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There's a body in McCoy's office, another bloodstain on his tile, and he looks down at his shaking hands, before frowning and shoving them in his pockets.
The orderlies are called in minutes later, a wicked bunch of staff, and McCoy glares at their grinning faces when they drag his attacker’s body out of his office, and hopefully down to the morgue.
He figures the man won't be recognizable within the hour, sickbay had been slow lately, and the more sadistic lot of his staff were definitely bored. He tucks his hypos more firmly in his boots, makes a mental note to replace the one he had just used, and sits down to go through the paperwork on his desk.
His coffee cup is filled with lukewarm alcohol, and when he reaches over for a drink, he tells himself it's just medical.
There are no feelings involved, he hadn't known his attacker well at all.
The boy had only been 23.
McCoy's hands still shake after drinking, displeasing now because he can no longer blame it all on ‘withdrawal symptoms.’
His hands were only still now during surgery, but that was the only place they mattered anyway. Another drink, another excuse, and another reason to curse the heavens.
McCoy is tired , but he's too old to be afraid-
So, he works through the paperwork, files filled with the medical history of many who will die within the year, some of which, like today, will die by his hand-
The door to his office slides open, hours later, and McCoy is quick to reach for his boots.
“Hello Doctor,” Spock greets him, brow raised, “trouble this morning?”
McCoy frowns, straightening up, and leaning back in his chair. “None at all.”
Spock watches him, face cold and impassive, and they both know Leonard is a liar.
McCoy wonders if Spock will ever call him on it, if he'll ever shove him into an agony booth, and leave him there to rot.
But that's too close to mercy, and so he knows the Vulcan will never do it. Death is too easy, too simple, too kind, for someone like the Doctor.
For someone like Spock-
And McCoy crosses his arms, to hide his shaking hands, and tells himself the Vulcan has no interest in the files splayed across his desk.
Because if Spock sees that cadet's file, full of promise, but dead, now, at 23, open among the others, he might think Leonard has grown soft.
No one can ever be allowed to think that.
McCoy wasn't planning to die yet, but then again, who really was?
“Drinking again.” It's not a question, but a statement, and the Vulcan raises a brow at him.
“Is there something you need?” McCoy sighs, his scowl deepening.
Leonard had known Kirk longer, a relationship that had garnered him favor, and he was lucky that their friendship allowed him more leeway over the other crewmembers-
With almost everyone but Spock, McCoy had a solid station, with everyone but Spock, McCoy would be fine.
But James would never kill his first officer over the death of a friend, and so McCoy watches, and waits, for the day the Vulcan will turn on him.
Being given to Spock was a fate worse than death. The Vulcan made for a wicked torturer, and he could get in your head -
Leonard had seen what Vulcan telepathy, Vulcan melds, could do to a man, firsthand, and regardless of the drink, no alcohol could ever wash away the fear that has followed the Doctor since.
There was nothing he could offer to Spock that he hasn't already done, he is a doctor, one liked by James Kirk, but that wouldn't be enough-
McCoy eyes his desk drawer, a quick flit of his eyes to the wood paneling, but with a sinking feeling, he knows Spock had surely noticed it.
His hypos were so close, but if it came down to it, could he win out over Vulcan strength? Could he grab them before Spock grabbed him?
“You are nervous.” Spock points out, and McCoy bites down the urge to throw his now empty cup at him.
“I am tired.” McCoy hisses, “If you hired better staff, I could take more breaks.” A weak excuse, but McCoy thinks he got it out well enough.
“You kill the better hires.” Spock answers back, and McCoy furrows his brows.
He had been doing that hadn't he? But that was only defense, they had reached for him first. But that didn't matter, as long as you survived, it never mattered.
How many dead files has McCoy had to collect? How many didn't have one?
How much blood was he meant to carry?
The load on his shoulders suddenly seems heavier, and Spock suddenly seems to be an option McCoy must consider-
How would he kill him, if McCoy were to ask him to?
How many parents, lovers, brothers -
How many families has McCoy broken? And did McCoy deserve to break them, when he couldn't even keep up with the one that was once his own?
McCoy had nothing he needed to live for, and he had no contact with his daughter, and that 23-year-old might have someone waiting for him that he'll never see again.
That cadet would only amount to an empty letter of failure back to whoever missed him.
They wouldn't even get a body to bury.
“Don't remember.” McCoy shrugs, the hypo in his boot suddenly makes his skin itchy, the hypos in his pockets weight him down, and Spock just stares.
Like he's looking down on him, like McCoy is just another body to be buried, and in a way, that almost feels comforting.
And he wasn't lying, when he said he was tired, but that likely came from the drinks too.
He wonders why more people hadn't tried to spike those yet; he's sure Spock has wondered the same thing.
“You should take a break doctor,” Spock tells him, and the implications aren't ones McCoy want to think about.
“Sickbay would go to hell.” The doctor huffs, a guarded refusal. “Someone as logical as you should know that commander.”
“You do handle it well.” Spock agrees, and the compliment makes Leonard uncomfortable-
Had he ever heard Spock compliment anyone?
“Is that all you came to tell me?”
“I was,” a beat, “checking on your status Doctor.”
So, he was making sure McCoy was alive, making sure he was functioning -
In a way, that was a compliment in itself, to think the first officer was personally checking his death certificate.
McCoy looks for something argumentative to say, something to keep that distance between them-
But the words die on his tongue, and he just lays his head on his desk.
“That's a bad habit.” Spock murmurs, and McCoy knows he's talking about the drinking again. “The Empire can use a weakness like that Doctor.”
McCoy doesn't raise his head, but he can feel the goosebumps crawl up his arms. He swallows, “Then exploit it.”
It's bold, at least for them-
“That would be illogical, Leonard.” And Spock takes his leave, leaving McCoy frozen at his desk, and with one, discomforting thought on his mind.
The Vulcan is looking for an alliance with him, something, the Vulcan wants something.
And he thinks McCoy is what he needs to attain it.