sets the bowl aside. "How's your arm?" he asks.
Spock chews and swallows. "Bearable," he replies, which McCoy mentally translates as, 'It hurts like hell but I'm too Vulcan to admit it.'
Spock finally finishes the last of his bread and brushes his hand on his uniform. "I believe I shall meditate for a while," he says.
McCoy nods, then asks impulsively, "Does it help?" He has no idea how all that Vulcan stuff works and, to be honest, no real desire to learn, but he'd be lying if he said the idea of being able to ignore or even not feel pain didn't sound appealing right about now.
"Somewhat," is all Spock has to say. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, effectively ending the conversation before it can begin.
McCoy stacks the trays in the corner, then goes to lie down on his own bed. He pulls his blanket-cloak tighter around him and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the multiple aches and pains currently clamouring for his attention.
After a long while, he falls asleep.
* * *
He awakens to the sensation of beaming, and the cell dissolves into the sight of Jim Kirk standing over him. "Sleeping on the job, Doctor?" Kirk asks with a grin, but McCoy can see the relief in his eyes. "I swear, I can't leave you two alone for a minute."
"Took you long enough to find us," McCoy grumbles, but he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.
Kirk holds out a hand to help him up, and McCoy grabs it.
"You look like you've gone ten rounds with a Gorn," Kirk tells him, concern spreading across his face. "What the hell did they do to you?"
"Drugged us, beat us, locked us up, drove us half-mad with boredom, and tried to poison us," McCoy replies. "Not necessarily in that order."
"They did not try to poison us," Spock puts in, and McCoy glances around at him.
"You didn't eat the soup."
Spock just looks at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, before turning to Kirk. "The rest is, unfortunately, accurate, although as a Vulcan I do not experience boredom."
"Did they break your arm?" Kirk asks, looking at Spock's makeshift sling.
"Yes. I don't believe it was intentional, but they did not seem inclined to treat the injury in any way once it had occurred. As their stated goal was to 'rough us up', I suspect it likely played right into their plans." Spock glances at McCoy. "As you can see, Doctor McCoy attempted to offer 'first aid', but we were somewhat lacking in supplies."
Kirk nods slowly, looking pained. "Well, the Hilarian government is moving on the building you were held in as we speak, so they should get what's coming to them soon enough." He takes a step towards the door. "Come on, you two should be in sickbay."
Spock follows obediently, and McCoy breathes a sigh of relief as he falls into place behind them. Finally, they're home.
* * *
A few hours later, McCoy is in his quarters, attempting to relax with a glass of bourbon and an old book that Kirk lent him. It isn't really helping, and he's almost relieved when the door buzzes.
"Come in," he calls.
He expected Kirk, or even Scotty, but it turns out to be Spock. He strides into the room and stops in the centre, hands folded behind his back. He's almost completely healed, the only sign of their savage treatment being a cast on his wrist.
"M'Benga does good work," McCoy notes.
"Indeed," Spock replies. "He believes that my wrist should require no more than one more treatment with the bone knitter to be fully healed."
He shifts slightly on his feet, before continuing, "The captain informed me that the rebel agents have been apprehended."
"Good," McCoy says with feeling.
Spock nods, almost absently. "Doctor," he begins slowly, "I wish to inform you that your… assistance down on the planet was not unappreciated."
McCoy stares at him in shock, before breaking into a broad grin. "Why, Mister Spock," he says. "Are you trying to thank me?"
"Thanks are a human custom," Spock replies immediately. His expression suggests McCoy shouldn't push his luck, but McCoy can't help but notice that he didn't actually say 'no'.
"I have tasks to complete," Spock says abruptly, as if the conversation is over. "Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight, Spock," McCoy replies, then, as Spock begins moving towards the door, "You're welcome."
Spock pauses briefly, but then leaves without another word.
"Pointy-eared hobgoblin," McCoy mutters, but it's almost fond. And when he picks up his book and continues reading, it's with a smile.