Title: Second First Impressions
Characters: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, misc. cameos
Rating: T
Word Count: 6758
Warnings: Nondescript (aka redshirt) character death, amnesia, snark, general Trek sappiness. Just a quick beta-read, because I'm already dreadfully late with the thing.
Summary: Written for LiveJournal's trek_hc's fic exchange, for swiss_kun. Prompt was: McCoy gets walloped on the head, giving Spock a second chance to meet the doctor for the first time. Does it change anything? Sorry, I just have this idea stuck in my head that one of the reasons these two don't get along is that they messed up that essential first impression.

A/N: apparently hates my formatting and keeps erasing my line breaks in all my old stories, so if you happen across that at any point know that I apologize but blame the site entirely. *scowls*

Almost exactly one hour after Lieutenant Garrovick's panicked screaming for the away team's emergency beam-out, the turbolift doors open to deposit a battered James T. Kirk onto his beloved Bridge. Shirt torn at the shoulder, revealing the mottled discoloring of deep bruising and dried blood, face and hands covered in the purplish dust of the planet's surface – one look proves false the captain's statement that he is 'fine,' but none dare comment upon the fact.

"Dr. McCoy is in stable condition," he reports, conjuring up a smile that even the newest Environmental Control ensign can tell is forced. "The rest of the landing party sustained only minor injuries. We will remain in orbit until our survey of the planet is complete; Mr. Spock and I will debrief everyone tomorrow regarding new landing procedures, at 0730 hours. Spock…you have the conn."

"Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

Despite the worry gnawing at them over what's been left unspoken, the command crew cannot help but laugh over the dirty look Kirk shoots his First as the Vulcan calmly follows him into the turbolift.

"Brain damage, then?" Spock queries as tactfully as he can, considering that something appears to be restricting his breathing in a most uncomfortable manner. That such knowledge as he has just heard should cause him physical distress is highly unlikely, and yet to deny the presence of the large object which seems to have settled in his lungs is not logical.

"Chapel says no, at least no anomalies serious enough to show up on the scans," the captain replies with morose despair, and then steps out of the lift as the doors open to Deck Six. "They have no way of knowing if it's just temporary amnesia from the bruising, or something more permanent. If he hadn't come after me when that snake-dragon-thing's tail knocked me against that pile of rocks, he would never have been tossed ten feet into that tree…"

The Vulcan is silent as they move down the corridor, ignoring the sympathetic looks blue-clad medical personnel are sending their way. Kirk unconsciously moves nearer to his side as they edge past a crewman, and if the human remains that few inches closer than they normally walk he is not about to comment upon the fact.

They reach Sickbay within moments, and an uncomfortable silence descends upon the outer waiting area as the worried staff look up at their entrance. The silence, the utter void of McCoy's strident voice barking orders at anyone within earshot, is almost physically chilling.

Beside him, "Report," Kirk barks sharply, most likely more harshly than intended, and Christine Chapel shoots the nearest junior nurse a knowing look.

"No change, Captain," she replies, brisk and crisp as an October morning. "Dr. McCoy is in no serious danger, and Djesre is just finishing up re-knitting Lt. Garrovick's arm."

"Mr. Spock will be taking the lieutenant's report as soon as he is released."

"Mr. Spock will be making sure you sit yourself down on that tableand have that shoulder seen to, sir, or he'll be taking no report but mine – and I learned my language from our resident grump-in-the-box, Captain," Chapel retorts, pointing at the closest examination table with a well-endowed hypospray.

Spock does not appreciate becoming collateral damage in a semi-friendly cross-fire, and for a moment contemplates saying so. He decides against it, primarily because he endeavors to pay Nurse Chapel no more attention than is strictly necessary; as she makes him extremely uncomfortable when not in what McCoy calls 'medical bullying mode'.

However, he recognizes that if the nurse can make remarks regarding their injured CMO that obviously are intended as humorous, then the situation is not as grave as the Captain seemed minutes ago to believe. Most likely the human's reaction to the traumatic exploratory mission and the current situation is as close to panic as James Kirk ever approaches.

More reassuring than that conclusion, is the flurry of activity that erupts – there can be no other word sufficient to describe the detonation – in the other room as a streak of familiar swearing reaches their ears from the foremost observation cubicle.

"…'d you get your Med degree anyhow, correspondence school? You're not stickin' one of those IV drips in my arm when I can drink electrolytes in mineral water just as easy as anybody else on this flying tin can –"

Kirk's eyebrows make a fair imitation of Vulcan ones, shooting up to hide under that single lock of unruly hair that continually insists upon flopping over his forehead, and he can see the human relax at the sound of the familiar voice, accent thickened by medication and stress but unmistakable nonetheless.

Chapel sighs tolerantly, and accepts a basin of water from her assistant. "He's been recovering his personality steadily since you left, Captain," she informs as she begins to deftly clean the scratches and abrasions covering the exposed skin beneath the torn gold shirt.

Kirk hisses slightly through his teeth as the soft cloth removes a few rock shards. "Any memory improvement?"

"None," is the terse reply. "He remembers basic medical information and procedures but has no remembrance of ever practicing it himself; remembers his daughter's name is Joanna but has no idea how old she is or who his ex-wife is; remembers that this is a starship but has no idea why he's here. Selective memory loss, but he's by no means brain-dead," here she stops, gives a pointed look, gently prods the captain's tense shoulder, "so you can stop working yourself into a migraine over it. You're so tightly-wound you'll have one in fifteen minutes if you don't relax, sir."

Kirk blinks at her familiar perception, but says nothing; judging from the sheer relief now radiating off him after hearing McCoy's voice sounding fairly normal, it is better for his command image that he not make the attempt. Point made, Chapel folds the soiled cloth and places it in the discolored water before retrieving the dermal regenerator and beginning to disinfect and then seal the abrasions.

"Nurse Chapel," he inquires, "can you project any estimate regarding how long the Doctor will remain amnesiac?"

"Absolutely no estimate is possible in these cases, Mr. Spock," the nurse replies, and she moves without looking up to Kirk's left hand, sealing the scratches there. "It could be a few hours, it could be a few days – anything could trigger his memory, and nothing may. We just don't know. Right now we should be grateful he didn't hit more than his head on that tree; mobility and rediscovering familiar surroundings will aid his recovery."

Kirk's eyes flick worriedly over, the glance conveying helpless pleading over Chapel's blonde head.

"Starfleet will have to be told, at least eventually, Captain," he is forced to answer with firm gentleness.

"Yes, but…they'll just transfer him off the ship without caring that I – we need him." Both occupants of the room pretend to have not heard the slip, for which the captain is obviously grateful. "We don't have to report it just yet, do we?"

"Negative, Captain; but what will you do, if Dr. McCoy never recovers his memory regarding his profession and position in Starfleet? They will either resign him to a Starfleet Medical facility for therapy –"

"Over my dead body, they will."

"Or," he continues, unruffled by the fervent interruption, "they will simply retire him with honors, and he will be forced to make a life for himself elsewhere, with what memories he retains."

"Now look, I think I better get a say in this," an annoyed drawl sounds from behind them. "Gossipin' about a fella behind his back like a flock of nosy in-laws..."

Kirk jumps in surprise, yelping as the dermal regenerator stings his healing skin, and Spock's left eyebrow dutifully follows his right into his hairline.

"Dr. McCoy, you get your backside back in that bed this instant, or so help me I will sedate you," Chapel growls, not even pausing in her work over the Captain.

The CMO stands now in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe and looking only slightly the worse for his accident (for once, it truly was an away team accident rather than a sentient attack, and he is pleased about the fact for it means less time during which Jim will blame himself for the events). Brilliant blue eyes eagerly take in everything as if seeing it all for the first time, and then finally settle in unconscious instinct upon the trio center stage. "Who're you, and how'd you get to be a nurse with a bedside manner that atrocious?" the physician asks frankly.

"I am your Head Nurse aboard this ship, Doctor, and you picked me solely because I was the only one who had the guts to stand up to your Southern cussedness after ten hours' straight surgery your second week aboard," is the dry reply, and McCoy's eyes bug comically. "There you are, Captain; and no strenuous activity until that shoulder has time for the swelling to go down," she adds in a gentler tone, obviously trying to reassure the man with her voice more than words.

Kirk looks somewhere between limp and half-hysterical from sheer relief (so much so that he barely notices the hypospray Chapel administers for good measure), as if he cannot decide whether to laugh or cry or both or just faint dead away and be rid of the whole mess for a few hours.

"So you're the captain, then," McCoy redundantly observes, shuffling slowly across the room. "You didn't tell me that earlier when you were in here."

"We need to see if we can trigger your memory on its own, Doctor, without giving you hints," Chapel interrupts whatever Kirk would have replied, shaking a stern finger in the physician's direction. "And sit down before you fall down; you still have a concussion and quite a few bruises, whether you want to admit it or not."

"Now you look here, Nurse –"

"No, you look here, Doctor," the woman retorts, hands on her hips. "Because until you've made a full recovery, you've been put on medical relief from duty, and that makes me Acting Chief Medical Officer. Now sit, and maybe we'll let you out of here later this evening."

Chapel shoots her COs a pointed look over her shoulder as she stalks into the next room to see to a sounding bio-alarm, and leaves the three men staring after her.

Finally McCoy picks his jaw up from his collar and seats himself on the bed beside the Captain. "That's some woman, that is," is his succinct observation, and Kirk chuckles.

"Scary is more like it. And everything she knows, she learned from you, Bones," Kirk teases with a smile, the first genuine one he has given since the fiasco planetside began three hours before.

"Bones," McCoy repeats thoughtfully, as if he is sounding the word over his tongue and then apparently grimacing at the taste. "Who the Sam Hill gave me that nickname anyway?"

"Guilty as charged." The captain's smile widens, and the darkness hovering ghostly about the room seems to melt away. "I'll have to tell you about that sometime."

The physician gives a non-committal harrumph and absently rubs the back of his neck. "So, you're the captain, and I'm apparently the Chief Medical Officer?"

"That's right," Kirk answers in his most encouraging tone.

"This ship is called the Enterprise, and we've been in space for three and a half years, got a year and a half to go before we're finished with the mission?"

"You remember about Starfleet and all that?"

"Yeah…most of it, anyway," the doctor declares, brows knitted in focus. "But not anything specific…like where my cabin is, for instance." A look of embarrassment flits across the physician's features, quickly obscured by the concentration of medical analysis. "I guess that's normal for a head injury, but it's more frustratin' than trying to get a four-year-old to go to bed when it's still sunny out…"

Kirk slings an arm over the thin shoulders, and Spock can immediately see the human is trying to not feel hurt at the unexpected flinch; McCoy has no idea how familiar they are with each other, and the defensive reaction is only natural.

It still hurts, however, judging from the pain radiating off the younger man just at the moment.

"Give it time, Bones," Kirk manages.

A sardonic snort. "Like I can do anythin' else." Blue eyes blink as the captain suddenly tries and fails to cover an enormous yawn. "You tired, Captain?"

A small pang of warmth at the concern – of course innate, and deeply ingrained into McCoy's gentle character – smooths Kirk's expression, and he nods, stifling a second yawn. "More than I thought, I guess…"

"I would suggest you retire to your quarters, Captain, before the effect of the mild sedative with which Nurse Chapel dosed you reaches its intended maturity," Spock finally interjects, and no, that is not amusement dancing at the back of his voice, not at all.

"Mild sed – Nurse!"

Chapel barely acknowledges the yowling, only pokes her blond head into the room long enough to sweetly wish him a good nap.

"Acting Chief Medical Officer, my –"

"Captain."

Slightly-bleary hazel eyes glare up at the impassive features. "What."

"I believe that you should lie back, sir, as I doubt you are capable of transversing the distance between Sickbay and Deck Five unassisted. If Doctor McCoy will be so accommodating as to remove his person from your bed…?"

"And just who – or what – the heck are you?" the physician demands, though he does scoot down the bed as the captain sways dangerously, then kneads his eyes with both fisted hands. Sharp physician's eyes take in the blue tunic, then flick swiftly to the Science insignia and from there to the braid upon his sleeves. "Chief Science Officer?"

"And First Officer," the Vulcan intones with remarkable calm, especially given that James Kirk decides to slump over halfway through his reply and begin snoring in a low, rhythmic cadence. "I am called Spock."

"Commander." From somewhere the respect due a commanding officer surfaces in the doctor's damaged memory, for he is slightly surprised to note the apologetic nod he receives for a lack of formal salutes. "You're a Vulcan, I suppose," McCoy observes succinctly.

He hesitates for only a moment before replying, and briefly wonders if he will receive the same reaction from the human as he usually does in mentioning his hybrid heritage. "Half-Vulcan. My mother was human."

McCoy grins, and after looking dubiously down at the unconscious figure of his captain pulls the thermal blanket up over the sleeping man. "Bet that's awkward in more ways than you can shake a stick at."

"I fail to see where I would locate such a terrestrial object aboard a starship, and furthermore –"

The doctor's hands rise in a gesture of exasperated surrender. "For the love of Pete, it's just an expression, Commander!"

For some reason, the lack of expletives or their insulting substantive counterparts is more disconcerting than he would have anticipated; their absence is itself conspicuous, and though it is of no real consequence he finds their dearth quite disturbing in its unfamiliarity.

No doubt Jim would simply say he misses McCoy's acerbic sarcasm, but he is Vulcan and therefore he does not 'miss' things; he merely notes their absence when it is disturbing to his habits.

"Doctor, you need not refer to me by my title," he settles for stating, his calm betraying nothing of his unease at the doctor's uncharacteristic behavior.

"Huh. What d'you want me to call you then?" McCoy asks curiously, and he can easily perceive that the doctor is highly interested in their apparent lack of formality.

His lips do not twitch, certainly not, and he definitely does not relax his posture. "You have been known on occasion to refer to me as a, and I quote, 'green-blooded hobgoblin,' 'pointy-eared walking computer', 'unfeeling, inhuman Vulcan,' as well as other various substantives of a slightly more profane nature –" He breaks off at the look of horror that flickers across the physician's familiar and yet unfamiliar face. "Doctor?"

"I…" The human's features twist in ignorant discomfort as a deep flush spreads across them. "I'm not xenophobic, am I?"

He raises an eyebrow quizzically. "Not that I am aware, Doctor; in fact far from it in my experience."

McCoy expels a sigh of slight relief, but the uneasy look remains in place. "Why in the world then…? I can't imagine any organization permitting that kinda disrespect toward a commanding officer."

He returns his eyebrows to their customary position, and he most definitely does not quirk a slight smile as he straightens from checking the Captain's physical status. "Walk with me, Doctor. I will show you the way to your quarters from Sickbay, after which you no doubt will be required to return and undergo another series of tests while I debrief the Security lieutenant."

"Somebody else can do that," McCoy replies suspiciously, giving him a wary look. "Don't you have other duties as Chief Science and First Officer aboard this thing than to be my tour guide?"

He gestures toward the doors, politely directing the human to follow him. "None are more important at this time, Doctor."

He barely sees from his superior peripheral vision the comically stupefied look that causes the blue eyes to grow wide in their sockets, and it does not take Vulcan hearing to catch the unconsciously-mumbled 'straight-laced space elf' that is the only sound besides the Captain's heavy breathing.

He cannot help but compare their relaxed formality now to that of their first encounter, three years before…

He is on Deck Fifteen, attempting to help Mr. Scott release the men trapped by the primary emergency bulkheads before the temporary containment seal breaks on the hull rupture they have just sustained, when he catches from his peripheral blurs of blue rushing down the corridor; the medical team has finally arrived to see to the casualties.

"Spock, you've only got five more minutes," the Captain's voice scratches through the radiation interference on the communicator. "That temporary seal's going to rupture and I want you and Scott and everyone else out of there when it does."

"Acknowledged," he shoots back shortly, for he has no time to spare in extraneous converse, and returns to the magnetic seal whose programming he is attempting to override before they are forced to evacuate this section of the deck, leaving the men trapped.

Montgomery Scott, the only man aboard he had really had any contact with before Kirk's changeover six months before, is roundly cursing the Klingons, the Enterprise designers, the three brand-new recruits who had never been in a space battle before and had consequently been too slow to slide under the bulkheads before they closed, and anything else he takes a mind to, as the Engineer works frantically to torch a large enough hole in the primary bulkhead. They both know the idea is most likely futile; Scott has only just penetrated the bulkhead in one tiny area, for they are not meant to be penetrated. The reprogramming is not working despite all his best attempts to override; the circuits have most likely been fused due to the heavy barrage of the previous battle.

"How many are left in there?" an unfamiliar voice sounds at his elbow, and he spares one short glance at the blue-clad human standing far too close within his personal space.

"Three men, Doctor McCoy," is his terse reply, for even that glance had showed him the insignia and braid of their new Chief Medical Officer; barely twelve hours aboard, and the man had been worked half to death in a Klingon encounter (they all had, in fact; he for one has worked three straight shifts on the Bridge and is aware his strength and controls are not at levels conducive to dealing with these illogical humans).

"Spock, you've got three minutes!" The young captain sounds slightly frantic, and it is not surprising; Kirk has already lost six men today, the first casualties since Lee Kelso's murder and the execution of Gary Mitchell. "Progress report."

Scott slaps the comm-unit with his free hand. "Captain, we're not gonna get through these bulkheads before the seal ruptures; there's just not time!"

"Evacuate," is the reply, slightly hesitant but then firm with the quicksilver decision-making ability that has characterized James Kirk throughout his distinguished career. "All personnel, evacuate Deck Fifteen immediately."

Medical and Engineering crewmen scramble to obey, even as he and Scott turn their attention back to their tasks in one last-ditch attempt to save the trapped men before the seal ruptures along this section.

"Well?" The insistent voice is back at his elbow, demanding answers and solutions where there are none.

"Doctor, evacuate this deck with your Emergency Team," he snaps curtly, even as his last attempt at override fails and he becomes aware that those men are irrevocably lost. Not even his and Scott's mechanical ingenuity can change what is, much to his regret. To lose so young crewmen in so tragic a manner is unconscionable, and yet it must be done.

"Good Lord man, there are people trapped in there!" the human is shouting now – fascinating, that such volume and intensity can come from so small a being. "You can't just leave them there!"

"Doctor, the only way to reach them has already been attempted," he responds with icy calm. He is grateful that the bulkheads are soundproof; none but he can faintly hear the sounds of resigned despair coming from the other side of the barrier. None but he will ever know those three men's last words, and for that he is grateful. "Mr. Scott, follow your team immediately."

Scott hesitates, his eyes soft with regret, and then shuts off his torch before dashing down the corridor beyond the secondary bulkhead indicators and the end of the danger zone.

The physician, whom he has nearly forgotten in his effort to block out what he hears from the other side of the barrier, bars his path as he turns to follow the Engineer. Who is this human, that he would have the audacity to risk insubordination and the lack of control to show it?

"You aren't just going to leave them in there with that seal about to rupture?" the human demands again, as if he has some power to prevent the inevitable.

"Doctor, you will obey a direct order while aboard this ship, or I will personally see to it that the Captain recommends you to a Starbase transfer," he answers with deadly intent, and propels the human before him down the corridor with more force than is truly necessary.

"Thirty seconds, Commander," Kirk's voice sounds in his ears as they pass a comm-unit, and he cannot stop to acknowledge.

Were that all that had occurred then, even those minor disagreements might have been easily forgotten. What had actually happened, however, had forged an immediate mistrust that had taken months and quite a few close brushes with death to completely overcome.

They are just past the secondary bulkheads when it happens. Whether from a fluke of engineering, or a latent success from his reprogramming efforts, or something that the three trapped crewmen had done (though inexperienced, they are resourceful and he knows this well) to escape, the primary bulkhead shudders and lifts a meter above the floor.

"Ten seconds," comes the countdown from the Bridge. "Spock, Scotty, are you clear?"

Three pairs of black-clad legs and scarlet tunics appear, wriggling frantically to squeeze through the small opening available to them.

"Five seconds."

He knows it will not be enough.

Beside him, McCoy's jubilant call dies into a deathly, horrified silence as Spock's hand comes down on the emergency trigger for the secondary bulkheads.

They thud into place as the last second runs out. Quickly enough to prevent the entire deck from depressurizing at the seal rupture...and not quickly enough to prevent their last sight being that of three hopeless faces staring in despair at their retreating figures. And not quickly enough that the three men's death-screams do not reach his sensitive ears, where they continue to ring even after he knows the men's life-forces have been extinguished.

He has rarely felt quite so ill at a loss of innocent life as he does at this moment, and yet he of course can show nothing of the horror that twists his human emotions into weapons to be used against his effectiveness as a leader. He cannot, and therefore will not, permit anything but logic to dictate his actions right now.

"Mr. Scott, please return to Engineering and see to the hull breach." His orders sound in the deathly silence, slightly echoing in the nearly-deserted corridor.

Scott shoots him a sympathetic look, for which he is appreciative and nods to show it. The Engineer slowly moves down the corridor, barking orders to his 'laddies' in an effort to disguise the regret showing on his honest face.

This leaves him alone with the Enterprise's new Chief Medical Officer, a small dynamo of icy calm that is currently viewing him as one would a distasteful specimen of a revolting insect species.

He cannot find it in himself to care about this man's opinion of his Vulcanity or his humanity, not with the screams of those three crewmen still echoing in his mind.

"I've always heard that Vulcans were the most unfeeling, heartless creatures in the galaxy," McCoy finally hisses, the contempt dripping from his voice like acid, "but I never believed it until now."

He rounds on the physician, his face betraying nothing. "Doctor, I have already once in this conversation reminded you of the respect due a commanding officer. Do not force me to place you upon report; the captain has quite enough to deal with at the moment without interviewing you regarding your insubordination."

Blue fire, cold as the glacier planet of Arcturus III, ignites and begins to smoulder in the human's eyes, but he continues. "I recognize that occasionally you humans deal with emotion by lashing out at others, but in this case you must control yourself for you have not been aboard long enough to have gained any leniency in that department."

"You just condemned three men to death, Commander," McCoy spits, and the title is far more disrespecting than even his Vulcan name would have been, "watched them die right in front of you – and you talk to me of control!"

"I do, and you will control yourself aboard this ship, Doctor," he snaps with more bite than intended, and takes a slight pleasure in seeing even this fiery human quail beneath his gaze. "Or you will leave it in semi-disgrace, as you have all those ships before the Enterprise. It is your choice, Doctor. Now, if you will return to your Sickbay and prepare a team to retrieve the bodies once the rupture has been contained and the deck repressurized."

He can see the battle of disgust, horror, and utter loathing waging its war across the human's face, but McCoy spins smartly on his heel and strides off down the corridor without voicing whatever he is thinking.

Someday, he might find it in himself to care what their fourth in the chain of command thinks of him; at this moment, he does not.

He must find a way to break the news of failure to his captain, and he does not look forward to the task.

"3F 127, Doctor," he answers patiently, for this is the third time he has repeated the cabin designation for the human walking at his side. (1)

They had spent the better portion of the previous afternoon in touring the more common areas of the ship, going over basic information which the physician required, doing a walking tour of the science labs, and finished by returning for a final check-up in Sickbay.

James Kirk had slept through the ship's night while they performed more tests and finally retired themselves; the captain is now awake at the moment but in an extremely foul mood, having been forced to field Admiralty calls all morning as well as debrief a xenobiology team regarding the 'snake-dragon-things' they had unfortunately disturbed on the planet's surface. McCoy had, surprisingly, requested that Spock accompany the physician to the Mess for lunch instead of the captain, and while Jim could not have kept the appointment anyway he is aware that the human is slightly hurt by the fact that the amnesiac doctor apparently prefers the company of a being he can barely get along with, to that of an old friend such as the captain.

Sighing is a human action, and therefore he does not perform it; however, the temptation to do so is a definite fact. Human emotion is a fickle, transient quicksand, and he for one hopes that McCoy recovers his memory in time to deal with the captain's miffed feelings rather than leaving the duty to his decidedly less capable hands.

McCoy repeats the series of digits once more, and then nods slowly. He watches in some fascination as the man nervously bounces on his toes, and then rocks backward to the balls of his feet; the characteristic gesture obviously is not tied to memory but rather to habit.

"Sorry…" He belatedly realizes the human is speaking, and draws his attention from the recent past back to the present. "I'm bein' a real pain, aren't I?"

"Negative, Doctor. It is only natural that you take the time necessary to reacclimate yourself to your surroundings; to deny yourself the time required to heal would be illogical."

"Mmph," McCoy agrees with a gesture of self-disgust. "You know as well as I do this may take months or never happen at all, Commander."

He is still unaccustomed to being referred to by title – now he understands the Captain's dogged insistence that he be referred to as 'Jim' during non-duty hours – and as such it takes a nanosecond longer for him to respond.

"Doctor, it is unlike you to show such pessimism."

"Yeah, well, it's unlike me to not remember who you or I am and what we're doing flyin' around space in the biggest starship in the 'Fleet…"

The lift doors open to deposit them on the Recreation Deck (he is taking the doctor to Rec Room Two rather than Officers' Mess, to avoid more confusion than will benefit the man's memory).

They are halfway down the corridor when McCoy pauses; he feels rather than sees the curious glance directed at the side of his head, and turns toward the physician.

"Doctor?"

Flushing in slight embarrassment, the human drops his gaze and resumes walking. "Why're you doin' this, Spock?" the man asks after a moment. "Surely there's somebody else that can show me where to go and all that."

"You have already made that precise inquiry twice, Doctor," he responds blandly. "As a Vulcan, my eidetic memory makes me the logical choice to field any questions you may have about the workings of the Enterprise."

"Yeah but it doesn't make you an expert on my personal life, does it? Vulcans don't do personal, if what I can remember about 'em is right."

He looks at McCoy from the corner of his eye, for the shrewd gaze is as penetrating as any the man has given before in his Sickbay toward a malingering patient; it produces an unaccountably human urge to squirm, one that he quashes instantly.

"Negative. I am not knowledgeable regarding your personal affairs, Doctor."

"You're not a close friend, then," is the blunt observation, though he can discern that the human is merely stating facts in an effort to understand, rather than indicating hurt over the matter.

He is loathe, however, even in the physician's altered state, to entirely concur with that somewhat inaccurate statement. Vulcans do not lie; however, they are masters at misdirection. "The Captain is a more knowledgeable companion on the subjects of your past and present day-to-day life, Doctor."

"Yeah, somehow I knew that by lookin' at him," McCoy agrees, nodding slowly.

He pauses as the physician's eyes seem to blank for a moment, and the human puts a hand to his head, steadying himself on the wall with his other. "Doctor?"

"Sorry," McCoy mutters, sliding off the bulkhead onto slightly unsteady legs. "Head hurts…saw somethin' there. Crazy memory flashes."

"Perhaps you should retire to your quarters," he suggests, watching the man carefully for signs of approaching collapse or regression. None are evident, but it would be foolish to take such a chance.

"No, 'm fine." The physician massages his temple for a moment. "Just wish I could start rememberin' things, instead of just catching flashes of 'em here and there and everywhere…"

"Perhaps I could clarify what you are seeing in these memory flashes, Doctor."

"I'd rather just hear more about how I got on this ship," McCoy replies dryly. "I vaguely recall being bounced around from ship to ship because the powers that be didn't exactly appreciate my method of talkin' to people when there were lives at stake."

"You remember correctly, in that case," he answers with a tinge of internal amusement. "I distinctly recall the Captain looking through your file prior to your assignation here and being slightly skeptical about the harmony of the ship after your posting aboard. When you backed him into a corner your first week here, consequently intimidating him into submitting to a complete physical examination through sheer force of will and bullying alone, I believe his exact words were 'he's a keeper, Spock.'"

McCoy's seldom-seen full grin lights up the corridor for a moment as brilliantly as a supernova in the void of space. "I take it from my staff's interaction with Jim that he fights bein' sick and everything to do with Medical, tooth and nail?"

"Affirmative." They enter the Rec Room, and he is slightly relieved that there are only two crewmen talking quietly in the far corner; they can continue their discussion without distraction. "You have been good for him, Doctor," he adds as they select their meals. "And he believes your somewhat irascible bedside manner and borderline insubordination to be well worth your benefit to the ship and the morale of her crew."

McCoy has the grace to blush at the frank assessment, though he notes with amusement that the human does not apologize for what exists. Instead, he finds after they are seated that the doctor is eyeing him curiously.

He raises an eyebrow in silent permission to voice the inquiry, and after a moment of hesitation the physician asks. "Commander, you've told me much about my relationship with the captain and how Jim and I met – but what about us?"

His eyebrow remains in place. "About what, exactly, are you inquiring, Doctor?"

"You can give me all that 'it's my duty to babysit you, Doctor' nonsense all you want, but you're bein' remarkably patient with me," McCoy states with his typical ruthlessness, though the human could certainly do to not wave his fork about in such an emphatic manner. "You can't tell me you wouldn't be able to ship me off to a subordinate if you wanted to. Somethin' keeps telling me that you and I, we don't really get along – but you're acting like my best friend right now and I want to know why."

He was not anticipating this turn of the conversation, but he knows the doctor's Southern bulldog-like tenacity and is aware that he will not be able to escape the discussion at this juncture.

"Doctor…" he hesitates, quite unsure of how to proceed.

As is his inner nature, McCoy slices to the heart of the matter. "Are we friends, Spock?"

To deny that which exists is not logical, and therefore he does not. "Affirmative."

The physician looks surprised at his agreement. "Really?"

"Affirmative."

"I thought Vulcans didn't make friendships easily."

"They do not."

"But we are friends, even if my Head Nurse says we fight like cats and dogs?"

"Affirmative."

"Well, you're an informative one, aren't you," the physician grunts, before shoving a forkful of greens into his mouth and chewing hastily. Blue eyes twinkle in sapphire amusement at his discomfiture over the now-empty fork, and he finds it prudent to turn his attention toward his own meal.

Were he human, he would say the situation is almost comical, how McCoy's memory returns some four days later.

Those four days have been spent more pleasantly than he would have hypothesized had someone asked him to. When not feeling argumentative, Dr. McCoy can be a quite stimulating scientific mind with which to communicate, and with this selective memory loss also seems to have vanished some of the human's former surliness with those around him at early hours of the morning or evening. The doctor had of course not been returned to duty, and therefore was considerably less exhausted mentally and physically than was his normal state; the mellowing in personality is obvious, and rather relaxing. Their days have been enjoyably spent in scientific experimentation and research, and the evenings in the captain's company have done much to re-knit the two humans' friendship despite the obvious obstacles.

All has been well, until this morning.

From what the physician has told him, and what he had observed after walking into the physician's quarters to discover the man unconscious behind his desk, McCoy had forgotten about the shelf above his head. He had dropped a stylus behind his chair, gone to retrieve it, and had cracked his skull on the shelf after standing up. Spock had come by to pick the man up for a turn around Science Lab Eleven and had found him out cold, a slightly-bleeding cut coagulating on the back of his head.

Even a Vulcan would admit to being surprised – and he will not deny pleasantly so – when the first words muttered out of the dazed man's mouth were something sounding like "Get outta my face, hobgoblin."

Just now, Jim is trying not to laugh at the physician's disgruntled grumbling about safety hazards and overbearing nurses and any other subject upon which the grumpy human wishes to vent his frustration, while he merely stands by, eyebrow uplifted, and interjects a sage comment as necessary to bring the most relief to the fast-dissipating tension in the Sickbay cubicle.

Finally the captain is summoned to the Bridge to oversee their approach to their next planet, and he is left alone with one slightly uncomfortable Chief Medical Officer.

They both find the opposite wall quite fascinating for a few moments, and then McCoy clears his throat in an obvious attempt to not appear quite so awkward.

He glances over at the physician, who is, even showing nervousness, more relaxed than he has been for days. "Doctor, are you quite all right?"

"Fine, Spock, just fine," McCoy drawls slowly, rubbing the back of his neck and then sliding off the biobed to face him.

He resists the urge to step back as the human enters his personal space, and only looks down at the shorter man curiously.

McCoy hesitates for a moment, frowning in concentrated debate with himself, before offering a sheepish smile. "Thank you," he says simply. He opens his mouth in reflexive instinct, and the physician continues hastily, "Yes, I know 'one does not thank logic' and blah blah blah, Spock. Just the same," and the smile widens into a knowing grin, "thanks. You were…great."

It would be graceless to not nod in acceptance, and therefore he concedes to the human's need to express his feelings.

"I wish we had hit it off that well the first time, y'know," the physician sighs broodingly as they move in one accord toward the doorway of the cubicle.

He relaxes his facial features, knowing that to the human it will appear as if he is slightly smiling, and they exit the room into the bustle of an excited and relieved Sickbay.

"I believe, Doctor, the appropriate human expression is…you caught me on a bad day."

(1) McCoy's cabin number according to The Man Trap