ill-ogical

Dr. Leonard McCoy is always fidgety. It's probably part of why he and Jim Kirk are such good friends, and then again why the two of them plus their Vulcan first officer make such a damn good triumvirate.

It's always why he's seen as such a good doctor. His keel is necessarily relatively even, if he's always jumpy, and when he's serious then it's really, truly serious. Deathly. Grieving-caliber stuff.

So right now, in the transporter room, as he's twitching for Scotty's comm terminal to ping in the whereabouts of the last member of the landing party, he can jump from heels to balls as much as he wants, and he'll just look impatient, if anybody's looking at him (Scotty isn't, except in briefest split-second glances of his own agitation, and Kyle's coolly concentrated).

But he is nervous. The fact that the captain's hustled himself back to the bridge, and can't be in there waiting with him, is half of it, he'll explain it away. Spectators love company as they're awaiting the verdict of misery. Lone members have a harder time subverting the art of catastrophize.

"Hang in there, Mr. Spock, we're bringin' ya in now!"

Scotty's shouted whisper is what brings McCoy out of his shifty self-consideration, just in time for him to flick his eyes to the transporter pad and watch Spock's form materialize.

He's hunched, two fingertips and a thumb of a left hand glued to the floor while his right hand grips his tricorder pouch. No hand over his heart, then. Good. Good, good, good.

Spock doesn't stand up, however. Not immediately, anyway. The hesitation's something he feels like ignoring.

McCoy knows if he were sitting down his leg'd be jumping. He bites his lip and steps forward, affecting his best sardonic - traditional, even - tone.

"Well, Spock. It seems we almost lost you there. And I can't tell you how thrilled I am that you decided to join us again. I can only hope that you feel the same."

Still no rise out of the Vulcan, literal or figurative. Hands clasped and boots postured, McCoy's wrists start to wring.

"Spock?"

When Spock finally does stand, it's slowly, precious slowly. McCoy feels his own odd eyebrow float up, ridged back into the jamb of his skull.

And then he's up, but his eyebrows aren't.

McCoy frowns, locks his hands behind his waist.

Something almost like a smile crosses the Vulcan's face. Certainly, it's throwing victory.

"You were worried."

The doctor's face takes on an even more constipated look than usual.

"That would be...illogical."

His lips take then another consternated twist.

Spock ponders this, as they walk. He knows that McCoy is, astonishingly, objectively correct. It is illogical to submit to the psychological stressors that arise when a close colleague or companion is endangered, in such a way that one's performance efficiency, whether or not that strictly considered to fall within the line of duty, is compromised. One may certainly be conscious of the situation, and take whatever action necessary to ameliorate it, but one must not be unduly worried.

Yet.

Spock cannot shake the distinctly Human-Vulcan hybrid emotion that is shrewd smugness seeing logic turned on its head.

He so rarely succeeds in arguing over the good doctor when the topics discussed do not concern insult to the heritage of one officer or the other. It is not logical to consider an advantage built atop vipes of "hobgoblin" and "potions-beads-rattles" when those statements represent the peak of uncontested immaturity, particularly at their current societal advancement marker.

In other words: Dr. McCoy's illogical worry, so characteristic for him in all cases except, nominally, that of Mr. Spock, seems to be the perfect perfectly logical opportunity for Spock to render him verbally, mentally, intellectually undressed.

"Would it? Then you are, Doctor, admitting to your emotional weakness, and deeming it as such?"

McCoy spits.

"Get on the biobed."

Spock's heart is warm and languid, and for the moment he dismisses the possibility of bodily danger.