It still felt strange looking at Spock, but the residual uneasiness was fading. The other Spock had a calculated edge, a cruelty under the surface, about him that this one didn't have, and frankly, this Spock just had a virtual free pass at his brain, and could have done anything or searched for anything. As far as McCoy knew, Spock hadn't. Even after all the mouthing off too. He really called the man a half-breed, didn't he? McCoy's mouth tugged into a grimace.

McCoy's eyes went back to the ceiling. Regrettable. Regrettable was not being able to save a limb or fully heal a bad break in a bone. He wouldn't call what happened to him just "regrettable", but that was Vulcan understatement for you. "I'm sure he would have said it was only the most logical course of action." Realizing he'd just implied this Spock could ever be in the same boat, McCoy muttered a sheepish "Sorry."

What a loaded question. McCoy was feeling exhausted, embarrassed he ever thought the other Spock had any honor in him, stunned by what happened, sore like he had whiplash; he could go on and on. He could still feel the memory of Joana's hand slipping away, just like he had the first time. He searched around and found it was still gone. So where some of his other memories. Spock couldn't restore something that had been clean burnt out, but he had done what he could. McCoy didn't think he could complain. The alternative, completely losing his mind, was much worse.

None of which were what Spock as asking. He'd be interested in the more literal aspect, the physical portion. What McCoy did emotionally wasn't something he'd be interested in. "Like I've got the mother of all hangovers. Help me up, will you?"