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New Year’s Eve, and what did he have to show for it? Another year down the old tubes, and he was nowhere closer to enjoying love eternal with a perfect someone.
Hell, at this stage, he’d settle for an iffy relationship with someone as imperfect as he was. At least there would be some adventure in something like that. And, more importantly, some romance occasionally, when he wasn’t busy messing it up as usual.
Trouble was, there was no one anywhere in the whole universe as imperfect as Leonard H. McCoy. And he should know, since he was that goofball in question. Somewhere some mischievous gods must be laughing their merry asses off about this schmuck who thought he was entitled to something good ever happening to him in his lifetime. He wasn’t worthy to be loved and that should be the recognized gospel in anyone’s religion. He wasn’t worth diddly-squat.
“I believe you will find that assessment of yourself to be flawed,’ Spock interjected.
McCoy gave Spock a tired look. “Since you’re reading minds now, where else is my thinking flawed about life in general?”
Spock straightened and toyed with the fruit punch he’d been handed when he’d entered the New Year’s Eve party in the day room. The glass was merely a prop for him since the alcohol it contained would not affect him, but he had been complying with social convention by accepting it. He had also been complying with social convention by merely appearing at this happy gathering.
But it was no social convention that had prompted him to enter into a conversation with McCoy. Generally the taciturn doctor was abrasive on a good day and scalding when he was pissed off about something. Which was generally most of the time, it seemed to Spock.
“Perhaps it would be in my favor if I do not answer that question. Pessimism will always put an ill-colored slant on any viewpoint,” Spock observed.
“Is that a platitude of wisdom or just a subtle hint for me to clean up my thinking?”
“I doubt that you would heed either,” Spock further observed. “And I am not a mind reader. You have been expounding your negative theories about yourself for exacting twenty-three point six minutes now with no indication that there is a termination of your observations at anytime soon.”
“And yet you sat there and let me ramble on. Doesn’t say a whole lot about the intelligence of either one of us, does it?”
“Doctor, you are not the only one who can become reflective about the end of a year of one’s life.”
“I don’t notice you bawling in your beer, though, or boring the hell outa everyone in earshot.”
“There are many ways to bore and many ways to grieve.”
McCoy nodded sagely. “That fruit punch is really loosing you up, eh? Never knew that kiwi could pack that much of a punch. I’ll have to try it… if and when the bourbon runs out.”
“It is not the fruit punch. It is you.”
“Well, I’m good for something, I always say,” McCoy muttered as he sipped at his drink.
“I, too, regret that I have not been able to achieve eternal love with a perfect someone.”
“Oh, hell, I must’ve been spilling my guts. No way that you could’ve thought that phrase up on your own. That would be too much of a coincidence.”
“I have not noticed any appearance of your intestines, but you have been openly displaying your broken heart to me.”
McCoy frowned. “You can understand what a broken heart is, but no other idioms?”
“A broken heart is not an idiom. It is a fact.”
McCoy gave him a sharp, steady look. “Keep that up and I’ll fall in love with you before the night is over. You’re a worse romantic than I am.”
“If you did not exaggerate so, I would believe you.”
McCoy’s frown returned. “You’d believe me?”
“If you did not exaggerate so.”
A pulse throbbed in McCoy’s neck. “How about if I said I think about you, a lot, at night?”
“You are not exaggerating?”
“I am not exaggerating. Well?”
Spock breathed deeply. “Then I would be very interested to hear any further elaboration of that statement. If there was any to be made, that is.”
McCoy gave him a wily look. “I think I could elaborate the hell out of you. If I had the chance.”
Spock’s eyebrow went up a notch. “Perhaps this new year will be filled with interesting activities for us after all.”
“Define ‘interesting activities.’”
Spock’s eyebrow inched up further. “Surely I would not have to elaborate to a doctor or to a formerly married man what I am saying.”
“There’s that word again. ‘Elaborating.’ Interesting how it keeps popping up in conversations.” Oh, if this was an alcoholic dream, please don’t let me awaken from it anytime soon, he prayed. The Vulcan was saying and hinting at things he’d liked to have heard Spock uttering a long time ago.
“Hey, guys, having a good time?” Jim Kirk asked, suddenly there as he leaned between them at the table. “Why are you hiding off here by yourselves in this dark corner?”
“We are delineating the paradigms of our new relationship, Captain,” Spock answered.
“Oh, and what might those be?” Kirk asked with a good-natured smile.
McCoy gave him a crooked grin. “We are still negotiating.”
“Don’t take any wooden nickels, Spock,” Kirk advised.
“Hey! He’s going into this with open eyes!”
“What does artificial money have to do with whether my vision is clear or not?” Spock wanted to know.
“On second thought, we both might need a Philadelphia lawyer,” McCoy muttered.
“Would not a lawyer from any other American city be equally as proficient?”
McCoy glared at Spock. “Now you’re just being obtuse!”
“Bones,” Kirk cautioned. “This relationship might never get off the negotiation table.” He leaned into Spock. “You don’t have to do this.”
“My choice,” Spock murmured back. Then winked.