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McCoy goes in under the guise of sharing a drink, because he’s a horrible, terrible coward, who can’t face his problems head on like Jim can. Like Spock can. He dodges them instead. Hides his fears behind his complaints and buries his anxieties in his work.
He stays ahead of his doubts with bravado and outruns his demons as best he can...but...but today he’s tired.
Today the question sinks its claws past his shell of bravado and confidence and manages to latch onto that part of him he tries to forget.
Today his father’s ghost haunts him into waking and stays there as he weeps.
Today he finds himself at Scotty’s door in desperation, because Scotty might have the answers to soothe him.
Except...except that that isn’t fair to Scotty. Scotty who’s recovering. Scotty who’s heart had stopped beating. Scotty who’d been raised like Lazarus himself. And McCoy knows this. He knows that he shouldn’t barge in and pry upon secrets, but he’s weak and hurt and perhaps...perhaps this will heal him.
So he goes in under the guise of sharing a drink.
It works.
It always works.
Montgomery Scott, greatest engineer in all of Starfleet, and the man can be blindsided by anything worth putting in a shot glass. It’s ridiculous. It’s dangerous.
It’s worth taking advantage of.
He wonders if Scotty can see it. The guilt. The shame. Wonders if he can see past McCoy’s crumbling mask. But if he does the Scotsman says nothing. He just smiles and laughs and acts like nothing’s wrong, while McCoy’s sins sear into his soul.
He shouldn’t be here.
He has a right to be.
He should go.
He can’t leave.
He’s selfish.
He needs to know.
He asks.
“Do you remember it?” The question scalds his tongue in its haste.
Scotty frowns at him.
“Remember what?”
“Being dead,” and the words are blunt, and clumsy, and terrible. But he needs to know.
Scotty’s eyes shutter and all at once the man seems far too sober. Far too aware. McCoy refills his glass.
Then because he's cruel and desperate he asks, “Well?”
Scotty’s eyes snap to his, then away as he drains his glass and pours another.
“I cannae say for sure. I remember the shot, the pain, the strange bizarre feeling of falling back into nothing, but after that? Well my mind’s a blank.” He shivers and all too quickly McCoy remembers Scotty’s issue with gaps in his memory. He pushes down the concern. He’s so close. He has to know.
“But are you sure?” He pleads. Something like desperation claws at his heart. His father breathes down his neck. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t remember how you felt? Was it peaceful? Pleasant? Were...were you happy?” His voice trembles on the last note.
“I’m sorry Leonard, but I’m afraid I cannae help ya. It was like waking up from a dream and it’s long since faded.” Concern furrows Scotty’s brow, “Why do ya ask?”
“I—“ the vowel hangs in the air as he stumbles for an excuse. For a lie. For anything but the heart wrenching truth he wants to avoid. He swallows, coughs, rephrases, “I wanted to know for scientific purposes. A paper done about what actually does happen after death would be of considerable value.”
It sounds perfectly logical. Perfectly reasonable. It sounds like Spock.
Something in Scotty’s eyes dim and he pushes the shot glass away.
McCoy swallows back bile in his mouth.
“I don’t remember anything,” Scotty reiterates. “Ain’t no use asking again.”
“Right,” he mumbles. His insides flip, he can’t bring himself to look Scotty in the eyes.
“Unless,” Scotty says and when McCoy looks up his eyes are calculating. Scotty, chief engineer of the enterprise, blinded by anything in a shot glass, and too clever for his own good. “There’s another reason you want to know.”
McCoy squirms under Scotty’s gaze and opens his mouth. For one terrible moment the truth hangs right there on his tongue, before he swallows it back and smiles, “No, that was it.” He stands, hides his shaking hands in his pockets, “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice night Scotty.”
He flees before Scotty has a chance to reply.