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The familiar sound of the doors to sickbay opening and closing let him know he is not alone, but he does not acknowledge the presence of the interloper. Even if he were so inclined, whether it would be to greet the person or summarily dismiss him, McCoy is not sure that he even could. Simply standing here, hands grasping the railing with such force that his knuckles have turned white and his fingers have begun to ache, staring out the window into the abyss seems to take every ounce of strength he has.
Besides, he doesn't need to turn around to know who has invaded his solitude. The Captain--Admiral, now, he reminds himself--has never been one to leave well enough alone. Perhaps that isn't a fair assessment, but a lot of things aren't fucking fair, he thinks wryly.
"Bones?" Kirk's voice is raw, and McCoy knows the Admiral has recently been crying.
He doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he exhales a long unsteady breath he didn't know he'd been holding. After several long moments of attempting to find the strength to say anything, the doctor finally turns from the window to see his superior officer still lurking in the doorway patiently waiting for a response.
There are so many things he could say, so many things he wants to explain, but the English language seems to wholly lack any words appropriate to the situation. So, he settles for simply replying, "Jim."
The room is darker than normal. Even the simple command for the computer to increase the lights had been more than he'd had the energy or desire to undertake. But even in the darkened atmosphere, where all he can see is Kirk's silhouette, McCoy has no trouble recognizing the slack body posture of a man exhausted from grief. Or perhaps that's just the result of projecting his own inner turmoil onto the other man. He isn't sure.
And he isn't sure it matters because, no matter how desperately he had yearned to be alone after calling time of death over the body of the Vulcan who would never again befuddle and frustrate him with unceasing streams of logic, seeing a familiar face is quite comforting.
They stand there, facing each other across the darkened room, for some time. Though McCoy can't make out the expression on the Admiral's face, the tension in the air is palpable, and he knows that the absence of Spock is threatening to suffocate them both. And just when the doctor is beginning to wonder if that is an actual potential result, Kirk shrugs and gestures with his left hand, which is currently holding a bottle of some kind, "I brought Romulan Ale."
"Romulan Ale? That's illegal, Jim."
Unsurprisingly, the joke comes out hollow and falls completely flat, but Kirk's lips do curl into a rueful smile at the memory of a time that somehow feels so long ago. With a nod, the Admiral crosses the room, muttering something about "medicinal purposes" as he uncorks the decanter before leaning his forearms against the railing next to the Doctor.
McCoy isn't sure how much time has passed while the two men lean forward on the railing, passing the blue liquid back and forth, before he finally speaks, but when he does, his head is slightly foggy from the intoxicatingly beverage when he snarls, "That goddamn green-blooded Vulcan."
"Bones," Kirk admonishes quietly, "You know Spock--"
"Dammit, Jim!"
The interjection stops there, however, as a sob catches in his throat. Kirk is currently the one grasping the bottle of contraband, and McCoy suddenly has half the mind to rip it from the Admiral’s hand. Surely causing it to shatter against the far wall of the room would be satisfying. He can almost hear the Vulcan in his head, admonishing him for how illogical that idea would be, and that almost makes it worse.
It takes a few minutes of silence before the doctor is able to form words again, and though some time has passed since his interjection, he finishes, “I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker, but I should have been able to save him.”
Kirk lifts the bottle to his lips, grimacing as he swallows, and passes it to his companion before musing, “Spock knew what he was doing, Bones. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”
“Oh spare me that hokey Vulcan bullshit,” he snaps.
“It was…” The Admiral pauses, and McCoy doesn’t need to look in his direction to know that Kirk is worrying his bottom lip as he contemplates how best to finish his sentence, “Logical.”
“Bullshit.”
The Doctor punctuates the statement by slamming his palm down on top of the metal railing. After a brief glance down at the decanter in his hand, he brings the bottle to his lips and drains it of the remaining liquid. He’ll regret it in the morning, he knows, but right now, he just wants to dull the pain. Running his fingers through his hair, McCoy slumps down to the floor and leans back against the wall.
Allowing the empty bottle to fall harmlessly to the floor next to him, he muses softly, “I never knew.”
“Knew what?” Kirk wonders and mimics the other man’s actions, taking a seat next to him on the floor.
The copious amount of intoxicating liquor he’s consumed should have dulled some of the pain, but tears still burn at the back of his eyes as he thinks back to the moment the Vulcan had connected their consciousnesses. “Before—“ He pauses to swallow the lump that has formed in his throat, “Before he went into the chamber, Spock performed one of those mind melds on me. I saw… Everything.”
“Everything?”
“He felt, Jim.” The doctor turns his gaze to look at the other man as he continues to explain, “He felt everything. That godforsaken logical exterior was just an act. He felt… Everything, and I never knew.”
Through tear-clouded eyes, McCoy can see Kirk nod his head in fascination, and after a few moments, the other man speaks, “He was, I think, more human than we realized.”