“Sorry?” he asks harshly. “You’re sorry? Why? It’s not you that missed the poison; not your fault he’s in agony; not your responsibility if he dies,” he continues, voice breaking on the last word. You have no response to this. The doctor’s face is contorted in pain, just as Spock’s was— is.
After a minute, he composes himself, and says gruffly, “I better check your head again. You seem to be a magnet for cranial injuries.”
You comply, mostly because your vision is starting to go all wobbly again. You feel so off, in fact, that you think that the ragged voice is just your imagination.
“Doctor,” it says, softer than a whisper.
You think it’s just your imagination, that is, until Bones hears it too:
You both freeze and wait for him to speak again.
scotty’s just like “gurrrrl”
His usually emotionless mask of a face is contorted with pain. He keeps doing these little spasm things, like he’s trying to curl up around his wound, but you doubt that he is able to move enough to accomplish even that. Spock’s convulsions provoke a fresh gush of green ichor from his punctured abdomen, staining both the examination table and the medically sterile white tiles that you (and other concerned parties) are standing upon.
The nurse’s shining blue eyes widen in fear, then narrow in determination. She catches the doctor’s gaze and manages to hold it.
“Spock is not going to die.”
“Not while I’m still breathin’, he’s not.”