Title: The Light Goes Out
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Warning: Angst, Character Death
Summary: Leonard McCoy contracts xenopolycythemia. Some tragedies must run their course.
A/N: I’m sorry, I’ve been sitting on this fic for a few days. It kept me up one night and has held me struggling in its grasp ever since.

In a man’s eyes, the world is a brave place; or perhaps it is truer that a man must be brave to live in the world and it is his courage, coupled with the courage of countless others, that begets a brave place.

Yet to be brave, a man must first have reason to fear.

When it begins is almost too difficult to pinpoint; Leonard is usually tired, yes, but that tiredness gradually becomes more. He tries stronger replicated coffee and snatches extra hours of sleep in his quarters, only to find no lasting relief. There are moments, too, when Leonard aches without warning, maybe while standing in the turbolift or as he holds a tricorder over a patient; fleeting sensations, these aches, that he dismisses as age setting in after nothing (not a flu or cold) occurs.

Jim gives the older man a long, considering look one day in the privacy of the Captain’s quarters and says, “Don’t overwork yourself, Bones.” He answers honestly, “I’m not.”

The day comes, following a long nap, when he wakes and thinks it would take nothing less than a miracle to move his body out of bed; he is immeasurably weary. This is the first time the doctor in him realizes something is terribly wrong, so Leonard forces himself to his feet, in a moment of panic, and stumbles to his bathroom. When he grips the sink and looks in the mirror, the reflection staring back is a scared, pale man.

A sick man.

McCoy goes to Christine Chapel with his worry because he needs a confidante as well as a sensible second opinion. Together, quietly, they discover the cause of his symptoms.

Christine squeezes her eyes shut, as he stares at the results of the initial tests, and puts their mutual devastation into words: “Oh, Leonard.”

Delay is pointless, and Leonard McCoy doesn’t have time to spare. He calls the two men who are priceless to him—his fearless Jim and his stalwart Spock—to a quiet place and breaks the news. He tells them about xenopolycythemia and the prognosis for his (short) future.

That xenopolycythemia has no cure.

His voice only cracks once, when he says, “I’ve put in my request for a medical discharge from duty, Sir,” speaking to his captain and hoping Jim understands. “There’s—Joanna to consider.”

Jim has no questions, no words at all; with a face lacking color, Kirk retreats until his back is almost pressed against the exit, and when the door slides open, Leonard watches him disappear through it, unsurprised.

He tells an indecisive Spock, “It’s all right. Let him go.” Then, more gently, “You should return to the Bridge, Commander,” because work steadies Spock, will always instinctively be the Vulcan’s first comfort—as is Jim’s to run—when faced with inevitable loss.

Alone again, Leonard is drained in a way that defies description. He relinquishes the remainder of his shift to his doctors and nurses, ignoring the way Chapel’s eyes trail after him to the exit, and welcomes the solitude of his quarters. He props up in bed to cradle his most recent holo-pic of his daughter. Hours pass.

His eyelids are drooping heavily when Kirk is admitted into the room. Jim does not pause, does not err in his path to Leonard, and Leonard calls the lights down to 15% as Jim crawls over the bed and on top of him without a word.

He cradles Jim as he cradled the picture frame, knowing that this will be the last—the only—time Jim allows himself to lose control. McCoy tries to help him through it: holding Jim close as Jim sinks his hands into Leonard’s hair, desperate; returning a kiss here and there while, frantic and wild, Jim’s mouth seeks bare patches of his skin; sharing tears, too, when they fall from the corners of his lover’s eyes and Jim chokes in silence, face open and heartbroken and lost. Leonard pours everything into those minutes (compassion, regret, need) while Jim Kirk shakes, and loves him, and tries to capture the tiny details of Leonard like they are close to being forgotten.

When the two men are both spent and pressed together under the covers, Leonard runs his fingers through Jim’s hair, wishes he had more time, and accepts that he does not.

With Spock, the fallout is different. Spock is too still, everything withdrawn behind his grave countenance and gripped in an iron fist of control. Leonard slides his hands onto Spock’s shoulders and asks, “What do you need?” Defying the silence, he repeats, “What do you need?”

Spock raises both of his hands, slowly, giving Leonard time to realize his intent and to step away. Leonard wraps his fingers around Spock’s wrists. It is their ritual and Leonard’s consent.

As the Vulcan aligns his fingertips on Leonard’s face and opens the pathway between their minds, Leonard does not close his eyes, not until he is lost to an extraordinary sensation—a starburst—and gasps. For a mere second, he thinks his soul touches Spock’s, is Spock’s, and even as Spock withdraws in the next heartbeat, Leonard is left tingling and with a distinct imprint of his lover.

He shivers but feels inexplicably calm. “Did you get what you need?” Leonard asks, leaning into the warmth of the arms holding him close.

“Yes,” the Vulcan says, voice soft.

Leonard observes Spock’s eyes, clear but not free of sadness. He needs to know, “Will you survive?”

He senses how strong that sadness is.

“Yes, I will.”

Leonard touches his mouth to Spock’s and thinks of all that he could say, knowing that he need not speak at all. Spock has Leonard’s words and, somehow, Leonard has Spock’s, too.

McCoy does not wait long thereafter to contact New Vulcan because his conscience gives him no rest. He sets up the communication in private, telling no one of his intentions in order to prevent an argument that he might not win. For Leonard McCoy, there is only this one path, the one he believes in morally.

Jim and Spock keep few secrets from McCoy. Selek, the Spock from another universe, is one such secret that they felt he should share in because they agreed that it could be invaluable information some day. They were right, of course, though Jim and Spock could not have guessed then how telling Leonard of Old Spock would be repaid.

Leonard is surprised at the lack of awkwardness. Selek greets him as an old friend (which Leonard supposes is true in a sense) and asks how he may give aid or advice. Leonard chews his bottom lip and takes a minute to observe the Vulcan on the communication screen, looking for traces of the Spock he is used to and loves. Selek, unaffected by the inspection, allows him this courtesy.

At last, Leonard gives up his silence and says, “I know who you are and, considering that, you may think me rude for not contactin’ you earlier, S-Selek.” He hesitates over the choice of names to use.

Selek inclines his head. “On the contrary, Dr. McCoy, I did not foresee a conversation between us for quite some time.”

Leonard is too emotionally spread-thin for social niceties. He tells the Vulcan without preamble, “I have xenopolycythemia.” After a pause, “I see this isn’t a surprise to you, so I can only assume your McCoy suffered it, too. That’s what makes this call so important.” Leonard leans forward in his earnestness. “Can I make a request of you, Selek?”

Something flashes through Selek’s eyes. “You have done so in another time and place, Dr. McCoy, though under circumstances far removed from that which brings us to this meeting. I could not deny you then, as I cannot deny you now.”

McCoy squashes down a flare of hope. “Let things be. Jim and Spock—they’ll want you to help, to know how to fix this, but I’m begging you, don’t say anything. We’ve been through too much, Spock, ‘n I’d rather be the inevitable tragedy than the reason for another tear in our cosmos,” he says, weary, not catching his slip. “Jim says you keep your knowledge close to your chest but I have to know… that you won’t interfere,” he finishes somewhat lamely.

“I understand and I shall honor your request,” replies the older Vulcan, and Leonard is astonished to discover that both Spock’s carry an identical sadness in their eyes. “Yet I must inform you: I do grieve, Leonard, that I shall not assist you, whether by your choice or mine.”

“Thank you,” he says, not certain which he is most thankful for: the agreement, the sentiment, or the fact that, somewhere, another McCoy was deeply loved by this Spock.

Spock—Selek—of all things raises his hand in farewell and wishes Leonard McCoy good luck. Leonard cuts the communication, wondering if luck will be enough to see him through the next year.

He wants his parting with his life on the Enterprise to be swift.

Everyone, it seems, comes by the medical bay to say their goodbyes or sniffle when his back is turned. They try to throw him a farewell party, which he vetoes vehemently, but those closest to Leonard form a small tearful gathering the night they dock into Starbase 12, McCoy’s destination point for stepping down from the Enterprise (knowing that, in all likelihood, he won’t set foot on the starship again). Uhura kisses his cheek and promises to keep him updated, by which she means she will be his eyes and ears concerning Jim and Spock. He shares whiskey with Scotty and a shot of vodka with Chekov. He reminds Sulu several times that Kirk needs a close, careful watching and that Spock appreciates a good argument, no matter how peeved his slanted eyebrows indicate he might be. Sulu simply replies that he will try his best but no one could replace Leonard completely.

Others offer him small tokens, asking him not to forget them, while Leonard thinks it is more likely they’ll think of him less often than he shall long for his honorary family in space.

He, Jim, and Spock have been saying goodbye for weeks. The last day should be no different, except that afterward he may never touch them in person again. They don’t sleep, simply lie together in the cool dark of Jim’s quarters and brush arms and legs and fingertips. Leonard tells them to not to get up, that he is only going to fetch a forgotten memento he had left in Sickbay. He kisses each of them once, lightly, his actions belying his words, and never returns.

There can be no clean, painless break—not when a man leaves behind pieces of his heart.

It takes a week or two after arriving on Earth to gather the courage to call Jocelyn. He asks to see her—just her, his ex-wife—and boards the next flight from California to Georgia. Jocelyn looks unchanged from their last parting. For her, the world is mostly the same; for Leonard, it is quite the opposite.

He sits her down in her mother’s garden and explains why he is on Earth. She cries, because they will always hold each other dear in a small way. She agrees to let him spend all the time he wants with their daughter.

The truth is, Leonard thinks as he hands Joce a handkerchief, he barely has enough time left at all.

The faint tremor of his limbs has already begun.

His outings with Joanna are as joyous as he can make them. Together they laugh, learn, cook, explore, and trade silly stories. She is delighted to have him home again.

When Leonard isn’t with Joanna, he diligently dictates the adventures from his years on the Enterprise into a computer or works on his latest (most likely, final) scientific paper. Leonard wants everything out of his head, everything he thinks may be of use to someone. In essence, and though he does not admit so to himself, he is creating a memoir. He does this whenever possible and, in particular, during his medical treatments; he has to keep his mind focused away from the pain, both of the disease and of a kind that isn’t physical.

There are letters, too, short and long that he composes almost daily to Jim and Spock. He talks of things they already know, of things they might not, and always he ends them by saying, “You won’t get this today, I’m afraid. Jim, Spock… Stay away, please, until it’s over. I know you couldn’t promise me that but I wish you had.”

He never mentions how his body is failing him, bit by bit, but when the day comes that his letters stop because his voice is too weak, there will be no more need to hide. Death will follow shortly.

His daughter is no fool, even at a young age. She looks her father squarely in the eyes and says, “You aren’t going back into space.”

“No,” Leonard replies.

Joanna’s bowl of ice cream sits, ignored, between them on the patio table. She says, more uncertain this time, “Mama and Uncle Robert said you’re dyin’.” Her voice quivers on the last word.

Jocelyn and her brother wouldn’t have told Joanna without him, partly because of his wishes and partly because no adult wants to tell a child her father has months to live. But it is sometimes hard to account for eavesdropping little girls.

Leonard swallows against the sudden, sharp contraction of his throat. She won’t let the subject go, not now that it has a hold on her, and he sees that in her eyes.

“Daddy?” Joanna questions.

“Yes.” He repeats, “Yes,” and this is the worst part he has to endure, knew was coming. The disease will be kinder.

Joanna cries, “But you can’t!” fierce and scared, and Leonard tugs his little girl out of her seat and into his arms.

His heart breaks with hers.

He has been calm; he has been resolute; and he has suffered alone.

Then the light begins to fade. He wakes to grey vision and stays still for some minutes, wondering why the morning sunshine isn’t coming through his windows. Did he sleep too long? Leonard is prone to do that these days, rather often.

His bedside clock says not. 10 am.

His eyesight doesn’t improve once he switches on a lamp.

He’s going blind. Blindness occurs in roughly 30% of patients with xenopolycythemia. He is part of that percentage, it seems.

Leonard was calm before; now he is panicked.

It’s real; all of it—terribly, undeniably real.

Leonard sends a message to Selek. Then he calls Jocelyn and asks her to take Joanna out of school, to bring her over. When she hesitates, he pleads, “Joce, I need to see her now, right now.” He sounds frightening, he knows, but he can’t stop.

The light continues to trickle away throughout the day but he can still pick out some details and faded colors. He wants to see his daughter’s face, just one last time before he has only memory to picture her with.

McCoy is in a recliner, rocking, when they let themselves in. Jocelyn calls out worriedly, “Leonard?” He opens his arms and Joanna darts into them, intending to bury her face in his neck, but Leonard holds her at arm’s length. He says, “It’s a’right. Just let me look at you, baby girl.”

And he does, all the while Jocelyn is dialing for the hospital and Joanna is saying Daddy over and over again, not understanding.

That night, Leonard lies in a sterile room (ignoring the sounds of the monitors and people talking to him) and keeps his eyes open (ignoring the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, too). When the light finally goes out, and the darkness is permanent, McCoy releases the bed sheets his hands have twisted and shudders.

Only then is he no longer afraid to close his eyes because opening them again won’t make a difference.

Selek’s reply is an arrival date and time just a week away. Leonard knows a lot of favors have to be acquired to get to Earth so quickly from New Vulcan.

Leonard’s message had read: I need you.

In the end, he lets Selek win the argument (not that Leonard was really against the idea) and agrees to stay with him.

“You can’t be serious,” he groans half-heartedly. “I’m blind and you’re a Vulcan. How the hell do you expect us to survive together?”

Selek’s voice is faintly amused. “If you seek to antagonize me and thereby change my mind, your endeavor shall prove fruitless, Dr. McCoy.” Selek doesn’t call him Leonard in the presence of others.

Leonard appreciates the normalcy of his visitor’s tone. He is sick of the sympathy and false cheer from his nurses. It’s bad enough to be physically ill from his medication, never mind that when he can’t see where he is projecting his vomit.

His fingers wrap around a familiar bed pan by his side and he thumps it against his bed in agitation. “I’m going to get a lot worse,” he warns Selek.

“Yes,” says the Vulcan, quite simply, and Leonard could kiss him.

He lowers his voice. “And it’s likely I’ll go into a coma towards the end.”

“Do you anticipate a timeframe for this?”

McCoy thinks about it. “Two months. The decline is rapid in the last stage. Spock,” he says, and he had meant to say Selek but no point in correcting the error now, “I mean not to see them.” Even now, he chokes as he says it.

A hand shifts his grip away from the bed pan, long fingers that he can almost recognize. “They are returning to Earth.”

“I can’t be here,” he explains. “By the time they dock, I won’t even be able to say goodbye. And I’ve done that,” he adds softly. “I said goodbye and I love you and all of it, and that’s the man I want them to remember hearing those things from, not the shell they’ll find.”

Selek is quiet.

Leonard begs, “Take me back to New Vulcan, Spock. You once said you could never deny me a request.”

The answer, when it comes, brings tears to Leonard’s eyes: “I will make the arrangements.”

Leonard gives Joanna a kiss, kneeling down so that they can reach one another. He hates that he can no longer hide the prominent shake of his hands. He promises his daughter that New Vulcan is where he needs to be now. He tells her that, no, she can’t go with him. Leonard ignores the way her tears wet his skin, breathes in the scent of her hair, and lets her go. Selek helps him back to his feet, and it’s Jocelyn, he can tell, who kisses the corner of his mouth.

He says, just to Joce, “Take care of our little girl. The letters I gave you, give ’em to her when she’s older.”

He boards the shuttle, clinging to Selek. It’s possible that the Vulcan is the reason Leonard doesn’t feel so battered anymore, for the soothing cocoon around him, but Leonard doesn’t really know or care.

Goodbye to Jim. Goodbye to Spock.

Goodbye to Joanna.

Not much farther to go now. There’s a hand in his and a shoulder to lean on. He should be scared but he isn’t.

Their shuttle is shooting like a star among lights that won’t fade for eons. Leonard takes comfort in that, thinking that he might become one of those lights. He just has to get through this darkness first. Through the darkness, beyond the last breath, and then…

The light never goes out again.

-Fini

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