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It’s a suspiciously beautiful day – sunny, unusually warm for mid-February, the air filled with birdsong and the taste of spring; the sort of day that has inspired poets in every corner of the galaxy since the dawn of time. In Spock, it inspires only thoughts of death.
These days, it’s difficult not to think about endings and goodbyes, and especially difficult when Spock looks at the man sitting next to him. There’s not much else he can do, however, because looking away would be worse.
“What?” McCoy asks.
A lifetime of training in the Vulcan disciplines allows Spock to hide a guilty flinch, but it doesn’t make meeting those all-too-knowing blue eyes any easier. He has assumed that McCoy had dozed off during the break in their conversation, which wouldn’t be unusual these days, and wasn’t prepared to offer an explanation for blatantly staring at his old friend. Shying away from the truth is illogical, of course, but in this case, Spock suspects that the truth would be of little comfort to either of them.
I have been contemplating your death.
Thankfully, McCoy doesn’t insist on an explanation. He merely takes a sip of his chilled lemonade, considerably too sweet for Spock’s taste, and when he sets his glass back down on the veranda table, Spock automatically refills it for him. The jug is heavy, made of thick glass and almost full, and McCoy’s hands are not as steady as they used to be.
In the past, McCoy would have complained; now he just gives Spock a long-suffering look, squints slightly against the sunlight, and asks, “You know what day it is?”
“Monday,” Spock replies unthinkingly because the contrast between their peaceful surroundings and the turmoil inside him distracts him from everything but the most obvious answer.
He is rewarded with an eye-roll that is as familiar to him as his own reflection. “I know it’s Monday, I’m not that senile yet.”
There are several reasons that would make a certain day special in the eyes of a human – anniversaries, birthdays, upcoming events – but none of them seem to apply here. Nothing unusual has happened lately, and hopefully nothing will happen in the foreseeable future; and McCoy’s birthday, the only noteworthy occurrence, lies already several weeks in the past. Spock had been on Vulcan at the time to open negotiations with a delegation of wary Romulans and hadn’t managed to send McCoy more than a brief message. He had been all the more willing to accept his invitation now. Visits to Earth have not been frequent in recent years – Spock’s work as an ambassador takes its toll – but they are an important part of his life, and sometimes the sun-flooded veranda feels more like home than Spock’s rooms in the Vulcan embassy.
As far as Spock is concerned, today is simply an ordinary Monday.
“A hundred years ago, Spock,” McCoy says quietly; and Spock sits up straighter as the realisation hits him embarrassingly late.
Time has not yet managed to dull the memories, and it is too easy to get lost in them now. For a moment, Spock is standing once more in the transporter room of the Enterprise, checks the control panels, looks at a crease in the transporter operator’s uniform shirt, and then turns his attention to their newly arrived CMO, who, for reasons known only to himself, considers it appropriate to report for duty with a complaint about the beaming process.
“Your first day on the Enterprise,” he replies just as quietly.
McCoy smiles, a striking contrast to the disdainful look he had given Spock on that first day. “Mhm. Hard to believe it’s been that long, isn’t it?”
And it is hard to believe. The past years have done their best to ruthlessly remind Spock of the short lifespan of humans, and every new loss only serves to further illuminate the inevitable truth: he will be the one left behind. It is what it is, and he has always known that it would come to this, one day; he was always willing to pay the price. Still, sometimes it’s difficult not to let bitterness tarnish the gratitude for the time spent together.
They already lost Scott, and Chekov and Nyota; Christine died only a few years ago; and Jim ... Jim’s absence stopped feeling like an open wound long ago, but Spock will carry the loss, the emptiness, with him for the rest of his life. A hundred years. The fact he didn’t even get to share a third of that time with Jim is even more incomprehensible than the fact that he is still sitting here in the sunlight with McCoy.
“Would have been a pity if I hadn’t lived to see this day,” McCoy says so matter-of-factly that it takes Spock a while to understand the full meaning of his words.
“Leonard –”
“Don’t look at me like that.” McCoy snorts, and Spock forces himself to relax. “I’m in no hurry, but ...” He shrugs. “Time doesn’t stand still, does it? Except for you, of course.”
“Occasionally, I regret that,” Spock says softly. These days, allowing himself to be open and vulnerable is as easy as breathing, and hiding the truth would be of no use, anyway. Nobody can read him better than McCoy, who frowns and leans a little closer; but before he can protest, Spock adds, “However, I am grateful for the past hundred years – although it will always remain a mystery to me how I was able to endure such a glaring lack of logic for such a long time.”
McCoy rolls his eyes again, but then he grins and the sense of foreboding vanishes. “Don’t get sentimental.”
“Vulcans are never sentimental.”
“I should hope so.” McCoy’s grin fades. He looks old now, and tired, but there’s still the old steely determination in his eyes as he reaches out to tap Spock’s knee. “Just ... take care of yourself when I’m gone, okay? Promise me. Or I swear I’ll find a way to get on your nerves from beyond the grave.”
Spock allows his lips to twitch slightly. “That is a prospect I look forward to.”
And it’s not even unlikely; in fact, Spock knows that a part of Leonard McCoy will stay with him for the rest of his life, wherever he is. Their fates have been intertwined for far too long for them to ever truly be separated, and the remainder goes a long way towards soothing away the last traces of tension; so when McCoy insists on the promise, Spock gives it to him without feeling that it brings them both one step closer to an inevitable goodbye.
After that, they sit in silence for a while and listen to the increasingly enthusiastic birdsong and to McCoy’s youngest great-great-granddaughter, who is humming to herself while she bustles around the kitchen. Spock has almost slipped into a light meditation when McCoy sighs and asks, “Isn’t it time for you to go? I thought you had important ambassadorial stuff to do and politicians to annoy?”
There’s the slightest hint of pleading in his voice, and Spock doesn’t have to think about his answer. “It can wait.”
Of course it can wait. McCoy won’t mind if he stays a little longer, not too long, just – just for a while. The natural course of things will catch up with them, and probably soon; but as McCoy falls asleep and Spock adjusts the sunshade so that McCoy’s face lies in the shadow, he thinks that they still have some time left.
And Spock can think of no better way to use that time than to sit here in the sunlight next to his oldest friend.