Title: Another Long Night
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Spock, McCoy
Disclaimer: Do not own Star Trek and I am very, very poor.
Summary: “There are times when McCoy thinks that things like this are par-for-the-course.” Being stuck in a hole in the ground, that is.

I haven’t disappeared. I am simply rather feverish at the moment. Merry belated Christmas to all!

“Doctor, it would be more conducive to your recovery if you remain seated.”

“Ump,” grunts the man as he blatantly ignores the Vulcan’s wisdom and deliberately stands, centering his weight. With a bitten-off cry of pain, McCoy has to sit back down. Spock, ever gracious, says nothing as he helps the doctor to the floor.

McCoy rubs his ankle until the flash of pain passes. Once he is able to talk some sense, he sums up their situation in a few words.

“Someone ought to tie Jim to the Captain’s chair and put guards on him!”

Spock’s eyebrows lift as the Vulcan attempts to work out exactly how large a mental leap McCoy has made this time. Perhaps he fails in that attempt and thus the subsequent “Please explain” is Spock’s way of saying I cannot follow such a whimsical train of thought.

McCoy is busy running his tricorder over his injured limb hoping for a miraculous change of results. “I’m sayin’ that if it weren’t for our crazy Captain, we wouldn’t be stuck in this hole and—and—!” Words momentarily fail McCoy in light of his aggravation.

“An illogical conclusion, Doctor. Our current circumstances are the result of the pursuit of the native Yr’ek through dense foliage. I suspect that this ‘hole in the ground’ serves the purpose of trapping game for the villagers.”

“Gee, Spock, so we’re on the dinner menu. Forgive me if I don’t find the thought comforting.”

Spock blinks. “Nor do I.”

The man rolls his eyes, muttering, “Lord in Heaven, in a pit with a Vulcan.” His sigh is mostly exasperation.

McCoy is distracted from his woes by the ripping of fabric. It takes a moment before he realizes what Spock is doing.

“Stop that! You’re gonna need your shirt.”

“My thermal layer will be sufficient,” the Vulcan replies mildly. “It is standard medical protocol to bind the injury—”

“I am aware of medical protocol,” he dryly responds.

After methodically turning the regulation science tunic into long strips, the Vulcan offers the make-shift bandages to his companion. McCoy makes quick work of his ankle and utters “Thanks” in return.

They sit side by side in silence for some minutes.

Then McCoy asks, “Do you think Jim got away?”

“I do not know.”

The doctor falls silent again, occasionally shifting his body and pushing aside stones and twigs that are unpleasant to sit on. Finally, somewhat satisfied, McCoy drops his head back against the dirt wall and closes his eyes.

He must have dozed.

When he comes back to himself, his head is pillowed on Spock’s shoulder. McCoy blinks and hastily sits up. “Sorry.”

Night has fallen and the air is chilly. Spock’s steady voice cuts through the dark. “I do not understand the human need to apologize when an apology is unnecessary.”

It might be tiredness bleeding through McCoy’s answer or it might be a world-weariness. “I’m apologizing for puttin’ you in an uncomfortable position, Spock.”

“I did not indicate such.”

“No, you’re too polite. ‘Sides, Vulcans aren’t… a touchy-feely race.”

“We are indeed reserved.”

“Private,” clarifies McCoy. “That’s not to say that humans don’t feel the need for privacy too, but I like to think that we are a people who crave physical contact because it’s… ingrained in our very being.”

“Fascinating,” says the Vulcan lowly. “I have made note of this behavior in several… instances.”

“You mean Jim, right?”

McCoy laughs at Spock’s unwillingness to publicly criticize his Captain, no matter how harmless the observation. Luckily, McCoy is an observant man himself.

“It’s okay. Jim has the need to connect with his crew—and it is rather important, considering his rank. I’ve met commanders before who always enforced a distinction between themselves and those who served under them.” McCoy is not sure why he is saying this, but talking somehow soothes his nerves. “And believe you me, sometimes it’s too wide a distance to be breached, especially when it needs to be. No man should feel that he is… insignificant to those that hold his life in their hands. Jim cares about every crewman on the Enterprise; he knows that a simple, almost affectionate gesture is the best way to lay the foundation for trust between an ensign and his Captain.”

Spock stays silent and that makes McCoy squirm just a bit.

He adds, “So don’t let Jim’s back-slapping put you out of sorts, Spock. It’s not meant to hurt you.”

“I do not find it harmful, Doctor” is Spock’s quiet admission.

“Good.” McCoy nods to no one in particular. Then he leans forward to gingerly test his ankle. The swelling is not as bad as it could be, and he is grateful that it is simply sprained and not broken.

There are times when McCoy thinks that things like this are par-for-the-course. They’re on the run for their lives from flesh-eating monsters and, rather than wind up a bone-crunching snack, they have to fall down a rabbit hole. Only it’s a damn big rabbit hole and McCoy certainly isn’t Alice on her way to Wonderland.

He chuckles. It is almost uncanny how easy it is to tell when Spock is curious. McCoy would bet a dime that the Vulcan’s eyebrow is sky-high.

“Just thinking about a book, that’s all. My daughter, Joanna—I used to read her Alice in Wonderland when she was little. It was her favorite bedtime story.”

“Written under the pseudonym Lewis Carroll in the Terran calendar year 1865,” Spock supplies readily.

“Mmhm. Does that mean you’ve read it?”

“I found its contents to be disconcerting.”

McCoy laughs delightedly. “In the face of Vulcan logic, I imagine it gave your brain conniption fits, Mr. Spock!”

“Doctor, the lack of realism—”

“It’s not supposed to be realistic! Just because you’re a computer—”

They argue good-naturedly on the merits of fantasy until McCoy runs out of breath. He isn’t as cold as he previously felt, the enjoyable pursuit of bantering having invigorated him for a short period of time. That’s when it occurs to the doctor that Spock is most likely suffering from the temperature drop more than he is.

He lightly touches the Vulcan’s arm. “Spock, are you alright?”

“I am hale.”

“I mean, it’s cold and you’re—for all intents and purposes—more physically Vulcan than Human.”

“A compliment, Doctor?”

He snorts. “Are you or aren’t you cold, you blasted hobgoblin!?”

“I can maintain my core temperature at the present time.”

“Uh-huh. Alright.” So McCoy does the only thing he possibly can. He purposefully scoots closer to Mr. Spock and slings an arm around his shoulders.

Spock’s automatic response, of course, is to stiffen like a board.

“Now here’s the way I see it, Mr. Spock,” McCoy announces blithely, his accent filling up the small space. “It’s my job to oversee your good health, so if I deem it necessary to share body heat, why then, that’s what we’ll do! And don’t argue with me about it either.”

Spock says something like “I did not harbor an intention of discourse on the matter,” and McCoy feels a bit of triumph.

Then he remarks with good humor, “I won’t tell anybody. It’d be hell on my reputation.”

“Indeed.”

The night stretches. Spock obligingly answers McCoy’s intermittent request of “What time is it?”

They are at the point of “Nine point eight minutes since your last inquiry” when McCoy becomes resigned to dying in the wilderness with Spock. It is, however, his fervent (and last, he decides) wish that Jim did make it out alive and will remember his Chief Medical Officer and First fondly.

McCoy’s ankle is a dull throb which he wants to ignore. So he tries settling into long hours of huddling for warmth—and not speaking about it, not at all—when Spock twitches for the first time since McCoy woke up.

“Spock?”

Then there is the familiar tingling of the transporter effect and McCoy barely has time to praise God for beaming them home (he’d never admit to being thankful for the transporter again) before they reform to the sterile smell of a starship. McCoy blinks at the sudden bright lights of the transporter room, hears “Bones!” and turns his head to see Jim grinning like a happy fool. Then Kirk’s expression transforms into something more humorous and McCoy realizes belatedly that he and Spock are still pressed together like old pals.

He lifts an eyebrow and drawls, “What are you staring at, Jim-boy?”

“Why… not a thing, Bones.”

Spock takes this opportunity to swiftly extricate himself from the doctor and vacate the transporter pad. Spock’s passing “Captain” is rather terse and hurried as the First Officer fairly scuttles past a host of humans and away into the ship at a speed a bit too fast for an unruffled Vulcan.

McCoy takes Jim’s proffered hand, groans to his feet and limps down the steps. Nurse Chapel and a team of medical staff are very glad to see him, tell him so.

It’s Jim who says, “Mr. Scott was lucky enough to locate Spock’s beaming signal through the magnetic inference.”

McCoy stops, stares. He’d lost his communicator in their desperate escape from creatures the size of mutant ants, and he hadn’t spared a thought that Spock might have held onto his. That… sneaky, wonderful Vulcan.

He holds his tongue in that respect and tells Kirk instead, “You’ll be lucky if I ever follow you down to another ‘unremarkably inhabited’ planet for peace talks.”

“Sure, Bones.” Jim squeezes his shoulder once McCoy situates himself on a gurney brought from the medical bay. (It is better not to argue with Christine and attempt to hobble; she gets riled over these things.)

McCoy watches the smiling Kirk until his gurney turns the corner. The doctor then settles for muttering the rest of the way to Sickbay.

The next time he gets stuck in a hole (and he will, no doubt about that, thinks McCoy direly), it’ll be with Jim. And then Jim’ll see that while Dr. Leonard McCoy may have the heart to cuddle with an annoying Vulcan who is cold, he draws the line at trouble-attracting, smug Captains.

Oh yes, Jim will most certainly see!

-Fini

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