The BLTS Archive - Aw, Hell
by Nemo the Everbeing (paradigm_shift@mchsi.com)

---

In answer to the Ninth Wave Challenge: write a story relating to Spock
and McCoy's first meeting.

Disclaimer: Don't own them.

---

His first day on the Enterprise started innocently enough. Then again,
they usually did. He had come aboard, dropped his possessions off at
his cabin, and then made a beeline for sickbay.

And when he got there, he felt like he was home. Not only was it
well-equipped (best equipped medical facility he'd ever seen, if he
was honest), but the staff was friendly, and, most importantly, it was
his Sickbay. Climbing the damn chain of command was apparently good
for something.

He had wanted to go over the medical histories of the crew, to see if
there were any he should keep an eye on, of course, but things had a
way of turning out differently than he'd expected.

Starting with the Tamorian Flu.

Seemed to Leonard McCoy that this ship had gone to hell in a hand
basket without a CMO around to keep an eye on things. How else would
an entire crew start showing symptoms of an epidemic days in the
making?

Jim Kirk had been apologetic about the suddenness with which the
ship's woes knocked on McCoy's door, but his old friend had also been
emphatic: the entire crew needed to be checked and inoculated before
anything went any further. Apparently he was sore about the two
incidents of projectile vomiting on his bridge.

McCoy pinched the his nose. At least, he thought, he was getting a
chance to meet the crew.

The hours dragged on as McCoy started with yeomen and worked his way
up. A lot of friendly faces passed his way, most of which, he knew, he
wouldn't remember the next day. Still, he made a concerted effort to
at least try to get some of the names.

Not that there weren't certain people of interest.

McCoy had, thus far, found himself quite fond of his head nurse,
Christine Chapel. Severe, retiring lady, she had a sort of
down-to-earth quality that McCoy liked, especially if she was going to
be the one handing him tools at a critical moment. More than that,
though, she seemed to have had troubles. The slight lines on her face
and the distance in her eyes told him as much.

It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one who joined
Starfleet as a means of escape.

Then, there was the Chief Engineer. Absolutely wonderful fellow. The
kind of man who could talk you into the ground, but he could also
drink you into the ground, and you had to give him props for that.
Especially McCoy, who definitely enjoyed a glass of good bourbon,
appreciated that aspect of Montgomery Scott.

He glanced at his list. He was down to the most senior of officers:
the bridge crew. McCoy shrugged. Never one to stand on ceremony, he
supposed that the best thing to do was walk right up to the bridge and
collect them. After years of dealing with command officers, he knew
that it was probably the only way to get them to sickbay. Damn fools
were absolutely in love with those stations of their's.

Of course, first, he'd actually have to be able to get his legs to
stand up again. McCoy rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on
his desk, ready to heave himself up.

"What a day," he groaned. "Nurse Chapel," he murmured, hearing her
stop outside the door, "go on, get something to eat. You've earned
it."

"It's Christine, Doctor," she stated, and he smiled at the fact that,
unlike the droves of flighty ensigns he'd checked and sent on their
way, she wasn't in the least bit flirting with him when she told him
that. Just establishing a good working relationship. Oh, yes, things
were going to work between them just fine. "Are you sure you can
handle the rest by yourself?" she asked.

He looked up, smiling at her. "It's Leonard, and yeah, I'm sure."

"You should eat something, too."

McCoy shrugged. "I've got some more work to do. I'll get some food
after." He waved a hand. "You go on."

She did.

And once she was gone, McCoy's stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him
that she was right and he had yet to eat that day. He frowned at it
disapprovingly, silently commanding it to cut it out. After all, it
wasn't like he could forego examining the most important people on the
whole damn ship.

Plus, McCoy wanted to run a few more tests on this Tamorian Flu. It
was showing some anomalous symptoms that made him suspicious. It would
do no good if he inoculated the entire crew against the Tamorian Flu,
and it turned out to be another virus altogether. Some CMO he'd seem.

He knew that shouldn't be a concern at the moment, but, truth be told,
he was a little intimidated by being the CMO of Starfleet's flagship.
That was a lot to live up to, and if he wasn't careful, he was afraid
that people would start thinking that he got the job simply because he
was an old friend of the Captain.

That idea made whatever was left in his stomach churn, which, in turn,
caused it to gurgle again.

McCoy sighed in frustration.

At least the tests he had conducted thus far on the virus were
corroborating his hunch. The standard strain of Tamorian Flu didn't
tend to spread as quickly as it had here, and the incubation period
was often far longer in the standard virus. Something was definitely
wrong with this bug, and if he wasn't careful, it would get out of
control.

Maybe it was something on the sub-atomic level . . .

It was then that Leonard McCoy heard the first, distinctive thud
outside the sickbay doors. He raised his head, wondering if someone
had dropped something.

That noise, however, was quickly followed by another.

And another.

Getting up, curiosity getting the better of him, McCoy walked out into
the hall, and was immediately greeted by a horrifying sight: people
were simply dropping in their tracks.

One by one, the people all around him simply collapsed. Others ran to
assist, but they, too, fell only seconds later.

McCoy hurried to the nearest body, which happened to be Ensign Withers
of security, a young man who McCoy remembered from his checkup an hour
earlier. The boy had told McCoy he liked to play bridge in his spare
time. At the time, McCoy had grinned at the rather odd hobby for a
security man.

McCoy's medical tricorder was running over the bridge-playing ensign
before he even thought about doing it. He intently stared at the
results, only to feel his heart lurch in his chest.

It was the so-called 'Tamorian Flu', which he had inoculated Withers
against little over an hour ago.

The damn strain was mutating right in front of his eyes.

McCoy shook his head. He had inoculated and cured the entire crew.
This sort of extreme reaction shouldn't be remotely possible, and yet,
simultaneously, every supposedly defeated virus changed itself subtly
and attacked.

McCoy's mind began to whirl at the implications such a coordinated
attack could imply: some outside force could have instigated this
blitz to take out the entire crew of the Enterprise without damaging
the ship, or even raising an alarm. Somehow, McCoy had remained
unaffected. Perhaps it was because he'd only come on board so
recently.

The other possibility, he thought, was that this was naturally
occurring, which meant that this phage was not only a very subtle
chameleon, but had adapted to take out an entire population in one go.
It was the perfect space faring virus.

And as he regarded the limp bodies in the hallway, McCoy suddenly
wished he weren't the CMO. This was too damn big for him. Over four
hundred souls on this ship, and all of them counting on him. All
falling into inexplicable comas with only Leonard McCoy standing
between them and death.

As he stood, almost shaking, he couldn't help but gasp out, "I'm a
doctor, not a messiah!" And, he added silently, just a country doctor
at that. This was some sort of alien virus, and he was up a creek
without a paddle.

McCoy shook himself angrily. He was the CMO of this ship, and dammit,
Starfleet had to have put him there for a reason. He might just be a
doctor, but he was a damn fine doctor at that. If this was some alien
virus, he'd have to cure it. If it was an attack, he'd have to foil
it. If he really was the only thing standing between his crew and
death, then he better plant his feet and get ready for one hell of a
fight.

And, like most fights, this one needed to start where things were most
vital: the bridge. He needed to get to Jim Kirk and he needed to get
to him now. Up he stood and rushed to the turbolift, which contained
several unconscious crew members of its own.

It felt like an eternity to get to the bridge, and even longer for the
damn doors to open once he was there.

But once they opened, he honestly wished that they hadn't.

McCoy didn't have time to appreciate his first visit to that hallowed
place. He didn't even see the spectacle most civilians dreamed about.
All he could see was the sea of unfamiliar people, slumped over their
consoles. Kirk himself had fallen out of his chair and now lay in a
graceless jumble on the floor.

McCoy was on the move, going from body to body. A young Asian man at
the helm seemed to have landed badly, so McCoy stopped to straighten
him out a bit. Another young man at navigation was currently drooling
on his console. Unsure if such an activity could harm the equipment,
McCoy shifted him to the floor and used his sleeve to wipe up the
mess.

Then, staring at the readouts, McCoy thought back to half-remembered
emergency simulations at the Academy. Hell, he'd thought that the
possibilities of him actually having to work this ship were so slim as
to be laughable.

It didn't seem so funny now that it was happening.

McCoy ran through the emergency procedures in his head. If he
remembered correctly, which was currently debatable, then the first
thing he needed to do was make sure they weren't about to run the ship
into anything. He peered at the readings on the navigation console.

And realized he didn't have the slightest idea what any of them meant.

He crossed over to the Asian officer's chair, as well, only to find
the same problem there.

"Dammit," he growled, "I don't have the first clue how to—"

And suddenly, a hand grabbed Leonard McCoy from behind, spinning him
around with force that could not possibly be human. McCoy lost his
footing and fell to the ground, yelping and scrabbling frantically at
his belt for anything that could be used as a weapon.

Coming up with nothing but an empty hypo (he decided that if he
couldn't inject his attacker, he could at least hit him with the damn
thing), McCoy looked up.

And his breath got lost somewhere between his lungs and his mouth.

He had never seen an alien before.

The man was close enough to human to be very disconcerting. In fact,
McCoy surmised that if he were to squint very hard, it would be
difficult to tell the difference. It was there, though. The undertones
of this man's flesh weren't rosy, but the green of copper-based blood.
The ears, instead of round, swept up to graceful points, much as the
eyebrows also slanted up instead of down at their ends. McCoy's first
thought was that Starfleet had never told him how incredibly
attractive Vulcans were.

For this man was, indeed, a Vulcan. Even having never seen one in the
flesh, McCoy would stake his license on it. But more than that, this
was a Vulcan in a Starfleet uniform. Why the hell had no one told
McCoy that there was a Vulcan on board? Wasn't that something of which
the CMO should be informed?

Tone as glacial as his expression, the as-yet unnamed Vulcan lifted a
phaser and leveled it at him, demanding, "Identify yourself."

Starfleet had also neglected to mention to him just how intimidating
Vulcans could be.

"I . . . I'm . . . Leonard. . ." Remembering himself, McCoy
straightened as much as he could while sprawled on the floor and
snapped out, "Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical
Officer."

It might have been his imagination, but for a second he could have
sworn that the Vulcan looked incredulous. However, McCoy took it as a
good sign when the phaser was lowered. "Our last Chief Medical Officer
was a full commander," the Vulcan sniffed.

McCoy gaped at the man for a second. They were in the middle of a
crisis, and he had the temerity to . . . attractive or no, this Vulcan
just threw down the gauntlet and insulted the wrong man. "Hate to
point it out, Sir," McCoy drawled, "but your last CMO was also pushing
ninety. I'd hope to hell that I'm a full commander by that time, too."

Once again, the Vulcan gave his prone form that almost-disdainful
glance. "That remains to be seen," he said.

McCoy stood up. "And who the hell are you to be criticizing me?" he
demanded.

"Commander Spock, First Officer."

"Interesting color for a first officer to wear," McCoy stated,
suspicion roused. Was the Vulcan lying to him? Could Vulcans lie?

The Vulcan stiffened, and McCoy guessed that he had managed to insult
the man. "I am also the science officer."

McCoy would have to ask how that happened after the crisis was past.
He, at least, had his priorities straight. "Well, Mister First Science
Officer, or whatever the hell you actually are," all right, his
priorities did allow for a little ribbing, "would you kindly do your
job and check on the ship instead of standing here insulting me?"

Still looking at him like he was some sort of intruder, the Vulcan
called Spock (did the man even have a last name?) moved around McCoy
to inspect the consoles. Finally, he keyed in a few commands.

"What was that?" McCoy asked.

"A distress signal," Spock responded. "I find myself wondering why you
hadn't already sent one."

"Believe me, if I knew how, I would have."

"Our last doctor was also competent enough to at least perform basic
bridge duties."

McCoy nearly growled, "And I remind you again of his age . . ."

"I believe it is actually expected of Starfleet cadets to know such a
thing. One assumes that, being a graduate of Starfleet Medical, you
received similar training."

"Well, I was lousy at those courses!" McCoy exploded. "I can't imagine
there wasn't at least one course you struggled with at the Academy.
Say, interspecies relations."

The snobbish Vulcan sniffed. "I received top marks on my final exam,
though I fail to see why my academic achievements should concern you."

"If you got top marks, then you have no excuse for being such a
colossal pain in my ass!"

"Perhaps it is because I highly doubt you are who you claim to be. I
saw no transfer papers in our daily report."

If McCoy could feel any more shock than he had been, he was quite sure
he would have. As it was, with his shock levels all but maxed out, all
he could manage was mute fury. What a first day! He finally found
someone who seemed momentarily fascinating, only to discover that he
had a stick up his ass the size and shape of the Eagle Nebula.

McCoy didn't know what galled him more: the fact that this man was
challenging his very being as a Starfleet officer, or that he still
found Spock damned attractive in spite of it.

Forcing thoughts like that out of his head, McCoy snapped, "Why you
son of a—"

"And such insubordinate behavior is giving your case no support."

"Listen," McCoy spat, "I am Chief Medical Officer. That means that, if
the situation warrants it, I'm not only your superior officer, but
Jim's, too. Or did you forget your chain of command, Mister Spock?"

That shot told, and also seemed to help his so-called 'case'. The
Vulcan's expression got even icier as he stated, "Then I shall
endeavor to make sure the situation never warrants it."

"Don't you dare—"

Suddenly, the entire ship shuddered, sending both of them crashing
into one another. McCoy felt arms wrap instinctually around him as
they tumbled to the ground, and found himself wondering at the heat of
the Vulcan's grasp. Was the man cold on this ship? Did he get special
dispensation from the captain to up the temperature in his quarters?
What sort of effect would that difference have on—?

He needed to separate himself from this damn Vulcan before the man
read his thoughts and had even more ammunition to fire at McCoy.

Spock apparently had the same idea, because they both rolled away from
one another simultaneously, and McCoy pushed himself to his hands and
knees. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "Did you stop the ship?"

"That, doctor, felt like an asteroid collision. It is something over
which I have little control."

"Well you better get some damn control before we're all blown to
Kingdom Come."

Spock shot him a look of profound distaste. "Would you please refrain
from using obscure colloquialisms, Doctor? I find it most difficult."

McCoy grinned. "You're on a ship full of humans, Sir. It's therefore
my duty as CMO to make sure that you can work well with your fellow
crew members, keep morale up. Consider my 'obscure colloquialisms' to
be my very own way of preventing culture shock," McCoy smiled sweetly,
"Sir."

For a second, it almost looked like the Vulcan was going to be angry.
Then, his face grew stony and he demanded, "Are you going to behave so
adversarially toward me for the rest of our mission?"

"Now, Mister Spock, that all depends on you. If you don't start
fights, I certainly won't finish them."

"Your views require challenging."

"Then, challenge away. Just know that, unlike most people who see the
Vulcan ears and roll over, I'm not going to give in. If you enter into
a debate with me, expect to be met and matched."

Spock almost snorted. "Met, I would easily believe. Matched, however .
. ."

"Try me."

When Spock briefly glanced over his shoulder at the human doctor, his
eyes were almost glittering with anticipation, and McCoy realized that
the man was actually enjoying this. He couldn't help but wonder how
few people had the gumption to stand up to Spock and fight back. "I
certainly shall," the Vulcan informed him.

Suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable as he realized that this
argument was edging into borderline flirtation, McCoy crossed his arms
over his chest and said gruffly, "Right, then. Asteroids. Are we in
some sort of field?"

"Most likely we have entered the asteroid belt in the solar system we
are currently surveying."

McCoy followed Spock to the helm, where the Vulcan sat, eyes flicking
over the readouts. "Then let's get the hell out of it," he encouraged.

Spock began to manipulate the controls. "That, Doctor, is precisely
what I am attempting to do."

McCoy shut his mouth and watched.

Minutes passed, and McCoy felt the tension build. His mind was
wandering to places it oughtn't. Places, he was sure, the Vulcan would
find most unwelcome, such as his current mute admiration of the man's
rather remarkable ears. They reminded McCoy of stories he'd read as a
child: Tolkien and Beagle stowed quietly under his schoolbooks where
his mother couldn't find them. This man seemed to be fantasy
personified.

Speaking of fantasy . . .

Oh, McCoy, he thought, that's not a place your mind should be going.
Not with this man and certainly not with the crew all in comas on your
first day.

That thought galvanized him, and McCoy began to stride purposefully
around the bridge, taking detailed scans and tissue samples from the
unconscious crew members. A flu which induced coma either meant that
the virus was inflicting extreme damage to the body, which, according
to his readings, didn't seem to be the case, or it was directly
affecting the brain.

He ran his medical tricorder around Jim's head, frowning. It was
there, all right. Some sort of cross-breed between meningitis and
Tamorian flu? No, that was far too unlikely. So, how the hell was it
affecting the brain?

"Dammit," he growled.

"Problem, Doctor?" Spock asked, rising and moving to navigation.

"You could say that," McCoy grunted, and went back to staring hard at
the data, as if enough angry scrutiny would force the cause of these
comas to manifest itself.

The data remained the same.

"We are clear of the asteroid belt," Spock stated, "and are now in
orbit around the sixth planet."

"Why the sixth?"

"It was closest. I assumed that you would require my assistance to
find a cure for this disease."

"Are you questioning my medical abilities, Sir?"

"Being that I currently have no evidence to support the idea that you
have any 'medical abilities' whatsoever, I believe that to be the most
logical course of action."

"Oh, I'm sorry," McCoy drawled, "did they make you a medical officer,
too? Should I be calling you Commander, Science Officer, First
Officer, or M. D.? I'm just an old country doctor, and all your titles
are gettin' me a mite confused."

Spock glared at him and all but snatched the medical tricorder from
his hands, ignoring the human's squawk of protest. McCoy glared at
him, but to no avail. The Vulcan was completely focused on his
readings. "Fascinating," he finally commented.

That was what he had to say about the virus bringing down their entire
crew?! Angrily, McCoy snapped, "Ain't it just? Now, are you going to
stand there ooing and ahing over my data, or do you plan to help me do
something about it?"

Spock arched both eyebrows at him. "Your reaction is completely
illogical, doctor. I was merely commenting on the interesting
characteristics of this particular virus, most notably its ability to
disguise itself as other, less damaging entities of similar genetic
makeup. It functions much as the chameleon of your own earth—"

"Can we skip through the natural history lesson and get back to saving
the day?"

"It was an attempt to turn you onto a new perspective on the problem."

"Well, turn me on after we've saved the crew."

All right, that was possibly not the best choice of words he could
have made.

Apparently Spock agreed with that assessment, because his eyes
rocketed upward.

As McCoy turned beet red in embarrassment, he tried to explain, "That
didn't come out the way I meant it."

"That much I had gathered." Spock turned and moved for the turbolift.
"I suggest, doctor, that we continue this conversation in Sickbay."

McCoy moved after him, muttering under his breath, "Hell."

Seemed to him that he hit bottom and just kept on digging.

The ride to Sickbay was one long awkward silence. Or, at least it was
awkward for McCoy. The Vulcan still seemed unfazed by their continued
not-quite-flirtation, and it was confusing McCoy horribly. Most of the
time, if this sort of thing happened to him (which it usually didn't),
both parties were equally shocked and could laugh it off, but with
Spock so damn unresponsive McCoy found himself completely lost as to
how to handle the situation. It was just confounding.

They jostled to a halt and McCoy had never been more thrilled to hear
the distinctive whoosh of doors in his entire life. He moved into the
hallway a little too quickly and to Sickbay with much more than his
common stroll. He needed to put some distance between himself and
Spock if he even hoped to concentrate on the present problem.

Spock immediately proceeded to a computer terminal, while McCoy moved
off toward the lab with his tissue samples.

The computer's analysis was slow going, as expected, and McCoy tried
to busy himself by taking his own readings. Perhaps if he could
pinpoint exactly what was different about him that had allowed for his
continued consciousness, he could figure out an antidote.

As he compared his and Jim's readings on his tricorder, he frowned.
There had to be something here, but damned if he knew—

Spock straightened.

"Spock?" McCoy called out, "you find something?"

"Indeed, Doctor. I ran your identity through the computer, and have
determined that you are who you say you are."

McCoy stared at the Vulcan in disbelief. "You didn't—what in the name
of God made you doubt it?"

"The suspicious circumstances warranted an investigation of all
possibilities, especially when evidence as to the cause of this virus
did not point to a natural or unnatural source conclusively."

McCoy's ire, which had been at a quiet simmer for a good long while,
finally boiled over in full. He was dimly aware that his gesticulating
had become both larger and more emphatic as he all but shouted, "And
so of course it's my fault! Why you green-blooded, pointy-eared robot,
I've been working my tail off to help you find a cure, and all this
while, you thought I was responsible! Believe me, if I had been, I
would have made sure that I took you out first! It would have saved me
a colossal headache!"

Furiously, he turned back to the computer and prayed for results. How
he could have possibly thought this arrogant, self-assured Vulcan to
be attractive was a goddamn mystery. Why, there wasn't one thing—

"I apologize for my suspicion, Doctor," Spock said in a tone that was
somehow softer and more human than any he'd used thus far. "It seemed
logical at the time to suspect you. However, I failed to take into
account the level of stress you must currently be under. To inform you
of my identity check on you was therefore tactless and
counter-productive."

McCoy kept his back to the Vulcan for some seconds, not wanting him to
see the rapid play of shock, amazement and then a slow and quiet smile
moving across his face. It was better not to ruin the moment, or show
just how pleased he really was.

All right, there were a few things about the Vulcan that were more
than acceptable.

When he felt he had sufficient control of himself, McCoy turned and
nodded tersely. "Apology accepted, Mister Spock." Feeling too open at
the moment, and certain undeniable pulls between them far too close to
the surface, McCoy added, "But if you do it again, I'll call you in
for a complete physical every week for the next two months."

Spock's eyebrows kicked up. "I would consider that an extreme
reaction."

"I'm in an extreme kind of mood."

Suddenly, the computer beeped at him, and McCoy felt more than heard
Spock move up to peer at the screen over his shoulder.

"Well I'll be goddamned," McCoy breathed. "It was in the food." Then,
he turned sharply toward Spock. "Where did you get it?"

"I believe," Spock said, "that we refueled last at Starbase 5. It is
likely that we replenished our supplies of base nutrients there."

McCoy nodded, already allowing his mind to move on to the next obvious
question. "I haven't eaten yet, but why hasn't it affected you?"

"One assumes that it is incompatible with my physiology," the Vulcan
stated with infinite calm.

McCoy snorted. "Well, this one doesn't assume a damn thing. Hold
still."

Spock almost frowned, but complied with McCoy curt order. The doctor
felt better now. There were no delicate moments or worrisome
interchanges. There was just him, a virus, and a patient he was trying
to save. He was finally on his home turf.

His tricorder turned to Spock and readings began to come back. McCoy
grimaced. He'd expected as much, but it didn't mean he liked the
results. "It's there, all right," he murmured. "Just getting confused
in the environment."

"Then we have time."

"Not damn much of it, if its rate of mutation is any indicator! This
thing is going to adapt and its going to take you down fast and hard."

"We shall deal with that eventuality when and if it comes," Spock told
McCoy. There was a distinctive edge to his voice.

The doctor wondered if this was a privacy issue. He stated, "We'll
deal with it before then, thank you all the same. I can't lose you."
Realizing how that had sounded, he amended, "The ship can't afford
it."

Spock, after a second's hesitation, sat in the chair next to McCoy's.
"I must point out, Doctor, that curing me will be impossible without a
cure."

"That was some incredible logic, Spock. Did you think of that all by
yourself?"

Spock lifted an eyebrow at the human. "I take it by your response that
you do not have a cure."

"Dammit, Spock—"

"Nor, it seems, an idea for where to start looking."

McCoy slumped and dug the heels of his hands into his aching forehead.
"You know, this really wasn't how I was planning on spending my first
day here."

"Indeed?"

"I was hoping for a nice round of completely unnecessary physicals,
and as I was letting the crew know just how amazingly healthy they
were, I might actually have time to get to know them."

"You appear to be 'getting to know' me," Spock commented gently.

McCoy snorted. "Spock, the day I actually get to know you will be the
day hell freezes over."

The Vulcan didn't seem to have a response to that, and so remained
immobile and silent.

McCoy didn't even have the energy to consider the wording of his last
statement. He'd pretty much resigned himself to constant Freudian
slips while in this man's presence.

After a protracted silence, McCoy continued, "No, Spock, I have no
idea how to cure this damned virus."

Silently, Spock peered at the results. At last, he asked, "So, you are
resigned to let this phage run its course on the ship?"

Oh, that was too horrible to imagine. Just too damn—and Spock had
actually assumed that he would . . .

McCoy's head snapped up and he growled, "I damn well am not! Move over
and let me at that screen."

Spock lifted a single eyebrow but did as McCoy ordered, watching
serenely as the doctor glared furiously at the monitor. There had to
be a way to beat this thing. Every virus had a weakness, and he'd be
jiggered if he didn't figure out the key to this one.

"Start with the basics," he muttered. "Affects?"

"Coma."

McCoy paused for the second it took to glare at Spock. "And why are
they in comas?"

Spock watched him expectantly.

McCoy told him, "Nerve damage. This virus has properties in common
with meningitis."

"So, perhaps a cure for meningitis—"

McCoy shook his head. "I thought about that, but this isn't
meningitis, so the antibodies would be different."

Spock took a turn staring at the readings intently. "Could we
synthesize antibodies?"

McCoy tapped a finger against his lips thoughtfully. "I could, but I'm
worried about the rate of mutation. If we could slow that down, then,
sure, my antibodies would work. If we can't, though, it'll just mutate
and come back stronger than ever."

"What does the virus require to mutate, Doctor?"

McCoy shrugged. "Your usual: darkness, moisture, warmth . . ." he
trailed off, the gears in his head suddenly chugging away madly. Eyes
wide, he turned to his Vulcan companion, "Spock, if we could lower
everyone's body temperature enough . . ." then, he growled. "Dammit,
the two of us couldn't get around to everyone with the antibodies
before they freeze to death!"

Spock seemed to almost be excited at that point, though, and asked
sharply, "Could your antibodies be aerosolized?"

McCoy understood immediately. "We get them into the air and then get
them into the ventilation system . . . Spock, this could work! If we
can synthesize the antibodies small enough that they can permeate the
skin while in the air . . ." he crowed, grasping the Vulcan's wrist
impulsively.

Spock glanced down at his appendage, and McCoy immediately retracted
his hand. "Sorry," he muttered.

"That's quite all right. I have become accustomed to human
emotionalism over the years."

It was a mark of McCoy's excitement that he didn't even respond to the
bait. He was too busy at his computer, punching in orders. As much as
he distrusted technology, he had to admit that there were moments when
he was desperately thankful for the speed and accuracy of a computer's
processing power.

Finally, he nodded. "That should do it. We'll have to give things
about a half hour, and hopefully the computer will have worked up
antibodies for this virus of ours."

Spock was sitting very still, though.

McCoy looked to him sharply. "Spock?" he snapped.

"Doctor," Spock managed, swallowing hard and nearly grimacing. "I
believe that the virus is mutating."

McCoy shot to his feet. "Hell," he breathed. If that thing managed to
mutate so that his antibodies couldn't affect it, Spock was going to
be defenseless. "We can't wait half an hour."

"Doctor, without the antibodies—"

"I'll get them, Spock," McCoy stated, meaning it more than he'd meant
most things in his life. "I'll get 'em in time, but we have to drop
the temperature now."

Spock could manage a tight nod, but little else. "I would suggest," he
gasped, his voice and breathing ragged, "that you put on an
environmental suit."

McCoy nodded and hurried to the EV locker that he'd noticed tucked
into a corner of sickbay. Snagging a suit, he ran back to the Vulcan,
not wanting to leave his side.

The suit itself was a little too big, but would do in a pinch. He kept
his helmet and gloves off for the time being, and slid an arm under
Spock's. Hefting the man as best he could (and marveling that such a
slightly built being could be so all-fired heavy), he pulled Spock to
his feet. "Come on," he muttered, "stay awake at least until you can
modify the environmental controls."

Spock shot him an unreadable look. "Doctor McCoy," he stated, "should
we survive this, I shall take it upon myself to give you a refresher
course on the operations of this ship."

Voice strained under his burden, McCoy managed, "Much obliged."

"It is, of course, for the good of this ship, as your current
ineptitude would most assuredly get us all killed."

"You keep talking like that, and I'm going to drop you where you
stand."

"That would be a more effective threat, Doctor, if it did not seem so
probable already. Perhaps I will add an exercise regimen to your
refresher courses."

Furious, McCoy snapped, "And perhaps I'll add a diet to yours."

"That, Doctor, would be most illogical, as I am at the optimum weight
for a Vulcan of my age and height."

"It was—never mind. Just put one foot in front of the other and I'll
be happy."

"Really, Doctor?"

"No. Shut up."

So, they made their way to the turbolift inch by inch, counting in
steps. When, at last, they moved into the lift, McCoy found them both
practically collapsing against the wall as he grasped for a handle.
Apparently, Spock had the same idea, because both their hands closed
over it at the same time.

Spock looked at him, cocked an eyebrow, and said, "Environmental."

The lift began to move, but neither of them had enough energy to move
their hands. McCoy thought it was maddening, this almost holding
hands. He glanced up, only to find their gazes brushing, then locking.
Spock looked almost puzzled, and then, purposefully blank.

McCoy's stomach leaped up and started dancing madly in abject terror.
'He knows,' McCoy thought, 'oh, my sweet Jesus, he knows. The man's a
touch-telepath! How couldn't he? Oh, Lord, just let the lift swallow
me right now.'

McCoy attempted to scowl. He attempted to glare. Hell, he attempted to
come up with any words, no matter how pathetic or randomly chosen, to
fill this void and break the moment.

Instead, feeling like a prize idiot, all he could manage was to look
down. Unfortunately, his eyes chose to stare at the Vulcan's mouth,
which, if anything, worsened the situation.

He looked back up, and Spock was still blank, studying the doctor
carefully.

McCoy opened his mouth and took a shuddering breath, then, finding
himself dry as the dust, he unconsciously licked his lips.

And Spock's attention was caught by that movement. McCoy, who had
thought that his eyes couldn't possibly get any bigger, wondered if
they were about to fall out and go rolling across the floor.

For a second, Spock moved ever-so-slightly forward. For a second,
McCoy was damn sure that the man was going to kiss him. For a second,
McCoy felt that this was a fine option.

And then, the lift stopped.

They both stared at each other, the moment gone with nothing left but
a goodly amount of shock and embarrassment. McCoy, groping for words,
finally managed an, "Aw, hell."

Spock was a bit more articulate, if also more evasive. "It appears,"
he said, and McCoy thought his voice had dropped about half an octave,
"that we have reached environmental."

Environmental? Environmental what? What did McCoy want with
environmental? Wasn't Spock about to—

Environmental! The plague! The need to stop said virus rushed back
into the turbolift, and McCoy berated himself for forgetting, and for
having a damnably poor sense of timing.

Moving to support the Vulcan once more, McCoy staggered out of the
turbolift, desperately glad that the door to the environmental
controls was the first one on their left. By some miracle, the door
slid immediately open to admit them, and McCoy had to move only one
ensign before they could get at the console itself.

Immediately, Spock dropped into the chair in front of the panel of
buttons and began programming. McCoy tried to keep up, but eventually
went back to moving the unfortunate young woman on the floor to a more
comfortable position.

And then, the computer's androgynous voice rang out, "Twenty seconds
to heat purge."

McCoy turned to see Spock practically dragging himself to another
computer terminal. The doctor hurried up beside him, supporting the
Vulcan the rest of the way. As he watched Spock work at this keyboard,
McCoy began to realize that the instructions seemed familiar.

"You're ordering the computer to replicate my antibodies and vent
them," he realized.

"I am quite aware of that fact," Spock stated in tense irritation, the
pain of the illness tingeing his tone ever so slightly.

"Spock, those antibodies aren't ready yet!" McCoy snapped, getting to
his point.

The Vulcan glanced up at him, his face drawn and haggard. "Then,
Doctor, might I suggest that you take this seat and encourage the
computer to work with more dispatch. Time is of the essence. I have
tied this console into the sickbay lab terminal, so even you shall be
able to control it."

McCoy scowled at Spock and snapped, "Budge up, Spock. Let me at those
damn controls."

Spock, however, didn't move.

"Spock?"

"I . . ." Spock managed, before pitching over the console in a coma.

"Spock!" McCoy yelped, dashing to the man's side, already knowing what
he was going to encounter. The virus had mutated, making it a
completely different creature than that which was currently affecting
the rest of the crew.

"Specified antibodies synthesized," the computer stated. Then, after a
pause, "Heat venting in progress."

McCoy frantically drew a sample of blood from Spock, dashing through
the door. He had to get to the sickbay and come up with antibodies for
this new virus, too, or the irritating, attracting Vulcan was most
certainly going to die. He wished he could remain with Spock while he
did it, but tied into his computer or no, that console simply didn't
have the equipment he would need for this procedure.

So, McCoy dashed into the turbolift once more, bouncing impatiently on
the balls of his feet for the entire ride. When the lift reached his
deck at last, McCoy dashed out, dodging unconscious crewmen and
shivering as he moved to his blessedly familiar doors. They were far
less inviting, though, now that the temperature was noticeably
dropping. He'd have to pick up his helmet and gloves from sickbay
while he was at it.

Once he reached the lab, McCoy was a blur of busy energy, dashing from
console to console, inputting Spock's virus, ordering the computer to
work up antibodies for that, and then comparing and contrasting the
two strains with his own eyes. Yes, there were differences, he noted,
but hopefully none so great that they couldn't be overcome in time. It
had to be the factor of the blood, he thought. Vulcanoid copper-based
blood was definitely the major factor that would affect this virus. At
least, McCoy hoped that it was the case. If the differences were in
Vulcan's highly advanced nerve cells, then he was going to get
completely lost. Alien physiology had never been his strong point.

It was a terrible wait, even though McCoy busied himself pulling on
his gloves and helmet to protect his freezing face and fingers. He
pitied all the pour souls he'd exposed to this sort of cold, even if
it was to save their lives.

Especially Spock, with his desert-dweller body temperature. The
hypothermia would get to him fastest . . .

"Dammit," he growled, staring at the humming computer. "Work!"

By then, he could feel the cold even through the suit, and his Petri
dishes were solidifying with delicate laces of ice.

"God almighty," McCoy breathed, his voice echoing hollowly in the
confines of the helmet, "work, please."

He should have known that it did no good pleading with an inanimate
piece of equipment. The computer hummed, but did not respond.

So, he took to pacing. Back and forth, staring hard at each and every
new piece of equipment, trying to memorize its uses and functions.
Anything to keep him busy.

Beep went his lab console, and McCoy tore to the machine, staring at
the results. Without hesitation, he jammed a hypospray capsule into
the appointed slot and heard it fill. Then, he typed in the order to
begin the distribution of the human antibody through the ventilation
system. Thankfully, Spock had made that task extremely easy, and it
only required a final confirmation from McCoy to initiate.

From there it was a mad dash back to environmental, where Spock still
lay across the computer terminal. Trying to focus beyond the fear,
McCoy laid him out on the floor, the man's ashen pallor worrying him.
McCoy pressed the hypospray to Spock's neck, pumping the antibodies
directly into his bloodstream, and then pressing his fingers to the
spot, searching for a pulse, only to realize that he couldn't feel it
through the gloves.

Cursing the gloves and his haste, which made him forget his tricorder,
McCoy jerked the offending piece of EV suit off his hand, gasping as
the extreme cold hit him hard. He groped at Spock's chilled skin and
found his heart to be beating in a slow, thready rhythm.

The Vulcan was in shock and had at least a moderate case of
hypothermia to go along with it. Neither of those eventualities was
good, and together they were potentially deadly. Spock had to get
warm, and he had to do it fast.

McCoy knew what he had to do. The temperature must be brought up,
before it did more damage than good. McCoy pulled himself to his feet
and moved purposefully to the computer console.

The environmental controls weren't nearly as foreign as the
navigational station, but they were still bad enough. McCoy ripped off
his helmet and barked, "Computer, how in hell do I restore the
temperature?"

"That operation must be performed through environmental controls."

"I'm at the damn controls! What do I do now?"

Thank God for helpful software, McCoy thought, as the computer, after
some angry coaxing, began to lead him through the task step by step.
He painstakingly sought out the correct buttons and toggles, having to
scan the console for each new and unfamiliar mechanism. It had taken
Spock about thirty seconds to input all of this. McCoy had already
passed five minutes hunting and pecking at the console.

And then, triumphantly, he punched in the command to bring the
temperature back up.

Nothing happened.

McCoy felt his stomach drop and his mind work frantically. What had he
missed? He'd done everything the computer had ordered him to do. He
ran his hands over the console desperately, shocked at how blue the
ends of his fingers had become.

"Temperature restoration in progress," the computer suddenly
enunciated. "Please stand by."

McCoy let out a frantic whoop of joy and surged to his feet.

Then, he glanced down at Spock.

Those five minutes of work hadn't done him any good. His skin was a
pale sea-foam green, and his lips were barely purple.

McCoy's next action was instinctual. He skinned out of the EV suit,
shaking with the cold now that he was fully exposed, and fell to his
knees next to the unconscious Vulcan, grasping him and pulling him
close. It was best, he reminded himself. Transfer of body heat was the
fastest way to bring someone's temperature back up.

He was hit, suddenly, by how tired he was. The cold wasn't nearly as
bad when he closed his eyes, he thought blearily. Medical thoughts of
hypothermia seemed to flit in and out of his mind, none tangible
enough to lay hold of and focus on.

Just a short nap, then. He needed to lie down to keep Spock close,
anyway . . .

---

"Bones? Bones!"

McCoy's eyes opened blearily, only to realize that he was lying on the
ground, wrapped securely around the First Officer, with the captain
standing over them both.

"It was the hypothermia!" he blurted.

Kirk nodded, discreetly not mentioning their rather precarious
position. Spock, however, stirred and did so for him. "Doctor, would
you mind getting up? I find that you have disrupted circulation to one
of my legs."

Embarrassed as all hell, McCoy pulled himself to his feet.

"Bones," Kirk said in a cross tone, "the strangest thing happened. One
minute, I'm feeling a little under the weather, and the next I'm
waking up on the floor of the bridge. Any explanations?"

"A plague," McCoy said. At the captain's shocked look, he filled in
all the details, with frequent corrections and interjections from the
now fully-recovered Spock, who was back to irritating McCoy with a
vengeance. Both of them, however, left out certain aspects of the day,
most notably their near-kiss on the turbolift. Apparently, even Vulcan
honestly only went so far.

At last, Kirk nodded slowly, satisfied with the explanation, if still
a bit mystified that so much had happened so quickly, and even a bit
disappointed that he had missed out on the action. However, he seemed
to shake that off, and slowly a grin spread across his face.
Apparently, Jim Kirk found something about this damnable situation
very funny. "Seems that you had a busy first day," he said.

"Jim, if I didn't think that your understatement was deliberate, I'd
smack you upside the head." Spock started, and McCoy added, grinning
devilishly, "Superior officer be damned."

Kirk threw back his head and laughed at the image that conjured up.
"Welcome to the Enterprise, Doctor McCoy."

He managed a wan smile. "Thanks, Jim."

Kirk shook his head. "An interstellar plague on your first day . . .
get some rest, Bones. It looks like you and Spock were the only ones
who didn't get it the first time around."

And Kirk, who seemed to shake off the horrors of the day like a duck
with water, moved out of the environmental control room. The young
lady who had been in there with them seemed to have already woken and
left.

Which just left him and Spock.

"Listen—" McCoy started, but was quickly cut off.

"Doctor," Spock said, "the next time you attempt to sleep with me, I
would prefer to be conscious."

And, with perfect serenity, Spock turned and walked out of the room.

It was going to be a damn interesting five years.

---

The End