Archive of Our Own

Jim Kirk has the Look of Love. Patented, tested, and true. McCoy has seen it directed towards Spock, and if not Spock then towards whatever current damsel in distress they encounter during missions.

It’s an easily recognizable look, a softening of the eyes and face, a twinkle in his gaze that is so easy to fall for and so hard to forget. Hazel eyes and full lips, and it’s no wonder that Spock practically eats out of the captain’s hand.

Despite his outward grumbling and complaints, McCoy does try not to turn into a bitter old man. He doesn’t envy Jim for the ease with which he falls in love, nor does he dismiss the emotions as something not real. But Jim is the sort of man that can fall in love, over and over again, finds love in every kind person they encounter, responds to advances the way a flower blooms under sunlight.

This, McCoy envies him. To have so much space in his heart that there is always room for more. To let new loves heal the scars of old ones, to always be open for opportunity, endlessly curious.

McCoy fell in love quickly, once. Young and hopeful, so sure of the future. He’s loved people after Jocelyn, but differently. And rarely. Each heartbreak closing him off just a little more, turning him cautious of commitment, of searching for ‘love’ when affection and attraction is easier to come by and easier to leave behind.

He’s not sure he could handle being loved. Loving someone? Yeah, maybe. Sure. It could happen, he’s not that bitter old man yet. But being loved is a whole other thing.

He sees Spock, sees him being loved by Jim, and he hates himself a little for resenting it. For resenting them, to be so open and blatant about it even when they’re not even together. Not like that, at least. Not officially. Not physically. Not the way Jim would have preferred, though whether or not Spock would consider it is a toss-up between being a sexually repressed Vulcan and pure disinterest.

“I hate this kind of mission,” he mutters to himself, kicking at a rock as he and Spock trudge up yet another steep hill. “At least if we’d stayed in the prison cell we wouldn’t have to do all this damn walkin’.”

There’s nothing to do but walk, and think, and avoid looking at Spock.

“It is likely that staying in the Budonians’ prison would result in our deaths, Doctor.”

It’s cloudy but sweltering hot, and while McCoy has tied his shirt around his waist to relieve himself of some of the heat, Spock is undressed for a different reason. It’s usually Jim who returns from missions with his clothes in tatters, but this time it’s Spock. What little was left of his uniform shirt has been discarded, and while he still wears the short-sleeved undershirt it’s torn and ripped in enough places to display more of his chest and sides and back than McCoy thinks he can handle outside of Sickbay.

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m tired of near-death experiences and alien prisons and escaping by the scruff of our necks.”

Their second five-year mission wasn’t off to a good start. Why had he agreed to a second bout of space madness, anyway?

“It is unfortunate indeed that we were discovered by their guards.”

“Why are we even on this planet in the first place,” he sighs. “Medicinal plants… What good are they if they’re guarded by giant lizards ridden by tiny assholes.”

“I assume your description is not meant to be literal, Doctor.”

They reach the crest of the hill, surprised to find that the way down goes on for a long while, with what looks like a forest at the bottom of the ridge.

“And here I thought I was just out of shape,” McCoy says, wiping sweat off his forehead with an arm. “Guess it was the lower oxygen levels.”

“Had you studied the surrounding geography before beaming down–“

“Spock, that’s what I’ve got you and your science goons for.”

They fall silent, wondering if the rest of the landing party made it back safely to the ship.

“Doctor,” Spock chides him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Just keep walkin’.”

They walk, and he has to trust Spock to know what direction they came from, because they’d been blind-folded and thrown over the backs of those lizards and McCoy wouldn’t be able to find his way back to where they beamed down even if it was his life on the line. Which it might be, he supposes.

At the very least it doesn’t seem like anyone is following them, and nightfall creeps up on them as they reach the outskirts of the forest. They manage to find a small brook with fresh water, cleaning up as best they can and betting on this one being as clean as the one Spock scanned the day before.

“I’m not made for long treks on alien planets,” McCoy complains. He scrubs his arms with cool water, shivering in the lowering temperature. “I’m telling Jim I’m never setting foot on another damn planet again unless it’s Earth.”

“That may be out of your control, Doctor.”

Spock both sounds and looks unaffected by their long walk. Of course, the warm weather is more suited for him than for McCoy, but he could have had the decency to at least look a little put out about their situation. Besides the torn shirt and a bruise or two he looks like he just stepped off another calm shift on the bridge.

“We’ll just see about that,” he mutters, though he knows that Spock is right.

It is out of his control. Flying around on a tin can in space is bad enough, but being the CMO means he’s often the first one off ship when a doctor is needed. Sometimes he thinks the protocol should be the opposite – shouldn’t the most senior officers stay on ship? That’s how the brass works, anyway. The more important you are, the less likely you are to ever lift a finger and actually do something other than bark orders. It’s not Jim’s style, though. In theory he agrees with Jim. In practice, stuck on another alien planet, stomach riddled with hunger pangs, he’s starting to think the whole idea about space and discovering new civilizations is a load of bullshit and they’d all be better off at home.

He could have been an old country doctor for real. He’ll blame Jocelyn for that, because it makes him feel better to have someone else to blame.

One thing’s certain, though – staying on Earth wouldn’t have gotten him any better luck in the love department.

“Doctor, you require rest.”

McCoy eyes the hard ground with distaste. He’s exhausted, but there isn’t exactly a soft and clean moss-covered mattress and pillow waiting for him. More like thick underbrush and gnarled roots and wet patches from some earlier rain.

“I think maybe we should just keep going,” he says, listening to the sounds of night birds hooting in the distance. “Don’t think I’ll get any sleep like this, anyway.”

Staring into the falling darkness he doesn’t notice Spock moving closer until he’s right next to him. Startled, he turns and almost loses his balance, Spock reaching out to steady him.

“It is inadvisable to keep moving in the dark.”

Spock keeps his hand in place, expression serious as they stare at each other. He knows he shouldn’t, but he still enjoys the touch. Finds himself wishing Spock would pull him closer, find more intimate ways to reassure him.

He sighs.

“I just don’t like the thought of closing my eyes and next time I open them, we’re back in that moldy prison again.”

“I will remain awake, Doctor. Vulcans require less–“

“Can it, Spock. Don’t you have night vision, too? I say we keep going.”

Spock doesn’t precisely sigh, but his grip seems to tighten before his hand drops.

“You are not the officer in charge, Doctor. We will remain here until the light returns.”

McCoy would yell at him, but what’s the point? He rakes a hand through sweaty hair, feeling out the ground with his feet before settling on a spot that seems less uneven than the rest of the ground. He pulls his shirt back on and tries to get comfortable. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the increasing darkness, but there’s no mistaking the fact that Spock remains standing almost within reach.

“You’re just going to stand there, huh?”

“I suggest you focus on achieving sleep, Doctor.”

Strangely enough, McCoy can feel a smile taking shape. Sometimes he thinks Spock doesn’t care about him at all. Sometimes, like now, he’s reminded that for all his insistence on logic and avoidance of acknowledging emotion, he does feel. And, sometimes, rarely, he feels enough to prioritize the human health before the most efficient course of action.

“Fine,” he says, squirming to find a slightly more comfortable position. “I’ll try.”

Spock does not reply. His quiet presence lulls McCoy to sleep within minutes.

☆☆☆

“What happened?” Jim demands as they materialize on the transporter pad, a full day’s trek later.

McCoy grimaces as the familiar feeling of having his guts rearranged fades with the tingle of the transporter. He feels grimy, covered in dirt and sweat, and it’s clear that Jim only holds back from reaching out to touch Spock because of the technician standing by the controls.

“An unfortunate misunderstanding with the local population,” Spock replies, stepping off the pad.

“That’s one way of calling it,” McCoy snorts. “Can we do the catching up after a shower and change of clothes? I have a feeling I stink.”

“That may be wise,” Spock says, mildly. He ignores McCoy’s affronted look and remains focused on Jim. “What of the rest of the landing party?”

Rubbing at his cheek, Jim sighs at them, as if exasperated.

“All accounted for. You two are the only ones who disappeared without a trace.”

It’s a relief to know everyone else is fine. McCoy feels the tired ache pounding in his muscles, and all of a sudden he wonders if he’s too old for this. Wouldn’t Jim benefit from someone younger, someone in better shape? Even as he thinks it, he dismisses the idea. Jim had been insistent. Pushy, even. A two-year-break that seemed too short in hindsight, and then back at it. Experience before age, in this case.

He only wishes the experience didn’t weigh so heavily on him at the moment.

The ache in his heart is just as familiar, watching the ease with which Jim and Spock continue to discuss the failed mission as they walk towards the turbolifts. He’s part of that ease, it’s just… Maybe he’s the only one who’s wishing for something else. Something more. Something unprofessional, out of bounds.

He can’t let them know. Can’t let them know he suspects, either. Whatever rapport the two of them share must be firmly categorized as the platonic trust between a captain and his first officer, regardless of how softly they smile at each other.

Friendship, McCoy thinks, can be a terrible thing.

In the quiet of his quarters he allows his expression to drop into something more depressed. The sonic shower beats at him like a vicious massage, too weak to do something good to his muscles, but just strong enough to make him feel every bruise and scratch. He doesn’t feel like he deserves a water shower. Maybe he should talk to someone. But who? He’s the goddamn CMO. He can’t afford succumbing to depression.

He's barely dried off and dressed when Jim enters his quarters, unannounced and uninvited, which is just like him.

“Bones,” he says, frowning. “You look like hell.”

Shrugging, McCoy sits on a chair. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair.

“Walking for two days straight will do that to a man,” he says. “Heat and a lower oxygen count didn’t help.”

“You should have Chapel look you over.”

Jim comes to stand next to him, leaning against his desk. There’s PADDs littered on it, research and reports and medical files on the crew. Jim’s hands fold over the edge, the grip tight. There’s stress lines around his eyes – he likely hadn’t slept much while they were on planet.

“After I eat,” McCoy promises. “And maybe sleep, too.”

“Don’t make me make it an order, Bones.”

Jim gives him a wry smile, and the worried look in those hazel eyes is enough for McCoy to turn away. He knows Jim cares. But Jim was made for adventures with gorgeous aliens, not an old country doctor from Georgia. Friendship is precious on its own. It’s enough. Even if his breath catches at the thought that it’s all he’ll ever get.

“Here, I’ll replicate you something right away,” Jim says, pushing off the desk and wandering over to McCoy’s small personal replicator. “You haven’t eaten in two days.”

As if on cue, McCoy’s stomach growls. He feels a little faint, even though he gulped down some water before getting in the shower. Jim returns with soup and bread, and McCoy forces himself to eat slowly while Jim watches him.

“You should check up on Spock,” he mumbles after a while.

“Oh, he insisted I look after you after giving me a quick rundown of what happened. You two sure wanted to start the next five years with a bit of drama.”

Next five years. He almost shudders at the words. Five years in space, and he’s more worried about blurting out his stupid thoughts than the crushing emptiness surrounding them.

“Wanted is a strong word.”

“Well,” Jim sighs, lifting himself up on McCoy’s desk to sit on it, less captain and more friend. It makes his heart ache anew. “At least he was there to look after you. Who knows if we’d have managed to find you on time otherwise.”

McCoy swallows another spoonful of soup, scowling.

“I can take care of myself.”

Jim looks at him for a long moment.

“Yes,” he says. “But I don’t like it when you have to.”

There’s a painful lump in his throat, and no amount of forcing it down with pieces of bread succeeds. Jim has those moments where he’s not afraid to get a little intimate. McCoy sometimes wishes he wouldn’t. He knows the words will stay with him, though. It’s hard, because McCoy is used to being the one worrying, the one patching people up and yelling at them to take better care of themselves. Maybe in the past two years he’d forgotten how much Jim worries, too.

“I’m alright, Jim.”

He has to be. He will be. At least if Jim stops looking at him like he wants to reach out and touch him, too.

Five years, he thinks, gripping the spoon hard enough its edges dig into his hand.

It’s both too little and too much.

☆☆☆

They’re playing chess in the rec room when McCoy arrives. It’s been three days, and at least Jim has stopped with the overbearing concern. McCoy watches him carefully place a chess piece on the top level, a smirk taking over his face at Spock’s small frown.

The room is full of people, but the two of them play in a world of their own.

Silently, McCoy finds a chair and pulls it up next to the table. It would be weird if he didn’t. He watches as Spock calculates his next move, chooses a rook. The smirk slides off Jim’s lips.

“Hm,” Jim says.

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he eyes Spock, then the board. McCoy wishes he’d gotten himself a cup of coffee, just to have something to do with his hands. He focuses on the board to distract himself from the shape of Jim’s arms underneath his gold command shirt, searches the pieces left for what sort of predicament Spock had just put him in. When he sees it, he nods in understanding.

“You’re in trouble now, Jim.”

“Bones!”

Jim turns to him as if he hadn’t noticed him before. If it stings, it’s easy to ignore. But Jim’s gaze flicks down to his empty hands, chess game forgotten for a moment.

“You’ve got nothing to drink,” he says. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

He’s up and halfway to the replicators before McCoy thinks to object. When he meets Spock’s eyes there’s a hint of amusement that quickly disappears behind that collected, Vulcan mask.

“You think he needed an excuse for more time to think?” McCoy asks, corner of his mouth curling upwards. “Don’t remember him being this quick to fetch me drinks.”

Spock regards him for a moment, as if searching his face for something.

“The captain has been concerned over your health.”

“My health?”

It’s not common for Spock to fidget, but now he’s fiddling with a discarded piece, rolling it between his fingers. He looks thoughtful, hesitant.

“He believes you have exhibited signs of melancholia.”

Well, isn’t that just a fancy way of calling him miserable. Thinning his lips, McCoy glares after Jim. He really doesn’t need friendly concern, not from either of them. Not until he gets his emotions under control again.

“I’m just adjusting to five more years in space.”

Even though Spock’s expression doesn’t change, something tells him that his white lie is taken for what it is – a lie.

“Jim asked me if I believed his request that you join us was the wrong decision.”

And that – that hurts to hear. He bites into his cheek, clenching his fists around nothing. He’s not old and washed-up just yet, but maybe there’s something to it. Maybe it was the wrong decision.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t regret illogical, or something?”

Then, he thinks, us? Not the mission. Us.

“Indeed,” Spock says, folding his hands over the table. “I informed him that he has rarely made a wrong decision. Statistically, the risk of faulty decisions made by the captain is negligible.”

McCoy blinks at him.

“You have a lot of faith in Jim,” he says, unnecessarily.

“It is not faith,” Spock says, eyebrow only twitching a little bit to show his offense at being accused of not adhering strictly to logic.

Jim returns, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. It’s enough of a distraction to hide McCoy’s fond smile.

“Not that you should be drinking coffee this late in the evening,” Jim tells McCoy as he hands him the cup, but his smile is jovial. “Now, help me beat Spock. His winning streak is giving me a headache.”

“I’ve got hypos for that,” McCoy teases, taking a sip. “Unless you want me to prescribe ordering Spock to lose intentionally?”

The look he receives is dark, but it soon turns into something happier again. Jim stretches, arms up above his head, the curve of his body too enticing to look at for more than a second. McCoy hurries to avert his eyes, finding a safe refuge in the black liquid warming up his hands.

“It’s too bad Spock never listens to you,” Jim teases back. He reaches out to move a piece, blocking Spock’s attempts at check mate. “Well, how about that, hm?”

“You are playing rashly tonight, Captain.”

“Rashly?!”

Spock proves his point by moving his queen into check mate. McCoy sits back in his seat, hands wrapped around his mug and something like satisfaction attempting to wash out the earlier hurt. This is familiar, safe territory. This kind of moment is what makes it all worth it.

Jim concedes the loss, and they rearrange the board into a new game. After this they’ll have dinner, then retire to their respective quarters. It’s a tried and true routine. As the next game starts up he does his best to relax, sticking in a comment here and there. Even with these unasked for feelings there’s something about being allowed in Jim and Spock’s space that he can’t help but bask in.

The hurt can wait until he’s alone in bed. If he allows himself to be a little cynical, each happy moment is just borrowed time that he’ll pay for in solitude. Even so, he smiles at Jim’s jokes, pokes at Spock’s logic, inserts himself into their bubble when part of him wants to scream and leave them alone.

Leaving them alone might be the one thing he could never do.

Not even when Jim lifts his eyes, looks up at Spock coyly through his lashes, face aglow with that recognizable emotion.

Even then.

He merely clutches the mug a little harder. Presses the soles of his shoes into the floor. Commits it to memory, then looks away, takes in the crew instead, the soft murmur of conversation and laughter. Spock is lucky, he thinks, even though Vulcans don’t believe in luck.

“Bones.”

He takes his time, reluctantly returns his focus to Jim. That soft look lingers in his eyes, in the shape of his mouth. It’s hard to receive such remnants when he knows it’s not for him.

“I’ll get you another drink,” Jim says, snatching the mug out of his grip. “Not coffee, this time.”

The game has ended already. McCoy folds his hands instead, squeezing his fingers together. He can feel Spock’s eyes boring into him, but he won’t look. Can’t look.

If he looks, Spock might find him out. Might realize that he’s jealous, and damn embarrassed to be.

Maybe he’ll retire early, skip dinner. Going to sulk in his quarters is an appealing thought. With his luck, Jim and Spock would just follow him under the guise of concern. No, better to stay, get himself used to it again. He can’t avoid them for five years, and it’s not like his feelings would go away if he did, anyway.

“Doctor,” Spock says. He sounds calm, content. “We did not finish our earlier conversation.”

He tenses, feels his heart pick up speed. He’d just about managed to push it out of his mind, and now he feels himself unfold all his defenses again.

“It’s fine, Spock,” he says, hoping he’ll drop it.

“I would like to point out,” Spock says, because he never drops anything and he’s clearly not about to start now. “That while both of us considered retiring from Starfleet, Jim expressed concern that you would be happier had you gone through with it.”

McCoy mulls that over for a bit. Jim hasn’t returned yet, and a quick glance towards the replicators shows him occupied by conversation with Scotty. He wouldn’t have been happier, that’s the awful truth. He’s not sure he’s happy, but miserable on the Enterprise is probably better than miserable on Earth. At least here he’s not alone, even if he’s lonely.

“Well,” he says, glancing up at Spock and wondering if there’s anything logical about mentioning this. “Jim’s wrong.”

Spock keeps watching him, and a shiver makes its way down his spine. He feels too warm like this, under Spock’s scrutiny.

“I see,” Spock replies.

He doesn’t say anything else, and McCoy is grateful for it. He’s tired, and he wants the evening to end. When Jim returns, it’s with an apologetic look and no drink.

“Sorry, I got caught up,” he says, looking between them with a slight frown. “And I thought it might serve us better to relocate to the mess for dinner.”

Spock nods, standing up easily. He lifts the chess board and takes it over to a shelf, while Jim herds McCoy towards the exit with a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Bones. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”

He keeps the hand in place until Spock catches up with them. When it slides off, McCoy deliberately slows until the other two walk in front of him. The corridors aren’t wide enough for three people anyway, not when there’s crewmembers walking in the opposite direction. He watches them talk to each other, Jim’s amused smile and Spock’s tilted eyebrow, Jim’s waving hands and Spock’s folded behind his back.

They’re the perfect pair, really. Complimenting each other. He feels like he’s intruding. Like they need some time alone to have that talk, the one that’ll finally make them see how much they love each other. A talk McCoy would rather not listen in to.

When they get together, he sort of hopes they won’t tell him. He’ll notice, probably. But he doesn’t want to know.

Reaching the turbolift, Jim and Spock turn towards him.

“Bones!” Jim calls. “What’s taking you so long?”

He forces a smile on his face, just like he forces down the lump in his throat, the heat in his chest.

“Can’t a man take his time?” he grumbles, crowding into the lift with them.

Jim smiles wide, grabbing the handle and calling for the mess hall’s deck. They’re too close, and it feels deliberate, which is ridiculous. He has to resist the urge to elbow them away just for some room to breathe.

“I think a hot meal and a nightcap is in order,” he says, sharing a look with Spock that has McCoy’s stomach twist into knots. “I have a good feeling about our next mission, Bones. You’ll like it.”

“Statistically, I doubt it.”

“Statistically?” Jim grins at him, nudges him with an elbow. “I think Spock’s rubbing off on you.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Jim.”

They exit the lift, heading for the mess. This time he’s not allowed to fall back, not with Jim and Spock flanking him and matching his pace. It’s as if he left his heart in the turbolift, and now it soars down to the bottom of the ship while the hole in his chest gapes like a black hole.

They’ll have dinner, and it’ll be routine, and they’ll do it over and over and over again until another five years have passed. It hurts too much, he thinks. Why? Why can’t I just accept that friendship is good enough?

Jim pushes him through the doorway, hand on the small of his back, and it’s–

Jim has always been a touchy-feely kind of guy. They touch each other, it’s what friends do. But it feels like a brand through the thin fabric of his shirt, like he’ll choke on the warmth of it. He stops in front of a replicator and struggles to pull air into his lungs, punching in a code at random, the first he can think of.

A chicken sandwich. Jim’s favorite.

He stares down at the tray in his hand with unseeing eyes. His heart hasn’t just dropped to the bottom of the ship, it fell right through the hull, out of warp, frozen in the cold vacuum of space. No, he thinks, desperately. No, please, not this.

He knows he loves them, they’re his best friends. Even Spock. He knows he’s jealous, too, is self-aware enough to realize that the deep pit in his stomach is an ache left from the marriage that crashed and burned, the memory of what he had and will never have again.

Now, here, he understands it’s much worse than that.

He doesn’t just want what they have.

He wants them.

He wants them to… God, he wants them to love him. Not just each other. Him, too.

The sight and smell of the sandwich suddenly makes him nauseated. He wants to throw it away, slink out of the mess and hide in his quarters, his body in knots like a stress ball squeezed too hard. Hot tears burn behind his eyelids, his vision blurred when he blinks his eyes open.

He wants to be loved, and when he looks up he sees them at a table, food ordered and conversation picked back up, face to face. There’s room for him, to the side. He can barely stand the thought of it.

He grips the tray too tight, white-knuckled as he breathes through the pain in his chest. Nothing’s changed. Nothing will change. He repeats it like a mantra as he walks over to join them, sits down next to Spock and tries to appear inconspicuous, like his mind isn’t raging war against him. He eats mechanically, ignores the nausea, then stands as soon as he’s done.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding hoarser than he’d like. “I’m gonna turn in early tonight.”

Leaving quickly, he tries to make it look like he’s not fleeing, except he is. He only wishes he could flee his own emotions, too.

Inside his quarters he pauses inside the door, at a loss. What does he do now? Heart racing, he clutches at the front of his shirt, vaguely aware he’s shaking. He wants them.

He wants them, and he’ll never have them.

Oh, he’ll have five years next to them, being their friend, watching their love from the sidelines. Keeping them alive, safe, get them through to the end. And then they’ll stop being idiots and spend the rest of their lives together, they way they should. The way he wants them to, even if he, apparently, wishes there was space for him somewhere in their incredible love for each other.

He wishes he hadn’t realized. What good will it do him, to want? To yearn? To imagine something that will never be his?

Maybe he should have stayed on Earth. It would have saved him daily heartbreak, if nothing else. He has to pull himself together, though. He owes it to the crew, to Jim and Spock. He can wallow in misery on his own time, but he won’t let it affect his work. He’s a doctor, first and foremost.

Still, he sinks to the floor, head in his hands as he feels his chest constrict. Break down before you get back up, and the tears can’t be stopped once they start rolling down his cheeks. It hurts, the way few things have hurt before. The hopelessness of it all, the bittersweet knowledge that the two people he loves will be happy, but they’ll be happy without him.

Love isn’t for him.

It’s harsh, to think the words. Cuts him down to the bone, leaves him raw and empty. He hates it, hates feeling like this, small and weak and utterly alone.

The door buzzes. He’s reminded that it’s impossible to be truly alone on a spaceship. Lonely, yes. But not alone. He rubs at his face with his sleeves, breathes through the sobs and wonders if he should just pretend he’s in the bathroom. It could be a crewmember looking for advice. Jim would simply walk in as usual.

Oh, he thinks. It could be worse. It could be Spock.

The buzzer goes off again, but he rushes into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face. He’s still crying, just more panicked now. The door snicks open, a quiet whoosh that has his heart stop in his chest. He forgot he could have locked it, but there’s only one – maybe two – people who would open it without permission.

And sure enough, a moment later he hears Jim call out, “Bones?”

He freezes with his hands on the sink, eyes red-rimmed and haunted in the mirror. He can’t let them see. It’s one thing to suffer from hopeless love, a whole other thing to let other people see it. He’s mortified, breaths shaky as he stares at his own frightened expression.

A knock on the bathroom door, but at least Jim doesn’t barge inside.

“You in there, Bones?”

“Yes,” he croaks.

There’s no point pretending he isn’t. Jim can ask the computer for his whereabouts.

“You left really quickly,” Jim continues, probably leaning against the door. “Spock and I got worried.”

He doesn’t like that. Worrying them. That’s the worst part about the depth of their friendship, he thinks. They won’t leave him alone, not if they’ve smelled the metaphorical blood. And it is oozing out of him right now, probably creeping through the tiny gap in the bathroom door like smoke, filling the room outside with the scent of his misery.

“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound fine, not even to himself.

There’s a brief silence.

“Bones,” Jim says, gently, slowly. “Won’t you tell us what’s wrong?”

No, he thinks. Never.

“Please allow us to be of assistance.”

God, of course Spock is here, too. Is there no end to the joke that is his life right now? A Vulcan offering assistance, who would have thought… But Spock won’t like hearing of his emotions. They don’t have that kind of friendship, they just don’t. What happens in the heat of a mission doesn’t count, it means nothing, like long forgotten dreams washed away by clever insults.

“No thanks,” he forces out, wiping furiously at his face again.

It doesn’t help much.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“Bones.”

He turns the tap on, ducks his head under it. The water never gets cold enough on the ship, doesn’t freeze his face into a cool mask like he wants it to. It’s better than nothing. While he knows he can’t avoid them forever, he’d prefer to avoid this confrontation, at least. They don’t deserve to see him like this. He’ll get over it. He’ll learn to live with it. He has to. He will.

“Bones, please…”

He runs the tap a minute longer, then gives up. He scrubs his face with at towel until his skin feels raw, reddened from the friction more than tears. If Jim had thought he looked like shit after the mission, it was nothing compared to how he looked now.

“Leave me alone,” he tries, curling his fists into the towel. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I’m your friend and your captain,” Jim shoots back. “I’ll abuse that privilege if I have to, don’t think I won’t.”

He thinks Jim will. He’s defied him before. Ignored orders. Not to save himself, but to save Jim, and Spock. If Jim knew what ailed him, would he still order him to speak up? If he knew how much it would hurt to have things change between them? McCoy wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for some time. And just the thought of admitting he has feelings for Spock–

No, he has to refuse. There’s a line where a man’s dignity ends, and he won’t cross it. Not like this. And yet, it feels like he has no choice. How could he possibly keep a secret like this? Five years carrying such a heavy burden in the empty space where his heart had been…

He draws in a shaky breath, impressed despite himself that his emotions for these two run so strong that he both didn’t notice and destroyed himself as soon as he did.

It’s just love, he tells himself. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

But he is, because he knows it will hurt them, too. Knows how much it will pain them to reject him, to explain they don’t see him that way. He doesn’t want to place that burden on them, too.

“Please, Jim,” he pleads, voice as shaky as his breath. “Please, just let it go.”

The bathroom door slides open, because Jim does abuse his captain privileges now and then, when he thinks it’s important. He’s always been the kind of man who puts what’s right first, and what’s regulation second. It’s one of the things McCoy loves about him, that instinct to push beyond borders.

Now, it allows him a front row seat to McCoy’s very personal break-down.

“Bones, what happened?” he asks now, horrified. He strides into the bathroom, covers McCoy’s shoulders with an arm, a solid weight holding him steady. “You seemed a little withdrawn, but I didn’t realize…”

McCoy closes his eyes, forces air into his uncooperative lungs.

“It’s alright, Jim,” he whispers, hoarse, throat aching. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing!”

Gently, so very gently, Jim takes his hands, lifts them off the sink. He’s warm to the touch, so sure of himself. He leads McCoy out, into his quarters, sits him on the too small couch and squeezes in beside him. Silently, Spock follows, standing awkwardly beside them.

“Bones, this doesn’t look like nothing,” Jim says, still holding one of his hands. “Won’t you talk to us?”

“No,” he mutters, staring dully at Jim’s hand over his. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“If something upsets you to this degree, I believe it would be both logical and beneficial to discuss the matter with us, Doctor.”

McCoy pinches his lips shut. He doesn’t need Spock playing counselor right now. He needs to be left alone, thank you very much.

“I will leave if it makes you more comfortable,” Spock says, hesitantly, too considerate, and McCoy–

McCoy wonders when their friendship turned into this. When he came to rely on Spock like this, when they learned to be nice to each other. Yes, he saw Spock during the two years apart, more than he saw Jim. It was different, off-duty. Weird. Fun. Better and worse.

“Only if you both leave,” he says at last. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, Bones, I don’t think I’ll leave you that choice.”

Jim sounds determined, like they’re talking ship’s business. He scowls at Jim, meets that determination head on. Out of the three of them, he’s always thought of himself as the most stubborn, but in reality it's Jim. It's why he's the captain. It's why he succeeds, over and over again, refusing to lose, to give up. It’s why he and Spock allow Jim to give them orders. Because they trust him. Because they know he’ll always do the right thing.

“You’re being unfair,” he says quietly, then drops his gaze back to their intertwined hands.

“No,” Jim disagrees. “I’ve been unfair before. I’ve been lenient, too. I’ve lost you, retrieved you, given orders that should make you hate me. But I’m not going to walk away from you, Bones. Not when you clearly need me.”

“Dammit!” McCoy pushes him away, crosses his arms and curls his legs up to his chest, hiding his face against his knees. “Dammit all to hell, Jim!”

There’s a ringing silence in the wake of his outburst. It lingers, drawn out and painful, until Jim lets out a soft sigh.

“Do you want to resign, Bones?” The words are quiet, soft, helpless. “Is that what this is about? I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I knew you’d say yes. I didn’t think you’d be so miserable with us.”

McCoy bites his lips, wishing he could bite hard enough to break skin, to taste blood. His whole body aches now, tension and heartbreak and all those tears that are still queued up but unshed.

“No,” he whispers. “No, I’m not leaving.”

He can’t let Jim think that. He already told Spock, anyway, but the Vulcan remains silent.

“Then what is it, Bones?” Jim sounds frustrated, shifting on the couch. “What the devil has gotten into you?”

He doesn’t reply. It’s too much. Where would he even start? The longer the silence lasts, the worse it gets. Oppressive, now, like a suffocating blanket wrapping around them. He feels its weight on his shoulders, dripping down his spine and stiffening his hands like frostbite.

I screwed up, he thinks bitterly. I can’t tell them, but if I don’t tell them…

“I’m just a mess,” he mutters, nails digging into his pant legs. “That’s all. You don’t need to see me like this, Jim.”

“You’ve seen me when I was a mess,” Jim reminds him. “Both mentally and physically. I’m no great psychologist, but you’re my friend, damn it. The least I could do is listen.”

There it is, again. Friend. At this point it feels like more than he deserves. He breathes, in, out, the wheeze in his chest sounding like the worst kind of pneumonia. He’s been tortured, suffered from an incurable disease, and almost frozen to death. Death is less frightening than the loss of his friends, of this friendship that means more to him than life itself.

“I can’t,” he groans, burying his face harder against his knees. “Jim, please. I can’t.”

Spock sits on his other side, perched on the arm of the couch. It’s unexpected enough that McCoy forgets to despair for a second.

“Perhaps,” Spock says, haltingly. “Perhaps the two of us are at the source of the problem.”

McCoy’s limbs tense up outside his control as he holds his breath.

“What do you mean, Spock? We’re the problem?”

He wants to scream. Shove them out of his quarters, slam the door in their faces. He’ll never visit the bridge again, won’t even complain about the transporter if it gets him out of this conversation. Instead he lets out a pathetic little noise, curling further into himself.

“Bones?” Jim sounds shocked now. “Bones, what is it? If it’s not about another five years in space…?”

It both is and isn’t. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment, and he’s too old for this. A grown man, a father, divorced for god’s sake. Even so he’s a doctor, not a helpless, hapless, broken-hearted laughingstock. He’s got some dignity left, even though life seems intent on robbing him of it.

“You won’t like it,” he rasps out, wondering how much Spock has already guessed. He can be damn perceptive when he wants to. “You’re better off not knowing.”

Jim’s hand falls on his shoulder, gripping it tight. He’s surrounded. A one last stand that’s bound to end in defeat. Prolonging the misery is getting him nowhere.

He felt braver facing Khan’s knife to his throat.

“It’s those pesky emotions of mine,” he half laughs, half sobs. “Don’t know how you manage to control ‘em, Spock, but that would have been handy to know…”

“I am unsure if Vulcan discipline suits you, Doctor.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” he mutters.

“Bones,” Jim coaxes him. “You can tell us. We’ll be the judge of whether or not we’re better off not knowing.”

Another half-laugh gets stuck in his throat. It feels like his mouth is filled with thick syrup, sticking to his words, trying to pull them back down.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe you’re right.”

He clears his throat, twice. Lifts his face enough to wipe at the wetness gathering in his eyes. His sleeve is already soaked from earlier.

“I don’t want your sympathy, Jim,” he starts, trying to keep his voice even and mostly failing. “And not a single word of logic.”

He can feel Jim’s concerned gaze on him, but he’s not ready to meet it, not yet. First he needs to breathe, force his body back under control. His heart is a dull pounding against his ribs, a miserable beat, filling his ears with the sound of funeral bells.

“It’s just that I realized…”

Trailing off, he fights against the heat behind his eyelids. He’s pathetic enough without crying, too.

“Bones, it’s alright.” Jim’s voice is soothing, a thumb brushing his cheek. “It’s just us here.”

He feels stupid for wanting to cry. He didn’t cry facing death. There’s no point crying for himself, for things he doesn’t deserve anyway. If only he didn’t have to tell them. If only he could take these feelings to the grave, let them live happily unknowing, unburdened. He doesn’t even know if they’ve told each other, and here he comes bursting in, making it about himself instead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pitiably. “I only realized today. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Jim opens his mouth, shuts it closed again. His hand squeezes McCoy’s shoulder. He feels tired, too tired, like after a row of unsuccessful surgeries. If only he’d been a little better, a little faster, if only…

“You’re not sick again, are you?” Jim asks, trepidation in his voice.

“No,” he says, swallows. “I’m not sick. I’m not leaving. At least, not if you want me to stay.”

He feels a puff of air against his cheek as Jim sighs in exasperation. He’s not a patient man, McCoy knows that all too well. Once again he clasps McCoy’s hands in his, pulls them out from their hiding place between his knees and chest.

“You know we want you to stay,” Jim says, leaving no room for discussion. “I need you, Bones.”

It’s not hard to smile, despite the hollow feeling in his chest. If Jim needs him, well. He has him. All of him, for as long as he wants. It’s not much, but it is, at least, something. Enough to let him breathe in deeply, to steady himself enough that it feels less like falling apart and more like simply baring his soul.

“See, I don’t know how it happened, but turns out I’m in love with you.”

He glances up at Jim, sees his eyes widen, then hurries to look away. His hands are still hostage, the urge to get up and run strong. He powers through, glances up at Spock, too. There’s no shock evident on Spock’s face – if anything he looks closed off. It makes McCoy hesitate, until he catches Spock’s eyes and realizes he might have been wrong all along.

“Spock,” he breathes out, swallowing that thick, annoying lump in his throat. “That includes you.”

Surprise, disbelief, understanding. It’s hard to read his emotions if Spock doesn’t want you to see. McCoy would know, has prodded and poked at him when he hides too much, pretends he’s gotten rid of that human side of his. It’s not hard now.

“Doctor,” Spock says, and it’s soft, softer than it has any right to be.

Too much. McCoy turns his head, stares straight forwards, body come alive between them. He’s all too aware of Jim’s touch, a touch that hasn’t left yet.

“If you don’t feel the same…”

He can’t bring himself to finish. There’s a ringing in his ears, and his heart has thrown itself into some serious arrythmia. Caught between them he waits, on edge, unable to move. It’s a special kind of torture, one he never wants to experience again.

“Bones, I…” Jim trails off, tries again. “I need to think about it.”

McCoy nods, a jerky motion, neck stiff. That’s more than he can ask for. It’s not an outright no, though it threatens to prolong the misery.

“It’s not, I mean, I never thought you’d–“

Jim is all but stuttering, tightening his hold on McCoy’s hand.

“It’s fine, Jim,” he forces out, squeezing back. “I’m not expecting anything. You wanted to know, I told you. We don’t have to ever mention it again.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jim shifts, pushes at McCoy until he turns, too. “It’s unexpected, that’s all.”

While Jim looks shocked, he doesn’t look upset or awkward. Unexpected. McCoy could laugh, but he’s too busy keeping his nerves in check. Still, it’s some kind of relief, despite the reaction. He told them. He doesn’t have to carry it with him for five years, wondering, hoping, dismissing it as futile.

There’s no Look of Love, but there’s hope, and it tastes like burnt sugar on his tongue.

“What do you think, Spock?”

McCoy blinks, having almost forgotten that Spock might have something to say. Spock still sits beside him, perched on the arm, that softness never having left his eyes.

“I do not need to think,” Spock says, giving Jim a brief look before turning back to McCoy. “While I am unsure if I am capable of fulfilling the parameters of a romantic relationship, I find it more logical to make the attempt with a person or persons I trust.”

“Persons,” Jim parrots under his breath.

At least he remembers how to speak. McCoy sure doesn’t. He stares, slack-jawed, wondering if he stepped into another alternate reality or if Spock simply changed in the two years they were grounded.

“Yes, Jim,” Spock says. This time the look he directs at Jim is significant. “Persons.”

They both watch their captain swallow, letting go of McCoy to rub his hands together in a nervous tick. McCoy wonders what’s holding him back. Surely he’s wanted Spock for a long time…

“I’ll need to think about this,” Jim tells them, clasping his hands together, tense. “I just–“

He pauses, swallows again. His gaze shifts between them, jumping back and forth like a rabbit fleeing a fox.

“You know me,” he adds, with a shaky little laugh. “I always need a sleepless night or two for things like this.”

Licking his lips, McCoy tries to keep his voice light when he replies.

“Whatever you need, Jim. Though as your doctor, I don’t recommend the lack of sleep.”

Jim waves him off, stands up.

“Spock, will you stay? I…” He trails off, hesitates. “I’m not sure I should be staying right now.”

Even hope can feel devastating. Forcing a thin smile onto his face, McCoy shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine, Jim. We can talk about it later. Just getting it off my chest helped.”

Still, Jim hesitates. He’s a good friend. Had the object of McCoy’s affection been anyone else, he knows he would have poured them drinks and commiserated with him all night. But he’s not just a friend. He’s a captain, too. His captain. Not that McCoy ever cared much for hierarchy, but some things can’t be ignored, and Jim is the one who’ll need to grapple with them. No matter what Jim feels, McCoy knows he’ll think about it from a professional viewpoint, too.

“And you don’t have to say yes,” he adds, though his voice catches a bit at the end. “I just don’t want things to get weird.”

Face softening, Jim nods.

“It won’t, Bones. You have my word.”

With that, he makes his way towards the door and disappears into the corridor outside. McCoy breathes in deeply, wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do with a Vulcan who’s apparently not opposed to illogical, emotional doctors as prospective partners. Wary, he glances up at him, scrubbing sweaty palms against his pants.

“Doctor,” Spock says, calm as ever. “I have little experience in relationships, and I suspect Vulcan relationships differ significantly from human ones.”

“I’d have never guessed.”

The raised eyebrow is familiar, grounding. It’s just Spock. As weird as it is, just knowing that nothing is going to be easy makes it easier, somehow.

“Hey, uh, Spock? How about we do something else, talk about something else? We can decide things later…”

Spock tilts his head, peers at him with what has to be amusement.

“You wish to avoid the subject?”

“I wish to be a lot further from the breaking point before listening to your logical suggestions,” McCoy mutters, crossing his arms.

Banter is familiar, safe. He’s still reeling from the dramatic turnaround. And Jim’s not here, anyway. It wouldn’t feel right without him, unless he says no of course, but he won’t think of that.

“I suggest tea,” is what Spock says, and rises to go and tinker with McCoy’s replicator.

It’s not long before McCoy sits with a cup warming his hands, Spock on the cushion beside him, and it feels like the first time he can relax since the mission started.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking a sip. It tastes good, but McCoy rarely drinks tea and doesn’t recognize the blend. “This is nice.”

“It is my mother’s favorite blend,” Spock informs him. “She would share it with me during childhood when something had upset her.”

McCoy takes another sip, letting the heated liquid loosen up his throat.

“She only drank it when upset?”

He sneaks a look at Spock, who seems preoccupied with the contents of his own cup.

“She had different favorites for different moods.”

It’s hard not to smile at that.

“Illogical, huh? Wait, did you program it into the replicator?”

Spock doesn’t reply. Instead he takes a sip of his own, pretending he wasn’t just caught doing something emotional and sentimental. McCoy is considering a teasing reply when the doors slide open again and Jim stalks back inside, hair in disarray and arms lifting at his sides in an exasperated gesture.

“Dammit, Bones,” he says, grabbing a chair and sinking down into it opposite of them. “This is going to drive me crazy. What are we supposed to do about this?”

Even though it should hurt, a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. Trust Jim to only need a few minutes to look so disheveled.

“Beats me,” he shrugs, turning the cup in his hands back and forth. “You’re the captain.”

“Yes,” Jim sighs. “I’m the captain.”

A momentary silence, then Spock speaks up.

“Tea, Captain?”

Jim startles, as if only now remembering his presence.

“Oh, fine. Thank you, Spock.”

“It’s his mother’s favorite blend,” McCoy grins as Spock gets up, and he doesn’t miss the narrowed eyes before he disappears towards the tiny kitchenette.

“Really?” Jim looks interested, then sours again. “Bones, are you serious about this?”

Nerves flutter in his stomach, his lungs reminding him that they were only temporarily functional and time’s up. He squeezes the replicated ceramic between his palms, tongue pressing up against his teeth.

Is he serious? Hell if he knows. But what can he be, except serious? He loves them, even if he chokes on the words inside his own mind.  

“I’m not expecting anything, Jim. Believe me, I thought I was just jealous of what the two of you have, not that I wanted in on it.”

Jim’s eyes widen, and there’s something embarrassed about the way he accepts his tea from Spock after a minute of silence. He sniffs at the scent, stalling, and McCoy is tired of the way his heart tries to break his ribs.

“You were jealous,” Jim repeats, slowly, thoughtfully. “Spock and I are not in a relationship.”

“I know,” McCoy agrees. “But you have this… thing, between you. Everyone can see it.”

This time the embarrassment is more palpable, Jim’s cheeks darkening with color. He seeks out Spock, something knowing in his gaze, almost guilty. Maybe Jim had tried to put it behind himself during the break. Lord knows things had been weird between them for a while – but it had returned to full power when they met up on the shuttle.

“Maybe it is a… thing,” Jim concedes. He clears his throat. “It’s not something we’ve explored.”

Spock only drinks from his tea, offering no help.

“Not much, at least,” Jim adds in a mumble.

“It’s fine, Jim. I mean it.” He finishes his tea in three big swallows, then sets the cup down on the small coffee table between them with a decisive sound. “We’ll handle it. I’m feeling a lot better already.”

It’s true. The rolling waves of despair and heartbreak have passed, leaving behind something fragile but still alive. He’s right where he should be, isn’t he? Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe he and Spock will grow into some kind of understanding, and Jim and Spock will have their own thing. Maybe Jim will backtrack because of the pressure of command.

There’s no telling just yet, but he’s somewhat okay with that. He’s not alone, and right now he doesn’t feel lonely, either.

Humming in thought, Jim taps a thumb against the rim of his teacup. His shoulders are less tense, his expression more problem-solving than surprised.

“We’ll handle it, hm?” he says, squinting up at McCoy. “I guess we’ve handled worse.”

And, suddenly, there it is.

That smile. That twinkle in his eyes. That glow, from somewhere within him, lighting up the room and stealing the breath out of his lungs.

No wonder every girl they meet swoon into his arms. McCoy could do a little swooning himself – would, perhaps, if Spock didn’t place a hand over his forearm, steadying him.  

“Jim,” he breathes, raw and aching all over again, cut open with no defenses left.

“We’ll find a way,” Jim promises.

It’s a promise he believes.