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It takes him a few minutes of frantic searching, but eventually he finds a quiet, out-of-the-way place to throw up. Going to his knees in the dust makes his whole body ache, but he suspects some of that is the fault of the Fal-tor-pan. Everything is sore and has been since he opened up his eyes on Mount Seleya and found an emptiness inside him where Spock's katra used to be. He'd been unsteady on his feet, grateful to Sarek for walking with him down to the others. Now he hopes never to get to his feet again.
When it's done, he sags against the stone wall and puts his face in his hands. He doesn't cry—maybe that's a holdover from carrying Spock—but he'd almost like to do so. It might get some of this, whatever this is, out of him.
Oh, God. His stomach lurches again and the noise that comes out, high and whining and afraid, shames him. He's dizzy, chilled, dimly aware that he's shaking. It occurs to him he might be in shock, but from what? The Fal-tor-pan? If it were that kind of danger, why wouldn't it have taken effect during the ritual? His chest is tight. Breathing gets harder with each passing moment. Despite how much his body aches, he tries to struggle to his feet and fails, managing only to pitch forward onto his hands and knees in the mess he's made. The warm damp slickness on his bare skin makes him vomit again, and, miraculously, tears spring to his eyes. It doesn't make him feel better.
He cries himself unconscious behind that wall and is oddly glad of it.
His first thought is how cold it is. He's not even sure he's still on Vulcan, it's so cold. When he forces his eyes open, though, he recognizes the room as Vulcan in design. He tries to get up, and a Vulcan passing by the bed comes to keep him down.
"Rest," she says. "We are not versed in human physiology. There is a possibility that you may still be affected."
"Affected by what?" he snaps, but he knows. They both know.
"Lie down," she says instead. "I will fetch your captain."
"That's not necessary." Jim will be at Spock's side, no doubt; it's hard to begrudge him that. None of them will be helped by tearing him away from the man he loves.
She raises an eyebrow. "Is there another I should get instead?"
"No. I'm fine." She gives him a doubtful look. "I am! I'm just... freezing. Why's it so damned cold in here?"
"The temperature is attuned to Vulcan standards. I will bring you another blanket."
He'd complain, but (he notices suddenly) he is shaking again. When she presses his shoulder, he doesn't fight her—lets her pin him down. She leaves him, and he turns his back to the door and quietly sobs. He doesn't fully understand why.
By the time he's out of tears, the Vulcan returns with Jim at her side. He recognizes the voices. He doesn't turn around.
"I can't leave either of you alone for a minute," Jim jokes, but he's too exhausted to respond. "Bones?"
He should really turn around. Smile at Jim. Convince him that things are fine, even though they're not.
"Bones." A hand touches his shoulder, and he bites his knuckles to keep from sobbing aloud. "You're worrying me, old man."
Words don't come to him, even though he tries so hard, and Jim tugs at his shoulder until he rolls to his back. He doesn't want to open his eyes.
Jim's voice sounds embarrassed as he asks, "Bones, have you been... crying?"
He opens swollen eyes. Jim's a beautiful sight despite everything. Someone has been at the scrape on his forehead with a dermal regenerator, and he looks freshly scrubbed. His brow is wrinkled in concern.
"Are you in pain? Should I get a doctor?" He presses his hand gently. "I need you to talk to me, doc."
Why should he care now when he didn't in the aftermath of the Fal-tor-pan?
That's an unfair thought. Jim was naturally concerned for Spock, who had literally been dead. He couldn't tend to them both at the same time.
"You're freezing." Jim puts the back of his free hand to his forehead, then cups his cheek. Fresh hot tears burn at his eyes. "Why do they have it so cold in here?"
Wherever Jim has been, it clearly wasn't this cold, because his hands are warm. He can't help but lean in, pressing his face into the comfort.
"Damn it, Bones, say something." Jim's eyes are fixed on his, he can tell, even if his own eyes are blurred with tears. "Please."
He gathers up his strength and asks, "Spock?"
For a moment Jim is silent.
"He's well," he says at last. "Still coming back to himself, I think. His father took him somewhere. But what happened to you? They said they found you—"
"Good," he croaks. "I'm good."
"I don't know if I believe that."
Doesn't matter what he believes. He leans back against the pillow and closes his eyes again. His body still aches, and parts of him are so sensitive that the feel of his clothes against him hurts. The nausea, at least, has eased.
"Can we get another blanket in here?" Jim snaps at someone. "Bones, I need you to stay with me. I know it's a lot to ask of you right now, but I need you here. With me."
He doesn't have it in him to refuse. Even like this he will do anything Jim asks. He cracks open his eyes. The blur that must be Jim chuckles.
"I thought you might have some wetness in the eyes. Now, will you tell me what's going on?"
It's hard to tell. It could be his body catching up with the trauma of having part of his very soul ripped from Spock's. It could be that multiple doses of lexorin is too much for one old man to take. Or maybe he's just weak. Just a weak, pathetic, old...
"Hey. Hey." Jim's thumb moves across his face, smearing the tears that spill over. "That's not an answer, Bones. Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"
At this moment one of the Vulcans returns with a blanket. She spreads it over his body, tucking it in around his aching legs. It's really no warmer than the first blanket, but he's grateful for the distraction.
"What is happening to him?" Jim demands.
"He is reacting in some way to the Fal-tor-pan. It is difficult to be more specific than that. We do not have a human specialist on staff, and the ritual is undocumented medically."
Jim sighs impatiently. "I guess it's up to you, Bones. What sort of symptoms are you having?"
"Nausea. Chills." He swallows thickly. "I'm sure it will pass."
"But what can we do now?"
If he knew that, he wouldn't be here.
The Vulcan clears her throat. "I can give you a tranquilizer, diluted for human consumption. You could sleep through the worst of it."
That's so very tempting. He looks to Jim, and Jim strokes his thumb over his cheek.
"Whatever you think will help," he says.
He nods to the Vulcan, and she excuses herself. Jim watches her leave, still absent-mindedly petting him.
"I wish you'd come to us," he says at last. "I hate to think of you out there..."
The touch feels good, but reluctantly he pushes his hand away. "You had more important things to worry about."
Jim sighs again as he gazes down at him. "I had two important things to worry about it. I should have sent someone with you. Scotty, or Chekov, or..." He hesitates. "I mean, look at you. When did you last eat?"
"I don't..."
"No wonder you're nauseous. You're starving, and you're freezing, and—" He takes him by the shoulders and squeezes. “—you're so frail a good breeze would knock you over."
"Jim..."
Jim sounds almost close to tears. "I could probably get both hands around your entire waist..."
"Jim. It's alright." He gets hold of Jim's wrists and squeezes weakly. "I'm just... tired. I'll sleep it off, and it'll be okay."
But Jim clearly doesn't believe him. Truth be told, the nausea is coming back, and he's not sure he believes himself. But now that he has Jim's attention, he's ashamed of wanting it.
A small mercy unfolds in that the Vulcan returns, a hypo in her hand. She gently but decisively nudges Jim aside, then asks, "You still want the sedation?" And when he nods: "Be still, now."
The hypo touches his neck so lightly it nearly tickles, and then she triggers it. He can feel it bloom into his bloodstream.
It takes a moment for the tranquilizer to kick in. He looks over at Jim, and Jim looks back. There's nothing left to say. He closes his eyes and sleeps.
He wakes feeling somewhat better, if still chilled and a little sore. Another Vulcan walks him back to the rest of the humans in the Bird-of-Prey. All of them are delighted to see him, they say, and sorry he's been so ill. He gives them what he thinks they want: a dismissive smile and a way out. He takes the furthest console position and sits back to watch.
Jim wakes him again some time later, and he's bleary and confused. Sarek has come to take them. Take who? Take where? The two of them, Jim says, and he hasn't asked.
Sarek says nothing as he leads them to what appears to be a home of some kind, but as he holds the door for them to enter he nods in acknowledgement. It seems an encouraging gesture, at least.
Inside, the home is sparsely decorated, clearly not Sarek and Amanda's. The walls are a plain tan, the floor covered with rugs in deep reds and browns, like leaves in the fall. The daylight is bright in the high window. Sitting on a long loveseat, dressed in plain black, is Spock.
His knees nearly go at the sight of him. He's here. He's alive. He's safe. He has just enough time to sit down on a nearby chair before he hits the floor. Spock raises an eyebrow at him, and he smiles back as cheerfully as he can. Jim joins them in another chair. For a moment, no one speaks.
At last, Spock says, "It would appear that you both have been a friend to me."
Jim looks to him, then says to Spock, "We have been and ever shall be."
"I am grateful, though there are still things that could be... clearer." Spock's hands are folded loosely in his lap. "My father said he initially believed the katra was with you. Why did he assume that, when it was in fact with Dr. McCoy?"
He flinches internally. Because Spock has always loved and trusted Jim, of course. "I imagine it was your intention to give it to him, and you used me instead because I was the only one in arm's reach when the time came."
"Bones..."
But Spock holds up a hand. "I would like to hear the doctor's opinion."
He's still feeling sore, for whatever reason, though at least the chills are easing back. He folds his arms over his chest and tries not to think about the symptoms. "The truth is, Jim is the one who's always been your friend. You and I, we were never close the way you and he were. And like I said, I happened to be handy at the time you needed a vessel for your soul."
"A vessel," Spock repeats. "Is that all that you are?"
Jim starts to kick up a fuss, but he says, "Yes," and feels relief for having done so.
"Assuming this to be true, circumstances have changed. Vessel or no, you carried my katra. You submitted to what might have been a death sentence."
"Having to run around with you in my head would have killed me just as easily," he tries to joke, but neither of them laugh.
"I'm told you have suffered even with the katra back in my body."
Somebody should have kept that to themselves. "I can't say for sure what caused it. It may have been side effects of the lexorin."
Spock frowns at him, but he's never let the point-eared bastard cow him before, and it won't happen now. He stares right back.
"And why did you take lexorin?" Spock asks at last.
Okay, he should have seen that coming. He keeps looking, though, heart going a hundred miles an hour, and Spock calmly looks back. His stomach churns.
"Bones."
Jim reaches out a hand, but he shrugs him off. "I'm fine."
"He hasn't eaten," Jim says to Spock, and he turns to glare at him, too. "You've done nothing but self-sacrifice and sleep since we got here. Spock deserves the truth."
"And what about you? Have you told him about how this little adventure cost you your son?" Jim doesn't reply. "I'm not the only one who's suffered to get us here."
For a moment, all that can be heard is the wind outside. He leans over sideways—reflux burning him up inside, and it hurts to be upright—and tries to focus on breathing. He misses the tranquilizer badly.
"Jim mentioned deaths," Spock says. "He did not inform me that one was his son."
"Whom I barely knew. Carol is the one who's grieving, not me. And that is beside the point."
"Is it?" he snaps.
Spock holds up his hand again. "I do not wish you to think me ungrateful, Dr. McCoy. I merely wanted to understand our relationship."
"There isn't one, not like you have with Jim."
"Then perhaps there should be." Spock sits forward on the loveseat. "May I meld with you?"
This all feels like a cruel joke, and offering this is the most sadistic thing yet. "Why not? I've literally carried you in my mind. It's not like I have anything to hide."
Spock gestures him to the other side of the loveseat, and he creaks to his feet and obeys. Familiar fingers settle into place on his face, and he closes his eyes to hold back unexpected tears. Then there is a warmth in Spock's hands, and he feels himself melt into the touch.
It's like the void where T'Lar pulled out the katra is filled again, gently this time, and in a form that's so entirely like Spock. In terms of melds, it's like nothing he's felt before.
The presence, if that's what it is, wraps itself around him, inspecting the damage done—because the presence recognizes it as damage, the crude surgery of a ritual developed entirely in myth. There's a sympathy in the presence that's so tender it hurts.
I am sorry, it says in Spock's voice. You have been badly hurt trying to save me.
Small price to pay for a man's life.
I can't undo the damage, but...
But what?
...I can take away the pain.
What?
I asked you to remember. I can help you to forget.
Damn it, Spock, can you just for once speak like a human?
I can erase your memories of the pain, of being left behind, of being afraid.
He almost says yes. He almost wants to forget. but this is a deal he's heard before, in fairy tales and fables, and he knows the price. I would forget everything else, though, wouldn't I?
The presence says, Yes.
And despite the pain, he knows he won't do it. He carried his friend. He doesn't want to lose the knowledge of that. Appreciate the offer, Spock, but I'm gonna have to decline.
The presence does not seem surprised. It fills him, and it falls back.
Slowly, he becomes aware that his body is heavier than he can hold alone. He's warm now, not chilled at all, and the soreness has eased. Jim is on one side, holding his arm, and Spock is on his other side, hand firmly on his shoulder, as he lies back against the loveseat.
"Bones," Jim is saying. "Still with me?"
He doesn't have the wherewithal to answer, but he turns his head to him and smiles. Jim's concerned expression crumbles into an answering smile, and he reaches his free hand up to brush aside his hair. Those damnable eyes are so warm he barely feels the chill anymore.
"Jim," Spock says beside him, "there is a kettle in the kitchen. Will you go and bring us a cup of tea?"
Tea sounds nice. He watches Jim go with an almost painful fondness in his heart before turning to look at Spock.
"Doctor," he says. "Leonard. It is incorrect to say that there isn't a relationship between us. Perhaps you are right in that it isn't like the one between Jim and myself, but it is there. I gave you my katra because I trust you. You carried me when I couldn't carry myself. I can think of no one better suited to the task."
It takes all his strength to scoff. "Jim..."
"Jim is a good man. He made the way for you to bring my katra here. But you carried it, Leonard. You chose the danger."
Hearing his own words echoed back at him stirs him enough that he tries to sit up. How could Spock possibly know to use that exact phrase? But he doesn't have it in him to sustain the curiosity. He lets his head lean back against the loveseat and watches Spock watch him.
When Jim returns with a cup of what seems by smell to be Tarkalean tea, he lets them help him drink a little, just enough to settle his stomach.
"It's, ah..." He clears his throat. "It's good to have you back, Spock."
Spock merely raises his eyebrows at him, but it's an expression he never dreamed he'd see again, and it pleases him. Jim sets aside the tea and joins them on the loveseat, and the three of them sit in silence for a long time. Soon they'll have to face the music with Starfleet. For now, it's enough to be together.