Chapter Text
The hum of the shuttle reverberated around them, a constant background noise that had become almost comforting to Leonard McCoy over the years. He sat in the cockpit next to Spock, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, eyes fixed on the stars blurring outside the small viewport. McCoy wasn’t particularly fond of these trips—especially not ones that involved long-winded Starfleet conferences and spending an inordinate amount of time with Spock. And yet, here they were, on their way back to the Enterprise after a week of professional, but incessant, bickering.
He let out a soft huff, shifting in his seat. Spock, seated to his right, was as still and silent as ever, his hands resting calmly in his lap. McCoy could sense that calmness from him, and it grated on his nerves.
"You’d think after a week of this, I’d get a break," McCoy muttered under his breath.
Spock turned his head slightly, his expression impassive. "Doctor, your commentary on the duration of our shared time has been noted multiple times. Repetition of the same point is illogical."
"Illogical, sure," McCoy snapped. "But necessary."
Silence settled between them again, and McCoy let out another frustrated sigh. He wasn’t sure what it was about Spock that always set him on edge. Maybe it was the Vulcan’s unshakeable composure, or maybe it was the way he seemed to see right through McCoy’s sarcasm and bitterness, rendering it useless. There was something infuriating about arguing with someone who refused to argue back in any meaningful way. McCoy’s fists clenched in his lap, the tension of the past week still simmering beneath the surface.
They were just an hour away from the Enterprise when the communications panel beeped. Spock reached forward and pressed the control to answer.
"Enterprise here," came the voice of Uhura, her tone tight, strained in a way that McCoy had never heard before.
Spock sat up a little straighter. "Commander Uhura, this is Lieutenant Commander Spock. We are en route and will arrive in approximately—"
"Spock," Uhura interrupted, her voice shaking slightly. McCoy’s heart skipped a beat at the sound. Something was wrong. He could hear it in her voice, see it in the way Spock’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "You... you need to know something before you arrive."
McCoy’s stomach twisted into knots. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what came next. The shuttle was quiet, too quiet, save for the faint crackle of the comm.
Uhura’s voice cracked as she spoke again. "The Captain... Jim... he’s... he’s gone, Spock."
For a moment, McCoy’s mind went completely blank, and he blinked, trying to process what he had just heard. Gone? She couldn’t mean—
"What do you mean, gone?" McCoy demanded, his voice louder than he intended.
Uhura hesitated. "He was injured on a mission. By the time we could get him back to the ship... it was too late. He... he didn’t make it."
Spock’s face remained an unreadable mask. His fingers twitched slightly on the controls, a movement so small McCoy might have missed it if he weren’t watching so closely. McCoy stared at Spock, waiting for some kind of reaction. Anything. But Spock remained perfectly still, perfectly composed. McCoy felt a deep anger rise in his chest—how could he be so calm? Jim was dead.
"Uhura," Spock’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. A tightness. "What has been done with the Captain’s body?"
"It was... his request," Uhura replied, her words coming out in short, broken sentences. "He had a funeral. We followed his instructions... his will. His body was... sent into space. A capsule, just as he wanted."
McCoy couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight, his heart pounding in his ears. Jim was gone. His best friend, the man he had served with, laughed with, argued with—gone. The image of Jim, lying still, cold, in some lifeless capsule out in the vast emptiness of space, was too much to bear.
"Why didn’t you tell us sooner?" McCoy growled, his voice thick with emotion. "We could have—"
"The communications were down, Doctor," Uhura explained. "A massive interference surge hit us right after the mission. We couldn’t contact anyone. We tried everything."
McCoy let out a shuddering breath, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair. Spock hadn’t moved. He was still sitting in the same rigid posture, eyes focused straight ahead, seemingly untouched by the words that had shattered McCoy’s world.
"We will be arriving shortly," Spock said quietly, and Uhura’s voice gave a brief acknowledgment before the comm cut off.
The shuttle was quiet again, but this time it was suffocating. McCoy could feel the heat of tears building behind his eyes, but he forced them back. Not here. Not now.
"He’s dead, Spock," McCoy finally said, his voice cracking. "Jim’s dead."
Spock’s fingers curled slightly, his knuckles turning pale as they gripped the armrest. But his face remained as impassive as ever. "Yes, Doctor," Spock replied softly. "I am aware."
"Then why the hell aren’t you saying anything? Why aren’t you... doing something?" McCoy demanded, his voice rising in frustration and grief. "Aren’t you feeling anything?"
Spock turned his head slowly to look at McCoy, his dark eyes calm but intense. "It is illogical to react emotionally in situations such as this."
"Illogical," McCoy repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "You’re telling me that your best friend—the man you’ve served with for years—is dead, and you’re just going to sit there and say it’s illogical to react?"
"I am Vulcan," Spock said simply, but there was a hardness to his voice now, something McCoy had rarely heard before. "We do not allow emotions to dictate our actions."
McCoy’s hands clenched into fists again, and he felt an overwhelming urge to hit something. Anything. "Damn it, Spock! He was your friend! He meant something to you—he had to!"
Spock’s gaze remained locked with McCoy’s, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "The Captain was a valued colleague. He was... important to me."
The admission was barely a whisper, but it was there. McCoy could see it—just the faintest flicker of something in Spock’s eyes, something that he would never say aloud. For a moment, McCoy felt a pang of regret. He knew Spock was grieving too, in his own way. But it wasn’t enough. Not for McCoy.
"He wasn’t just a ‘valued colleague,’" McCoy spat, his voice thick with emotion. "He was Jim. He was our friend. And now he’s gone, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye."
Spock didn’t respond. His gaze shifted back to the viewport, and he sat in silence once more. McCoy’s chest ached with the weight of the loss, and the grief he had been holding back finally spilled over. He wiped a hand roughly across his face, trying to hold himself together.
The shuttle continued its journey through the stars, and the Enterprise loomed closer on the horizon. But the ship, the mission, none of it mattered now. Jim was gone.
When they finally docked, the familiar sounds of the Enterprise greeted them, but everything felt wrong. The corridors were quieter, the crew members they passed wore expressions of deep sadness and shock. McCoy could see it in their eyes—everyone was grieving in their own way. But none of it mattered to him. The only thing that mattered was that Jim wasn’t there.
As they made their way toward the bridge, McCoy kept glancing at Spock, searching for some sign of the emotions he knew had to be buried deep within the Vulcan’s stoic exterior. But Spock remained calm, his steps measured and precise, his face as unreadable as ever.
When they reached the doors to the bridge, McCoy hesitated, feeling a lump rise in his throat. It would be the first time they stepped onto the bridge without Jim in command. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.
Spock stepped forward, his hand brushing the control panel lightly, and the doors hissed open. McCoy followed, his heart heavy as they entered the familiar room.
But Jim wasn’t there. The captain’s chair was empty.
And in that moment, McCoy felt more alone than he ever had before.
McCoy sat at his desk in Sickbay, staring blankly at the screen in front of him. The dim light from the monitor cast deep shadows across his face, and his hands rested on the edge of the console, knuckles white from the tension he couldn’t shake. He had pulled up the autopsy report on Jim again, even though he knew it by heart now. It didn’t tell him anything new, nothing that helped the situation make any more sense. Cause of death: blunt force trauma. Severe internal injuries. His brain kept going in circles, trying to piece together a puzzle that was missing too many pieces.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, the rhythmic sound doing little to ease the frustration building in his chest. He wasn’t ready to accept it. He couldn’t accept it. There was no way Jim had just—died. Not like this. Not without a damn good reason, and so far, all the evidence pointed to a confusing, poorly documented mess of a mission. It made his skin crawl.
McCoy leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the graying strands until his scalp ached. The Admiralty had been clear: stay out of it. Stick to his duties, don't ask questions. "Follow orders, Doctor." He could still hear the voice from the official comm, cold and dismissive. He had demanded more details, asked for access to the full mission logs and the autopsy records, but his requests had been stonewalled, each time met with the same answer—*classified*. He was told only what they deemed necessary for him to know. It had been a short conversation. And it had left him seething.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut. It wasn’t just the lack of information, or the sudden communication failure during the mission—things that normally could be written off as unfortunate circumstances. It was more than that. The entire situation was shrouded in secrecy, and the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt.
He was about to close the autopsy file for what must have been the hundredth time when the doors to Sickbay slid open with a quiet hiss. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Spock had an unmistakable presence, calm and deliberate. McCoy could practically feel the Vulcan’s eyes on him, observing, waiting.
“You again,” McCoy muttered, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. He tapped the screen to turn off the display and sat up straighter, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “I’m guessing you’re not here for a check-up.”
Spock stepped further into the room, his posture as precise as ever, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He glanced at the now-dark screen, then back at McCoy, his brow barely twitching in response.
“You have been attempting to access additional information regarding the Captain’s death,” Spock said, his tone neutral, but McCoy could hear the faintest hint of inquiry in his voice.
McCoy huffed, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Of course I have. Someone’s got to. Don’t tell me you’ve just accepted the Admiralty’s brush-off like it’s nothing.”
Spock’s gaze remained steady, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “I have not.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow, surprised. He had expected Spock to lecture him about protocol or tell him he was being emotional, as the Vulcan often did in times like this. But Spock wasn’t here to criticize. He was here to help. It unsettled McCoy more than it reassured him. If Spock was feeling the same disquiet, then things were even worse than he thought.
McCoy stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. “So what now? The Admiralty’s not telling us anything useful. What’s your plan, Spock? You gonna mind-meld with the whole damn crew until someone spills the truth?”
Spock’s eyes flickered with something—discomfort, perhaps, or maybe frustration, though it was hard to tell with him. McCoy never could get a read on the Vulcan, not when it really mattered.
“I have questioned multiple crew members,” Spock said, ignoring McCoy’s sarcasm. “None have been able to provide additional details beyond what was included in the official report.”
McCoy ran a hand down his face. That wasn’t exactly unexpected. “So what, we’re at a dead end? We just—what, sit around and accept it? Pretend like there isn’t something fishy going on here?”
Spock remained silent for a moment, his gaze lowering briefly before meeting McCoy’s eyes again. “I do not believe it is prudent to abandon the matter,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that McCoy wasn’t used to hearing. “But the absence of evidence, as it stands, presents a challenge.”
McCoy stared at him, his chest tightening. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. McCoy had spent years around Spock, learning to decipher his subtle cues—the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers curled just slightly when he was uncomfortable. He was seeing that now. Spock wasn’t just concerned about the facts; he was grieving. He was wrestling with something deeper, something McCoy couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Spock,” McCoy began, softer now, the anger draining out of him, leaving only the weariness in its place. “You’ve known Jim longer than anyone. Don’t tell me you’re really just—going along with all this.”
Spock’s face remained impassive, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his hands, still clasped behind him, tightened once again. McCoy took a step closer, trying to bridge the gap that had always seemed to exist between them, a gap that Jim had always been able to navigate with ease.
“I do not ‘go along’ with things, Doctor,” Spock said, his voice steady, but quieter now. He shifted slightly, his shoulders straightening, but there was a tightness in his expression that McCoy hadn’t seen before. “I am… investigating.”
McCoy blinked. “Investigating? How?”
Spock didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flickered down, and for a brief moment, McCoy saw a vulnerability there—something raw and unguarded. But then it was gone, and Spock’s familiar mask of control returned. He straightened, his voice returning to its usual calm tone.
“I believe,” Spock said slowly, “that the truth will be found through the investigation of the crew’s activities during the mission. Specifically, the three individuals who accompanied the Captain.”
McCoy frowned. “You mean Harrison, Cooper, and Raddik? They disappeared—probably dead by now. That’s what the report says.”
Spock tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. “The report offers no conclusive evidence of their deaths. It merely states that they are missing. Given the sudden communication failure, it is possible that their status has been misinterpreted.”
McCoy’s mind raced. The possibility that the three missing crew members could still be alive—and potentially have answers—hadn’t even occurred to him. “But if they’re still out there, then why hasn’t Starfleet made any effort to recover them?”
“That,” Spock said, his eyes darkening slightly, “is what concerns me.”
The weight of Spock’s words settled over McCoy like a lead blanket. Something about this whole situation was off, and the more they peeled back the layers, the more it seemed like Starfleet was deliberately keeping them in the dark. He had never been one for conspiracy theories, but this—it was starting to feel like something much bigger than a tragic accident.
McCoy exhaled, the air leaving his lungs in a long, slow sigh. His shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension knotting there. “Alright,” he muttered, pacing again, though this time more slowly, his mind working through the problem. “So, if Starfleet’s not gonna help, what do we do?”
Spock was silent for a moment, watching McCoy carefully, his eyes unreadable. Then, with a quiet resolve in his voice, he said, “We find them ourselves.”
McCoy stopped in his tracks, staring at Spock, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Find them ourselves? Spock, we don’t even know where to start!”
“We begin,” Spock said, his voice steady and calm, “by reviewing the logs of their last known location. There may be patterns or data we have not yet considered.”
McCoy shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “This is insane. We’d be going against direct orders from Starfleet. If they find out—hell, they’ve already told me to drop it.”
Spock’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—determination, or maybe something more personal. “The orders were to cease further investigation. However, I believe the Captain would have expected us to pursue the truth, regardless of the risks.”
The mention of Jim sent a sharp pang through McCoy’s chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Jim would’ve done the same, wouldn’t he? He would have charged headfirst into the unknown, consequences be damned. McCoy could almost hear his voice in his head, that cocky grin on his face as he brushed off every warning. *“You’ve gotta trust your gut, Bones. We don’t leave our people behind.”*
McCoy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Alright, Spock. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”
Spock’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. “That would be logical.”
McCoy let out a bark of laughter, surprising himself. It was the first time he’d laughed in what felt like days. The sound echoed awkwardly in the quiet room, and he shook his head, trying to dispel the heaviness that lingered in the air.
Spock watched him for a moment, his expression softening just slightly, though his posture remained as formal as ever. “I will begin reviewing the data immediately,” he said, turning to leave.
“Spock,” McCoy called after him, and the Vulcan paused, glancing over his shoulder.
McCoy hesitated, searching for the right words. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, wasn’t good at talking about emotions or feelings. That was Jim’s department, not his. But he had to say something, had to acknowledge the weight of what they were about to do. “You know this isn’t just about… finding them, right? It’s about Jim. I don’t think either of us can really move on until we know what happened.”
Spock held his gaze for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, with a small nod, he turned and left Sickbay, leaving McCoy standing there, alone with his thoughts and the dim glow of the now-empty monitor.
McCoy stood in the silence for a while longer, his heart heavy with grief and uncertainty. But there was something else now, too—a faint spark of hope, however misguided it might be. Maybe, just maybe, they would find the answers they were looking for. And maybe, just maybe, it would give them both the closure they needed.
He wasn’t ready to give up on Jim. Not yet.
Spock stood in front of the door to Jim’s quarters, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and formal. He had been here before, many times, but never like this. His mind, typically a sharp and organized tool, felt slow, fogged by a heaviness he wasn’t used to. The loss of Captain Kirk—*Jim*—was affecting him in ways he had not anticipated.
Beside him, McCoy shifted uneasily, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The doctor looked like he was bracing himself for a storm, his jaw clenched, the furrow between his brows deeper than usual. McCoy glanced at Spock, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and grief. He had been quiet since their earlier conversation in Sickbay, but the tension in his body spoke volumes.
When Spock keyed in the code and the door slid open, the familiar scent of Jim’s quarters washed over him. He stepped inside, the dim lighting casting long shadows over the space. Everything appeared as it had the last time he had been there—neat, organized, reflecting Jim’s unspoken need for order amid the chaos of his life. But now, the absence of the man who had inhabited this space was palpable, as if the room itself mourned the loss.
McCoy lingered near the entrance, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long breath, his eyes scanning the room. “This feels wrong,” he muttered under his breath. “Packing up his things like this... it’s too damn soon.”
Spock said nothing, but the tightness in his chest told him McCoy was right. It did feel wrong. But it was their duty, and Jim’s personal belongings needed to be sent to his mother, as Starfleet protocol dictated.
Spock moved toward the shelves where Jim had kept his collection of books—one of his few indulgences. He expected to see the rows of well-worn volumes that Jim had proudly displayed over the years. But the shelves were empty. His fingers hovered over the wood, confusion flickering in his mind. Jim had loved paper books, often referring to them as “his old-fashioned treasures.” The absence of them sent a ripple of uncertainty through Spock’s usually unshakeable logic.
“Something’s missing,” Spock said quietly, more to himself than to McCoy.
McCoy, rummaging through a drawer filled with personal trinkets, glanced up. “What are you talking about?”
Spock straightened, turning toward McCoy with a faint crease in his brow. “The books. His collection of paperbacks. They are not here.”
McCoy frowned, stepping closer to the shelves, scanning the space. “You’re right. He always had those damn books scattered around. Kept saying there was something ‘tangible’ about real paper. Wouldn’t shut up about it.” McCoy rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing. “Why would they be gone?”
Spock remained silent, his mind racing with the possibilities. It was a small detail, but it gnawed at him. Jim wouldn’t have simply discarded something that mattered to him. And yet, there was no sign of the books anywhere in the room. He felt a flicker of unease settle into his chest, but he pushed it down. There would be time to investigate later. Now, they had a task to complete.
They continued in silence, packing Jim’s belongings with a quiet reverence. Each item they touched seemed to carry a weight heavier than the object itself—a shirt, a medal, a holophoto of Jim with his mother. Every piece of Jim’s life felt like a small part of the man they had lost. Spock’s hands moved methodically, folding each garment, placing each item into a crate, but his mind was not focused on the task. It was elsewhere, on the bond that had formed between him and Jim over the years—one that had deepened into something far more personal, more intimate.
It had been a secret, their relationship. Jim had insisted on keeping it that way, saying it was “better for the ship,” but Spock had never questioned it. Their moments together had been theirs alone, hidden from the crew, and that had been enough. But now, standing here in Jim’s empty quarters, Spock felt the crushing weight of that secrecy. He had no outlet for his grief, no one to turn to. Not even McCoy, who had always been Jim’s closest friend, could know the full depth of what Spock had lost.
When the last of Jim’s belongings were packed away, McCoy straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “I think that’s everything,” he muttered, his voice low and tired. He glanced at Spock, his eyes red-rimmed, though he had clearly been holding himself together. “I’m gonna head to my quarters. I need… I need a minute.”
Spock nodded, watching as McCoy turned and left the room, the door hissing shut behind him. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing in on Spock from all sides. He stood there, motionless, for several minutes, his hands still resting on the last crate they had packed. The weight in his chest had grown unbearable, an ache that spread through his body and clouded his thoughts.
Jim’s death wasn’t real to him. It couldn’t be.
He stepped toward the center of the room, where Jim’s desk sat, and ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the desk. His hand stilled on the edge, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He had felt something—*something*—in the bond he shared with Jim, but it had been faint, distant, as if obscured by a fog he couldn’t penetrate. His logical mind told him it was impossible. The bond should have severed the moment Jim had died.
But it hadn’t.
Spock opened his eyes, his gaze hardening. Something was wrong. Deep down, in the recesses of his mind, in the place where his emotions were buried beneath layers of control, Spock felt it. Jim was not gone. Not completely.
Without another word, he turned and left the room, heading for his quarters.
---
McCoy sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall in front of him. The room felt cold, even though the environmental controls had been set to their usual levels. He couldn’t shake the feeling that everything around him had dimmed—that the warmth, the life of the ship had gone with Jim. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as his chest tightened painfully.
The shock of Jim’s death had carried him through the past few days, keeping him moving, keeping him busy. But now, sitting here alone in his quarters, the full weight of it crashed down on him. He let out a shaky breath, his vision blurring as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to swallow them down, to force them back, but the grief was too strong, too raw.
A sob broke from his throat, and he hunched forward, burying his face in his hands. The tears came hard and fast, and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t control the shaking in his body. “Damn it, Jim,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Why’d you have to go and leave us like this?”
He gasped for air, the sobs tearing through him in waves. He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying, but by the time he looked up, his body felt drained, hollowed out. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, his fingers trembling as he tried to compose himself. But the grief was still there, an ever-present weight in his chest.
He needed something to numb the pain. Something to take the edge off, even if only for a little while.
He stood up, wiping at his eyes again as he moved toward the cabinet in the corner of his room. He knew he had a bottle of bourbon stashed there—one of his personal favorites, saved for a day when he needed it most. Today was that day. He opened the cabinet, his fingers brushing against the cool glass of the bottles inside.
But when he reached for the bourbon, it wasn’t there.
McCoy blinked, staring into the empty space where the bottle should have been. He rummaged through the other bottles—scotch, whiskey, vodka—but the bourbon was nowhere to be found. His frustration flared, and he slammed the cabinet shut, the sound echoing through the room. “Where the hell did it go?” he muttered, his voice thick with irritation.
He didn’t have the energy to keep looking. He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. There would be no solace tonight, no escape from the pain.
---
Spock stood in front of the replicator in his quarters, his fingers hovering over the control panel. He had ordered his usual blend of Vulcan tea, a mixture designed to soothe the mind and promote clarity. But when he brought the cup to his lips, the taste was wrong. Too bitter, too metallic. He set the cup down with more force than intended, the ceramic clattering against the metal surface.
His chest tightened, the familiar ache rising again.
He had shared this tea with Jim once, in one of their private moments together, tucked away from the prying eyes of the crew. Jim had teased him about the taste, making a face but drinking it anyway because Spock had made it for him. The memory of that moment, of Jim’s smile, the warmth in his eyes, hit Spock like a physical blow.
Jim wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming back.
Spock’s hands trembled as he placed the cup
down, his usually calm demeanor slipping for the first time in days. He could feel the bond between them, still faint but present, as if Jim were just out of reach, just beyond the edge of his consciousness. It was illogical, but it was real. He could not sever it, no matter how hard he tried.
A sharp, painful breath escaped him, and Spock found himself gripping the edge of the replicator, his knuckles turning white. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but it was no use. The grief, the loss—it was too much. He had never allowed himself to feel this deeply, never let his emotions surface in this way.
But now, alone in his quarters, with no one to witness his weakness, he let the tears fall.