Title: Walking the Worlds
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Warnings: Main Character Death
Summary: Jim suffers a loss from which it becomes difficult to recover.
A/N: Written for McSpirkHolidayFest Round Three, the 50th Anniversary of Star Trek; based on prompt: Established AOS McSpirk, temporary character death. All is well and good, until Bones dies suddenly, be it on an away mission, in a lab accident, murdered by a psychotic patient, whatever. How do Jim and Spock respond to the loss, to the massive hole that has been ripped in their lives? Does Spock shut down in self defense, leaving Jim more alone than ever? Does Jim hold it together for days before just completely breaking down where no one can see him? Does one of them get massively overprotective of the other because they can’t handle the thought of another loss? And how do they respond, days or weeks later, when they finally get Bones back somehow? (could also be that he wasn’t dead in the first place, just assumed so)

Well, I hope this story lives up to the challenge of devastating us all.

“If my death is to have any meaning, at least tell me what I’m dying for.”

“If you live, you will have your answer.”**

~~~

The quiet thrum of the medbay’s main room is interrupted when the door of a private examination area farther inside the department slides open upon a nurse’s exit; bits of a heated discussion float out into the corridor with her. One of the staff doctor-patient pairs passing by at that time pauses to identify the voices, then shares a knowing look with the nurse before they all continue on their way. The conversation taking place, to those who can hear it, is hardly unusual.

“If I had penny for every time you said ‘I am well enough, Doctor,’ I’d be a rich man.”

“I must disagree. In such a case, you would be in the possession of an artifact no longer of any intrinsic value other than to be melted down and repurposed.”

“Why, you,” begins the other, only to switch his complaint as the door once again slides open, this time admitting non-medical personnel to the room, “Jim, you have to do something about Spock. I can’t take his Vulcan back-talk another minute longer!”

The patient is quick to offer a suggestion. “Doctor, you need only agree to the assessment that I am good health, then we both shall be relieved of this tedium.”

Leonard McCoy responds, whip-like, with “Tell me, Mr. Spock, how in blazes can I know if you’re healthy when I have to sort your innards like a jigsaw puzzle to make sense of ’em?”

The Vulcan commander barely seems perturbed. “If that remark was any more controversial, I would be forced to question your credentials as a physician.”

“Enough,” interrupts the officers’ captain, lifting his hand slightly. “I’m not here to rescue either of you.” After a brief study of the two men, Jim Kirk softens his tone. “Bones, give us a minute.”

Wordlessly Leonard McCoy tucks his tricorder into one hand and exits the small room.

Spock sits up from the exam table and in turn studies his captain.

Kirk rests a hip against the table’s edge, the seriousness of his expression fading considerably. “It appears I came at the right time. You are pestering Bones thoroughly today.”

“Sir, I must protest. Vulcans are not given to ‘pestering.’ I believe that is a human trait.”

Jim suppresses a smile. “You are half human, Spock.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow but makes no additional comment.

Jim’s sigh transforms into a chuckle. “When I’m called from the Bridge by a nurse to come retrieve my First Officer, I think that warrants some concern. What’s going on?”

Spock folds his hands in his lap, tilts his head in a considering manner and at length replies, “I also have a concern.”

“Explain.”

“For the past hour, while Dr. McCoy engaged in his usual rudimentary custom of shaking rattles near my person and disparaging my biology, I was able to perform an evaluation of my own.” Spock holds his captain’s gaze. “Leonard is overworked, Jim. He will not tell you this himself. I am convinced he has not noticed. However facts remain: with the recent medical crisis on Antar VII and the reduction of a portion of his staff, the Doctor is—to use one of his favored colloquiums—stretched thin. I recommend you consider a course of action before the matter becomes critical.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Jim replies solemnly. Placing a hand on Spock’s shoulder, Jim gives it a brief squeeze and comes to his feet. Spock watches him pass through the doorway.

McCoy turns from a nearby supply cart, not bothering to disguise the fact that he was loitering near the exam room with purpose. Passing a tricorder to an assistant, Leonard closes the distance between them. Jim notes McCoy’s plodding tread and the downward slope of his shoulders, lending credence to Spock’s observations of exhaustion.

Bones would push himself to the brink of endurance and beyond; Jim knows this for a fact, and so that makes Spock correct for alerting him, and perhaps even more correct to do so in an unofficial capacity that would not alarm or burden McCoy. While the CMO has a duty to ensure the health and well-being of all ship’s personnel, as the captain Jim has the responsibility to act on behalf of the best interests of his crew—of which Leonard is without doubt an integral part, both professionally and personally.

“Jim, is everything all right?” Leonard questions, radiating concern that, nonetheless, does not demand an explanation in case one cannot be provided.

Jim nods once. “Well enough. You can go back in, finish the physical.” He remarks with a quirk of his mouth, “Spock should behave now.”

Leonard’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not worried about that.”

Any lingering tension Jim has melts away. As he brushes past his friend, he slides a hand companionably down the man’s arm. “I think,” he murmurs for McCoy’s hearing only, “it is definitely time we had a vacation.”

“Captain?”

Jim just lifts his hand in goodbye. McCoy’s bemused gaze stays on Jim’s back until he disappears from sight.

~~~

In the crowded thoroughfare bordering the port terminal for arrivals, Kirk hooks an arm around his companion’s neck and grins. “How amazing is this going to be?”

McCoy counters dryly, “I would ask where my captain went but I already know that answer.”

“Right now I’m Jim, Bones. Just Jim.”

“My point exactly.”

Jim laughs and drags his captive forward, heading to a spaceport lounge favored by locals and visitors alike within the mid-deck of the starbase. “So,” he says after they have arrived and ordered drinks, “why haven’t you thanked me yet?”

Leaning against the bar counter, Leonard raises an eyebrow in a silent rebuttal of Have you done something worth my gratitude?

“I’m hurt, Bones. I thought you’d love me for securing shore leave.”

After the bartender sets down two glasses in front of them, McCoy raises the one with bright green liquid and a decorative leaf on the side to his mouth. “I do love you, Jim. I also think if I had to tell you ‘good job’ each time you did the right thing, there wouldn’t be a ship big enough to house your ego.” He seems briefly distracted by his drink. “Hm, this julep isn’t half bad but it ain’t like my granny used to make.”

A burst of noise crosses the lounge, heralding the appearance of newcomers apparently already deep into their evening’s entertainment. Holding on to each other, they stagger towards an empty table. Halfway there, one of them lists so much he nearly flattens a waiter against a neighboring table. His companions chortle their laughter and pluck him back into the group before the victim can sufficiently express his outrage.

Jim faces the bar again while Leonard continues to curiously peruse the crowd surrounding them.

“Strange,” McCoy remarks. “Who are the fellas with the hedgehog hair?”

“Eridans from the Danus system. You’ve never seen them before?”

“With so many new races joining the Federation lately, how do you expect me to keep track?” Leonard grins at Jim. “‘Course, half of the new members are due to us.”

Jim covers his smile by drinking his beer. It is something to be proud of, he thinks, his growing skill as a diplomat.

As if McCoy can hear that thought, he amends, “Due to Spock, that is.”

“Hey, I took more courses on intergalactic relations than the two of you combined.”

“Most of which I suspect you slept through. ‘We come in peace,'” Leonard intones in a fairly accurate portrayal of Kirk, then snickers.

Jim runs a finger along the collar of his leather jacket, muttering about ungrateful subordinates.

“So why do these Eridans look like they’re attending a funeral? Making this place feel damned unfriendly, if you ask me.”

“This is the friendliest starbase in the sector,” Jim informs McCoy blandly. “The only other outpost that can take on a crew of our size is too close to the Neutral Zone.” He recalls a report from Command he had read recently. “The group that just came in? They’re from the elder race called the Danians, not to be confused with their younger, less sociable cousins. Recently a Danian emperor insulted his equivalent in Eridan society during a festival. Since they have been forced to share a planet until one of the Danus moons can be properly terraformed, relations are… delicate, so to speak.”

“Just what we need in this Federation,” mutters Leonard, putting his back to the exuberant Danians and the glowering Eridans. “More squabbles.”

“Exactly,” Jim says. “Vacationing in the middle of a family feud—been there, done that.”

His companion groans. “God, I had forgotten that adventure. Thanks, Jim.”

“Hey, we survived.”

“Yeah, courtesy of a certain Vulcan.”

Spock again. Jim settles his forearms on the bar counter, leaning forward slightly as he sips at his drink. “Did Spock tell you why I approved your proposal for leave?”

Leonard turns an odd look upon Jim. “Spock? Why, he was too busy stuffing some kind of noxious incense into my pack and lecturing me on how to practice tranquility, like that’s a damned thing I can control.” His gaze sharpens all of a sudden. “Hold up, was Spock trying to tell me something?”

“I think so,” Jim replies. “I’ll explain, but finish your drink first.”

Leonard doesn’t. “Now you’re making me nervous.”

Covering one of McCoy’s hands with his own, he relaxes his tone. “No reason for that, Bones. Spock and I will look out for you—always.” The softening of McCoy’s gaze, the faith in those kaleidoscope eyes, is all the encouragement Jim needs to continue, though he waits for Leonard to drain the last of the mint julep before doing so. Then he eases into talking about Spock’s assessment of Leonard’s health and subsequent recommendation, as well as the deliberate caution on both their parts to avoid a formal report which could be misconstrued as criticism of Leonard’s abilities. He concludes, “Bones, I want you to know this may have started with you but after reading your notes and your recommendation based on the risks to the crew’s health as a whole, I saw only more reason to press Command for a week off.”

About halfway through the explanation, Leonard’s mouth had pressed into a thin line. Now he says, “I’m not sure but I think I should be offended.”

“Please don’t be,” Jim insists earnestly. “I told you, I don’t believe—nor does Spock for that matter—that admitting to being overtaxed lessens your gift as a doctor. In fact, I would rather you be willing to speak up when you need to rather than risk yourself. I would commend it. I… Bones, I want to know that you can trust in me to take care of business when you feel you cannot.”

“I do,” Leonard responds automatically as he glances down at the counter. “And I also think that’s sound advice. I’m sorry if I disappointed you, Jim.”

“You haven’t disappointed anyone.” Jim slides his hand up to Leonard’s bicep. “You go above and beyond the call of duty, often more than necessary.” Sensing they could use a lighter mood, Jim concludes, “If you take anything away from this conversation, let it be that I want you to make the most of this break. You deserve it. You need it. Captain’s orders.” He finishes, smiling, “And your friend’s request.”

McCoy draws in a breath and huffs it out as a sigh. “When you put it like that, I forget why I’m angry.”

“I was hoping that would be the case.”

After a moment of toying with his empty glass, Leonard’s shoulders come down a fraction and a small spark returns to his eyes. He says, “Do me a favor, Jim, and keep this between us. I think I want the hobgoblin to sweat for a while thinking I might have taken serious offense to his oh-so-logical suggestion.”

Jim can’t help it; he laughs. “Bones, aren’t you the one who told me Vulcans don’t sweat?”

“Jim-boy, I tell you plenty of things, some of which I’m shocked you believe.”

Jim opens his mouth, taken aback. “Come again? Like what?”

Smirking, the doctor turns around and waves his hand to catch the attention of their bartender.

“Like what?” Jim prompts, now officially needing to be reassured he has not been duped by his own naivety. “Bones!”

“Remember,” Leonard clucks as the bartender approaches, “not a word to Spock.”

~~~

“Captain, is the Doctor sufficiently relaxed?”

“He should be,” Jim replies, ignoring the man who is leaning over his shoulder to see the comm screen.

Leonard complains loudly, “I’m right here.”

With a flicker of a smile, Jim asks obediently, “Do you feel relaxed, Bones?”

Leonard purses his mouth, answering after a long pause, “Yes and no.”

Spock’s sharp “Explain” resounds at the same time that Jim leans back in his chair to chuckle. He can guess what McCoy is up to.

“Well it’s a nice place Jim has gotten for us but I feel something’s missing…” The man taps a finger against his mouth in counterpoint to making thoughtful noises. “I wonder what that could be.”

Spock adopts a subtle expression, indicating his brain is working furiously to figure out what that missing element could be.

Jim presses a fist against his mouth.

“Why I know!” Leonard declares abruptly, no doubt taking pity on their poor third. With his usual zeal, he stabs a finger at Spock’s face on the screen. “It’s you!“

Spock is silent for some seconds in surprise. Jim ducks his head to hide a grin. For being so intelligent and often times surprisingly astute to others’ emotions, the Vulcan can also be obtuse about the simplest things.

“Bones mean,” he helps Spock out, “that this isn’t the optimal arrangement for shore leave if you want us to enjoy it. We miss you.” He pauses. “When will the refit survey be completed?”

“The survey is one of the reasons I called, Captain. It has been delayed.”

Jim straightens in his chair. “What?”

“Mr. Scott discovered a critical malfunction in the propulsion system that requires his immediate attention.”

Jim quickly assesses this news. “Well… I suppose we can’t put the horse before the cart,” he decides, making using one of the adages he has heard many times from Bones. “The ship needs to be able to fly before we can improve how well it flies. Have Mr. Scott proceed with repairs.”

“I have already taken the liberty of doing so.”

Jim was not expecting otherwise.

Leonard leans over Jim’s shoulder again with sudden eagerness. “Does this mean your schedule just freed up?”

“Bones,” Jim cautions, not wanting Spock to feel pressured to leave the ship if the commander wishes to oversee Engineering’s work on the repairs.

But Spock is quick to respond with “Joining you would be my next course of action, Doctor.”

“Wonderful,” Jim replies, meaning it. “You have our coordinates.”

“See you soon, Spock.” Mission accomplished, Leonard pulls back and heads to the opposite side of the apartment’s kitchenette where he proceeds to pour himself his second morning cup of what he claims is decent non-replicated coffee.

Spock softens his voice so that only Jim can hear him. “What is the status of our… mutual concern?”

Jim’s gaze touches briefly on the slope of McCoy’s back and shoulders. “Not at full capacity yet but getting there.” He smiles. “Final improvements should occur upon your arrival.” That is Jim’s way of saying, I can only do so much without you, Spock. Bones needs you too.

“Understood. ETA in one hour and twenty-four minutes. Spock out.”

Jim closes the channel and braces his elbows on the counter, pillowing his chin on his fist so he can watch Leonard at his leisure.

Minutes later, the object of Kirk’s attention drawls, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Bones, be honest. Are you having a good time?”

Leonard sets down his coffee cup, his look knowing. “Do I appreciate being coddled? Not so much, but I understand it sets your mind at ease. Just don’t expect me to put up with it from Spock too.”

“Vulcans don’t coddle.”

“And I could be President. Vulcans are the worst mother-hens in our entire galaxy,” gripes Leonard. “Why did I say I wanted him here, again?”

“Because you love him as much as you love me.”

Leonard sighs, a hint of good humor in returning to his voice. “Oh right.” He heads from the kitchenette to the only chair in the living area that can serve as a rocker, grousing without any heat as he goes, “Might need to rethink my feelings. Sure do…”

Jim folds his arms onto the counter and lays his head upon them. That he can close his eyes and savor the knowledge there is nothing pressing to do is a rare gift. When Leonard calls out, “Well? Are we going to play a game or not?”, Jim remembers there is an even rarer gift to enjoy: the companionship of someone he loves.

He is happy to oblige Leonard, gliding into the living room with the question “White or black?”

“White,” Leonard replies as Jim retrieves the gameboard which houses a 3-D chess program from a credenza.

“Excellent choice.” Grin devilish and cheek dimpling, he anticipates his future victory. “I’ve always been more of a black sheep myself.”

McCoy eyes him in part amusement, part indignation. “This ain’t gonna be an easy win for you, kid.”

“Bring it on, old man.”

Suddenly Leonard grins too—and tells the gameboard’s computer where to place the first chess piece.

Jim settles in a chair opposite McCoy and cracks his knuckles out of habit. “Computer,” he orders, “counter, A-3 to A-4.”

Precisely an hour and twenty minutes later, Spock comes through the apartment door in time to witness Leonard leap from his chair.

“I won!” Leonard crows, then whips around to beam at the approaching Vulcan. Locking his hands behind his back, he bobs in place and repeats, grinning, “I won!”

From his chair, Jim turns a rueful expression upon Spock. “Perfect timing. I need to be avenged.”

“Indeed.” Spock remarks to Leonard, “Congratulations, Doctor.”

“The lessons paid off,” Leonard replies happily.

“Lessons?” Jim echoes, a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What lessons?”

Leonard skirts around the coffee table to tuck an arm through Spock’s and lead him towards the kitchen. Their lack of reply is answer enough: How to Beat Jim Kirk at Chess 101.

Jim launches out of his chair and hurries after them, still crying, “Bones, Spock! I need to know about these lessons!”

~~~

Following an afternoon of good-natured bantering and a quiet dinner, Jim finishes the last chapter of one of his favorite novels and feels ready for bed. In the doorway of the apartment’s single bedroom, he stops to admire the picture of the men who had retired before him. Propped against the headboard with a padd in hand, Spock appears deeply invested in whatever research he is currently consuming while McCoy lies sideways across the bed, his head pillowed on Spock’s thigh. Eyes closed and mouth lax, Leonard is already asleep. The Vulcan’s free hand rests just at the curved edge of Leonard’s shoulder, the curl of his fingers relaxed yet a smidgen possessive.

Jim pads softly into the room and gingerly takes a seat on the corner of the bed. Spock lowers his data padd to meet Kirk’s gaze.

Settling a hand atop Spock’s on McCoy’s shoulder, Jim says, “Thank you.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow in question.

“Bones wouldn’t listen to me so well.”

“Illogical,” declares the Vulcan. “You are his captain as well as his friend.”

“Not to mention his lover. But none of those things seem to affect this,” Jim explains, lowering his voice. “Spock, do you recall our encounter with the Vians?”

“I am not likely to forget,” Spock replies too softly. “You nearly died.”

“We nearly died, Spock—and since then Bones hasn’t been able to fully relax unless we’re both in his sight.” Jim sighs through his nose and briefly squeezes the top of Spock’s hand. “Last month he felt he had to file an official report on himself in the event his anxiety spells began to affect his duties. I planned to talk to you about it but Antar VII happened and I—well, I forgot. I’m sorry it took this long to remember again.”

After a moment, Spock says, “Jim, I apologize as well. I was aware of the Doctor’s report. Had I been… less angry over what occurred, our path to healing would have begun sooner.” Spock turns his attention to the relaxed but tired countenance of McCoy. “He suffers still.”

“It could have gone differently,” Jim says. “If you hadn’t had the foresight to remove the hypospray from his medkit, I know it would have been Bones in that torture chamber.” A strange not-memory (not his, at least) assures him of that.

Spock’s darkened gaze returns to Jim. He does not speak, which Jim knows is only because Spock has finally deemed the argument futile. The Vulcan still finds it difficult to forgive Jim for handing himself over to the Vians’ madness, but Jim refuses to apologize for believing that no other choice was feasible. It will never be an option to let Spock or McCoy suffer in his place. He loves them more than his career and his ship—more than his life.

“What can we do for him?” Jim needs to know.

“Leonard may know best,” Spock decides. “Tomorrow let us ask.”

Jim nods and removes his hand. To his surprise, Spock is quick to catch the hand again before Jim retracts it completely.

“Jim, in the future…”

“I know,” Jim cuts in. “We’ll do better.” He tugs Spock’s hand forward to press his mouth to the back of it. “We have to. Apart we may be strong but together we are always stronger. A family.”

“Jim,” comes the sleepy murmur from between the two men, “come to bed.”

“I am, Bones,” Jim promises. “I’m here.”

He helps Spock re-align Leonard on the bed, and then Spock commands the lights to ten percent. For the first time in a long while Jim falls asleep easily, his face tucked against McCoy’s back.

~~~

Life has taught Jim that tragedy strikes without warning so it is nearly impossible to guard against. On the last full day of shore leave, Jim is thinking about tracing the curve of Spock’s jaw, then McCoy’s jaw, heedless of the public attention it might draw. Spock is attempting to feed a piece of replicated Vulcan delicacy to Leonard, who refuses to eat any foreign vegetable that he cannot first analyze with a tricorder. Nothing is lovelier or more wonderful than that moment to Jim because of the guileless affection they obviously have for each other.

When the first shot is fired, it takes out one of the lounge’s wide-panel rotor fans in a burst of debris and sparks uncomfortably close to Kirk, Spock, and McCoy’s private little booth.

Spock nearly drops his fork. Leonard’s eyes grow to the size of quarters at the smoking hole in the wall above their heads. Jim falls out of the booth in his haste to find out what the hell is going on.

The Eridans have come to the lounge armed tonight, having somehow snuck in a small firearm through port security. Their targets are obvious: three mortal enemies in the form of the Danians. Two elder Danians stand shocked into silence by the sudden attack; a third is half-sitting, half-lying at their feet, an arm curved protectively around the portion of his robe with a growing stain. The group’s pinched expressions confirm Jim’s suspicion. They had no prior knowledge of the attack and are ill-prepared to handle it.

Jim is a trained officer of Starfleet, a captain no less. This five-year mission has given him some experience in the art of diffusing dangerous situations between warring factions. He approaches the scene, raising his hands in the universally accepted gesture of proving he has come to talk instead of fight.

A breeze sweeps past him—McCoy, quick of foot, on an unerring path towards the injured.

An Eridan snarls, aiming his weapon at Leonard’s back. Jim barrels forward without thinking and tackles low into the fellow’s midsection, and the shot goes wide. As another shower of sparks descends from the ceiling, patrons flee the area. The chaos of their flight makes it more difficult to fend off the Eridans determined to kill the remaining Danians.

During the fight, Spock comes and goes in Jim’s peripheral vision. A shot that might have killed Jim is deflected into a table, of which it melts a large chunk into a glowing puddle. Jim manages to commandeer the weapon and turn it briefly on its owner, only to have a second Eridan blindside him with a copycat maneuver of his earlier tackle. Somewhere, under all the noise and scuffle, hums McCoy’s steady voice, issuing orders to the frightened Danians to help him stop the bleeding of their companion.

Jim finds himself with somebody’s pointy, hedgehog hair in both hands and a knee biting painfully into his solar plexus. He kicks one of the Eridans off him and gets strangled by the other. Spock is waylaid in coming to Jim’s rescue by another infuriated humanoid. The Eridan Jim succeeded in kicking away has scrambled across the floor and found the firearm that had become lodged next to a up-ended chair. The Eridan grabs it, jumps to his feet with a mighty roar, and faces the cowering Danians.

McCoy’s head snaps up, his healer’s sense of danger being nore uncanny than Jim’s. Then he too jumps to his feet—planting them wide, spreading his arms to make himself a barricade in front of the group.

The Eridan doesn’t care. He raises his weapon.

Leonard pales but his expression of resolve never wavers. “No,” he declares, as if by speaking his will makes it true. “No one dies.”

Spock finally disables his assailant, turning towards the scene too slowly. Jim, pinned by an arm around his throat, can only shout, “No!” and increases his struggle to break free.

“We all die,” the Eridan retorts in broken Standard and fires.

Leonard’s body jerks back, stays suspended upright for a millisecond before it crumples to the ground.

The lounge is rended by double cries of pain, fear, and rage. Jim throws off his attacker, and Spock arrives in time to prevent the Eridan from firing a second shot.

In the end, their actions make no difference. Jim reaches the fallen man’s side, rolls him over. Sees a slack face. Sightless eyes.

McCoy is dead.

For Jim, the world condenses to a single, choked sound.

McCoy is dead.

~~~

“…Captain!”

“Transporter Room to Sickbay! We need emergency med-evac NOW, he’s collapsing!”

“Hold on, son. Just hold on.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Voices are jumbled together, past and present. Possibly future. Jim blinks against the hazy lighting overhead, the faded-out faces, trying to respond to any one of them but the pain is simply too much.

“Captain,” a voice insists above all others. “Captain—”

~~~

“—Kirk.”

A voice, musically gifted, normally light, grates in a way that it never has before. Kirk could ignore it. He would, except…

“Captain Kirk,” the person behind him tries again, standing close yet not so close as to be perceived as intruding into personal space.

Jim squares his shoulders and turns around. “Lieutenant.”

Uhura’s eyes mirror his, red-rimmed, full of grief. Jim quakes internally, biting down on the soft side of his mouth until physical pain overrides another kind of pain.

“Lieutenant?” he questions with more care, aware of how his voice cracks.

“It’s… time, sir,” she says, her voice trembling.

Jim thinks briefly that he cannot proceed but knows he must. He commands the Enterprise. She waits for no one, especially the broken-hearted.

He nods his understanding. Uhura exits the Ready Room.

Jim delays his trek longer, needing to think carefully about placing one foot in front of the other until his feet carry him to the Bridge. The quietness of crewmen at their stations is reminiscent of a grave-side funeral. In a way, it is exactly that—a casting-off, a goodbye.

“Sulu,” Jim says, unable to occupy the captain’s chair for some reason, “take us out of here.”

“Aye, Captain.”

As the Enterprise draws energy from its core to leave behind the starbase Jim will never forgive himself for choosing as their shore leave destination, Jim drops his hand to his chair’s headrest. His gaze travels to the upper deck where only one station sits empty, Science.

At Communications, Uhura faces away, thinking Jim cannot see the reflection of her tears in her console paneling.

His throat works once, twice. His vision blurs, finally forcing him to sit down or lose all semblance of control in front of his crew.

McCoy is dead, he thinks. Endure.

~~~

The communiqué from Starfleet Command has many nuanced layers to its brief exposition: continue the mission; issue a replacement; shit happens, officers die, move on.

None of it Jim stomachs very well. He deletes the message and abandons his personal computer to stand in the middle of his sleeping cabin. After a second’s deliberation, Jim goes to the bathroom to the door built into its opposite side; there he lays his cheek against metal. The door remains inoperative.

Jim closes his eyes. “Spock,” he calls softly. “Spock?”

When no answer comes, Jim returns to the middle of his room, flounders there until he remembers alpha shift starts in a few minutes. His closet houses a row of gold tunics and black pants. He threw out his civilian clothing. Dressing for duty does not lessen the sense that something vital is missing from this routine. He recalls that something as he reaches the exit to his quarters: the routine used to be good-morning kisses from his overnight companions.

Fisting a hand against the center of his chest and pressing there, Jim shudders and repeats, Endure. Only then can he step into the corridor and begin the day.

~~~

Spock is not a mess; he is simply drifting without a tether around the ship. No one begrudges him this solitary wandering or the official request to be removed from duty for a period of bereavement, for Spock is grieving in a manner, though perhaps unheard-of for a Vulcan, common enough to humans.

Many feel this reaction is a testament to the power Leonard McCoy held over the commander’s heart. For Jim, it adds another layer of misery to his already damaged psyche. To know Spock grieves so openly makes Jim envious and, in turn, more ashamed of that tightly closed fist around his own heart which forbids him from expressing his emotions. So he swallows his pain like shards of glass and tries to run the ship with some semblance of normalcy in the absence of Spock. In the evenings, though Jim keeps the ship’s computer working full-time to notify him of Spock’s whereabouts, he secludes himself in his quarters and picks at the raw wounds caused by the loss of McCoy.

Inevitably Spock drifts back to Jim, but Jim still is no more prepared to handle the ever-present grief in the Vulcan’s eyes than his own. Desperate nonetheless, Jim closes the physical distance between them and pulls Spock’s head towards his, attempting the only thing that might have a chance of sparking their connection again.

Spock neither yields to nor rejects the kiss. When Jim releases him, they stare at one another in silence until Jim is no longer able to deny the truth. Something is fundamentally broken about them without McCoy.

“Jim,” Spock says, voice rough, a sign of being unused for days on end.

Jim hears the stirrings of regret in the sound of his name and closes his eyes against it. “It’s okay, Spock,” he says reassuringly, despite the opposite being true. “It’s okay.” I know, we’re broken.

Endure.

He opens his eyes again and has to actively avoid the Vulcan’s saddened gaze. “Take your time, Commander. The Enterprise—she will be here.”

Jim walks away, then, both grateful and devastated to have a door separating them once again. Without Leonard, there is no Spock. Without Spock, Jim has lost his appetite for love.

He realizes that is what the choked sound had been, working its way out of his throat as he had gripped the shirt of one dead lover in the lounge and forgotten the one who lived: the acknowledgement of an end to his future, the only future he had ever dared to pursue of his own volition.

Who is there to blame for so much death, he asks himself, except the man who dared to dream beyond his means?

~~~

The second time Spock comes to Jim, there is a small hope in Jim that Spock has found a way to overcome the pain of McCoy’s passing and can just become his First Officer again.

Spock brings a request for a sabbatical instead. The explanation that accompanies the form is matter-of-fact; unaided, Spock believes he cannot sufficiently recover at a rate that will allow him to return to duty in the near future. There is also a part where Spock hedges about something of a metaphysical nature, a purely Vulcan phenomenon, a growing bond that had been severed prematurely and left him unstable.

Jim takes all this in stride, to the best of his ability trying to comprehend it. He asks, “What can be done?”

Spock’s voice takes on a peculiar kind of strain. “Kolinahr, Captain.”

Jim jerks, swears he hears a double echo of the word.

“A… purging of emotion,” Spock continues, “used to achieve the purest discipline of logic.”

They stand an arm’s length apart on the observation deck but do not look at one another. Jim pretends to study the starscape as he listens, although in actuality he cannot see past the windowpane. Grief has made caverns of Spock’s face.

“Captain?”

Yes, Jim understands. The collateral damage to Spock is substantial. “Do it.” He abandons his pretense, his face turning towards Spock’s but with his gaze angled towards the floor. “Do it, Spock. You’re Vulcan. You cannot let emotion destroy what you are.”

“Jim, undertaking the ritual would—” Spock stops there, strangely enough, and pivots away. His shadow stretched out across the deck is the one to continue. “—result in a diminished capacity to feel. Memories lose emotional substance. My understanding of my human-half gained over the years, that which you have taught me about… feeling, will become useless by the laws of logic.”

Jim understands. Spock is asking if giving up the love they once shared is a price worth the return of his sanity.

Endure. “I won’t stop you,” Jim replies.

Something other than grief, more akin to disappointment, colors Spock’s voice. “I… understand.”

For the briefest moment, the ache beneath Jim’s ribcage is strong enough to be physical. He wants to place his fist on the spot, force it to stop. Would he seem crazy if he did? Better not to.

Shaking such errant thoughts away, Jim discovers the Vulcan commander has left him in the interim to watch the stars alone. Jim sits on the edge of the paneling and drops his chin to his chest. Who would have thought? Star-gazing holds no comfort for him anymore.

Yet another loss on top of a long, long list.

~~~

Time becomes monotonous, easily forgotten.

“Captain?”

Jim lifts his head from his hands. “What can I do for you, Yeoman?”

The man gently places a padd on the desk in front of him. As Jim draws the padd towards him, the yeoman whose name he cannot remember lingers, clearly debating over some course of action.

The padd contains a list of available medical officers in the ‘Fleet with experience and rank enough to become the CMO of the Enterprise. Jim’s gaze slides away from it almost immediately. He deactivates the padd. How long ago was it that Command insisted he replace McCoy? Hard to tell now.

It’s easier to address the yeoman. “Is there something wrong?”

The yeoman tucks his shoulders in slightly, like he expects to be reprimanded. “Captain, you…. should leave the office.”

“Don’t I?”

“And eat. You should eat. Aren’t you hungry, sir?”

Jim’s disinterest changes to puzzlement. “I had breakfast.” Well, that’s not entirely accurate unless coffee counts as sustenance. Although Bones wouldn’t stand for—

Jim shuts down that line of thinking. Lately his sleep has been broken by the sound of McCoy’s voice ringing in his ears; Leonard cursing his name, Leonard demanding that Jim not give up so easily. Bones should know that if Jim had intended to give up, he would have simply laid down next to Leonard in that lounge and died.

The yeoman is speaking again. “It’s the end of beta shift, Captain.”

Jim looks toward the chronometer in surprise. Time disappeared on him again. With a nod, he pushes away from his desk. “Thanks.”

Oddly, however, the yeoman looks like less than convinced of his success. “Will you be attending the officer’s mess?”

Hardly. Jim has an aversion to making public appearances these days. The atmosphere stinks of pity. “I plan to take dinner in my quarters.” He eyes the fellow. “Does that suit you, Yeoman?”

The “Aye, sir” sounds rather resigned. Jim has no idea why.

When the nameless yeoman is gone, Jim reaches for his desk comm out of habit as he stacks his un-read padds together.

“Medical here.“

“Bones, how about dinner—” Jim chokes himself into silence, realizes what he has said at the same time the person on the other end questions more sharply, “Captain?“

Jim’s lungs need a second to unfreeze. “My apologies for the interruption, Dr. M’Benga.” He adds quickly, “All’s well?”

“Captain,” the Acting CMO begins, following an awkward pause, “if you need to—“

“I will take that as a yes, Doctor.” Jim closes the channel.

His hands aren’t quite shaking as he heads through his office door into the empty corridor.

Endure, he reminds himself. That thought has a stronger undercurrent of fear than usual. He changes his mantra to Keep it together, Kirk.

After enduring the loss of Spock and McCoy, there would no sense in him losing his mind now.

~~~

Jim Kirk losing his mind is exactly what happens. In fact, Jim is fairly certain that everyone has lost their minds right along with him. Uhura never appears on the Bridge anymore. Sulu and Chekov are as insubstantial as ghosts and even less talkative. Jim hasn’t seen Scotty or Keenser since before that disastrous shore leave. Spock, who should have left once Jim formally approved the suspension of his Starfleet commission, strides into the captain’s quarters after two months of both of them avoiding personal contact and jerks Jim out of a desk chair by his uniform collar.

“What,” Spock demands, shaking Jim like a toy, “have you done?”

Jim grits his teeth. “Mister, you better let me go.” When Spock fails to obey him, he grabs the Vulcan’s shoulders. “Spock, let go!”

The lack of formality has an immediate effect: Spock drops Jim and backs away. As Jim looks on in confusion, then with growing horror, the Vulcan moans and grabs his head.

Jim has no choice but hurry forward to steady his officer. “Spock, what is it?”

“No,” Spock insists, but not to Jim. “Do not ask it of me.”

This time, Jim is the one to shake his companion with demands. “Spock, look at me! What’s wrong?”

“No.” Spock’s voice becomes hoarse, a plea. “Knowing I have… already lost one… I cannot abandon the other.” Then, giving no warning, he keels forward into Jim’s arms.

Jim doesn’t think, cannot, because the last time he held an unresponsive body in his arms, everything shattered. He forgets to call ahead to Sickbay, having gotten out of the habit of calling someone he trusts for help, and instead lifts the unconscious Vulcan into a fireman’s carry. Spock is deceptively light, so Jim is able to hurry.

Before Jim knows it, a turbolift has deposited him near the medbay; the doors loom just ahead, the surgery lighting behind them unusually bright.

“Doctor!” he cries upon entrance. “Anyone! I need help!”

The first face that pops around a corner and hurries into the main waiting area at the sound of an arrival roots Kirk to the deck.

“Jim!” Leonard reaches for him with white-gloved hands.

The deck rolls under Jim’s feet, then; no, it is Jim’s legs which give out, sending him down to his knees and Spock sliding off his shoulder.

Leonard clucks in annoyance, “Damn it, Jim, hold on. Do you hear me?”

As McCoy kneels in front of him, Jim starts to tremble. “Bones? No—no, it can’t be!”

“Oh, kid.” Leonard reaches out to touch him. “It’s all right. You can stop fighting now. We’ve got you.”

Jim could cry but the fist controlling his emotions has grown barbs over time and cuts him when he tries. “Bones, this is impossible. You died.”

Leonard counters gently, “No, that would be you. Remember?”

Jim feels something like a hypo depressing against his neck but McCoy’s hands remain empty. Spock, Jim also realizes, searching for the Vulcan, has vanished.

The fist tightens a little more. It becomes difficult to speak. “I… want to wake up now. Do you understand me? I want… to wake up!“

He expects he will jerk awake at his desk, having lost not just time but pieces of his mind. Instead the medbay floor turns to a muted gray with a familiar shellac. An object soars past Jim’s head. The weapon. An Eridan is screaming his rage; the Danian elders are weeping. McCoy lies under Jim’s hands, his tunic bearing a burnt hole the size of a man’s fist but the skin beneath it healthy and whole.

Jim watches in fascination as McCoy’s chest rises and falls as if he is simply asleep. Breath touches Jim’s neck, belonging to Spock who kneels next to him, a hand securely placed on Leonard’s chest as well.

“This… is real?” Jim asks him.

Something flickers through the Vulcan’s eyes, guilt perhaps. “What is reality,” Spock replies, “except that which we perceive it to be?”

In other words, should the answer matter if McCoy lives?

“Bones,” Jim murmurs, moving his hands upwards to cup McCoy’s peaceful face. “I’m here.” He leans down to brush his mouth over a slightly stubbled chin. “See? Spock and I made it back to you.”

“Jim,” Spock utters the name gravely.

“One more second, Spock. Then I will let this go too.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“Just Jim,” Kirk insists. “When we’re like this, just—”

~~~

“—Jim.” The light shining in Jim’s eyes is unforgiving but his arm is slow to react as a shield.

“No need to remind us who you are. Are you with us, Captain?”

The drawled words cause tears to gather at the corners of Jim’s eyes. He has no inclination to blink them away. “Bones?”

The light disappears, replaced by a face that can change worlds.

“Bones?” Jim repeats, uncertain if he should trust what he sees.

“Sorry about the light, kid,” replies Leonard McCoy, a combination of relief and heartache flashing across the man’s face. He clears his throat. “Jim…” Glancing sideways, McCoy amends, “Captain. What do you remember?”

Horrors, thinks Jim. Horrors that oddly are fading away the more he tries to grasp what they were. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.

A movement just at the edge of Jim’s peripheral vision forms into Spock, the set of the Vulcan’s shoulders rigidly stiff, hands out of sight behind his back. Spock looks… exhausted. Jim focuses on McCoy again, decides that Bones does too.

“What happened?” he has to know. What has caused them to look so weary?

“The Vians,” Spock answers without inflection.

“They—” Here McCoy swallows hard. “—hurt you, Jim. Badly. We thought…” Leonard’s voice dies out, comes back weaker. “They said they healed you but you collapsed when we reached the ship.”

Spock picks up the explanation. “Despite their extraordinary abilities, we discovered the Vians know little of the nuances of the human body. Dr. McCoy quickly discerned that their version of ‘thinking you into a former state’ did nothing to restore your blood levels, to eradicate the spread of bacteria from internal ruptures or to mitigate the shock of torture on your system.”

“They made a mess of you,” Leonard concludes, looking sick.

Jim winces. “But I’m… fixed now?”

McCoy nods.

“Bones,” Jim says, meaning it, “thank you. I owe you my life.”

Neither Spock nor McCoy responds. Jim knows why, for he recalls now with better clarity events leading up to this torture the Vians supposedly inflicted upon him. The Enterprise had moved on from the crisis at Antar VII to a mission in the Minaran star system, only to discover the outpost there abandoned. What happened once the Vians appeared to torment them, Jim cannot recall specifically. He feels grateful for his gaps in memory, although he suspects the memory loss will be short-lived.

“Don’t hate me,” he tells them tiredly, eyes starting to close, unsurprised that his body wants to nothing more than to fall back asleep. “I did what I had to… as your captain.” As someone who loves you, he wishes he could tell them.

His eyes snap open.

McCoy and Spock continue to observe him silently, uncomprehending of his reasons, of his sacrifice when it seems, to them, any choice but Jim would have been a better choice.

Jim’s hands tremble slightly against the biobed’s blanket as he searches his friends’ faces for the one thing that always makes anger, fear, and pain palatable. It isn’t there.

In the dream—and, yes, that is what he had woken from, a dream, a nightmare—they were angry and heartbroken but they loved him too. This world is not so kind. No sharing of secrets or desires, small hurts or great joys. No intimacy, physical, emotional, or otherwise. The marriage of Jim’s heart to Spock’s and McCoy’s does not exist beyond what he had created in his head.

Once again, tears gather at the corners of Kirk’s eyes, this time the cause of them very different. He is unable to decide which is more tragic… the reality or the dream.

The End

Notes: ** – Excerpt from TOS episode “The Empath”; Jim’s plea to the Vians, and the Vians’ cold response.

Sometimes fate has a way of making you regret being so cavalier about fate. The prompt I received for McSpirkHolidayFest Round Three was hardly one I expected but decided that it would be a good challenge. I also decided that in order for the fill to be appropriately gut-wrenching, killing McCoy didn’t necessarily have to go hand-in-hand with bringing him back to life. However, knowing that would be a disservice to the wishes of the prompt creator, who wanted a view of loss without permanency, I had to rein in such morbid tendencies. As a result, I struggled – and struggled and struggled. For two weeks, I tried to find a way to achieve the perfect balance, to the point that I felt all this struggling I was experiencing was utterly unreal. Then it struck me that nothing about this story needed to be real. So, in the end, I killed-but-not-really-killed McCoy, and I oh-so-for-real-killed McSpirk. I would say you’re welcome, but chances are no readers will thank me. Instead, let me say Happy 50th Anniversary, Star Trek! In my heart of hearts, McSpirk is canon and Jim will never have suffered this way. Eventually I hope I can be forgiven.

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