Archive of Our Own

The Capellans had given him a knife, a not-so-subtle hint that felt like all of the progress he’d made over the past month was crashing down around his ears. His medical knowledge, his problem solving, critical thinking - none of it was important, apparently, in the face of his size, and his inability to hold his own in a fight. He pushed down on the frustration, turning the knife over and over in his hands, wondering how the hell he’d managed to get himself into this situation. How Starfleet could have made an oversight like this. 

He hadn’t scrutinised his body this way since he’d had his childhood realisation that he was a boy, never looked in the mirror and seen anything other than himself, at least after he’d moved past the relief-drunk fascination of the months following his top surgery. For a medical man, a body was a body, and he’d grown into his. Sure, he complained when his knees hurt or when there was a crick in his neck he just couldn’t get rid of, but working in Starfleet, there was really no average to speak of for comparison when everyone was an outlier in one way or another. 

Walking among the Capellans, most of whom stood at least a head taller than himself, he had been suddenly made painfully aware of his small stature. Trying to stand on equal footing with men who judged him on his size and slightness, who would point out his delicate wrists and judge his merits based solely on his physical prowess was a nightmare. What was worse was the shiver of accompanying recognition that at once confused and scared him. He hadn’t been made to feel like this before in his life... so why did it feel like an old struggle? 

The knife had a brassy-looking metal handle that matched the blade in colour. The handle was smooth and rounded, and curved slightly. He held it in his hand, felt its weight, and knew for sure that he had no idea how to use it. 

In a pinch, he knew how to slice someone open with it; he’d done some study into primitive surgery methods. But to demonstrate his… his masculinity with it? To drive it into flesh with purpose?

He set the knife down and took several steps back, staring at it. He had to get the hell out of here, if he wanted any shot at maintaining his sanity. 

A gust of wind sounded outside, and Bones opened the window flap of the medical tent. The whoosh was accompanied by a tall column of fire bursting into the air. They were having some kind of ceremony tonight. A celebration. He’d been invited, but given the timing of his gift, he had his suspicions as to what additional activities his invitation might entail. No, it would be best for him to stay inside for tonight.

The fire subsided, leaving behind trails of smoke that swirled and twisted into the air. He ventured closer to the window to watch them, entranced by the way the firelight illuminated them in the dark, by the shifting, changing shapes. His eyes followed a curl as it unfurled in the air and then dissolved, rising higher and higher.

Then he locked eyes with the stars.

For a moment, a terrible melancholy seized him. A gaping, hollow loneliness opened up in his chest and he clutched at it, pain spreading through him at the sudden sensation. Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared up at the stars and wondered what the hell was up there that filled him with such longing, when he’d always hated the endless void of space. Perhaps he was homesick. Or simply sick to death of this place with its stupid, futile customs that stopped him from doing his work properly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind though, he felt the loneliness like it was a distant memory, dredged up from somewhere in his past. Names that danced on the tip of his tongue, words he couldn’t quite articulate.

He frowned up at the sky for a little longer, until he realised that he was close enough to the window that he might be seen by a passer-by. Best to stay out of sight, for now.

He went to bed instead, not particularly tired but shaken enough that he didn’t want to have to dwell on it any longer. He laid his head down on his sleeping mat and blew out a long breath. 

When he was a child, he’d been separated from his mother at the beach. There on the sand, surrounded by hundreds of unfamiliar faces, the hot sand burning his toes and the ocean wind tangling the sundress around his knees, he’d cried and cried until an old man had come and found a way to reach his mother’s communicator. The memory popped into his head all of a sudden, and Bones shut his eyes tightly against it. He had been a child, then. But the familiarity was still there. He could put a name to the feeling in his bones now, the thing that had carved out a hole in the middle of his chest. He was lost, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

*

“Captain, you requested a notification at fifteen minutes to the arrival of your new first officer.”

Jim Kirk looked up from the PADD he’d been pretending to read, trying to ignore the prickle of nervous sweat at his neck. He took a deep breath in, then exhaled it as slowly as he could.

“Thank you, ensign,” he said levelly, “I’ll be down in a moment.”

He looked around at the rest of the bridge crew, as if they might be able to sense his trepidation at what was about to happen. Not that he even quite knew himself, but something deep in his gut told him that this was a momentous occasion. Something important was going to happen today. 

The crew, however, were occupied with their own preparations for leaving the Starbase. The sounds of Uhura’s nails clacking against the buttons she was pressing, or the quiet humming Sulu was doing as he completed the paperwork on their upcoming flight plans were enough to reassure Jim that his excitement was successfully being kept under wraps.

“Mr Sulu, you have the conn,” he murmured as he made his way out.

“Aye aye sir,” replied Sulu dryly, “I’ll be sure to take care of any incidental instances of first contact we may encounter.”

“Insubordination, Mr Sulu?” teased Jim as the turbolift door slid shut. 

He hurried down the corridor, trying his best to seem nonchalant while moving his legs as fast as he could physically make them go without breaking into a run. His new first officer would be meeting him in the docking bay shortly, and he told himself it wasn’t excitement - it was simply a desire not to be late. It would be rude. Truth be told, he wasn’t quite sure what had made him request Mr Spock. If pressed, he’d explain it away as intuition. He’d rehearsed the explanation to himself extensively, outlining how sometimes one simply got a good feeling about someone. But he’d never been questioned on it. Sometimes he wished someone would, if only to get the thoughts out of his own brain.

Privately, his best explanation was that seeing the Vulcan felt like awakening a memory, although that didn’t make sense either. He’d never even heard of Mr Spock until he’d discussed potential candidates for first officer with Starfleet Command. But a feeling had gripped him when he’d seen the man’s picture, a feeling of recognition that had made him excited and eager like a schoolboy with a crush. He’d known that he needed this man on his ship. Like it was destiny.

He shook his head at himself and laughed. Maybe it was good that nobody had asked him about it. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to explain himself without sounding like a lunatic.

The excitement built as he arrived at the docking bay, and he took his place beside the two engineers down there completing some final pre-mission checks. He stood beside them and tried not to fidget.

He stood there for some time. Minutes? Longer than that? It was hard to tell; it could have been seconds for all the intense impatience building up in his skull. He fought the urge to check the time, and pushed away the little voice in his head that was telling him to check on the status of Mr Spock as well. Surely he would be on his way. Surely. Surely.

The light above the airlock suddenly turned green, and Jim stood up a little straighter, wishing for some reason that he’d thought to comb his hair before he came down.

The door opened, and it was Spock.

It was Spock.

The realisation hit Jim so hard it drove the air from his lungs and sent him gasping.

Spock. Spock. Spock.

He’d never met his man in his life.

But he’d met him before, in so many other lifetimes.

“Jim.”

Jim couldn’t breathe. He could feel his knees giving way beneath him, and he sank to the floor, crushed under the weight of a lifetime - no, several lifetimes of memories.

Spock was taking a step towards him. He was moving strangely, like he was underwater, like he was not quite in control of his own limbs. Then he fell to his knees too, and the two of them stared at each other from across the room, hardly daring to believe, and yet knowing with more certainty than they had ever known anything in their entire lives.

My love, once again -

Another round-

I missed you-

You were missed-

Were the words being whispered into his ear? Into his mind? Or were they wisps of memories? It was hard to tell, it was hard to untangle-

“Captain Kirk?” said the officer accompanying Spock. Doctor something-or-other, on board for research… xenobiology…

“Docking bay one to sickbay, the Captain… and Commander Spock… They’re, ah - oh god, just send someone down immediately!”

The pressure in Jim’s brain was building, and it was going to crowd him out of his consciousness in a moment, he knew it. The pleasure of it was excruciating, delight bubbling up in his chest, boiling over into laughter. He had been so foolish - of course. It was Spock. It was Spock.

“You’re here,” he choked out.

“Such an eloquent statement of the obvious,” came Spock’s gasped reply.

And at that, the both of them blacked out.

*

When they awoke several minutes later, it was to a full and very confused sickbay. Doctor Fujiwara was running a tricorder repeatedly over Spock, with a PADD open in his other hand, looking from one hand to another in confusion.

“I assure you, these readings are entirely usual for myself, as the Captain’s are for him.

“Yes, but I can’t figure out why - simultaneous loss of consciousness? Something’s up.”

“Chalk it up to an irregularity to look into later, Doctor,” said Jim with a strained smile. There was something about Doctor Fujiwara that always rubbed him the wrong way. Not that the man was rude or bad at his job in any way - he just felt wrong.

He’s not Bones .

The thought gave Jim a sudden jolt of realisation. They were incomplete still. Spock was watching him curiously, and he gave a small shake of his head. They could talk about this, but later. When they had time, and privacy. For now, they had to make their final preparations to leave… and Jim had to put on a show of showing his completely new first officer around. A stranger , he reminded himself. We’ve never met before, according to everybody else.

Spock trailed him out of sickbay a few minutes later, leaving behind a confused medical team. The rest of the time passed in a blur. He showed Spock around the ship personally, explaining his duties and introducing him to his senior officers. 

Spock took his place on the bridge. 

Jim took his. 

The two of them did not look at each other, and nobody suspected a thing.

“Itching to get back out there, Captain?” said Uhura with a small smile.

Jim blinked. Was he being obvious? He put his hands flat on the armrests of his chair and straightened his posture.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said, returning her smile, “nothing like the big, wide…”

His voice trailed off as he caught another glimpse of Spock out of the corner of his eye and his thoughts were thrown violently off course.

“...space,” he finished lamely.

Uhura stared at him, laughter in her eyes carefully concealed behind her pleasant expression.

“Of course,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching.

He couldn’t help it. His gaze felt like it was being drawn to Spock, an impulse he was fast losing a battle against. He locked eyes with him briefly, then the two of them quickly looked away, busying themselves with their respective work. Jim checked Sulu’s flight plan for the third time in the past fifteen minutes, his eyes skimming over the words without comprehension. He waited for as long as he could. Waited until they were well and truly on their way, focusing on keeping his breathing even, his body still, his hands flat.

“Mr Spock,” he said lightly, trying his best to make it appear as though a thought had just occurred to him, “how remiss of me, I’ve just realised that I haven’t given you a proper tour of engineering, nor have I shown you to your quarters.”

“I believe I will be more than capable of finding my own way there, Captain,” said Spock, still fixated on setting up his station.

Jim narrowed his eyes at him and - oh, Spock was being serious. For some reason he’d thought the Vulcan would put the pieces together and figure out what he was really asking, but perhaps they needed some time. They needed to get to know each other again, who they were in this life, who they had been in the years since they’d last seen each other.

“It’d be a good chance for you to get to know the ship better,” said Jim, “I feel like I’ve rushed you straight into duty.”

“As a Starfleet officer and a Vulcan, I am more than capable of adapting rapidly to new situations.”

Spock paused, then turned and examined Jim, who was trying his best to convey his intentions with the intense stare he was sending Spock’s way.

“Of course,” said Spock, “it would be logical to learn the layout of the ship from it’s captain.”

“You know me, always logical,” said Jim with a smile.

“I have only known you for an hour and twelve minutes,” said Spock, “I have not had adequate opportunity yet to ascertain how much logic influences your decisions.”

Jim pushed himself up from his seat and straightened his uniform, resolutely ignoring Uhura’s hand, which was over her mouth.

“Well, let’s give you some more opportunities to make that assessment then, shall we Mr Spock?” said Jim. 

And with that, he led the way out.

*

He didn’t show Spock around the ship. Instead, he took him straight to his quarters.

“Would you like to have a look inside?” he said with a small smile.

“Do they not appear the same way as all officer quarters? I am familiar with Starfleet’s-”

Spock considered Jim’s expression.

“Let us have a look inside,” Spock said instead.

They walked in. The door shut behind them. Jim breathed in, then out.

Then Spock’s hands were on him and he melted in relief, reaching up to cradle Spock’s face. The pads of his fingers traced the familiar planes of Spock’s face, mapping them out the way he had for hundreds of years. Spock’s fingers slipped under the hem of his uniform, tracing up the curve of his spine as the Vuclan pressed their bodies together. Jim pressed his face into Spock’s neck and kissed up the sensitive skin there, the warmth and elation of nostalgia made present filling them with delight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Spock’s presence faded into his awareness like it had been there all along, a soft glow at the back of his consciousness. At the back of it, however, was something cold and aching.

“McCoy,” whispered Spock, “where is she?”

Jim froze, and drew back.

“He,” said Jim.

Spock searched his face in confusion, raising an eyebrow.

“You weren’t there last time. McCoy… it turns out he’s a man.”

Spock paused to consider this. Jim could see the Vulcan thinking back over things, sifting through his memories. Recalibrating, Bones would say.

“Where is he?” said Spock finally.

“I… don’t know,” said Jim, “why don’t we find out?”

He led Spock over to the computer terminal in his room, keeping their fingers intertwined with each other. It was strange, basking in the touch of a man he hadn’t seen in over a hundred years but hadn’t even realised he was missing.

As it turned out, Doctor Leonard McCoy was also in Starfleet, which made things significantly easier. He was currently stationed on Capella IV. The photo of him stared out at them from his personnel file, the familiar, striking blue of his eyes.

“We have to go get him,” said Jim.

“Our mission,” chided Spock, “do not do anything that could… make things difficult for us.”

Jim’s hand tightened on Spock’s. They had done this before, acted out of haste. It had never ended well.

“You’re right,” said Jim, “let’s try this your way first.”

At least he was in Starfleet. At least they had computers, communications, technology. Perhaps this time around, they might be alright.

*

The rain is freezing, it pounds heavily into the mud around their boots, churning up the clay into a thick sludge. Dirt and filth wells up between the cobblestones in the Paris garrison, making the ground slippery and dangerous to the unsteady.

The Captain of the King’s Musketeers tightens his grip on the rail of the second story of the guardhouse, looking out into the courtyard in their barracks. It is otherwise empty, save for their best medic. He stands right in the middle, his hands bound before him, head bowed, rain weighing down his hat.

Her hat , he says to himself, hardly believing what he has just discovered, her hat.

“Léonard, Léonard, what is your real name?” he mutters under his breath to nobody in particular. Her two closest friends are locked away, detained by the others before they fight their way through to come to her aid. He will deal with them later.

Are they her friends? Or something else?

As brothers in arms they have always been affectionate, caring, close. A kiss on the cheek or the mouth was hardly uncommon between a Musketeer and his closest friends. But a woman? All for one would never stretch to a scandal like this, no matter what vows they had taken. 

He turns her out onto the muddy cobblestones, hoping she has the strength and wit to make herself scarce before the guards come to escort her to prison for her lies. The worry in his mind collides with the three years he has known her for, the three years she has held her own alongside the men of the garrison. He doesn’t know what to make of it. 

The three of them have been inseparable since day once, since it seemed fate brought the three of them together with the new recruits and set them apart in their own little world. The steadfast medic, the horizon line to his two brothers who look and fight like day and night, silent stillness and golden, playful exuberance. The Captain of the Musketeers cannot help but think that he is removing one part of a whole, that there is a terrible cruelty inherent in what he is about to do. 

He looks at her, but try as he might, he cannot make what he sees in front of himself coalesce into anything other than faithful Léonard. It makes him uncomfortable.

Before he turns to go, he cannot help himself. He bends down close and whispers a question.

“What in god’s name is your real name then, woman?”

She fixes him with a look that he has seen freeze even the most violent and unstable of patients. Her short-cropped hair is plastered to her skull from the rain, droplets of it running down the sides of her face. Her shirt is plastered to her, and for a brief second the Captain’s gaze is drawn to her chest. He wonders if her breasts have been bound, how she has managed her work in the field, in the midst of battle until now with such a restriction. Guilt wells up in his chest. Her blue eyes remain steady.

“My name’s Léonard, damn you.”

*

Bones realised that he’d started trying to stand a little taller when he spoke to people now. That, and the unconscious way he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet now served as an uncomfortable reminder of his slight stature. 

He was doing it now, while he spoke to Admiral Al-Mosawi.

“All I’m sayin’ is that these people have no regard for medicine. Hell, they barely care about any kind of science. They don’t want to help anyone - if someone gets hurt, they just want to let them die! Every time there’s something for me to do here, I’ve got to get past those pig-headed, idiotic-”

“Doctor McCoy, I understand your frustration, but do you not think that perhaps another doctor might encounter the same problems?” said the Admiral.

“I just think you’re gonna have more success with someone who isn’t so… so…”

“Doctor?” said the Admiral in confusion, “what is it?”

“Well, they’ve taken to calling me ‘Peep’, haven’t they? It’s a word they use for little kids here! All their men stand at seven feet or more, and I’m trying to duck around their knees in the hope that they don’t notice what I’m doin’ ‘til I’ve done it!”

Al-Mosawi stared at him for several moments.

“McCoy, if I may be clear… are you suggesting that we send… a larger doctor?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but they just won’t listen to me.”

“Because of your stature.”

“Exactly.”

Al-Mosawi tapped one well-manicured nail against her cheek.

“I’ll see what I can do about a transfer. I can’t say I’ve ever heard “too small” as a reason for it before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Much obliged, Rashida.”

She inclined her head with a small smile.

“Leonard. Take care out there. Al-Mosawi out.”

Bones stared at the blank screen, hardly daring to hope that he’d have a chance at getting off this awful planet. He was tired, tired of feeling like he was beating his head against a brick wall just for a chance at doing his job. He was tired of being angry all the time, tired of the pent-up frustration. 

He traced his fingers over the birthmark at his throat, the splotchy reddish-brown marks that formed a strange collar around the front of his neck. It was itching, which was odd. The sensation was enough to distract him from his current train of thought, and it was with a small amount of surprise that he realised it was already quite late in the day. He had rounds to do now, duties to attend to, even if he’d have to fight every step of the way just to get them done.

*

“Do you ever feel like that?” says Bones, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing in frustration at his hands, which won’t stop shaking. 

“Feel like what?” returns Jim, equally unsteady. The two of them are sitting on fold out chairs in the back of his bakery. He’s closed up for the day. He had to, after the two of them simultaneously passed out on the bakery floor when Bones had decided it would be a nice time to grab a doughnut as he was passing through town. There’s no way he’s making it to the conference tonight, anyway. He doesn’t trust himself to drive a car right now.

“Like every time we do this, there’s something… I don’t know. Something missing. Something wrong. Feels like we’re forever fighting something every time we finally find each other.”

“We have had some rotten luck, haven’t we?” says Jim, but the warmth in his smile, the faint crinkling around his eyes tells Bones that ruminating on their collective pasts is the last thing on his mind right now. 

Don’t ruin the moment , Bones chides himself, and he takes another sip of the coffee. It’s good, and so is the doughnut. And so is the fact that Jim seems unperturbed by the fact that he’s a man.

“So I guess all we’ve gotta do now is find Spock,” says Jim, stretching out his legs, “find Spock, and figure out how we’re going to stay together.”

“You say that like it’s gonna be the easiest thing in the world,” says Bones, shaking his head fondly at his lover’s seemingly endless optimism.

“We’ve done a pretty good job of it so far, wouldn’t you say?”

Bones wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t say that at all. He has to wonder at what exact memories have been returned to Jim, because in his mind’s eye, all there are are nightmares.

*

“Twenty-first century. I owned a bakery,” said Jim, making a note on the spreadsheet. Spock peered over at his screen and nodded.

“Earth twenty-first century, in Vulcan years… ah.”

Jim looked at Spock, waiting for an answer. He had secretly searched for their third companion for the rest of their lives. Bones had done it too, at first. But Bones had felt Spock’s absence keenly, and the constant cycle of hope and then disappointment had eventually broken him. He’d carried the weight of separation too many times before.

It had been over coffee again, like the first time they’d met. Bones, gripping the cup until his palms were red and shiny from the heat, staring at the wisps of steam like some kind of diviner.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he’d said. His chest had risen and fallen three times, very quickly. His lips had pressed together, and he’d looked at the ceiling, blinking. Then he’d taken a sip, and that had been that.

“I was born on Vulcan,” said Spock, breaking into Jim’s thoughts, “in the Twenty-First century. Much like in this lifetime.”

Jim let out a breath that he had been holding for over a hundred years. So they hadn’t missed a detail. The fact that there was no way they could have met Spock last time was a small comfort.

“I was part of a small group of scientists who came to study Earth, for a time. We had been keeping an eye on your part of the galaxy for some years. But you had not yet achieved warp status, and so we did not make contact.”

“Makes sense.”

Jim thought about it for a while. Spock, up in the sky, impossible to reach, and yet there all the same, looking down on Earth. There had been an awful loneliness in that lifetime, a gap that he and Bones had known they would never fill. The two of them had been happy together after that, but after they’d stopped searching, Bones had never quite been the same. Jim had learned to read him, of course, look past the abrasive, guarded irritation, the bursts of anger when he saw something that jogged a lingering memory. Like a smell, or someone with a head of soft, black hair. The gentle strumming of a harp from a busker they passed by on the street. 

He wondered if Bones had changed since then.

“We used to like sitting outside, in the summer,” said Jim, allowing himself to melt away into his newly-discovered nostalgia, “the two of us, outside on the balcony. We lived in an apartment together.”

Spock watched him as he spoke, his hands folded over each other deliberately, as he listened to the lifetime his lover had lived without him.

“At night, when the sky was clear, we used to look up at the stars. We’d be fascinated by them, even Bones. We’d stay out there for hours, neither of us would ever want to go to bed. It’s like when you’re looking for something, but you’re not sure what it is. But you can’t look away, in case you miss it.”

Spock said nothing, but covered Jim’s hand in his own.

“We will bring him here, Jim,” he said, giving him a little squeeze. In Jim’s mind, Spock’s presence unfurled like a flower bud, sending him calm reassurance.

Jim met his gaze for several moments, then looked away, unwilling to dwell on that particular memory any longer. 

“We were musketeers at one point as well, weren’t we?” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes, and as I recall you sported quite an impressive moustache,” replied Spock.

“Can’t’ve been worse than that goatee,” Jim shot back, “and what else?”

“Might I remind you that you continued to grow a moustache well into Earth’s nineteenth century-”

“We were outlaws! It made me look intimidating!”

The corner of Spock’s mouth lifted at that and Jim smacked him lightly on the wrist.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I am a Vulcan, we do not make jokes.”

Jim opened his mouth for a retort, but something about Spock’s words jogged a faint memory. 

“Were we all Vulcans, at one point?” he said softly.

Spock frowned, then closed his eyes for a moment as he attempted to access the memory.

“I believe we may have been… temple attendants on Mount Seleya at one point. The memory is hazy, it must have been a very long time ago.”

“Not, it’s not that - the memory is of a war. Killing and bloodshed and - and-”

Spock opened his eyes.

“That is impossible,” he said, “you can only be describing the period before the Time of Awakening. Before Surak.”

“You don’t remember it?”

Spock shook his head.

“I do not. Are you certain of this. Jim?”

A cave. Thick, green blood dried and crusted over pale skin. A blast of unbearable heat, and then he was falling-

“I… can’t say for sure. It feels like… like something too far away to see properly.”

Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the spreadsheet.

“I’ll make another column for ‘maybe’ then,” he said.

Spock watched as Jim added the new details they’d figured out, in this strange and seemingly random map of their lifetimes. Jim saw something in his features shift, out of the corner of his eye. Something in the way his lips pressed together.

“Alright,” he said, “out with it.”

Spock unfolded his hands.

“You and Doctor McCoy would have made terrible Vulcans.”

*

There is blood on Bones’ hands, but it’s green. He’s on Vulcan, and he’s treating a Vulcan patient. He’s Vulcan himself. How can he be? But he knows this truth as though he has known it his whole life, as though his human self is the dream and, the strength, the heightened senses, the raw, primal urge of emotion that he wishes to gorge himself on and spit out, only to sink his teeth into again - this is the truth.

It at once is, and is not, in the way of dreams, and it does not bother him in the way that it should. 

The wound isn’t fresh, it’s crusted over, and there’s bits of it caked into his fingernails. He reaches for something at his hip - something important, something he needs to treat this man, but there is nothing there. The confusion fades and leaves only urgency.

Bones looks around the cave and sees only dimly lit stalactites, cast in a reddish glow from the suns. There is a hazy orange beam of light filtering through the opening. It will be dark soon. It will be cold soon, and that brings even more danger with it.

He needs to operate on this man, or he will die. He cannot let that happen. 

This man is important

This man is the love of his life

He has never seen this man before.

“Can you do anything?” says a voice beside him. Hurried. There is authority in that voice. It commands him.

The man is still bleeding

“Who the hell are you?” Bones blurts out.

It is night. Cold rolls in through the mouth of the cave.

A fourth man enters, and looks dispassionately at the three of them.

“Have you had enough yet?” he says.

Bones woke with a gasp, the blanket tangled around his legs and his chest heaving with panicked gasps. He looked around himself for several moments, blinking into the semi-darkness, willing his heart to stop thumping against his chest. Already the details of the dream were beginning to fade, the surety that he had been watching something real. Instead it was replaced with a strange confusion. Who had those men in his dream been? 

He shook his head. He knew better than to try and assign some importance to things like that. Dreams were dreams, and lord knew he’d been stressed enough lately to warrant some strange ones.

The memory continued to fade, until all that was left was a faint impression of Vulcans, the vague memory of faces he’d never seen before. There had been four people in his dream, including himself. For some reason, he was having trouble holding on to the fourth.

The rising sun was sending pale slivers of light through the window, and he blinked again. The problems of the present crashed back in on him, and with a feeling that was part guilt, part frustration, he realised that he would have to be up soon anyway, to see to his duties. No matter how futile.

The chime of his communicator interrupted him just as he was getting ready to shave. He very nearly dropped the razor in his hurry to answer it, and it was good that he did, because it was Admiral Al-Mosawi again, looking very pleased with herself.

“Well, I put in your request for a transfer,” she said, “and as luck would have it, I have one of our starships looking for a new medical officer.”

Bones tried very hard not to wince at the idea of a posting on a starship. Anywhere was better than here, right now. He could move on once he’d gotten a handle on things. Away from here.

“Which starship, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Bones.

“The Enterprise. Actually, you were requested pretty much instantly. Popular man.”

Bones frowned at that.

“The Enterprise? Never heard of it. I don’t think I know anyone serving aboard.”

“Do you know of a Captain James T Kirk? He’s the one who put in the request. It’s strange, they don’t technically need additional medical personnel on the ship, but he’s decided he needs you, so there we are.”

“There we are indeed,” said Bones. It was a little odd, given that he’d never heard of the Captain in his life.

Had he? The name rung a bell, but he couldn’t for the life of him put a face to it.

The dream from last night returned briefly as a flash in his mind, a second’s worth of clarity where suddenly he could see the faces of those men again. He shook his head to clear it.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” he said finally, then gave her a crooked smile, “so, when are you coming to pick me up?”

*

“We are late,” huffs Spock, nudging his horse as though that will somehow make her run faster than they’re already going. Jim’s breath mingles with the air rushing past his ears, and he finds no reply on his tongue. Of course they’re late. They’re always late. 

Spock is bent double in the saddle and trying to make jokes. It must be bad. Not that Jim needs this as confirmation - Spock is riding one-handed, the other pressing his handkerchief to his side, his shirt soaked with blood. Jim cannot stop to check on him, but he knows the pinched, determined expression he’s wearing right now. He’s seen it before.

Jim gives an inarticulate shout and pushes onwards. 

By the time they arrive on the outskirts of town, both horses and riders are exhausted, filthy with dust from the road, and  near frantic with fear. The sun is setting, and it’s time to get off the road if they’re going to have any chance at arriving unnoticed. 

Jim leads his horse as quietly as he can around the dead trees, grateful for the sandy soil to muffle the sound of their steps. They will be safe soon. Spock is somehow completely silent. The man has a talent for stillness, for blending into his surroundings in a way that Jim has never quite been able to master.

As if to create a punchline out of his thoughts, something behind him clinks, and he looks back to see Spock checking his saddlebags for something. In the light of the yellowish sunset he looks almost like he’s glowing, the light filtering through his short-cropped hair like a halo. 

Will people be out looking for them? Jim cannot say, but he makes a hissing sound at Spock.

“Quit movin’ around,” he whispers, “we’re nearly there.”

“I was merely ascertaining that our cargo-”

“Shh!”

Spock’s voice is slurred. He blinks once, far too slowly, and then dips his head. Jim hopes it is in acquiescence. He knows it is because they’re running out of time.

The trees become more dense, and they make their way through with care, picking their way around anything that might snap or crunch, or alert anyone to their presence.

Miss McCoy’s cabin is in a clearing just ahead, concealed mostly by the trees and bushes, difficult to find unless you know where you’re going. Jim has been there many times.

There is a candle burning in her window. That’s good. That means nobody’s around, and that as far as she knows, the coast is clear.

She opens the door to them, dressed in one of Jim’s old shirts and trousers that bunch and sag around her tiny waist. Her eyes are worried, but she is steady and self-assured as she orders Jim around, and helps him get Spock onto the table. They are past pretending it’s for eating anymore, and it is already set up with a sheet and a pillow. She jokes that she only ever has two patients, but they certainly keep her working.

Now that they’re here, the persistent terror that has been creeping up on Jim has receded into the background. McCoy’s hands are steady, and she has never let them down yet. Spock will be okay. 

*

The Thrackzals had turned out to be a less than friendly group, as Spock and Jim discovered almost immediately upon beaming down to their planet. What was supposed to be a routine diplomatic meetup quickly turned to carnage, and now Jim was crouched with the rest of the away team behind a tall cliff on the outskirts of the city, taking stock of their injuries and waiting silently for the inevitable sounds of the approach of their attackers. 

“Captain,” said Spock, his voice quiet, strained, “we need to return to the ship.”

“Giving up that easily, Mr Spock?” returned Jim with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Spock looked for a moment like he wanted to reply, but he turned instead to the ensign he was checking over and nodded briefly.

“Please consider the option, at least,” he said, and this time his voice was so quiet Jim could barely hear him.

“Spock?” he said in alarm as the Vulcan folded to his knees, then collapsed against the jagged red cliff face. The dirt left an angry smear across his cheek, and then Jim saw it - the green blood soaking through the back of his uniform.

“Ensign Baksh!”

The young medic came hurrying over, their face pale.

“Captain?” they said, eyeing Spock with terrified eyes.

“What can you do?”

They knelt beside Spock’s insensible body while Jim tried in vain to get through to the Enterprise. Jim snuck a glance back while the blood pounded in his ears, and it was like reality fell away but for the shaking hands tentatively tugging at the hem of Spock’s shirt. Baksh looked like they were about to cry as dark green blood oozed out onto their hands. Jim pressed his lips together and prayed for a reply, and tried not to think too hard about the memory of steady hands and calm assurance.

*

Bones gasped awake from another nightmare, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he was terrified for several moments that he might be dying. The lingering spots in his vision kept him blind and confused, and he sat there, grasping at the tendrils of memory that had already begun to recede. The threads were all faint, but he got the impression he was needed somewhere. Like he had forgotten something important. Someone important - someone with tacky green blood, a flat stare, cool hands that would press two fingers to his-

Bones shook his head, and the man was gone once more from his mind, leaving only the feeling of loss amongst the rest of the emotions churning in his chest. 

It was still dark outside when he went to the window to catch his breath. 

It was just a dream.

Logically he knew this. He repeated the words in his mind as he pushed the curtains aside then rubbed his palms along the rough canvas interior of the wall, craving a solid sensation, a texture against his skin to ground him. 

He found himself drawn to the stars again, once again fascinated by something up there he couldn’t quite put a name to. It was like the anticipation of scanning a crowd for a face he didn’t recognise, a waiting room kind of anxiety. 

It’s probably just the dream.

Bones sat back down on the bed, absently rubbing his hands along the fabric of his trousers now. He was still tired as hell, but that same something kept him from relaxing enough to go back to sleep. An urgency in the back of his mind. He was needed.

Just a dream.

No matter how hard he tried to make the thought stick, it simply would not take root.

Bones spent the rest of the time before dawn packing his things. It was a fairly quick process - save the ring on his pinky finger, he was seldom drawn to the collecting of material objects, especially for the sake of anything sentimental. Not that he disapproved of the practice. He was just… too practical to keep hold of trinkets. Moving around from posting to posting made sure of that.

It was a simple matter, getting his medical equipment and clothes together. He was a tidy person by nature too, so there wasn’t much to be done in the way of cleaning. He did it anyway, brushing  down the walls of the tent, scrubbing the rough hewn desk that served as his workstation, shaking out his bedding. The knife clattered out from under his sleeping pallet, startling him. He’d forgotten about it until now, having put it out of sight where it could no longer remind him of its purpose. He thought briefly about where he could best get rid of it, stashing it somewhere in his tent to be discovered by somebody much later, once he was gone. He was going to go to the rendezvous himself, as well. He could hide it somewhere in the woodlands on the way there. Nobody would miss it. The Capellans probably barely remembered he’d had it. But then somebody outside called his name, and in a moment of startled confusion, Bones tossed the knife into his bag and zipped it up.

“Healer McCoy!” called the voice from outside his tent, “are you awake?”

“Yeah, I’m just about ready to go,” he called back.

Whoever it was didn’t bother coming in. It was just as well, because Bones wasn’t particularly in the mood for any last-minute sparring with random Capellans, physical or verbal. 

The morning air was cold, and Bones closed his eyes and took a deep lungful of it, hoping on some level that it might chase away the cloying discomfort that had settled in his chest since arriving here. In Starfleet, they were reminded constantly that they could never judge non-human civilizations by their own standards. It was something Bones had always struggled with, like some things were simply meant to be a fundamental truth, no matter what planet you came from. He’d done his fair share of second-guessing himself, and as he gazed around at the morning rituals of the Capellan men he poked at the aching tangle in his thoughts. It was one he had tried to wrap his head around over and over since arriving here, and yet it never seemed to go anywhere - the question of judgement and whose he could trust, if not his own. His disgust at the knife and the question of whether that feeling came from some misplaced judgement of the Capellan way of life, or if perhaps it came from the anger he’d buried at the years he’d spent in questioning, discovering, and finally accepting that he was a man, with all the lingering threads of history that came with it. It felt at once like a mockery and a challenge, and he could not for the life of him decide which he preferred.

Eventually, he decided that the question was too large, and so he exhaled and drew in another breath, imagining it cleaning out his insides when logically he knew that was an impossibility. 

He made his way on his own to the rendezvous point, and while the people of the village waved to him in greeting, none of them extended their famed hospitality nor friendliness to him. It was to be expected, at this point.  He was on edge until he arrived and flipped his communicator open to call for his ship, and when he took another breath, it didn’t feel like a cleansing as much as a stirring up of centuries of dust. 

*

Spock watched as Jim paced the length of the transporter room, then paused to drum his fingers impatiently on the console. He himself itched right between his shoulder blades, the urge to check the chronometer again growing. None of this would make McCoy arrive any faster.

“Do you think we should have something ready for him? I mean like… I don’t know. Should we have another doctor on standby?”

“How do you plan to explain your reasoning?” replied Spock, though not unkindly, “the rest of the crew have already noticed your desire to bring Doctor McCoy onboard, apparently completely at random.”

“Hmm, I suppose telling them I have a hunch is out of the question.”

Spock did not reply, except to raise an eyebrow at him. Jim smiled and held out two fingers, which Spock answered by pressing his own two fingers to them. Excitement teetered on the edge of apprehension, which itself threatened to snowball into worry and fear the longer they waited. 

“Need I remind you that McCoy is technically not late,” said Spock, “we are simply early.”

“Yes Spock, I know. You were the one who insisted we practically set up camp here.”

“Ah, hyperbole. We have barely been here for half an hour.”

Jim opened his mouth for a retort, but then the computer chimed, and the two of them jumped.

“Doctor McCoy, requesting permission to beam up,” came a voice, much gruffer and pitched lower than Spock’s memories supplied, but still familiar, still the McCoy he knew. Jim’s hand found his wrist and gripped it tightly, and Spock covered his hand with his own.

“Permission granted,” said Jim, his voice a little hoarse.

He half-ran to the console and began to get a lock on the doctor’s position, and Spock watched with his hands held tightly behind his back, not trusting himself to do anything else. As the figure of McCoy began to materialise, a barrage of thoughts suddenly barrelled through his brain - what if it didn’t work this time? What if McCoy didn’t remember them? What if he did, and he wasn’t interested in sticking around? What if it frightened him too much and he wanted to leave? What if-

And then he was there. The same face, same delicate build and striking blue eyes that he’d always known. For a moment, McCoy looked a little dazed as he stepped off the transporter, his eyes devoid of recognition and his posture the guarded one of any officer entering a new posting somewhere unfamiliar.

“Hello?” he said, looking from Jim to Spock in confusion. The two men were standing there in breathless anticipation, words robbed from the both of them as they waited.

“Name’s Leonard McCoy… listen, I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you both-”

McCoy stopped, then winced as he brought his hand up to his temple.

“Aagh, goddamnit, sorry, I’ve just got a-”

His eyes widened suddenly, and he gasped in a breath as his entire expression changed, looking at Spock and Jim with quiet awe. His mouth worked silently for a few moments while he found his words, and it was a dizzy kind of delight that made a smile begin to spread across his features.

“Spock?” he whispered, hardly daring to believe what he was saying himself. He swayed a little on the spot and Spock caught him by the elbows, steadying him.

“Jim,” he said, his voice a little stronger this time.

“Bones,” said Jim, reaching for him, “Bones, I-”

He was cut off as McCoy gave a shout of pain again, as the barrage of memories his mind was bombarded with began to overload his consciousness. Spock caught him by the waist as he collapsed, cradling him close.

“Well, that wasn’t the worst it could have gone,” said Jim as Spock gathered Bones’ slight form into his arms. He reached forward and brushed the stray hairs out of the man’s face.

“Indeed,” agreed Spock, “although we should hope that Doctor M’Benga will not piece together the unfortunate reputation the three of us seem to be cultivating of fainting on sight.”

*

Thankfully Bones was not out for too long, and upon waking, reassured a very baffled M’Benga that it was likely just due to the stress of his work down on Capella IV. Given the notoriety of the posting, M’Benga was unusually ready to believe him, especially given the lack of anything else unusual showing up on his scans. 

He seemed more concerned at the presence of Jim and Spock, both of whom were trying and failing to contain their worry and excitement at Bones’ presence. The two of them hovered in a way that might have irritated M’Benga greatly, if it wasn’t so funny seeing the Captain and his first officer pacing with the jitters like a couple of teens waiting for a first date. M’Benga, to his credit, knew when to leave something alone.

Bones left not long after, flanked on either side by Jim and Spock, who were uncharacteristically silent. It was hard to know where to start, what to say, after the suddenness of it all. For a moment, Bones was afraid that they might be awkward around each other, unsure of how to be around each other now that everything was so different.

“Take it easy gentlemen, you’re making me look like I need my own security detail,” he joked nervously.

Spock did not respond, except to curl his fingers lightly around Bones’ wrist. On the other side of him, Jim brought his hand up to rest on the small of his back.

But then they arrived at Jim and Spock’s quarters, and the hands were on his face now, on his uniform, tugging him inside as the door hissed closed.

“Bones?” said Jim, looking into his eyes with eyes that were already welling up with tears.

“I’m back,” whispered Bones, “it’s me.”

Jim crushed Bones to him, and Bones felt the warm, solid presence of Spock’s body press up against his back, holding him securely between his two soulmates. It was the familiarity of centuries, and yet he was also in a new body, in this new place - up in the sky, for the first time travelling through space. Bones gasped in a breath as he suddenly realised why the stars had looked different in the sky. It was because a piece of himself had been up here among them, waiting patiently for his return. For the first time, in this lifetime, he was home.

*

Spock had made a spreadsheet. Bones laughed for a full minute when he proudly revealed it to him, the intricacies of their lifetimes mapped out from the point of view of Jim and himself in the most perfectly well thought out, tidy boxes of text. Spock waited patiently for him to finish, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly at Bones’ mirth. He had missed this, the abrasiveness between the two of them that could only exist along the absolute trust they had in each other.

“Oh god, the musketeers,” whispered Bones, trailing a finger along the screen, “I don’t miss that one.”

Spock answered by tapping two fingers lightly on Bones’ wrist, who answered the gesture gratefully, pressing his own fingers to Spock’s.

“As I recall you did appear to be quite at home when we were cowboys,” said Spock, following the movements of Bones’ free hand as he continued to scroll through his lists.

“Rather be riding around the desert with you and Jim though,” replied Bones.

“That can be arranged.”

Bones stared at Spock in surprise.

“What I mean is, on Vulcan, we have many deserts. Someday I would like to take you and Jim there. We could… ride around.”

“Why Spock, you old romantic.”

This earned him a faint pressing together of Spock’s lips, one he recognised as the man’s attempt to subdue a smile.

“Speaking of Vulcan though,” said Bones, returning to the spreadsheet, “what’s it say here? Pre-Surak Vulcan? Surely we can’t have been going for that long-”

The snippet of a half-remembered dream drove into his thoughts like a hammer into an anvil, sending sparks flying as he suddenly put names to the faces.

“Leonard,” said Spock suddenly, gripping Bones by the shoulders. He realised he’d drifted off into the memory, his muscles suddenly tense and trembling.

“Spock,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, “sorry, I just - I remembered something. I think it’s important.”

“What is it?”

Bones searched Spock’s face, felt the coiled strength of the man, the firm hands digging into his arms.

“You were dying,” he said, “I was trying to save you, but I couldn’t… and someone was there.”

Spock’s eyebrows knitted together, but he did not say anything.

“We were all Vulcans,” said Bones softly, “I remember that much.”

“We were temple attendants once,” replied Spock, “Jim and I remember that much.”

“No, there was a war-”

Bones trailed off as Spock gave a long exhale, clearly troubled by his words.

“This is not part of my memory,” he said slowly, “but Jim… Jim said almost the exact same thing as you.”

“But you were there-”

“As you said, I was dying.”

Spock made an extra note on the spreadsheet. There was something in the way his hand flexed, the way he tapped at the screen with slightly more force than was necessary, that filled Bones with a lingering kind of worry.

“It appears that our time together is often interrupted,” Spock mused, “though how much of this is some strange form of fate, I cannot say.”

A familiar dread crept into Bones’ chest, hanging there like a weight pressing against his ribcage. He remembered now; at some point not long after each reunion, they would realise this. At some point in all of their timelines, someone would die. They would be separated, killed, hung, imprisoned, like they had at once been given the greatest gift an endless love could hope to have, and yet at the costliest price. 

They’d never been able to piece together precisely why they were like this. Why they seemed to be given endless opportunities, endless lifetimes together, only for the worst to happen. Was it a curse? Was it luck? Was it a simple quirk of the universe that had been seen fit to give to them? At one point, Bones had been desperate to know the truth, but by now, the thought of it terrified him.

*

The temple attendants of Mount Seleya are celibate, for the purpose of absolute devotion. The ability to transcend even the Pon Farr is one other Vulcans revere, and yet the leader of the attendants of Seleya finds himself in the middle of the desert, his body pressed against that of their faithful healer. Those dextrous hands grip his hips and follow them down to the curve of his buttocks, grasping, pulling them together. He presses his nose to his healer’s collarbone and inhales deeply, giving in to the urge to bite, to lick, to rake his nails up her neck and thread through her hair, pulling tight. The urge to claim her burns through him, an intensity of pure emotion that he cannot name but one that he has fought all his life.

Spock knows that part of it, at least. He knows the urges of his leader, of the healer who stays by his side, both who live in concealment, in denial, in stolen moments hidden away in the desert. He does not approve, but neither does he stop them. He loves them too, in his own reserved way.

When they return, he will look down his nose at them, though his disdain will never be anything more than perfunctory. Instead, he will tell them that they make terrible Vulcans, and deep down, they will agree with him.

*

It took time for their minds and bodies to adjust to the fact that the touch of a hand need not happen in secret anymore. Their souls, so unfathomably old, were only just now adjusting to this strange new world of their young bodies. The tentative public nudge of a shoulder, a hand on a wrist - these became the touching of foreheads and a kiss on a cheek, and the giddy delight when nobody seemed to care was intoxicating. They saw Scotty surreptitiously pass Uhura a bottle of something with a shake of his head and a muttered “you win,” and Jim felt the strange urge to cry from the sheer relief of it, the realisation that somehow, finally, they were safe. 

He went to sickbay and Bones came to the bridge. They would stand next to each other. They would hold hands.

“Mind if I sit here?” said Uhura one day in the mess, sliding into the seat next to Jim without waiting for an answer. Spock and Bones were occupied with some sort of research project that had caught their combined opinion enough that they would likely emerge dazed in a few hours and bolt down whatever they could get their hands on, still probably arguing.

“So,” continued Uhura, stabbing one of the potatoes with a fork and twirling it in a little circle, “what’s the deal with this Doctor McCoy guy?”

Jim’s mouth was suddenly dry, his heart beginning to thump audibly in his ears.

“What about him?” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Well, I didn’t know the Starfleet recruitment page doubled as a dating service, but it’s a pretty novel idea.”

Jim made a choked sound, and Uhura began to laugh.

“No but seriously Captain, where did he come from? Did you really just happen to find a second perfect match out of total chance?”

Uhura had her elbows on the table, her fingers laced together and her chin perched daintily atop them, her head tilted expectantly.

“I - well - I just,” spluttered Jim.

“Hey, take it easy! I’m just nosy is all, if you don’t want to talk you don’t have to. But you’ve gotta admit Captain, it’s kind of amazing.”

Uhura was smiling. Jim remembered - he was here. It was okay. He was safe.

“It’s more than that,” he said, his expression softening, and he saw an answering delight sparkle in Uhura’s eyes.

“Tell me,” said Uhura.

“It’s… it’s like we’ve known each other our whole lives. A hundred lifetimes over. It feels like a piece of me is back where it belongs.”

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” said Uhura dreamily, “although, I’ve got to say, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Doctor McCoy when he first arrived.”

“Oh?” said Jim, a smile of his own spreading across his face. He had an idea of where this was going.

“Well, the first few times I saw him he was always yelling at Commander Spock for something or other. Not a particularly nice way to treat a senior officer in a new posting, if you ask me.”

“Ah,” said Jim, “yes, he does do that a bit. Only with Spock though. And it’s only because-”

“They’re funny about saying they love each other without making it as complicated as one of their little experiments, yes, I know,” finished Uhura.

“Ah, so it’s that obvious, is it?” said Jim.

“I can say ‘I love you’ in at least fifteen different languages, but I’ve got to admit, this is a new one.”

“I suppose love is a language we make entirely our own, in infinite variations across the universe,” murmured Jim.

Uhura watched his wistful expression, and suddenly felt like she had stepped a little too far into something she could not quite explain.

*

“Couldn’t have waited a few minutes for us to arrive? Damn you!”

The man with Spock’s face is dying.

Bones is angry.

Bones is angry, because if he weeps he will fail in his duty.

Bones is in the cave with the stalactites again, the thick rock walls barely keeping the waves of red heat from the suns at bay. The colour is deep and glowing like fire, and Bones knows that it means that night will fall soon, and they will have the cold to contend with.

“Spock,” he says hurriedly to the man bleeding viscous green all over the floor, Spock-but-older, Spock-but-wounded, Spock-but-ragged.

Spock does not respond.

“Can you do anything?” says a voice behind him. Hurried. Jim, commanding him. Jim-but-Vulcan. Jim-but-wounded. Jim-but-dying.

Bones looks back at Spock, and realises that the man in front of him is now wearing his own face, bruised and bleeding, seeping from open sores on his skin. 

They are all dying.

“Have you had enough yet?” says a voice from the door. This man is still a stranger, ancient eyes in a face seemingly carved from the same stone as the cave. His hair is cut in a perfectly straight bowl around his head, a strangely clean cut counterpoint to the ragged others in the cave. 

“Had enough?” Bones hears himself say, though he has no idea where the words come from, “had enough? Of what? Of war? Death? Pain and misery?”

“Of life,” says the stranger, and suddenly Bones realises the two of them are alone together.

“I have barely lived,” said Bones.

“You have lived many times over the time you should have had. Is that not enough?”

Bones is silent. He is suddenly aware that he is no longer on autopilot, and can speak for himself once again. He finds his voice.

“It’s never been right,” he says, “we’ve never been able to get it right.”

“The pursuit of perfection is in every way a futile one,” comes the reply.

The world begins to dissolve around him, and Bones stares the stranger in his face, takes in the impassive expression he struggles to read as anything other than smug.

“That’s rich coming from a Vulcan,” he says as he begins to wake.

*

Bones wandered slowly in a circle around sickbay, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he checked Spock’s readings for the hundredth time, comparing them to his copious notes. He rationalised it to himself (and anybody else who might be confused as his studious note-taking when it came to Spock) that M’Benga’s knowledge of Vulcan anatomy far surpassed his own, and he might need to check his work at some point. That point had not come yet, but it never stopped him from staying by Spock’s side when he was here in sickbay.

A faint rustle from behind him caught his attention, and he whirled to see where it had come from, his eyes scanning Jim’s prone form on the biobed next to Spock’s. 

“It’s just me,” said Nurse Chapel from across the room, keeping her voice low. It was deep into Gamma shift now, and the lights and sounds of sickbay were dimmed, making the usually sterile room feel oddly enclosed and intimate. The two of them hadn’t had too much to say outside of work, and even then their shifts seldom tended to line up. Bones liked her though. 

“Any developments?” she said.

“Nothing,” said Bones, “they’ve just got to stay under while the serum works its magic. I guess we’ll find out sometime during Alpha shift if it really did work.”

Chapel examined Jim, then Spock, then Bones, her expression worried.

“Hell of a wait, huh?” she said with a sympathetic smile.

“Hmm.”

Bones crossed his arms over his chest, wishing for the awful shivering thing in his heart to calm itself. He returned his attention to the readouts on the panel above both biobeds, clasping his hands behind his back, each hand holding the other in a white-knuckled grip.

“Doctor McCoy,” said Chapel quietly.

“Don’t. Please.”

He heard Chapel took a slow step back and was grateful for her silence. The two of them stood there for a while, Leonard unwilling to turn around, Chapel unwilling to leave him alone. They stayed there until Leonard felt like his insides were going to twist right out of his body, until the prickling feeling along his back and neck intensified to the point where he thought he might well go mad. Between the two of them, the monitors beeped, and the harsh hiss of sterilised air exhaled into the room like a low sigh from a pair of tired lungs.

“Coffee?” said Chapel finally.

“Please,” replied Bones, suddenly able to move again. He turned around woodenly and watched Chapel at the replicator with a faint lingering detachment.

“When did you start on duty?” said Chapel, handing him a mug.

“Oh, don’t start,” groaned Bones.

“Genuine question! I only clocked in a couple hours ago, and you’ve definitely been here since well before then.”

Bones hummed as he sipped at his drink.

“I was on the away mission with them.”

He tensed, ready for Chapel to read him the riot act and send for someone to remove him from sickbay. They’d left around twenty-six hours ago.

“You want to take that free bed then?” she said, not skipping a beat.

Bones blinked at her.

“You’re clearly not going anywhere. But it’s a miracle you can even read the words on the display monitors.”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep,” he said sheepishly, stealing another glance at Spock and Jim.”

“Didn’t say you had to,” said Chapel with a shrug. Bones stared at her for a little longer, then walked over to the biobed next to Jim, easing himself up onto it slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“But-” said Chapel, “and I hope you don’t mind me saying - but you’ve got to talk to the two of them about this, afterwards.”

“Is that an order, nurse?” said Bones tiredly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. Chapel did not return it, raising her chin slightly.

“The Captain and Spock have always been like this. Adding another self-sacrificing husband into the mix…”

“Hey!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Chapel, narrowing her eyes.

Bones said nothing, taking another sip from his cup and peering over the rim, hoping it would cover his blush.

“We’re not married,” he murmured in a half-hearted attempt at teasing her, “but… yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Bones cleared his throat, and tried for more eloquent words. But he’d made the cardinal mistake of sitting down, and already his brain was beginning to fuzz, the sharp edges of his anxiety dampened from exhaustion.

“... yeah,” he agreed once more, “and for the record, you can call me Leonard.”

Chapel came over and patted his knee fondly, and Bones got the faint impression he’d somehow been adopted. It wasn’t the worst feeling, though it was an odd one given he was quite obviously many years her senior. He settled back on the biobed with his drink, and let the sounds of sickbay lull him into a troubled kind of doze.

He didn’t know how long he was there for, in the kind of half-awake state that the clash of fear and weariness concocts. He lost awareness of what was happening in the quiet rustle of the Gamma shift staff, only jerking to attention from time to time at sounds that didn’t seem to have a place in the stillness of the artificial ship’s night. He drifted through until the harsh Alpha shift lights blinked on once more, and he pushed himself groggily up, rubbing at his eyes. 

M’Benga was back, and Bones watched him blankly as he began to check on Spock and Jim.

“Mmh... they… m’kay?” mumbled Bones, willing his brain to make his mouth start forming words properly.

“I’m going to assume you’re asking if they’re alright, and good news Leonard - they’re going to be fine.”

Bones sagged with relief, bowing his head.

“I’m going to wake them up, and once they’re okay to move around you can all escort each other back to your quarters for the next shift cycle.”

Bones nodded, then sighed as he relaxed back against the bed.

“Oh, I better clock out too. Formalities,” he said.

M’Benga looked at him curiously.

“Leonard, you’ve been officially off duty for hours. Surely you didn’t think you were-”

M’Benga looked past Bones, to where Chapel was waving at him to stop talking, then rolled his eyes.

“Your current status is visiting next of kin , Doctor. Just… keep that in mind.”

*

There was something in Bones’ silence. It was always in words he didn’t speak, whether it was meaning he couched behind abrasive insults or carefully schooled features. No matter how deeply he buried the thoughts, Jim and Spock had known him long enough to read him now, and so when Bones stayed by Spock’s side, watching his face without speaking, they knew a thought was here too, lingering somewhere beneath his skin. It wasn’t a look that was full of affection so much as wild, frantic fear, like he was frightened Spock might disappear if he looked away.

“Bones?” said Jim softly, so softly it halted the doctor in his tracks. He tore his gaze from Spock with visible difficulty.

“Jim?” he said, trying and failing for lighthearted.

Jim watched him expectantly, waiting for Bones to cave. He did within moments, sitting down heavily on Spock’s side of the bed, facing away from the two of them.

“The pre-Surak-” said Bones, then stopped. How did he even begin to explain?

“The moment in time the Captain and yourself remember, but I do not?” said Spock, nudging him gently along.

Bones nodded.

“You don’t remember it because you were dying,” said Bones.

“Your memory has come back to you?”

“I dreamed it.”

Bones exhaled shakily, grabbing handfuls of the sheets as he fought to steady himself. 

A hand on his wrist - Spock. There was a rustle behind him, and Spock’s chin came to rest on his shoulder, pressing his body against Bones’ back, reassuring him with his presence.

“Tell us,” said Spock.

Jim, on his other side, leaning against him. The two of them, holding him up when they were the ones who had been hurt. It upset Bones in a way he had never been able to articulate, an ancient frustration bubbling up inside him at something that was not quite a failure, and yet-

“Spock was… dying. We were all dying. It was during the war.”

Spock and Jim waited for him patiently, like they had always done.

“There was another man there. Hell, I dunno who he was, but he’s always there. We always argue.”

“Who wins?” said Jim.

Bones thought about this for a moment.

“I… neither of us, I think,” he said, “they’re not really the kind of argument you can win. But the argument’s always about the both of you. You know, I don’t even know if it’s a real memory, or just the fact that I’m scared as hell of losing the two of you.”

He felt Spock tense beside him, felt him pull back.

“Spock?” he said.

A deep crease had appeared between the Vulcan’s brows as he considered something.

“In my last lifetime, I was born on Vulcan. I lived my life as an outcast, unable to ever truly purge myself of emotion or gain total control. It felt as though I was living as half a man, half a soul. I… do not wish to live like that again. We share the same fears, I think.”

“It’s a little hard to ignore,” agreed Jim, “especially when I don’t think we’ve ever had a lifetime where things have just been… not even good. I’d settle for-”

“Uneventful,” finished Bones, and the corners of Jim’s eyes crinkled into a smile.

“Uneventful,” he agreed, slipping an arm around Bones’ waist. 

Bones had hoped getting the dream out into the open might solve something. Give him some form of insight, or a purging of feelings, in the ways Vulcans were so fond of doing. If anything, the knowledge that his lovers felt the same way became even more of a weight on his chest, and now a new fear: that they too dreaded being the one left behind.

*

Bones didn’t know why he packed the Capellan knife on the next away mission, and wouldn’t allow himself to think too hard about it. There was danger on the edge of his rational mind, and as he tucked the knife into his medkit, it was with a strange sensation of shame that he pushed away firmly. 

For the majority of the day they passed the time making amicable first contact with the Yalteans. They were a slightly off-putting race, with translucent skin that made for fascinating medical examination, given that Bones could physically see the rush of their dark blood beneath their skin, the soft pulsating of their inner organs. Several ensigns had to leave and be beamed back to the ship due to squeamishness, which might have been an issue had not several Yalteans needed to leave for the same reason.

The two parties shared a meal in a huge stone hall carved into the Yaltean mountainside. The away team mingled with the Yaltean delegation around a long table with a trench dug through the middle, into which an assortment of not entirely unfamiliar food had been placed. There was a round, reddish kind of grain, a kind of meat that had been fried into balls, and several variations on dough-wrapped vegetable dishes, most of which had been scanned and deemed edible to Humans, Yalteans, and of course, Vulcans. In the centre of the table sat a pile of roasted legs of some sort of local creature. He had been told that they had all come from the one animal, and Bones was privately glad that he hadn’t seen one running towards him in the wild. 

He tried not to stare as the Yalteans ate, the food passing through their translucent bodies as faint dark bulges. The process was, as Spock might say, fascinating to him. There was a strange kind of vulnerability to it, in having the inner workings of your body on display at all times. The Yalteans, however, seemed proud of this, wearing only the barest scraps of clothing as mostly adornments rather than coverings, so as to show off as much as possible. Bones, who had lived several lifetimes covered in as many layers of clothing as he could muster, decided that he found the whole thing quite novel.

In the centre of the table, Jim reached for the pile of roast meat, and the Yaltean ambassador shot her own hand out at the same time, reaching for the same one. They sat there for several moments, Bones watching Jim’s troubled expression as he racked his brains for some memory from the briefing of what this might mean. Ambassador Kit stared at him flatly, her expression betraying no answer as to what his next action ought to be.

“Do you mind explaining this one?” said Jim, trying to keep his tone of voice light.

The Ambassador gave no reply. The rest of the Yalteans had gone quiet too, waiting with bated breath for something - but what?

“We are here to learn your customs,” said Spock, “but we cannot do so if you do not give us the benefit of an explanation.”

The Ambassador held fast, and said nothing.

Jim drew a deep breath, then let go of the end he was holding.

“All yours, then,” he said quietly.

The Ambassador’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and she raised the food to her mouth, taking a large bite. Jim and the rest of the away team relaxed a little, relieved.

“So you and your team yield,” she said, once she had swallowed.

“What” said Jim, “what do you mean, we yield?”

“In a moment of contest between your people and ours, your choice will be to yield,” she said, her smile somehow managing to convey nothing of a genuine emotion.

She flicked her wrist at the rest of her delegation, and they pounced on the Starfleet officers, grabbing at their equipment, their weapons, at the people themselves.

“You say you will not deliver your technology to us, and yet you make it so easy,” laughed Ambassador Kit.

Bones found himself surrounded on both sides, two Yalteans grabbing at his wrists and pulling at him while he kicked futilely out at them. A kick to the back of his knee sent him to the ground, and a boot on the back of his head held him fast as his arms were wrenched painfully backwards.

Then suddenly his assailants were gone and Spock was grabbing him, dragging him away.

“Get out,” hissed Spock, “get your communicator, get in touch with the Enterprise.”

Spock pushed him towards the entrance without another word, then turned to run for Jim, who was losing the fight against a Yaltean with one of their pole weapons, his arms around his head to protect it from being crushed.

Bones watched in horror as Spock ran to Jim, and two others descended upon them. He backed away then, reaching for his medkit, where he’d stashed his communicator. His hand rummaged around, then closed around the hilt of the knife.

There was a split second where he was overcome by the urge to protect, to throw himself into battle with the two men he loved. He could do it, he thought, he could be the fighter for once, the unexpected hero.

He felt sick immediately, imagining himself running to save his lovers, driving that blade into the side of one of the Yalteans, straight into their heart, on display and vulnerable. 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Spock and Jim knew this, knew it better than he did apparently. He needed to get-

“Leonard, what are you doing ?” shouted Spock, uncharacteristically frantic, “get - ”

Spock never finished the sentence; a Yaltean got him from behind, a pole colliding with the back of Spock’s skull with a sickening thunk and sending him to the floor. Bones’ hand closed over the communicator instead and he hurried outside, away from the fray, and with shaking hands called for them to be beamed up.

*

Spock had asked for him to be removed from sickbay, the moment he woke up. 

Bones sat in their quarters on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chin. He should join Jim at the debrief. He should submit his report. He should catch up on his paperwork. He should - any number of things, but he was frozen to the spot, unable to move from the needle-like spikes of anxiety that coursed through his chest every time Spock crossed his thoughts. 

One moment, he would be certain that Spock had sent him away because their time together was surely over. He had ruined it now, perhaps he had been the culprit all along. His mind whispered to him that it was his fault, played back memories of hangings, of imprisonment, of being thrown outside into the mud, and that treacherous voice pointed the finger of accusation at him time and time again. 

Then, perhaps in an effort to protect his damaged, frayed heart, he would tell himself that it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Perhaps Jim and Spock were better off without him, and if he left now, right now, it would be okay. He would find himself somewhere on his own to live, and perhaps even stand a chance at breaking whatever cursed loop they had found themselves in for so many years.

Then the anxiety would return, burning through him like a pool of acid in his belly, like a fist that squeezed his lungs until he found he could barely draw breath, dizzy and faintly aware that he might just be panicking.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and Jim appeared as a ghostly shadow.

“Bones?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Bones drew in a breath that didn’t feel like it entered his lungs properly. He inhaled further and further, hoping to crowd that awful feeling out of himself, but nothing worked. The shame of it threatened to swallow him whole.

“Leonard,” said Spock’s voice, still a little hoarse. He nudged Jim into the room and then followed behind him, walking slightly more carefully than usual, but whole and healed.

Bones put his head between his knees like he could somehow hide himself there, unable to articulate the depth of what had happened, what he had done.

The bed dipped on either side of him once more, and the silence that followed felt like damnation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the words come out of him as a sob that began to shake him.

Hands on his back. Hands on his arms. Hands carding through his hair, voices that shushed him and kissed soft patterns along his head. Hands he didn’t deserve.

“Ashayam,” said Spock, sounding quietly terrified, “what is it? What has happened?”

“I’m so sorry Spock,” whispered Bones again, “I’m so sorry, it’s me, it was me all along. I-”

“Bones,” Jim this time, his hand grabbing his own and holding it tight, “Bones, you’re not making any sense.”

Bones drew a deep breath, and raised his head.

“I took a knife with me in my medkit. It’s what I was reaching for when I… when Spock...”

“Leonard, I am struggling to understand what you are trying to explain. A knife?”

“I wanted to protect the both of you for once! But I couldn’t-” Bones’ voice stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him, tears pricking at his eyes, “I couldn’t-”

“Leonard,” whispered Spock, coming closer to him, wrapping his arms around the doctor’s waist, drawing close enough so that his lips nearly brushed his ear, “Leonard. Jim and I have been speaking about what happened, and before you attempt to apologise further, I would like you to try to listen to what we discussed.”

Bones tried to respond, but all the words he wanted to say seemed to pile up into a mess.

“None of this was your fault,” said Jim, “listen, if you’re blaming yourself for what happened to Spock, you’re wrong. ”

Jim kept his voice quiet, soothing. It was not Jim’s comforting words, but the stab of  guilt over their necessity that pierced through the fog that had descended over Bones.

“Alright,” he said hoarsely, “alright. I’m listenin’.”

“Jim and I…” began Spock, but then he trailed off, the words seeming to evade him too.

“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you Bones? The fear. Like the rug’s going to get pulled out from under us at any moment, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Bones pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and nodded.

“Have you ever considered we’re in danger of this becoming the timeline where we destroy ourselves… all because we’re all too eager to jump in harm’s way in some insane attempt to save each other?”

“Jim,” pleaded Bones, the tears starting anew, “oh god, Jim-”

“Bones, this isn’t your fault,” said Jim.

“Are you sure?” said Bones, “I mean, are you really sure about that? Gettin’ you all kicked out of the Musketeers, banished from Seleya… distracting Spock-”

“Leonard, your logic is as always, flawed,” said Spock.

Bones blinked.

“Logic!” he snapped, irritation flaring at Spock’s sudden insult, overtaking his distress, “I’d like to hear you try and talk me out of this one, you goddamn bowl-cut son of a-”

“Were you the hands that threw us out? The ruler who made the rules banning females?”

Bones shuddered at the memory, and Spock put his hand on his neck and squeezed.

“Perhaps it is I who does not remember correctly, but I am fairly certain you were not the Vulcan who banished us either, nor did you wield the weapon that-”

“Alright, alright, I get it Spock,” huffed Bones, “but if that’s the case, why the hell did you order me out of sickbay?”

It was Spock’s turn to shutter at this, and he turned away, embarrassed.

“I did not wish for you to suffer in the presence of my recovery, as you always seem to do. You have always watched over Jim and I like a guardian of sorts, and in light of recent events, it was… distressing.”

Bones smacked himself in the forehead, shaking his head.

“God. We’re all idiots,” he mumbled.

“I think,” said Jim, “that we’re going to have to get used to the fact that we just don’t know.”

He took one of Bones’ hands and laced their fingers together, then did the same with Spock, who blushed.

“I for one would hate to miss out on all of this because we’re fighting over who gets to take a phaser to the chest.”

“Don’t be morbid, Jim,” sighed Bones, “I can’t take it tonight.”

Jim pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Your wish is my command, Bones,” he said fondly.

The three of them stayed together like that for a long time, enjoying the sensation of closeness. Savouring it, in a way that they had not since those first few days they’d had together. 

The vague, shapeless threat of the unknowable still churned away somewhere in Bones’ stomach, but somehow it seemed smaller now, less overwhelming. A monster that might learn to be tamed, in time. It kept him from sleep when the other two began to drift off, but even then, wrapped in tangible, real comfort from the bodies of his lovers, even that distant fear faded enough for him to eventually fall asleep too.

*

Spock is beside him. 

Spock is in front of him.

One Spock is cradled in his arms on the floor of this infernal sun-heated cave, while the other watches over his shoulder, troubled,

“Leonard,” says the Spock that is whole, complete, and wears his Starfleet uniform, pristine and blue against the fierce red rock of these jagged walls.

“Spock,” says Bones, not daring to take his gaze away from the near-insensible man in his arms, “Spock, how are you doing this?”

“All things considered, Bones, I think you’re probably best equipped to answer that question.”

Jim is here. Jim, in his Captain’s uniform, looking in a mixture of horror and amazement at the Vulcan who wears his face, and does not seem to perceive his presence. Bones looks around, but finds that he has no counterpart for himself. There is just him, here, and he cannot see what he looks like, no matter how hard he tries to look down at his body.

“Can you do anything?” says Jim-the-Vulcan, and Bones stares at him, then at Jim, then back. It all feels wrong, incorrect, like an actor in a play he has seen a thousand times already. Which means next will come-

“Have you had enough yet?” says a voice from the door.

The stranger is back, his hands folded into the elegant sleeves of his robe as he surveys the situation.

“Had enough?” he says, the same as the time before, once more no longer in control of his own voice, “had enough? Of what? Of war? Death? Pain and misery?”

“Of life.” 

“I have barely lived.” 

“They have been speaking of you,” says the man in his arms, this ancient version of Spock. His voice is the barest thread of gossamer, clinging to life still now, beyond all hope.

“They say you have discovered the solution,” he continues, forcing the words out one by one as his chest heaves with the effort, “the secret to preservation of the katra.”

The stranger stares down his nose at Spock with an expression that seems truly blank of emotion, perfectly schooled, unreadable.

“The solution is not to live forever,” says the stranger, “and to suggest it is, is a perversion of my philosophy.”

“Not to live forever, but to live at all,” pleads Jim, the Vulcan at his side, “we have had so little that is good, and yet-”

“In infinite diversity there must be suffering alongside pleasure,” says the stranger.

Bones lays Spock down on the ground with a gentleness that belies the anger that courses through his veins, an anger that feels wild and restless, like a beast in the desert, with a strength he has never experienced before in this lifetime. It is a Vulcan kind of anger.

“Then why are you here?” says Bones, still in the voice that is not quite his own, “why come to us now? What do you have to offer?”

“I come to you as I have come to many others, bearing knowledge, philosophy, and a new way of life.”

“How fortunate, when we are on death’s door.”

The stranger nods slowly. 

“Your circumstances are indeed… unfortunate.”

Bones feels himself pull his arm back, curl his hand into a fist, and then watches as a horrified spectator might as he punches the stranger squarely in the jaw.

The stranger stumbles backwards, clutching at his face, though he seems neither offended nor disturbed by the loss of Bones’ temper. He straightens his robes, and rubs at his chin.

“You have always been one to choose your destiny for yourself, Leonard McCoy” says the stranger, unperturbed, “in that, I find you entirely unchanged.”

A gust of wind blows through the cave. Both Jims, and both Spocks dissolve into ashes and are swept away, the dust spinning into a curl that dissipates into the air. Bones finds that his mouth is hanging open, and the scene once more calls for his response.

“You have a choice, ” says the stranger, “will you try once more with your beloveds? Or are you ready for your katra to finally become tethered to this time, and this place?”

Bones clears his throat, making sure that what comes out is entirely his. It is - whatever force was driving him has been blown away with the wind, and he finds that he is trembling in the presence of this stranger, one that he thinks he may know the identity of, though if he is correct… if he is correct-

“Will this time around be okay?” he says softly. He already knows what Surak’s answer will be. But as always, as he has always done through time, he has to try.

“If I answer you truthfully,” says Surak, “then my gift to you will have been in vain.”

“Then this is it,” says Bones, “this is the last one.”

“Then you have had enough?”

Bones sighs, his shoulders slump.

“Never. Not in a million years. But it will have to do.”

The world is beginning to crumble at the edges. Bones looks into Surak’s dark eyes, sees the corner of his mouth twitch very slightly, and knows that he has made a choice the Vulcan approves of. His last thought before waking is that he can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not.

*

Bones woke to Spock and Jim shaking him awake, frantic and terrified. He shot up, startling all three of them.

“Bones! Bones, you weren’t waking up,” said Jim, “I was about to call medical-”

“M’alright Jim, I’m alright. Just… just give me a second.”

“Did you have that dream as well? In the cave?”

Bones looked sharply at Jim, then at Spock.

“The both of you were there?”

“From your description, I believe that all three of us were indeed present in the same dream.”

Bones nodded, trying to piece together all of what had just happened. He would have to explain it to them, to the both of them. They would have to know that this was it, the end of the line for all three of them. But as Bones sat and considered it, he realised that every lifetime had been tinged with a kind of terror, a faint knowledge that somewhere, out in the wide, open universe, he would be tasked with finding his soulmates over and over for all eternity. It was a weight he now no longer felt in his chest, a looming darkness that had prevented him from seeing what was right in front of him. Right now. Hands that held him from both sides, patience, a willingness, a desire to understand. Cups of cooling coffee in a cabin, down the back of a bakery, in sickbay. Shoulders that nudged each other on a too-small bench as they looked at the stars from Earth, from Vulcan, from a starship flying through the vast emptiness of space. 

Jim and Spock were looking at him strangely, and Bones realised his face was smiling. 

“Bones?” said Jim.

Bones pulled them both towards him, and kissed them.

*

They each share a memory, those for each of them it is too hazy to ascertain where exactly on the timeline it should go. It is only there in snatches, in little details that give no information as to the why, or where, or how. 

It is warm. The sun is bright and orange, and glows with radiant light as it sets in the distance. Dry grasses sway in the breeze, and insects fill the air with their shrill buzzing. Their hands are dirty, and they are a pleasant kind of tired, the kind that comes after a day of work out in the sun. Loose-limbed and sleepy, the three of them sit in the grass and wait for the sky to darken so that they can watch the stars. 

The memory itself feels like something fragile, a fragment that might be shattered if they handle it with something as clumsy as words, or as rigid as Spock’s spreadsheet. It is something the three of them, unbeknownst to each other, cradle in their minds instead. Bones hangs onto it, and resolves to plant it like a seed.