Title: The White Horse (3/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Jim Kirk was a strange man. A silent man. No one knew much about him or, if they did, were not willing to say what they did know, especially to the town’s newest magical occupant. Not that Leonard McCoy cared. He had an old curse to track down and unravel by the year’s end. Meanwhile a killer was tracking him. AU.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2

While Leonard watched his daughter sleep, he felt like his world was ending. He reached for her hand for comfort, but the man occupying the corner of the room shifted in warning so instead Leonard pretended to straighten the blanket over the bed as if that had been his intention all along. The fact that he couldn’t do something as simple as have physical contact with her made his gut burn with anger. But if he wanted to keep his visitor’s pass, he had to abide by the rules.

Doctors in general were wary whenever one of Leonard’s kind encroached on their territory. Him in particular they didn’t just feel wariness over; that was what the unrelenting stare of the security guard meant. If Leonard tried his particular brand of magic on his daughter, he would be dragged out. Likely then, as soon as he hit pavement, the police would come to arrest him. That’s the way the system worked.

Only to Leonard, it made no sense. In a hospital of the sick and dying, he couldn’t help. If his particular gift was something other than what it was, he might have had some understanding for the way things were. It didn’t make sense to have a magic-user—a mage—working a spell over a patient’s bed unless the ailment itself was magical. That sort of thing, in an atmosphere reeking of desperation, caused panic, created chaos. The medical staff couldn’t concentrate on fighting for their patients if they were too busy fighting magic which ran rampant and did more harm than good.

But Leonard’s ability worked only on the non-magical; its purpose was to heal the wrongness in the body. He had learned that much from in his research nearly a decade ago. He had known it instinctively for far longer.

Why then couldn’t he help Joanna? At the very least, lessen her pain?

The answer was simple: the Marked broke the natural laws. They held power in a way ordinary men did not, and that made them a threat to be contained. They couldn’t be given too much or treated too kindly for fear of the advantages they already had.

The world’s view was all a great big fucking joke—and Leonard hated it. The only thing he hated more was himself.

He shoved a hand through his unkempt hair and closed his eyes, listening to the steady beat of Joanna’s heart monitor. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept more than a few hours in a row. Sleep seemed unimportant. Most things did, except this awful guilt he carried.

How could he have been so stupid? So arrogant? So complacent?

He had been treating the symptoms, the doctors told him, but not the cause. Every time he thought he was curing the flu, or settling an upset stomach, or healing her skin because she bruised so easily—he was putting a band-aid on a bigger problem and turning a blind eye to the truth. He should have taken her to a certified practitioner.

And now, for Joanna, it was too late.

The chemotherapy wasn’t working the way they hoped it would. She might have had a better chance a year ago. If the lead time had been two years, maybe, they could have positively affected the bone marrow’s white blood cell production. Now it came down to a transplant. Leonard wasn’t a match. His father wasn’t, either, or both of Jocelyn’s parents or her sister whom Leonard had spent two weeks begging to take a blood test. A sibling would be was the best chance Joanna had for a donor but she had none, and Jocelyn was dead.

It felt as if everything had turned against them. One moment he had a happy child proudly showing him her artwork from school, the next moment she was telling him not to worry from a hospital bed, despite the pallor of her face, sunken eyes and thin limbs. Between the two of them, Joanna was still the stronger one. He saw it in the way she carefully hid her fear, how she didn’t cry after losing her hair and accepted her visitors with a good nature. Leonard himself was slowly breaking into pieces, and he didn’t know if he could be put back together again.

It was not just the fear of losing his daughter destroying him but the guilt and the fact everyone knew he was guilty. The doctor who gave the prognosis had had no sympathy for Leonard. The look in the man’s eyes had accused Leonard of his crime, saying, Your little girl’s gonna die because you thought you knew better than us.

And he was right: Leonard didn’t know anything. He didn’t know a damn thing, because he’d told the agent who had come recruiting him for some classified government program in his early twenties to fuck off, because he’d hated that Joanna had to live with the stigma of having him for a father and shielded her as best he could, because he’d wanted to shun the world for shunning him. He couldn’t blame his actions—or lack thereof—on being too poor to afford healthcare. That blame belonged ultimately to his bad judgment.

Too late.

Leonard launched himself out of the chair and into a small private bathroom in time to throw up the coffee he had for breakfast. Bile scalded the back of his throat, and sweat ran down his face. Eventually, after several long minutes of dry heaving, his stomach quit cramping enough that he could stand up. He washed the taste of vomit out of his mouth. The guard was a shadow in the doorway, but Leonard doubted the man cared that he was sick, only that he didn’t start drawing runes all over the bathroom mirror.

Leonard pushed past the asshole and wobbled back to the chair he’d abandoned. He slumped into it and leaned forward to rest his head on the edge of Joanna’s bed.

“Sit up,” the guard ordered.

Leonard drew in his shoulders but he sat up, wiping at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. His voice cracked when he said, “Don’t watch me.”

But the guard did. Leonard cried anyway.

In a matter of months, David McCoy Jr. had aged well past sixty. Mazie Lane, the woman he’d paid to keep his house for going on nearly two decades, feared for him. She feared for his boy, too. Neither man would recover if the girl child was lost.

The hospital doctor said it was leukemia. Mazie couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t that she had no faith in medical science; it was that she knew too much about the McCoy family. Magic, especially bad magic, had a way of disguising itself.

She tried to talk to David about it, but even broken-hearted he was too stubborn to listen.

“It’s cancer, Mazie. Some things in this world are crueler than any spell.” He sagged in the kitchen chair while she stood by the stove, looking close to tears. “There’s nothin’ to be done.”

That made her angry. She twisted the dishtowel in her hands. “Is that the way you felt about your wife?”

David’s head came up. “Don’t you bring her into this.”

“Why not?” the woman countered. “You know it was the curse, same as—”

“NO!” David’s hands came down on the kitchen table like a thunderclap.

Mazie jumped a little in response, but after a moment lifted her chin in defiance. “Your father believed.”

“My father needed a reason to excuse his mistakes. If he’d listened to my mother, she wouldn’t have gone after him and she wouldn’t have died.”

“Fine, you can blame your daddy all you want,” Mazie told him, “but that don’t change facts. Your mama was cursed for a short life the day she wed into the McCoy family.” She put her back to him, saying as if it was the end of the discussion, “I guess you got a point after all. Nothing can be done to stop a curse so black.”

A tense silence hung between them. She re-arranged the bacon strips in the frying pan while she waited for David to find his voice again. Eventually he did.

“I’ve never stopped being afraid. That’s the curse my father passed down to me on the day I was old enough to understand our family history. When I held my son for the first time, I promised myself I’d never give that burden to him. Can’t you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, “but, David… haven’t you wondered why Leonard’s different than the rest of us? Maybe he’s the magic God gave you to fight back with.”

“I wouldn’t say that outside this house, Mazie. Other people call that heresy.”

“Other people can keep themselves ignorant of the way the world is if it makes ’em feel safer. I know better, and so do you. You gotta tell him.”

“I can’t.”

“The choice ain’t yours anymore,” Mazie stated, words firm but tone gentle. “This is about his baby. He’d never forgive you if you didn’t give him the option, ‘n you’d never forgive yourself if she died without every chance you could give her to live.” She took the skillet off the stove. “Food’s ready. Grab yourself a plate and eat something.”

“I was heading to the hospital. Len’s been there three days in a row. He needs a break.”

Mazie felt she could concede a little now that she had said what was on her mind. “It won’t hurt you to have a small bite while you get ready. I can wrap up the rest for y’all to have once you’re there.”

“Bless you, I’ll do that.” David stood up from the table and went for the bread box. Though he moved with tiredness in his bones, the set of his shoulders seemed less defeated.

Mazie breathed a sigh of relief. She knew in her heart there was a way to save little Joanna, just as she knew Leonard McCoy wouldn’t give up until he found that way. Maybe in the process he could save the family who had yet to be born from heartache, too.

Joanna was still asleep. The treatments wore her down more quickly these days. Leonard had been dozing by her bedside when his father arrived with a paper bag in one hand and a small book in the other. He rubbed at his eyes as he sat up and said, “Hey.”

Leonard’s father lifted the paper bag. “Here, Mazie made breakfast.”

“I had something.”

Tugging the rolling tray away from the wall, his father put the food on it and pushed it towards Leonard’s chair. He scolded Leonard mildly, “Don’t lie to your father, boy. You can’t live on coffee. Have some breakfast.”

It did smell good, and Leonard’s stomach seemed to like the idea even though it had rejected the coffee earlier on. He un-wrapped an egg and bacon sandwich. It was still slightly warm. “Thanks,” he murmured after taking a large bite.

His father sank into a chair opposite him and watched him eat. Wordlessly, Leonard set the second sandwich in front of the man. His father picked it up and slowly peeled back its foil.

“There’s somethin’ I want to talk to you about, Len,” he said to his son, “but not here.”

Leonard paused mid-chew. “Okay?”

David McCoy sighed and lowered the uneaten sandwich in his hand. He set the small book he’d brought on the tray between them. The stained cover bore no title or author. Leonard could smell its age. He picked it up.

“Is this leather?” he asked, turning it over. A page slipped out and drifted to the tabletop. Leonard stared at the unfamiliar handwriting and inkblots.

“It’s your great-grandfather’s journal. He wrote it as a boy. You’ll want to read it after…” His father glanced in the direction of the granite-faced guard. “…we talk.”

Leonard understood. He set the journal down and finished his sandwich. In silence, his father did the same. Then they asked a nurse to check in on Jo, and left the children’s ward. The guard followed them as far as the parking garage. Leonard shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and asked his father, “Where to?”

David pointed toward the small park across the street maintained by the hospital. They took the footbridge from the parking garage to get there. Leonard had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach as soon as he stepped onto the grass. He grabbed his father’s arm to delay their trek toward a pair of benches under a half-grown cypress.

“Dad, what’s this about?”

“We should sit down first.”

“No.”

His father looked at him strangely. “Why?”

Leonard’s gaze roamed the park. “I don’t know.” He blew out a breath before amending, “I’m tired of sitting.” Then he looked at his father. “And if it’s bad news, I’d rather take it standing up.” With that declaration came the fleeting memory of when he had first heard the word ‘cancer’ in conjunction with his daughter’s name and how the world had fuzzed out to grey. He had wound up on his knees, just trying to breathe.

“It’s not… bad or good, Len. It’s just what it is. It’s whatever you decide to do with it.”

That settled Leonard for some reason. He nodded for his father to continue.

The man studied him. “What do you feel about this place?”

The question was unexpected. Leonard took a moment to consider it. “You would think there’s a kind of calm here, with the way it looks, but there isn’t,” he answered. “It’s steeped in sadness, like people come here to make peace with what they’re going through and can’t.”

“There is no peace to be made with loss.”

“No,” Leonard agreed, swallowing hard. “Why did you ask me that question?”

“Because it’s not something I’m capable of answerin’. Only you can.”

He knew his father wasn’t trying to be unkind. Nonetheless, he said, “You don’t have to remind me.”

A hand settled on Leonard’s shoulder, squeezed it gently. “Son, I know I haven’t said the words outright, but I’ve never been afraid of what you are—and I’ve never regretted it.”

Leonard struggled to contain the emotion building inside him. “How can you say that?” he almost demanded. “The way we’ve had to live, the way Mom died, Joanna—” His voice caught.

But the other man just shook his head. “None of those things are your fault. You can’t control the actions of others any more than you can control God’s will.”

The pain that struck Leonard, and the disbelief, stole his breath. “God’s will? Are you—you can’t—it isn’t God’s will for my daughter to die!”

“I wasn’t talking about Joanna,” his father countered sharply. “I meant you.”

“Fuck God, then!” Leonard spat. “If there is a fuckin’ God, he should have had the mercy to make me like everybody else.”

For the first time in months, David McCoy looked frustrated with his son. “Leonard.”

That tone of voice meant stop it but Leonard didn’t want to stop. “Did I ask to be this way, Dad? Did I ask to be treated like shit—fuck, like I’m not even a human being?”

His father grabbed him by both shoulders.

“I can’t get a job, I can’t raise my own kid—” Angry tears filled his eyes. “—I can’t even hold her hand when she’s dyin’. So don’t tell me God did me a service!” He would have said more, but in the next second he was in the circle of his father’s arms and he couldn’t speak.

“I know,” his father said, “I know it hurts. Oh, my boy, I know, but you’ve got to hear me out. Forget God for a moment. I think, no, I believe you have a gift. That’s why I never told you to hide it or forbade you from using it. You heal people, Len. I can’t think of a better use of magic than that. You’re the very reason I can’t accept it as evil—not because you’re my son but because you can do something with it that is good.”

Leonard choked out, “Then why can’t I heal her? Why?”

“Maybe you could… maybe you’re being prevented from it by something more powerful, more determined than you are.”

Leonard tried to pull back to see his father’s face but the man wouldn’t let him go. “Dad, what’re you saying?”

“Hush a second, son, ‘n let me talk. There’s a story—no, a truth I have to tell you. It’s all in that journal, too, when you’re up to reading it. I always wanted it to be a fantasy, just some fairytale made up by a child, but now I have to hope it’s not. For Joanna’s sake.”

Leonard quieted and listened.

And his father told him everything.

Afterward, Leonard asked for time alone to think, and his father returned to Joanna’s bedside without him. The early morning air began to warm up as Leonard restlessly circled the small park. He smoked through three cigarettes and hid the butts in a napkin in his pocket. Eventually, he had turned the story over in his head enough times that he began to believe it.

Had Jocelyn’s death been part of the curse on his family? She’d suffered an aneurysm during childbirth. Everyone had been shocked that such a young healthy woman had died so suddenly when there were no signs of complications. Her parents had wanted to blame Leonard somehow, to blame the baby too because it was Leonard’s, but there had been no proof. Leonard had wanted Jocelyn to live like everyone else, even if he hadn’t been in love with her. She had promised to raise their daughter and, law be damned, let him help her do it.

He just couldn’t imagine that a curse would have struck her down like that. It would be like striking a stranger. There were rules magic had to follow regardless of how wily it was. That was why the wording which brought a spell to fruition mattered so much.

At least, he knew that in theory. Leonard didn’t practice spells himself because he didn’t see the point. His ability didn’t need words. He guessed that meant he would have to find someone who did if he wanted to understand the spell his father remarked was in the journal.

That spell, that curse…

Joanna was the most important girl in his life, the person to whom he’d given his heart. Before her, he had never had plans to give it to anyone. He’d briefly considered it with Jocelyn, because he was lonely, but decided affection was all he could manage.

If the person who had enacted revenge on the McCoy’s so long ago wanted every man in the family to suffer the loss of love, it made sense that Joanna was a target. Curses didn’t know or care about age, or relationship, unless it had been specified. This one would work based on emotion.

Undoing the curse might be futile, Leonard thought, but at least it was a purpose, a goal. Otherwise, he could only wait and pray, and he was useless at both.

Leonard went to the nearest tree, closed his eyes, and put his bare palm against it. What do I do? he asked.

Tree spirits were by and large simple, often reticent. Their world had been gridded, measured, planned, and the earth so buried nothing could bloom in secret. Still, he hoped for an answer because Mother Nature always seemed wiser than people.

Sadness whispered back to him, making his palm tingle against the bark. Leonard withdrew his hand, disappointed. Of course no guidance could be given to him, not unless he had something to give in return.

But as he walked away, he realized if Joanna died, he and the spirits in this park would have an overwhelming sadness in common. Maybe that was reason enough to go on a fool’s errand.

With the usual shadow tailing him, Leonard sought out Joanna’s doctor. The man was in his office, he was told, so that’s where he tried to go. The corridor he was on took a turn away from the elevators to cross a designated waiting area and lose itself at the end of a walkway that bridged two buildings. Leonard stopped there and admitted he had no idea where he was. “If you’re going to follow me,” he told his shadow, “the least you could do is be useful.”

The guard gave him a begrudging look before taking the lead. They arrived at their destination without mishap. Luckily Leonard didn’t have to fight with an assistant for an appointment to see Joanna’s doctor because the man, about Leonard’s age, was standing outside his office talking to someone.

Leonard went straight to him and interrupted the conversation. “I gotta speak to you.”

“I’ll be down to check on Joanna this afternoon, Mr. McCoy. You can talk to me then.”

“How long does she have?” he asked. “I know you told me before, but things seem worse.”

The man seemed to realize Leonard wasn’t going to go away. He dismissed his companion. “You’re a very rude person, McCoy.”

“I give what I get,” replied Leonard flatly. “How long?”

“Without the bone marrow transplant, a few more months; a little longer if the next round of radiation treatments can slow the spread of the cancer. But in all likelihood, she’ll be gone before the new year.”

The asshole didn’t sound sorry about it. Leonard could have punched him, but instead he turned away, saying, “I want you to know two things, Clay: first, the fact that you feel nothing about one of your patients dying tells me what kind of man you are, and, second, if you think you’re better than me, you sure as hell haven’t proved it.” Something inside Leonard settled as he spoke. “I’m not going to let my girl leave this world so easily. Because of that, I might be gone for a while, so I don’t have a choice but to trust you to look out for her. You do that, Clay. You’d better.”

“I told you to call me Dr. Treadway,” the other man snapped. Then his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you were willing to leave her. Why? What’re you planning?”

Leonard didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s none of your business. Just do your damn job. If not for my sake, then for Jocelyn’s. She would have wanted her child to live.”

Clay’s nostrils flared and the lines about his mouth became strained. “Fuck you.”

With a nasty smile, Leonard retorted back, “Fuck you too.” When he walked away, it was with the sense he had achieved what he wanted. Clay would fight to keep Joanna alive until Leonard returned just to spite him—and to give Leonard more time to dig himself a little deeper into his own grave. Such was the power of hatred. In that, at least, they understood each other completely.

Now he only had to accomplish the hard part: telling his daughter he would be gone without explaining why. He would promise he would be back just as soon as he could and have to hope someday she forgave him.

But even if she didn’t, saving her would be worth whatever price he ended up paying.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• The White Horse (18/18) – from May 12, 2014
• The White Horse (17/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (16/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (15/16) – from April 4, 2014
• The White Horse (14/16) – from March 7, 2014