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Spock stood at the observation deck, his hands folded neatly behind his back, eyes fixed on the slow swirl of stars outside. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the Enterprise, a sound he usually found grounding. It didn’t help now.
He had gone through the sequence a hundred times—maybe more. McCoy’s words, Jim’s silence, his own stillness. Every moment kept replaying in his mind like a loop that refused to break.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
McCoy had said it with that clipped, almost bored drawl he used when he was trying to sound unaffected. But Spock had seen the tremble in his fingers. That wasn’t apathy. That was pain.
“I’m sorry, Spock. You’re—both of you—you’re incredible. But this is... it’s too much.”
Jim had stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t said anything.
That silence had hurt worse than McCoy’s words.
Spock did not leave the room after McCoy did. He remained in place, calculating and recalculating the variables. It had made no difference. When Jim finally moved, it was only to brush past him. No touch. No glance.
Now, a week later, Spock felt the absence like a gravity well. He shared quarters with Jim again, but something vital had shifted. They still touched—sometimes. Still kissed. But it was mechanical.
Jim smiled less. Spock spoke less. Their rhythms were off. Something had cracked, and Spock didn’t know how to repair it.
He turned from the stars and left the observation deck, walking with precise steps down the corridor. His route was intentional.
Sickbay.
He knew McCoy wouldn’t be there this late unless there was an emergency, but Spock still checked. The lights were low, the biobeds empty. He stood just inside the doors, unsure what he was hoping to find.
Maybe just a trace of him.
---
Two days later, he finally spoke. To Jim.
They were in their quarters. Jim sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, scrolling through a report.
“I do not understand what occurred,” Spock said quietly. “Between us. Between the three of us.”
Jim didn’t look up. “You really don’t?”
“I understand the facts. I do not understand the emotion. Or the reasons.”
Jim closed the PADD and leaned back. “Bones thought we were in love with each other more than we were with him.”
“That is inaccurate.”
“Is it?” Jim’s voice was calm. Tired. “You and I, we’re… we’ve always had this connection. We think the same way, move the same way, even fight the same way. Bones felt like the odd one out.”
“He was not.”
Jim shook his head slowly. “Then why didn’t we show him that?”
Spock didn’t have an answer. He felt it. Deeply. The way McCoy’s laugh lit up a room, how he always knew what to say when Spock was spiraling. The warmth of his hands, the way he kissed like he wanted to feel everything at once. Spock had loved all of that. He still did.
But had he made McCoy feel loved?
“I failed him,” Spock said finally. “We both did.”
Jim’s eyes closed. “Yeah. I know.”
---
Spock began observing more closely. Not from a scientific distance—but through human patterns.
McCoy had not withdrawn entirely. He still laughed with Christine, teased Ensign Chekov, grumbled at reports. But something was different. There was a wall now, and Spock didn’t know how to climb it.
He noticed that McCoy rarely stayed in the same room as both him and Jim. If they entered the mess, McCoy would finish his coffee fast and mutter something about rounds. If they walked past him in a hallway, his gaze would flick away just a second too early.
That flick hurt more than any insult ever had.
Spock thought about how humans handled grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. He wondered where McCoy was in that cycle. He wondered where he was.
---
Late one night, Spock found Jim on the floor of their quarters, sitting against the bed with a drink in hand. He didn’t speak when Spock entered.
“I wish he’d just yelled at us,” Jim muttered. “That would’ve been easier.”
Spock sat beside him, not touching. “He loved us both. That made it more difficult.”
“I miss him.”
“I do as well.”
Jim tilted his head to look at him. “Do you think we can fix this?”
“I do not know.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Jim sighed and said, “You know what he used to do? When I got too in my head about things, he’d just come over and mess up my hair. Wouldn’t even say anything. Just ruffle it and walk away like I was a kid again.”
Spock remembered that. The strange, comforting gesture.
“I don’t think we ever told him how much we needed him,” Jim said. “Not just wanted. Needed.”
Spock considered that. “You are correct.”
---
Three days passed before Spock approached McCoy. He found him in the arboretum, seated on a bench beneath the artificial magnolia tree.
Spock stood in front of him and waited.
McCoy looked up. “Need something?”
“I require clarity.”
McCoy huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “You and me both.”
Spock remained still. “I wish to understand how to make this right.”
McCoy stared at him for a long time. Then he looked away. “Why? Because it’s more efficient when I’m in your bed?”
“That is not my motivation.”
“Then what is?”
Spock sat beside him. “I miss you.”
McCoy didn’t speak.
“I miss the sound of your voice when you mock me. I miss the smell of your cologne and the way your mouth tastes like cinnamon when you drink that tea you pretend is coffee. I miss the way you always notice when Jim is pretending to be fine, and the way you always touched me like you weren’t afraid I’d break.”
McCoy’s jaw tightened. He still didn’t look at Spock.
“I failed to make you feel needed,” Spock continued. “I believed that loving you would be understood. I did not consider that you would require more than my presence.”
“You think I’m just some fragile little human who needs reassurance?”
“No. I believe you are the strongest man I know. Which is why I did not notice you were hurting.”
That broke something. McCoy let out a shaky breath and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Dammit.”
Spock waited.
“You and Jim,” McCoy muttered. “You light up when you’re together. You don’t even know you do it. I just—felt like the extra guy. The one who tags along. I hated that feeling. Hated myself for feeling it.”
“You were not extra.”
“Then why didn’t either of you say anything?”
“I did not realize words were required. But I was mistaken.”
McCoy looked at him finally. His eyes were wet, but his expression was sharp. “You Vulcans are supposed to be so smart. You didn’t think maybe I needed to *hear* it?”
“No. But I do now.”
McCoy didn’t move for a long time.
Then, in a voice softer than Spock had expected, he asked, “What about Jim?”
“He misses you.”
“Is he just saying that, or does he mean it?”
“He drinks too much now. He sleeps poorly. He watches the door when you’re not around. He is not pretending.”
McCoy swallowed.
Spock leaned in slightly. “Would you allow us to try again?”
McCoy’s laugh was small and tired. “I don’t know. I’m scared.”
Spock nodded. “I am as well.”
They sat in silence under the magnolia tree.
---
That night, McCoy didn’t come back to Spock and Jim’s quarters. But he didn’t avoid them in the mess the next day. He sat at their table, cracked a joke, even bumped his knee against Spock’s under the table like it might’ve been an accident.
Jim looked up at that touch. His eyes met Spock’s. Something shifted.
Maybe they weren’t healed. Maybe they never would be completely.
But the pieces had started moving again.
And for the first time in weeks, Spock allowed himself to hope.