To call me Lenore. We're off-duty. Good lord. [She rolls her eyes at him and drains the last of her synthehol, setting the empty cup down on her half-eaten tray and then pushing the whole thing to the side so she can rest her elbow on the table surface and her chin in her palm.] You're impossible.
[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
I assure you, I am not impossible. I do exist, Lenore, and am not a figment of your imagination. [ He could not resist the raised eyebrow, or the slightest curl of his lip. ] Unless you make it a habit to imagine conversations with me when you are inebriated.
[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
You know what I mean. [She picks up one of the wrappers she's rolled into a ball and flicks it at him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again.] And my imagined conversations usually end with me winning, so. [He rarely follows the script she writes for him when she makes up conversations in her head whilst in the shower or on the treadmill, but that tends to happen with her scripted thoughts, so whatever.
She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
[ The indignity! Spock's eyes widen for a brief second as the wrapper hits his forehead, and he fishes up the wrapper, flicking it back. ] That is why they are imagined conversations, not actual.
[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
[The look on his face when she brains him with the chocolate wrapper is so indignant and shocked that she can't help the bark of laughter it forces from her lips, laughter that she immediately tries to stifle by slapping her hand over her mouth.] I'm sorry! [But he gets her back by flicking it right back at her, and somehow she finds herself returning the gesture. Are they going to play table hockey with chocolate wrappers? Maybe.] I need all the practice I can get, going up against you.
[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
[ Her apology, hardly sincere with that laughter, only gets a glare, and when that wrapper she shoots at him goes skidding off the table, he crumples up another one, flicking it back.
Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
[Lenore may have been an only child, but she's competitive enough to mean that there's no way she's going to let him best her in any sort of endeavor, and certainly not in table-top wrapper-hockey.
She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
[ The competitive nature of most of the crew is one thing that draws them together. They can work together (nearly) seamlessly, but they continue to push each other to be better, turn it into something of a competition.
Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
[Bones can't help laughing, the surprised sound bubbling up out of her as he flicks wrapper after wrapper at her, scrambling a defense and then mounting her own offense strategy in order to win.
The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
[ Spock is not a playful person by nature, but it might simply be that the playfulness of Vulcans is defined differently from that of humans. This certainly feels playful, even by human standards.
He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
[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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
no subject
[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
no subject
She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
no subject
[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
no subject
[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
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Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
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She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
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Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
Death is a part of life we must learn to accept.
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The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
That doesn't make it easy to do so.
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He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
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. ]