Work Text:
“Leonard Horatio McCoy, of the honest soul. Open yourself up. Let us in. Let us see for ourselves the truthfulness that you claim.”
McCoy couldn’t do much, all resistance futile. It felt as if every attempt to avoid the Jolarian’s entry to their mind was simply a delay of the inevitable. Dread settled deep in his subconscious, pulling him down into a nervous slumber, as if the anesthesia had just started kicking in before major surgery. He felt as if halfway through asleep and awake, in a limbo where he was conscious yet unable to make himself act or react.
He felt his insides get prodded by curious inquiries, and the answers be pulled without order or hesitation. It was almost mechanical, having a part of him studied, then put back as another one was taking its place.
Millions of images passed through his mind for what felt like an eternity. His mama, back in Georgia, moments before she died. His grandaddy, leaning on the door of the barn that he’d called home, the chip on the tooth that he saw every day in the mirror. His father, the day he left, after a full week of screaming and broken dishes. Jocelyn, as beautiful as ever, wearing white. Smiling at him on that day where it seemed like nothing could bring them down, floating on a cloud to the altar where he stood, impatient for forever to start. The first time he held Joanna in his arms, before they’d even adopted her, and the way his heart constricted at the thought that they had found her. Their little girl.
No.
He tried to lock them out. That was personal. It all was, but Joanna… Joanna’s first smile, her first laugh, the infinite pride that washed over him at the mere thought of her, the regret at all the times they’d fought, the pain at the words she’d shot at him during her teenage years, and the pain at her tears when she apologized. They tugged when he kept trying to hold back the sheer terror that he felt when he let himself think a little too much about how he was light years away from her. That if anything happened, it would take him too long to arrive. That his promise to her might break, that daddy might not be there when she needs him the most…
He felt tears stream down his face.
He re-lived the day that forever ended, as Jocelyn signed the divorce papers and Leonard hugged them both goodbye, feeling just as much as a failure as his own father. He saw the day the Enterprise’s five-year-mission started. The day his grandfather died. When Joce took the Bar exam, after so many months of studying, and Leonard massaged her shoulders and brought her snacks in the middle of the night. The day his mother overdosed. His first day at the Academy. The night he saw his father for the first time in ten years, and held him while he cried. How it took months before he could face him again. His last day of medical school. One of the million sleepless nights, studying for exams that seemed impossible, Joce’s hands massaging his shoulders. The day they found the cure… and he had no one to administer it to.
Millions of tears cried over a lifetime of living and loving. Billions of reasons to thank God. Thousands of— that hurt.
They were tugging at something that—
“Stop,” pleaded McCoy. It felt wrong. It was guarded, kept apart for a reason.
“Show yourself,” the Jolarians ordered . “What do you hide?”
“Nothing.” He said, and it was true. He wasn’t hiding anything, not purposefully. “I don’t know. Let it be, please.”
“You have an honest soul, Leonard Horatio McCoy, and yet you’re keeping a secret… show us.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Show us.”
“I don’t—“ a pang of discomfort, “stop.”
“Let us in.” They insisted, and there was a tension waiting to snap, like the moment just before your knuckles popped.
“I don’t know what it is, please…”
“You have an honest soul, Leonard Horatio McCoy… be honest with us.” McCoy braced himself for impact. “Be honest with you.”
Something inside him broke, and he was overcome by sensations as deep as the ocean, as vast as the galaxy. They were painted sky blue and golden, details in dark brown. Tanned skin, the touch of fingers, one voice low and grave, another one almost dripping in honey. One… no, two? Two. Two hearts beating loudly in addition to his own. Human blush. Vulcan ears. Banter, laughter, anger and the deepest respect for two men… two men, one bond.
One passionate, uncontrollable, constant feeling. It was steady like autumn, passionate like spring. It bloomed with confidence and security, sure of itself. It had always been there, a low hum, the base of the melody of his life. It was dizzying, like a toxic quantity of a pleasant smell, like Spock’s Vulcan spice tea and Kirk’s woody cologne.
And there was a scene unfolding that he had never seen before. Jim’s hands on his nape, gently playing with his hair, massaging his strained neck after a long day at work. Spock’s lips on his jaw, tracing the razor nicks he’d left behind after shaving, kissing them better. Both of them picking him up at Sickbay for an impromptu dinner date. Joanna asking Spock all kinds of questions, the Vulcan answering patiently, with a glint of contentment in his eyes. Jim looking at them, with those earnest eyes that Leonard had never known how to decipher.
Oh, it felt so real, despite the painful awareness that he’d never lived it. That he never would feel their touch so soft, their lips so true.
And still, he felt that love blooming; still he knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter, because they still had years of sharing their shore leaves, of speaking without words, and comforting each other… for better or for worse, he still had years of loving them. And that was enough.
“Your soul is honest, Leonard Horatio McCoy.” The voices barged in, effectively destroying McCoy’s discovering moment. “You are true.”
That’s the last thing he heard before his mind gave up and everything turned to black.
__
Next thing he knew, he was laying on a cloud… no, a bed, if the way he was sinking into the feathers was anything to go by. He wasn’t fully awake, still half in and out of consciousness, but he didn’t need to be to realize that it was Spock’s quarters.
There were many hints, but it was the overall effect that confirmed it. The faint smell of incense, the slightly too warm environment, the silence, the soft bed… undoubtedly Spock’s. And he was too damned tired to wonder why, so he just took it at face value that he was safe and cozied up. He could use some more sleep…
Surely Spock wouldn’t mind.
—
He didn’t know how much time had gone by, but this time things were different.
The ambient was colder, and a blanket had been put over him while he rested. He could hear low, whispered words, calm and soft and warm… he couldn’t make out the words, but they almost lulled him back to sleep. When he finally opened his eyes, his eyelashes sticking together, it took a second to get over the blurriness. Once he did, he found an image that he’d witnessed hundreds of times: Kirk and Spock playing a game of 3D Chess, immersed in their own little world of kings, queens and pawns, both their chins resting upon a closed fist, watching in concentration.
An easy smile spread across his lips. Some things never change…
They were sitting at the table, a few meters away from Spock’s bed. They tended to avoid the sofa, for one reason or another, and their dinners sat next to them, untouched and undoubtedly cold. Their own little universe, galaxies away from here.
He didn’t feel like getting up just yet, when such a scene was unfolding before his eyes. It was no secret that McCoy had no interest in chess, or strategy games in general. He was more of a gambler himself, he liked the thrill of surprise, of playing your cards to the best of your ability knowing that it all depends on the next stroke of luck. However, there was something almost magical in the way those two tried to outsmart each other, how they turned something boring into an intoxicating experience. Spock moved his pawn upward, and Jim smirked, moving his bishop. Then Spock raised an eyebrow, and his horse attacked. Kirk’s smile fell for a second, only to be replaced by a grin as his queen finished a tower. Check. Spock got his king out of the way, and Jim’s bishop was two moves away from dying. Spock—-
A pang of hurt. God, he was tired. And his head felt as though someone had put it in a blender. And his arms were so sore that the mere attempt to move them resulted in sharp pain and a high-pitched whine that, under different circumstances, he would never live down. Both heads turned to him, apparently both of them had made an allowance for his sounds and movements in that immersive experience of theirs. He would’ve felt special, if not for the discomfort making him twitch.
Both of them were by his side in an instant, two pairs of hands hovering over his upper body.
(Okay, he felt a little bit special. Sue him.)
“I’m fine.” He tried to reassure them, but even to his own ears it sounded like a lie. It would’ve helped if his voice had come out less tense and breathless, but alas. Jim picked up a hypospray from one of the medical pouches that McCoy usually prepared for missions, and brought it to his neck. “What’s that?”
“Nurse Chapel told us to give you this if you woke up hurting,” cold metal on his neck, the whooshing sound of the hypospray being administered. It always took a few minutes to start kicking in, so McCoy forced himself to relax a little, get comfortable before he pulled a muscle. Jim’s voice turned unbearably soft when he asked. “How’re you feeling, Bones?”
“Another one with the stupid questions…” he grumbled. “I’m dandy.”
The Captain’s brow unfurrowed as he melted into a fond expression, still visibly worried but a little more at ease. Spock, sitting at the other side of the bed, with a hand on top of his elbow, offered his invaluable insight:
“His sarcasm levels are back to normal… in other words, he’s okay, Captain.”
“Good to see you too, Spock.” He turned his head slowly to say, and he hated that it sounded so damned honest. Sure, it was true, they all knew that, but he didn’t have to be so obvious about it. “Who won?”
“Guess.” Kirk smiled, beaming at him.
“We were interrupted.”
“But I was winning.”
“Unfortunately, there is no accurate prediction on the outcome of the match.”
“Sure there isn’t, Mister Spock.” He said, very diplomatically.
McCoy huffed a tired, amused chuckle.
“Be honest, Doctor.” Spock said, tone serious. “How are you feeling?”
He took a deep breath, trying to assess his own situation and state of mind. Spock’s hand squeezed his elbow softly, his sore muscles thankful for the slight pressure.
“I’m tired. Everything hurts. I don’t predict that hypo of yours is gonna be of much help, I’d bet my neck it’s a placebo.”
“But Nurse Chapel—“ Spock started.
“Knows better than to prescribe without checking with the patient if the patient is me.” He responded, careful when he stretched so as to not move his arms too much. Too bad that his shoulders were also extremely sore, and his consideration went unnoticed. He did manage to get through it without a moan, if a wince definitely skipped his defences.
“Why would she give us this, though?”
“Because she probably thought that you’d be insufferable and crowd Sickbay until I woke up, and then pester her. She’s smart, that one.”
“I bet.” Kirk bit the inside of his cheek. “Spock, would you please call Chapel and have her check him up?”
“Gladly,” the Vulcan nodded, moving towards the communicator.
“Now, wait a minute,” he complained, because a) he’d overexerted himself enough over the years to know that these symptoms were related to exhaustion, and his arms would heal with time; and b) he couldn’t enable them and let them get away with trying to take care of him. If he gave them a finger, they would no doubt take his whole arm soon enough. “I’m the doctor here, I know exactly what I need.”
“No, you’re the patient here.” Jim corrected.
“Don’t patronise me. I can be two things at the same time.”
“You are.” Spock agreed, in that way that McCoy knew the following thing he said was going to be extremely unamusing for him. “A patient and stubborn, all at once.”
“Kettle, pot. I don’t appreciate this.”
“Duly noted, Patient McCoy.” Jim pointedly said, lifting the covers to sit beside Leonard against the headrest. He started trailing his fingers against his naked arm —he was wearing only his black undershirt and his pyjama pants— at first to annoy him, then an actual pleasant motion that grounded both of them.
“And why the hell am I in your quarters?” He grumbled when Spock came back, bringing a tray of replicated food and sitting in front of the two men, letting Leonard sit straighter before setting it on his lap.
“It is known that doctors make the worst patients.” The Vulcan said, passing McCoy some napkins. Their fingers lingered for a second too long, and with Kirk’s on his arm, he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. Previous revelations came flooding back, and his head hurt with a pang at the images that he’d unlocked with that simple touch. He accidentally let the spoon fall, and Kirk’s hold tightened on his shoulder while Spock rested his arm on his elbow once again.
Oh, it felt so real, despite the painful awareness that he’d never lived it. That he never would feel their touch so soft, their lips so true.
He looked around wildly, sharp pain be damned, and escaped their ministrations. They seemed alarmed, hurt by the sudden change in the atmosphere. Bones got up, walled backwards until his back hit the cold wall, making sure not to lose sight of them. He was hyperventilating. His hands were shaking.
Is this real?
It could be.
There was real pain in Jim’s eyes, real fear in Spock’s… but he had never lived it. Not before.
Was this new, was this the present unfolding, or was it a future conjured up by the Jolarians? No, not the Jolarians, himself. His subconscious. Was he even awake? He pinched his leg, and it hurt.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Bones?” Jim asked, approaching him slowly with his palms raised in a pacifying manner.
Leonard gulped, his throat hurt as if it was trying to swallow sandpaper. Cold sweat ran down his spine, his heart beat a thousand miles per minute. There had to be some way to discern between fiction and reality. The pinch had hurt, but many things hurt in those— in the images. He tried to conjure them again, trying to find some common denominator that would hint at the truth.
The room started to spin.
Feelings were real, in his subconscious. He had felt pain, fear, and love… he had felt a lot, too much, enough to knock him out, in fact. His head screamed at his attempt to remember. It had been too much at once.
It’s too much now.
He could see Jim’s lips moving, so much closer, but he couldn’t hear him. Spock, he’d lost sight of Spock— oh, he was by the communicator, approaching him too. He focused on Jim again when he noticed a hand on his nape. It was—
Oh,
It was warm.
That hadn’t happened in the images, temperature didn't seem to compute. But it does here. Suddenly, the coldness of the wall on his back seemed to burn.
His lungs opened.
He could breathe again.
He desperately clawed at his shirt and scratched at his chest, as if trying to rip the skin open and let air in.
He choked as he let out the first of many tears to come, unable to even think about stopping himself.
He was pulled into Spock’s chest while he sobbed, Kirk taking his hands so that he wouldn’t injure himself.
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, how long it had taken him to finally snap out of it. What he did know is that he felt safe, enveloped in just the perfect quantity of a pleasant smell: Spock’s Vulcan spice tea and Kirk’s woody cologne.
A frantic knock.
A quiet ‘come in,’ Spock’s chest vibrating as he talked.
Some words were whispered above him, and he registered someone moving him, but he was tired… his eyes were closed…
He’d just nod off for a second.
—--
McCoy shifted almost imperceptibly as he regained consciousness, again.
This was getting tiresome.
He was in Sickbay, now, if the smell was anything to go by, but he wasn’t alone. Uhura sat by his side, humming lightly and playing the Vulcan lyre… the ka’athyra, Spock had told him once.
Jim had bet McCoy would forget within the hour. Someone owed him a bottle of Kanar. Or was it Altairian brandy? He didn’t remember. Had his eyelids always been this heavy? Christine must’ve given him the good stuff.
The sound was nice, though. Soothing. He wanted to tell Uhura that much, but he was pulled under before he could manage.
He’d tell her some other time.
~~
The next time he woke up, his head barely hurt. There were some remnants of previous pain, and the general exhaustion that seemed to accompany him ever since they left Jolar, but —for the first time since they made it back— his head barely hurt.
He felt like crying of relief, but managed to stop himself in case someone was around. And someone definitely was… two someone’s, in fact. He could hear the sonic shower, and the clink of cutlery against a plate, so it was highly unlikely that they were caused by the same person.
He opened his eyes and found that he was in his own quarters, for a change. That was nice. His own bed, the perfect viscosity of the mattress, his own covers, and his own pyjamas. And his head barely hurt.
When he finally resolved to move, content and happy, he noticed that the soreness in his arms was fainting, which was good. They would still bother him for a few more days, but that was fine. It was to be expected.
What he didn’t expect, though, was the amount of other people’s belongings scattered around. Two PADDs on the coffee table, three pairs of boots by the door, a black tunic resting on the back of a chair, and a 3D Chessboard that definitely didn’t belong to him. He focused harder and saw that, below the mirror, there was a hairbrush he’d never seen, and a couple of Jim’s old books.
He quietly sat straighter, and noticed that Kirk was sitting on the sofa, his crossed ankles on top of the coffee table. He had already changed for bed and he must have showered with water, for his hair was still wet.
“Good night.” He said, only knowing that was the case because of the pajamas and the fact that both of them were off duty.
Kirk’s head turned at warp ten, McCoy almost feared he’d end up snapping his neck.
“You’re awake.” He said, a smile replacing the shock. He was by his side in a second, but he didn’t touch this time. He sat and waited, his arms unnaturally pressed against his sides. “How do you feel? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. His voice came out gruff and his throat was dry as a desert, but he was okay. “Head barely hurts.”
Kirk’s smile was as bright as a supernova. McCoy offered him a hand, and it turned even brighter as he squeezed it softly.
His hand was warm. His eyes were even warmer.
“That’s good to hear.” He said, softer than he’d ever heard it.
McCoy pointed to his throat, and he rushed to fetch a glass of water. He drank slowly, despite the thirst.
“How long have I been out?”
“About three days,” McCoy’s eyes widened “but you’ve woken up a few times. You were mostly asleep, though.”
“And you?” He asked, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. Kirk didn’t even dignify that with a response.
The sonic shower turned off, and Spock came out dressed in his nightgown, stopped in his tracks when he noticed the scene. He masked it well, but McCoy could read the surprise.
“It’s good to see you awake and lucid, Doctor.”
“Why, thank you.” He replied, amused.
“I would ask how you felt, but previous attempts resulted in sarcasm.” He joked.
“Not this time. I’m okay.”
The tension in his frame disappeared with a deep breath.
“I’m glad.”
They moved to the small living room and talked for about an hour, they put Leonard up to speed about what had happened in the past few days, all pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. He didn’t want to talk about what triggered the panic attack, and they seemed to be happy enough with the fact that he was up and talking that he got away with it. At least for now.
McCoy was restless, because that’s what slipping in and out of consciousness for three days did to you, and he didn’t want to sleep anymore. Spock seemed to be able to keep up with him. Jim’s eyes, however, were closing.
“Go to bed, Jim.”
“You kidding? After we finally got our own personal sleeping beauty to wake up?”
It was meant as a joke, but he sounded scared, as if leaving the room somehow implied that Leonard would disappear.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wake up tomorrow.” He tried to reassure him, but to no avail. “My bed’s right there, you’ll still hear us talk.”
“I’ve been liking the couch so far.” He said, with a lopsided smile.
“You’ve been sleeping on my couch for three days?” McCoy asked, almost horrified. He was the one that untangled their back of knots, and he predicted he had quite a lot of work ahead.
“One. The first night was in Sickbay, then one night each. We took turns with Spock’s meditation mat.” Jim said, as if it were obvious.
His heart skipped a beat. One slept on the floor, the other one on his shitty couch… for him.
“What about your quarters?”
“What about them?” Spock asked, raising an eyebrow, purposefully ignoring the question.
Leonard huffed a laugh.
“Well, if no one’s jumping ship, then the least I can do is share. The bed’s big enough for all of us. You can get going, Jimmy, we’ll be there shortly.”
“I think I’ll wait.” He continued, stubbornly. He set his lead on Spock’s lap and his feet on Leonard’s, so they all fit, and crossed his arms.
Spock’s fingers found his way to his scalp, and McCoy accepted his fate and continued reading Sickbay’s reports on his PADD above his shins and feet. They reluctantly agreed to let him check them out, as it was the only way they’d managed to keep him from going there himself to see how M’Benga and Christine were managing.
Kirk let out a contented hum, and relaxed for what seemed to be the first time in forever. Spock and Leonard kept commenting here and there, sharing information on their respective topics.
A few hours later, they all fell asleep together on Leonard’s bed, and the doctor had the feeling that they were all going to be okay.
~~~
And he truly believed that, until he woke up screaming, punched Spock, and kicked Jim in the ribs.
Once again, he was shaking, back against the cold wall, trying to breathe. But this time, he knew how to snap out of it.
“Warmth.” He said, his breathing shallow. He was getting dizzy.
“Bones…”
Warmth grounds me. I need a change in temperature so that I can believe this is real.
“Co—“ he whimpered, “Come here and hug me, goddamn it.”
They both complied, and Leonard closed his eyes. Yes, he could do it. They were warm. They were there, applying pressure in all the right spots. They were real.
McCoy forced himself to breathe evenly in and out. With one last deep breath in, he finally calmed enough to stop spiralling.
I’m getting good at this.
“Alright.” He cleared his throat. “I’m okay now.”
Spock was the first to loosen his hold, and Jim followed suit reticently. He was looking at him with those big brown eyes, full of concern but determined to help him. Spock, on the other hand, was analysing the situation, trying to find similarities with the last time it happened, trying to find the cause and the solution.
He shifted in their hold and looked up at them. Spock’s lip was split, green blood pouring out of the cut.
“Oh, damn.” He lamented, getting up on shaky knees to find the first aid kit that he kept in the bathroom. They both watched as Leonard offered Spock a hand, and Spock took it despite the implications. He took Jim’s hand as well, and guided them both to the couch.
He started to work, cleaning the blood and disinfecting the cut. It was nasty, the kind that was swollen and accompanied by a bruise.
“It seems we’ve been underestimating the doctor, Jim.” Spock said, an attempt to make him feel better. He was careful not to move his lower lip too much as he talked. “He packs, as you would say, quite a punch.”
Jim smiled, and Bones tried his hardest to find the humor in the situation, but he came up empty.
“And a mean knee strike.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a regular Attila the Hun.” He rolled his eyes, not really bothered by their jibes but incredibly mad at himself. “I’m sorry.”
“It was not your fault.” Spock said, as Kirk replied:
“You’re fine, Bones.”
“Nice that both of you seem to agree that there was no harm done, but one of you is dripping blood and the other one is possibly breathing through a broken rib, so I think an apology is in order.”
“Then we appreciate it.” Spock said, to placate him, “even if we do not hold you accountable for a reaction you couldn't stop.”
Well, when you put it like that…
“And you shouldn’t, either.” Jim added, sitting straighter despite the pain to pretend that the damage to his ribs had been minimal. A Doctor less skilled in their idiocy might have believed it. "I'd make that an order if you ever listened to those.”
That made Leonard huff a laugh.
“Alright, Spock, we’re almost done. Now open up, stick out your tongue and say ahhh.” Spock shot him an unimpressed look, but the thought of it alone raised his spirits a little bit. He turned to Jim, who watched amused: “Okay, it’s your turn now, shirt out.”
Jim complied carefully, knowing that nothing that he tried would work. McCoy noticed there were angry, red marks on his wrists, a product of the Jolarian’s restraints. He shook his head, forcing himself to not get too lost on them. There was some bruising, but the scanner showed that his ribs were safe and out of danger. That was a relief.
“Okay, then, I guess we should try to head back to bed.” He said, resting his chin on his palm, but he looked haunted. He didn’t know if he could even try to sleep right now, but Jim and Spock deserved some shuteye, and they wouldn’t lose sight of him.
“Leonard…” Spock said, voice barely higher than a whisper, “I believe that a Vulcan mind-meld could help you relax enough to fall asleep. Would you want to try?”
He tried to contain a grimace. There was nothing he’d want less right now, but he appreciated the intention.
“No offence, Spock.” He smiled softly, putting his hand on his knee and squeezing softly, “but I’ve had a few too many people in my mind recently, I kinda prefer the solitude.”
“None taken.” He nodded, “it is a rather logical decision.”
It was the highest compliment he’d ever receive from Spock, and it was clearly an attempt at trying to make him feel better, so he squeezed one last time and got up, clasping his hands tightly.
“Come on, then.”
They followed him to bed, but the three of them stayed awake on their backs, looking up at the ceiling.
“Bones… I am going to ask you something. You don’t have to answer.” Jim said, voice low and private. “What...”
“What was it like?” Leonard supplied. The silence was all the confirmation that he needed. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try?” Jim asked, earnestly, and turned his head to look at him. Leonard kept his eyes up. He closed them, letting himself relive some of it.
“It hurt.” He said. “It felt like… it’s as if all my memories and dreams were stitched together, and they started pulling from different threads in different directions. It felt like I was coming undone.”
Spock searched for indications that he was about to panic, but there were none. His thigh was touching the Vulcan’s under the cover, and that comforted him more than he cared to admit.
“You said that hugs help you?”
“In there, cold and hot didn’t seem to compute, so feeling someone’s body heat does wonders.” He explained. As if it were a command, Jim took his hand and interlocked their fingers.
“What happened to you?” Leonard asked.
Silence.
The doctor squeezed his hand softly, and pressed his thigh a little closer to Spock’s.
“Not everyone at once,” he tried to joke, but something felt wrong.
Kirk and Spock should be jumping at the opportunity to tell the story and share their intellectual and physical prowess, (in a very respectful manner towards the defeated race, of course.)
“Well, it was all Spock’s idea. Or yours, I suppose.” Jim started the tale, “he worked on strengthening his mental barriers, meditated for a while, and I worked on a distraction. Then Vicaro called their attention and we set the plan in motion.”
“Interesting.”
“Indeed.” Spock added, a filler word if McCoy had even heard one.
“How did you distract them?” He inquired, because the lack of detail was unfamiliar.
“Oh, you know… the usual.”
“What would constitute ‘the usual,’ Jim?” Spock asked.
How come he doesn’t know either?
“Well, I just relived some old memories, that’s all.”
Leonard scoffed, now sitting a little straighter against the headboard, as if that could help him organize his thoughts better. Now he definitely didn’t feel like sleeping. Jim rolled his eyes, sitting up completely, and Spock propped himself up on an elbow.
“Lights, 70%” McCoy said, squinting his eyes at Jim. “You ‘reliving some memories’ stunned them enough to let Spock pinch them out?”
“Apparently.” Jim shrugged, avoiding their eyes. “They must’ve not been very strong.”
“They seemed very strong when they were tearing my head apart.” Leonard said, in a rather aggressive tone. He hadn’t meant to be so crude, but this was bugging him to no end.
If Jim didn’t want to tell them about it, then they really needed to know.
“Maybe they wasted their energies on you, then. I’m no doctor.”
“Well, I am, and I know when my patients are lying to me.”
“It is also not probable.” Spock offered his invaluable insight. He really wanted to ask how the hell he knew that, but decided to take it at face value and instead stare at Jim, unimpressed.
“I don’t know what happened, okay? But I’ve been a Starfleet Captain long enough to know I shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.”
Spock frowned. “I fail to see how equin…”
“Earth expression.” McCoy cut him out, then asked. “What did you see?”
“I was meditating at the moment.”
“And afterwards?”
“Do you mind not doing that?” Jim huffed.
“What?”
“Talking about me as if I wasn’t here.”
“Afterwards, he was clearly upset and…” Spock continued.
“And what?” McCoy pushed.
“He looked traumatised.” Spock finished.
They both stared at Jim, who looked like a deer caught in a tractor beam. He pursed his lips, took his pillow and walked to the couch, his steps determined.
“Where are you going?”
“To sleep where I won’t be interrogated.”
“This is not an interrogation.” Spock said, “we’re merely trying to understand how you managed to disarm three telepaths with a memory.”
Or rather, how bad that memory must’ve been to hold such power.
“I already told you.” He complained, throwing the pillow with more force than necessary.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Because it’s none of your business! I’m not asking what it was that they were looking for in your head, and you’re not telling us either.” Kirk argued. Spock turned to McCoy, scrutinising him. Great.
“How do you even know they were looking for something?“ he hadn’t told them that. It was unnecessary, and he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and they shouldn’t know, because he hadn’t told them that.
Were they digging in your head, too?
Kirk was about to answer, but kept himself in check, letting out a deep breath. He calmed himself down as Leonard made his way to the couch, where Jim sat with his head hidden in the palms of his hands.
Leonard pursed his lips, and tried to comfort him, rubbing his back. Spock brought a glass of warm milk.
“I’m sorry I yelled.” Came Jim’s apology, which they all knew would arrive shortly. When he jumped at them, he always made sure that they knew he was sorry, because he truly was. “But I don’t want to talk about it. We’re here and we’re fine, goddamn it… so let it go.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t respect your wishes.” Leonard said.
They both looked at Spock.
“I have no reason to apologize.”
That made them smile. Jim’s was dimmed by obvious annoyance, and Leonard’s was tired. But it was a smile, nevertheless.
“Come on, let’s all go back to bed. We’ll talk about it some other time.”
“Sure.” Jim accepted, and they all knew it was a false concession. Still, they let it pass. They’d figure it out tomorrow.
For now, Leonard let himself hold them close for as long as he could. As close as he had dreamed.