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The mission is over, the galaxy has been saved once again, the triumphant heroes will shortly make their way home to collect their share of honour and glory, and McCoy has escaped from the inevitable party to lose himself in depressed musings on the smaller observation deck.
It’s not that he doesn’t feel relieved; he does appreciate the fact that the galaxy hasn’t been left to the mercy of a foul-tempered would-be god. As for his contribution to this glorious deed ...
He sighs. Nobody cares, because he’s alone; everybody else has more sense than to hang around here at such a godforsaken hour, especially after a day like this, and stare at the anything but paradisiacal planet beyond the Great Barrier as it sparkles innocently against the endless vacuum of space, reminding you of the insignificance of your own problems. But McCoy has always been good at ruining an evening for himself, and right now he sees no reason to break the pattern.
Sure, the galaxy has been saved, good has triumphed and so on, and McCoy didn’t end up as a pile of ash on the planet beyond the observation window. But – and that’s the problem: there’s always a but. In his case, it can be summarised pretty quickly: God, he feels so stupid. (And used, and hurt, but he doesn’t want to think about that, so he sticks with stupid.)
He should go back to the party before anybody notices that he’s up here, wallowing in self-pity. People would notice, wouldn’t they? Surely somebody will eventually realise that he’s gone. Maybe somebody will realise, and maybe somebody will even care, even though most of the crew might be too drunk by now to think about anything but intergalactic peace, joy, sunshine and rainbows.
Another unfortunate but: McCoy’s age doesn’t mean that he has become wiser in every respect. Instead, it only means that he’s become better at realising when he’s behaving absurdly, and that he’s no longer allowed to hide behind the foolishness of youth. It also means that he can allow himself a certain degree of stubbornness, however, and stay here after all.
He leans his head against the observation window. To his right, the Klingon Bird-of-Prey slides into his field of vision, the energy ribbon of the Great Barrier shimmers on the left, and far away from it all there’s a blue planet where, just maybe, Joanna McCoy is also awake right now because the children didn’t let her sleep or because, for some inexplicable reason, she feels as melancholic as her fool of a father. Not that McCoy hopes so; it’s just that he feels closer to his daughter now than he usually does during such short missions. He doesn’t want to think about the reasons for that, either. Tomorrow – today, later, at a more civilised hour – he will call Joanna, although that will deviate from their usual rhythm.
Going back to the party would feel like some sort of defeat, but it would be the most sensible course of action. Apparently, nobody actually noticed his absence, or nobody cares enough to look for him. Of course, he didn’t exactly want anybody to look for him, but – well. He’s being unfair to his friends, really. Kirk would have pushed aside his duties as host if McCoy had asked him for some quiet company, and Spock would have –
“Doctor.”
He manages not to flinch. At least, here’s one thing he has become good at: keeping his calm when nosey Vulcans sneak up on him.
Spock comes to stand next to him, his eyes on the planet. McCoy didn’t hear him enter the room, which is normal, but he didn’t hear the characteristic whoosh of the doors either, and that means that he was either too distracted or is simply going senile.
“You didn’t need to look for me,” he says.
“I know,” Spock replies. In the past, he would have said I am aware, and he wouldn’t have looked so relaxed, and that’s both comforting and just a little frightening. Sometimes it’s safer to retreat behind the pretence of distance.
“I don’t need company.”
“I am afraid I have to disagree.”
Spock turns to him, slightly inclining his head. Gentle humour hides in voice, behind his eyes and the arch of his eyebrows, and McCoy wonders how anybody could ever think that this man doesn’t feel. He has always known that Spock feels more deeply than most people around him; now he wonders how he could ever have been blind enough to assume that Spock can’t express those feelings. Perhaps he can blame that on the ignorance of his younger years, at least.
If McCoy asked him to leave, Spock would undoubtedly comply or at least retreat out of sight. But, and that’s one of the most annoying things about this particular Vulcan: he’s usually right, especially when the emotional state of humans is involved. It’s frustrating and not at all endearing.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” McCoy says anyway, even though that’s not entirely true. He doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is that he wasn’t ready for what happened on the other observation deck. He’s never ready.
“All right.”
“All right?”
It surprises him. He’d expected Spock to try and force a therapeutic session on him – and then he immediately curses himself for that thought. This isn’t just about him; of course it shouldn’t be about him. Spock has lost his brother, McCoy only part of his dignity and autonomy, and that’s nothing new, nothing compared to what Spock and Kirk have been going through, and he’s an idiot.
He automatically leans closer to Spock. Spock doesn’t move away. “What about you, Spock? Are you okay? I know you told me you’re doing fine, but –“
Spock still looks vaguely amused. “That was no lie,” he says. “If it will help you to reassure yourself of my state of mind and speak to me about my loss again, you are welcome to do so, but it is not necessary.”
“Oh.”
So he’s really here because –
“I don’t want to talk about that,” McCoy repeats.
“As I said: all right.”
They stand in silence for a while, following the Bird-of-Prey with their eyes. McCoy counts Spock’s breaths (slower than his own, perfectly within the normal range for a Vulcan/Human hybrid of Spock’s age) until he can’t take it anymore. Yes, he’s a fool, but Spock knows that and is still here, so it’s probably okay.
“You didn’t try to stop him,” McCoy says, and God, he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to burden Spock with it, too, but – on that other observation deck, Sybok singled him out first, just as the Archons and Korob and Sylvia and Spock’s lovely counterpart from the mirror universe had singled him out, and his friends just watched. They didn’t try to stop it, and it hurt, and a shamefully needy, unfair part of McCoy doesn’t want to deal with this hurt alone.
“Yes,” Spock says. A feeling of ancient inevitability hides behind the word. “And for that I apologise. Although I was able to resist Sybok, it would be a lie to claim that his powers had no effect on me. When he ...” He hesitates and then abandons the sentence altogether, and that’s the final proof that their latest mission meant more for them all than just a fruitless search for God. “I do not wish to make excuses. I apologise.”
McCoy looks away. “Doesn’t matter, it’s okay.”
And it is, in a way. After all, Spock has come here to tell him all this and to make sure that McCoy doesn’t drown in the sea of his gloomy thoughts, and that has to be enough.
Silence takes hold of them again, and again McCoy can’t stand it for long. Damn it, Spock’s here, so they’re going to do it properly now, just get it over with and never talk about it again; or at least not until the next disaster forces emotional confessions on them, or until McCoy feels less shaky.
“It didn’t even last, you know?” he quietly tells the planet beyond the window. “That’s what’s so ridiculous about the whole thing. I really thought Sybok had taken that pain from me completely, like it was that easy. Like all you have to do is wave a magic wand and hey, suddenly you can accept one of the biggest traumas of your life, even though you’ve never really managed it before. It felt good, you know? Being brainwashed. But Jim was right. About everything. It wasn’t real, and ... it didn’t last.”
Not for him, at least. He’ll have to ask Nyota and Sulu and the others about their experiences, if only because a thorough follow-up after any kind of forced telepathic contact is part of standard medical protocol. He’s not looking forward to it. Wouldn’t it be typical if the blissful state of inner harmony had faded only for him?
Spock remains silent, pointedly studying the Bird-of-Prey as McCoy clears his throat, never showing any pity. McCoy’s grateful.
“Maybe it’s for the best, right? Gives me a chance to finally face this pain myself. Finally deal with it, after all this time ...”
“Should you need my assistance, I would be happy to offer it. I do not have Sybok’s abilities, nor do I wish to, but – I can listen.”
That makes McCoy turn back to him. In the dim light, Spock’s face looks strangely ageless, an immortal reminder of the best and the most difficult times in McCoy’s life.
“You’re pretty good at it, actually.” Embarrassingly late, a thought occurs to him. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? About my dad.”
Spock gives him one of his almost-smiles. “Leonard. You have carried my katra. I was part of you, and you were part of me.”
I know everything about you, his words imply, and that would be frightening – if they didn’t imply something else, too: I know you like nobody else knows you and I’m here anyway, and what could be more comforting?
“You never said anything.”
“It was not my place; at least, that is what I thought. Perhaps that was a mistake. For that, I also apologise.”
“It’s all right, really.”
“However,” Spock remarks after a short pause in which they both chase after what-ifs and come to the conclusion that right now, only the present counts. McCoy braces himself because however is never good. “It explains many things about you – and many of your decisions. When you were diagnosed with xenopolycythemia –”
McCoy groans. That whole interlude wasn’t one of his finer moments. When he thought that his remaining days were numbered and didn’t want to put the people around him through the agony he’d experienced with his father, and decided to stay on a doomed non-planet with a woman he’d met five minutes earlier ... It had seemed like the most logical course of action at the time, and he’s not sure he would act differently today.
“Please stop talking,” he says.
Spock’s eyebrow seems to consider whether to embark on the journey towards his hairline, and ultimately decides against it. “As you wish.”
McCoy looks at him, treacherous eyebrows and meticulously trimmed hair and ageless face and almost invisible gestures and all. No one else can express so much with a slight tilt of the head. It was Spock, back then, who saved him ... Maybe, McCoy thinks, he would act differently today.
“I do regret the way this knowledge was revealed,” Spock adds because Vulcans always need to have the last word.
McCoy shakes his head. “I’m just sorry that you had do witness all that – I’m sure some of my pain bled through to you, too.”
“If I could take any more of your pain from you with, how did you put it, the wave of a magic wand, I would do so.”
They stare at each other, and then they stare at each other some more – and then, every god in the universe be praised, the doors swish open with a loud whoosh and the second reason why McCoy is sure that fate must have favoured him after all enters the room.
“Here you are,” Kirk comments, slightly out of breath and with the top buttons of his uniform jacket undone, but far less tipsy than McCoy would have expected. “Are you having another philosophical discussion or is there some other reason why you’ve left me to the mercy of our guests?”
McCoy ignores the cautious undertone. He and Kirk can talk later: about the past, about the fact that Kirk is upset because he hasn’t been privy to such an important aspect of his friend’s life, about pain and healing, about God and the universe. One emotional conversation a night is enough.
What would Kirk’s greatest pain be? McCoy suspects it has something to do with a planet shrouded in fire and doom and a carefully controlled voice coming from a communicator. David is dead ...
He also suspects that Kirk isn’t coping with his pain as wonderfully as he claimed, but now is not the right time to venture into such an abyss. Now is more about knowing that you’re not alone.
“Avoiding your duties, are you?” he says.
“By now, everyone is intoxicated enough not to notice my absence.” Kirk grimaces. “Scotty’s guys and the Klingons are exchanging recipes for home-brewed spirits. I thought it safer to keep the plausible deniability intact. Wasn’t there, didn’t notice anything.”
McCoy raises an eyebrow – and immediately forces his face back to a neutral expression because Spock did the same. Kirk lets his gaze wander between them. “So, how are we feeling?”
He’s still sounding so damn careful. McCoy can’t help but roll his eyes. “We’re feeling fine, Jim.”
And it’s not even a lie anymore.
“Yes,” Kirk says quietly, and then he smiles. “And you’ll be feeling even better when I tell you that Command has allowed us to resume our shore leave. I hope you haven’t put the camping gear too far away yet.”
McCoy wasn’t expecting to laugh that night, but no amount of melancholy would last long against Spock’s more than sceptical expression. “No more rock climbing,” he threatens.
“He will not,” Spock says firmly before Kirk can protest, and the last mission having ended the way it did, Kirk confines himself to a longsuffering sigh.
They stay there on the observation deck for a long time, looking at the planet with all its shattered hopes and all its new possibilities, and the pain’s still there, but so are other, softer feelings; and maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond the greatest barrier of all, David McCoy smiles down at his son.
And this time, there’s not but.