Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing.
McCoy regards Spock's outstretched arm with apprehension. "Don't try any of that Vulcan voodoo on me, just tell me what happened, god damn it!"
"Doctor," Spock's tone is even. "An explanation alone cannot fully convey the extent of the events that occurred planetside. You are the one who wishes to know what happened."
McCoy's frown deepens. He glances down to the unconscious form of his best friend then looks back to Spock. "That bad, huh," he says, voice low.
Spock inclines his head an infinitesimal amount, but does not say anything. Nor does he lower his arm. McCoy doesn't break his gaze, the expression on his face searching, contemplating. "Fine," he says roughly, breaking eye contact. "Just––fine."
Spock closes the gap between them and lays his fingers against McCoy's face.
The inhabitants of the planet had been very persuasive.
They hadn't used threats or, for that matter, even words. Instead, they had barreled into the recess of consciousness, past whatever physic barriers may have be in place, breaking through them as easily as if they weren't there at all.
Spock had never felt more violated in his entire life; much of his youth had revolved around constructing blocks in his mind to guard against unwanted psychic intrusions. To have all that work fall apart in an instant felt like a physical blow. Once they were inside his mind, they were precise.
Images of Jim Kirk, of his captain, of his friend, had filled his mind. For the first moment, they were images of Jim laughing, of him smiling and breathing and leaning forward to tell him something, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and then the images changed.
Spock was slamming him into the consul aboard the Enterprise, choking the life from his body. He felt anger, as he had on the bridge all those years ago. He could feel Kirk's throat under his fingers, could feel his hands breaking bones and pummel into flesh. The fury defied all logic and in those moments, logic, his driving force, the one singular concept that had always been constant, the only thing that ever made sense, was gone. Almost as if it had never existed. In its place was insatiable rage, the need to destroy, the need to destroy James T. Kirk. There were images of the Enterprise exploding in space, being torn apart, segment by segment and piece by piece.
The presence touching his mind was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him gasping. It was nothing like a mind meld; there was no warm reaching out and brushing of consciousnesses, no sharing or permission. This was a one-way connection and it scared him.
Spock was still reeling from the intrusion when Kirk himself fell into the room, panting like he had run miles. He had felt then, his barriers splintered and this time, not due to any amount of grief. He was scattered. Spock felt relief, rather purely, and then fear, down to his core. He was yelling at Jim to run, get out, go and then all other feeling was obliterated and replaced by the command destroy James T. Kirk.
And he. He had felt. He had felt Jim break. He had stood over him, watching him wheeze and gasp and bleed, about to deliver a blow, and Jim had opened his eyes. There was resignation in his gaze, not anger or rage, but a hint of fear and a bit of sadness and he had said, blood on his lips, "They got you too, huh?" And Spock didn't understand, not at first. Anger still burned at the edges but then there was confusion at Kirk's words and he looked down again and there was almost an audible click in his mind as pieces fell together. He was killing Jim. He was killing Jim.
The connection is severed abruptly; flashes of memories and emotions that are not his own remain in Spock's mind, images a little girl with long, ashy hair, anger, cold and directed, he sees the endless Space as if he's staring out a viewport and the vacuum mirrors the grief in his centre. The memories fade, quickly, until they're little but strings in his mind.
McCoy is leaning against an empty biobed, almost doubled over. He's turned away from Spock, a hand over his face. "God," he says. "God." He turns, face creased, and points to Kirk.
"You did this."
"Doctor, as you had to have seen, I was not in control of ––"
"Yeah, your mind was fucked with, I get––I get that, Spock. I was able to glean that much." He rubs his eyes and mutters something under his breath that Spock is unable to catch completely but sounds something like "damn Vulcan voodoo".
"What was the point?"
"The aliens. The inhabitants of this damned planet. What did they have to gain by you beating the shit out of Jim?"
Spock looks McCoy straight in the eye, but he does not say anything. Spock doesn't know why.
McCoy is searching again. He can't read Spock's nuanced expressions like Jim can––hell, no one can. But he's looking for something, something that may not even be there. He's still a bit dazed by melding minds with a Vulcan––he has traces of memories that are not his staining his mind and he doesn't like it, not one bit. But he felt what Spock had felt. He had felt the invasion twofold, felt barriers breaking inside of him and release.
"They broke you," he says, voice soft, not realizing he's speaking until the words hang in the air, in the space between Chief Medical Officer and Commander. It comes together then, Spock's unease, his insistence of not leaving Kirk, his unwillingness to speak of what had happened.
Spock turns away. He doesn't look at McCoy, doesn't say anything at all. He departs from the sickbay without so much as a glance or a word. McCoy is left with Kirk. The silence is permeated by the quiet lulling of monitors and machines, backed by the slight yet omnipresent hum of the engines.
Grief passes over the doctor, though he's not sure from where it originates. He feels it somewhere in his midst, a part of him that's not quite him. A sigh passes through his lips and he quietly surveys the sleeping form of his captain. Nothing has changed, of course, Kirk is still stable, still unconscious.
McCoy remembers through Spock the overtaking urge kill Kirk. He doesn't feel it within himself; it's as if someone had described the feeling to him in detail. God knows that McCoy could kill Kirk at times; the bastard was a pain the ass most of the time. Bones lets his knuckles drag lightly across the skin of Jim's forearm, lingering for just a moment. He shakes his head and retracts his hand and scrubs it over his face.
With a last onceover of Kirk's vitals, McCoy decides that, God, he could use some sleep.
Bitter Vulcans will do that to a man.
to be continued
A/N: Alright everyone, say it with me: This is why we plan our fics. So We don't write ourselves into a hole and spend a month trying to write ourselves out of it, so we have some vague idea where we're going with these story lines.
I admit, just going with it just writing is often fun but it can also be immensely frustrating when you realize that you don't know what happens next. I like to plan my stories but I usually don't.
In any case. Sorry about the wait. I think this fic will have another chapter or two left to wrap it up. I'm winging it at this point, I have no idea what I'm doing. I think when I started this fic I had some general direction where I wanted to go but now, ha. oh god who let me write
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is appreciated and encouraged but in no way necessary.