[Lenore can be uncharacteristically playful when she's happy. She's almost surprised to find how happy she feels, sitting here with Spock, of all people, but here she is, playing table soccer with him with bits and pieces of chocolate wrappers.
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
[ Spock fervently does not want Jim to see him in such a state. He knows the captain and knows that he will spend the rest of their five year mission trying to escape the handful of chocolate that will be shoved at him at any given moment.
No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]
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no subject
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
I...did not handle it admirably.
no subject
No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]