Archive of Our Own

”Someday, love will find you,” the alien says.

It sounds like a threat.

Even through the translator. Even though her face is calm, soft. Even though McCoy – who really should learn to say no when Jim asks him to beam down onto planets full of unknown things and people – knows better than to jump to such conclusions in a first contact scenario.

“…alright,” Jim says, looking warily between them. “So, the distress signal?”

☆☆☆

McCoy’s no stranger to love.

He’s had it, lost it, dug a deep pit in the bottom of his heart and shoved it all in to rot. He doesn’t think love will find him, and it doesn’t. Didn’t.

It was more like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped over his poor, unsuspecting head in the middle of a hot Georgia summer’s day.

He does his best to ignore it.

He has to ignore a lot of things on a daily basis, like the fact that he’s decided to live on a tin can deep in space, following the orders of one James T. Kirk who never had much sense in the first place, and whose first officer is just as bad.

There’s disease and danger, as predicted, and lots of bright lights and red alerts which he really could have done without. He’s almost stopped being surprised, resigning himself to feeling constantly unmoored, just a tad out of his comfort zone on a good day and swimming in the deep end on most others.

Love isn’t the sort of thing he likes to think about.

There’s usually more urgent issues to deal with, although privately he thinks that three complete disasters is more than anyone should have to deal with in a lifetime. Nero, Khan, and Krall. It’s enough to make anyone think twice about going back out there.

During surgery, there’s no time to curse his own existence, but afterwards? Afterwards is fair game.

“Dammit, Jim,” he grumbles, trying not to look as exhausted as he feels. “How many times do I have to save your life before you stop trying to end it?!”

At least Jim has the decency to look apologetic. He’s not going to stop, is the thing. McCoy knows it, Jim knows it, even Spock knows it.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, paler than he should be, the bio bed monitor beeping quietly above him. “And besides–“

“And besides, Spock should have known better than to let you out of his sight.”

The first officer in question stands on the other side of Jim, hands clasped behind his back, disapproving frown between his brows. He’d returned without a scratch, this time at least, no promises made for the next mission.

“There was no indication of life forms on any of our scans,” Spock says, the scientific puzzle of it sure to occupy him in the coming days.

“I’m tired of scans,” McCoy sighs. “Use your damn eyes!”

Jim coughs weakly.

“It was kind of dark,” he says.

McCoy glares at him. Of course it was dark. Of course the scans showed nothing. Of course Jim had to beam down like a walking death wish.

“You do realize there are people whose actual jobs are to beam down and make sure there aren’t monsters lurking in the dark, do you? And you’re not one of them!”

“It wasn’t a monster–“

“Captain, the doctor is correct. It is inadvisable for you to join the away team before the area is declared safe.”

Their captain mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “pot, kettle”, but at least he doesn’t roll his eyes. They’re toeing the line of McCoy snapping and undoing all his hard work, and he thinks longingly of the bottle of bourbon he keeps in his office for special occasions. Or special headaches.

“Neither of you should be beaming down,” he hisses. He grabs a PADD to keep his hands occupied, angrily swiping through the readings fed to it from Jim’s bio bed. “If I believed in witchcraft I’d say you two are cursed.”

“Bones,” Jim says, pleadingly. “We’re not cursed. It’s been ages since I ended up in sickbay.”

“Two months and five days,” Spock informs them, because of course he’s keeping count.

“Ages,” Jim stresses.

“Well you’re stuck in here until at least tomorrow,” McCoy mutters, throwing the PADD aside. “I’ll be in my office.”

He stalks off, leaving Spock to deal with Jim. He’s pretty sure listening to Jim’s whining is part of Spock’s job description. Not that Jim whines a lot nowadays. He’s a far cry from the annoying cadet he used to be, always elbowing himself into McCoy’s personal space and complaining about his antisocial tendencies. At least his office is blessedly quiet, though he foregoes the bourbon for a hypo to kill the headache before it takes hold of him.

Their academy days are another thing he tries not to think about. If one were to write out a list of things he doesn’t think about, well.

He sinks down in his chair, burying his face in his hands. He’s getting too old for this, or maybe it’s just Jim, passed out and bleeding. They’re explorers, scientists, damn it all. Not cannon fodder for strange new planets full of lurking alien life eager to kill them. Looking at Jim’s medical records would make anyone wince, but at least he’s alive.

McCoy’s going to keep him alive, even if it kills him.

☆☆☆

“Love, huh?” Jim asks, rolling his hand and the shot glass held in it. “Better than being cursed.”

“Sounded like a curse,” McCoy mutters, putting his own glass down on the bar table between them.

“But Bones, think about it! Maybe the love of your life will stumble into your life when you least expect it! Getting your fortune told by an alien species ten seconds after making first contact has to mean something, don’t you think?”

Yeah, it means his life is fucked up, is what he thinks.

“Maybe I’m the one who should be thinking of retirement,” is what he says out loud, regretting it even before he finishes the sentence.

Jim’s quick to avert his eyes. It’s still a sore topic, months out of Yorktown, their shiny new ship humming beneath their feet. He’s not entirely used to it. The upgrades to the medical bay are welcome, but every fresh, new thing is tinged with the memory of the old Enterprise.

“Love’s bullshit, anyway,” he adds, throwing the shot back and making a face at the fruity taste.

What he wouldn’t give for a good whiskey instead of this synthesized crap.

☆☆☆

There’s a knock on the door, and a moment later Spock steps inside. McCoy doesn’t bother pretending he’s feeling anything other than wrung out like a used dish rag. He combs his hands through his hair as Spock sits down opposite him, wondering if a Vulcan neck pinch is just the thing he needs, and whether or not Spock will think him crazy for asking.

“Doctor,” Spock begins, and fails to continue.

“Whatever you want to say, Spock, just spit it out. I’m having a bad enough day as it is, I don’t need you staring at me like that, too.”

Spock is silent for a moment, presumably gathering his thoughts. His clothes are smudged with dirt from the planet, decontaminated, sure, but still dirt.

“Doctor, you neglected to participate in shore leave during our visit to New Vulcan, furthermore I have noticed an increase in both frequency and severity of irritation and anger in your person in comparison to before our prolonged stay in Yorktown. Notably, your stress levels seem to have increased significantly since our mission on the planet Centera V.”

Blasted planet, McCoy thinks. Will it ever leave him alone?

“What’s your point, Spock?”

The worst thing about Spock is that he’s usually right, on account of gathering enough evidence before he makes his opinion known.

“Something that happened on the planet is troubling you, Leonard.”

Well, that’s as blunt as ever. McCoy considers him, his earnest look of concern. The use of his first name is just unfair.

“Jim’s what’s troubling me,” he says, which is half the truth and certainly true enough considering his current mood. Crossing his arms, he knows Spock won’t be satisfied with that. “And there wasn’t much point in shore leave on New Vulcan, was there? My staff needed the days off more than me.”

Predictably, Spock waits for him to continue.

“That’s all,” he tries, wishing Spock had never declared his respect for him and most of all that he’d never decided Vulcans could be friends with Humans. “Now shoo, I have work to finish.”

“I find your reluctance to speak of it concerning.”

Aw, hell. A concerned Vulcan. His day just keeps getting worse.

“I’m surprised Jim let you leave. I’m surprised you left him.”

“He is too weak to leave sickbay without assistance, which I’m sure your nurses will refrain from giving him. I also believe, despite his frequent insistence, that boredom will not result in his premature death.”

“Except when he beams down with the away teams for no good reason other than being bored, Spock.”

Spock merely blinks at him, too calm.

“Perhaps he would feel less bored if you avoided him less.”

“I’m not–“

He snaps his mouth shut. He’s not avoiding Jim. He’s just… Jaw clenching, the headache threatens to return.

“Even he’s not stupid enough to get hurt just to make me stop avoiding him. He’s not that much of an idiot.”

“That was not my meaning,” Spock replies. “What I meant to say is that his restlessness may decrease were he to find another outlet for it.”

McCoy stares at Spock, and stares a little more for good measure.

“You know I hate it when you speak in riddles,” he snaps at him. “We know each other well enough that you can just say what you mean.”

“Very well.”

Spock straightens in his seat, clasping his hands over his thighs. McCoy keeps his gaze on Spock’s face, stubbornly.

“I am aware of your feelings for the captain, and I suggest you share them with him.”

“No,” McCoy says, immediately. “We’re going to forget this conversation ever happened, that’s what we’re going to do, and you’re going to go back out there and listen to Jim complain about being stuck in sickbay and when the next mission comes around I’ll patch you up and we’ll keep doing that until we actually die and none of this matters.”

They glare at each other.

“That,” Spock says, “is highly illogical and considerably inadvisable.”

He’d have preferred it if Spock just called him an idiot.

☆☆☆

Spock is there to greet them in the transporter room when they beam up from Centera V. It was the locals’ name for the planet, and maybe it meant something in their language, but all the translator had managed was ‘planet’.

“Captain. Doctor.”

“Spock, you should have joined us! I think that’s the first time we beam down to a distress signal and everything was actually fine.”

Calling it ‘fine’ was perhaps pushing it, but Jim’s grinning and so are the security lieutenants that went with them.

“Good to know stupidity isn’t limited to Federation planets,” McCoy mutters, stepping off the platform.

The distress signal had been sent out as a greeting, an invitation, really. Unfortunately a nice, friendly frequency to the Centerans was a shrill, panicked distress signal to them.

He makes his way out of the transporter room, both Spock and Jim falling into step beside him.

“Doctor, are you available tonight to discuss the latest test results on the plant samples we retrieved from Epsilon Tauri b?”

“Plant samples, huh?” Jim muses. “That sounds more fun than mission reports.”

McCoy really, truly, does not want to spend an evening bent over microscopes and PADDs shoulder to shoulder with Spock. He’s got some kind of alien divination ringing through his head, and his brain is screaming at him to shake off both captain and first officer and go get drunk in his office.

“Can it wait?”

It comes out harsher than he meant to, and Spock gives him that disappointed look that makes his eyes look big and brown and goddammit, McCoy is pathetic for being swayed by it.

“Fine,” he sighs.

Maybe the translator got the words jumbled up. Maybe it really was a threat. Maybe it meant whatever mess he’s in right now will pass, and something else will come along in the future, with less heartbreak and hopelessness. Maybe one day, the way Spock’s mouth quirks up just a bit at the corners will stop doing things to him.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll join in,” Jim says. “Been a while since I visited the labs.”

“Do whatever you want,” McCoy mutters, stabbing the button for the turbolift. “You always do.”

“Great!” Jim slaps his back, pressing a different button for the other turbolift. “Spock, you going back to the bridge?”

“Yes, Captain.”

They part ways, and McCoy tells himself it doesn’t feel like something’s missing.

☆☆☆

“Hey,” Jim says when he’s calmed down enough to leave the sanctity of his office.

“You should be asleep.” He waves a medical tricorder over him, everything in order. “And you look like shit.”

Jim laughs, at least, eyes crinkling with it. Impossibly enough, the crow’s feet he’s collected over his years as captain only serve to make him that much more handsome.

“Spock didn’t look too happy when he left your office. You should be nicer to him.”

Pocketing the scanner, McCoy drags a chair closer to the bed and sits down heavily. As annoyed as he is, he can’t just leave Jim on his own, not when he hates being tied down in sickbay as much as McCoy hates seeing him there.

“Why? He’s not very nice to me, is he.”

Jim’s eyeroll is long-suffering.

“He cares about you.”

“God,” he says, faking a shudder. “Don’t say it out loud like that. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“No it doesn’t.”

Just for that he gets up to dig around for a hypo, but Jim’s never been one to back down when he should.

“You care about him,” he continues, and really, McCoy’s had enough of emotions for years to come. “You should tell him.”

Pausing, back still towards Jim and a halfway loaded hypo in one hand, he wonders if he’s stuck in some kind of dream.

The thing about being in love with two people is that it runs twice the risk of disaster. And, apparently, the possibility that both objects of his affection can become convinced he’s got it bad for the other one.

He’s quiet for so long that it turns awkward. And honestly, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? Sure, Jim, I’ll tell the Vulcan I’ve got a crush on him. That’ll go down well. The CMO and first officer dating is a splendid idea, in no universe ever.

“Bones?”

“I heard you, Jim. I’m trying to convince myself I didn’t.”

Jim huffs, clearly frustrated.

“I’m not blind, you know,” he says, which isn’t true because if he weren’t, he wouldn’t be telling McCoy to admit his feelings for Spock. “And he told me the latest break-up with Uhura is permanent, so.”

Spinning around, McCoy raises an eyebrow to try and convey that there’s no so about this.

“He can be as single and available as he like, it’s none of my goddamn business.”

“Well, it could be.”

He stabs Jim in the neck with the hypo, enjoying his pained expression. He should have done the same to Spock.

“Make it your own business, in that case,” he tells Jim, throwing the hypo into a recycler bin.

“What? I’m the captain, Bones. I can’t date my first officer even if I want to.”

“Then shut up and leave it alone.”

They stare at each other, long enough for Jim’s words to catch up with him. Jim looks just as surprised as him, except less red-faced, probably.

“So, what, you–“

“Actually Bones, I think I’m just gonna go to sleep like you said.”

Incredible. The little shit even closes his eyes, mouth pinched and fingers clenching the blanket draped over him. What a mess, he thinks. Maybe he should ask Spock if he’s got a thing for their captain, too, and they can all suffer in silence. Like idiots.

“I’ll know if you don’t sleep,” is what he says in the end, lowering the lights around the bed and making his way back to his office.

There’s only so much a man can take in one day, after all.

☆☆☆

“You need not worry,” the alien says, a little later, once the distress signal is all sorted out and they’ve gone through the tedious introductions and explained the Federation.

Her name is Sar Unmel Lov, Unmel for short, and she corners McCoy when he makes the mistake of forgetting to glue himself to Jim’s side.

“I’m not worried,” he says.

Her eyelashes are ridiculously long, curving almost above her forehead and decorated with what looks like tiny glittering gemstones. It gives a new meaning to twinkling eyes, McCoy thinks. Her expression is as close to serious as it can get by Human standards, and she hands him a long-stemmed flower.

“Perhaps Humans put less emphasis on love,” she muses. “Clearly, to us it is a terrible misfortune to be so surrounded by love and yet bereft of connected heartstrings.”

While he accepts the flower, he’s not so sure about accepting her words. He hopes the heartstrings thing isn’t literal.

“I get by alright. And love is important to Humans, but I get the feeling you’re talking about the romantic sort, which I can really do without."

Her lashes flutter prettily, her hair like waves around her oval face. She’s tall, taller than him, her clothes a mismatch of colors that threaten to spin his head. McCoy had gathered that she was some sort of figurehead, voted by popularity, more of a spokesperson for their part of the planet than holding any real individual power.

And – she seems fond of giving love advice.

“It’s in the air around you,” she tells him, mysteriously. “This is our most precious flower. Its scent will enhance your perception.”

“Perception of what?”

“Thank you for listening to our call, Doctor McCoy.”

With such parting words she takes her leave, leaving him muttering about aliens and their irritating affinity for speaking in riddles.

☆☆☆

“–listen to me Spock, you need to tell him!”

“Captain, it is my firm belief–“

“Don’t you captain me, Spock! Not when we’re talking about–“

“It is my firm belief that the doctor’s affections lie with you, Jim.”

There’s a brief pause, and McCoy hesitates around the corner. He’s just barely out of sight, but voices carry in sickbay when you don’t take care to speak quietly.

“Well,” Jim says, “I don’t know where you got that belief from, because I happen to know that’s bullshit. You’re the one he wants. And god knows he deserves someone as deeply loyal as you, Spock, after everything he’s been through.”

McCoy blinks. He’s not sure if he should be touched or horrified. Apparently, the ship’s captain and first officer saw fit to have a lover’s spat – though supposedly McCoy is the lover in question – right out in the open air of sickbay. The fact that they’re in the middle of the graveyard shift only makes it more concerning.

“Jim, I have no doubt you are as loyal and dedicated to Leonard as I am.”

Spock’s voice is soft, low enough that McCoy has to strain his ears to hear him. He almost wishes he hadn’t. His resolve had been firm, earlier. Now he’s not so sure.

How can any man be sure that duty trumps love, when talked about so sweetly?

“That’s kind of you Spock, but I’m still the captain. My only relationship is with the ship, and my duty to everyone on it. Don’t make it into an argument. I need both of you to be–”

Jim seems to catch himself, and McCoy feels a strong urge to see the expression on his face. His heart hammers in his chest, limbs frozen in contrast. He should tell them he’s there, but that would mean acknowledging their topic of conversation. He did not set out to break two hearts tonight.

“A captain’s duty to the ship is not unreasonably strict,” Spock argues. “You were already close friends when you were assigned onto the ship.”

“Yeah, well, the regs–“

“You need not concern yourself with the regulations.”

“Need not concern myself?” Jim sounds outraged. “Are you even listening to yourself, Spock?”

“It is clear to me that your sense of duty is clouding your judgment.”

“That my–!”

McCoy can’t stand it. He hurries around the corner, fists clenched and throat thick.

“That’s enough,” he says, fighting the emotions welling up inside him at the sight of them. “It’s three in the goddamn morning and you’re supposed to be asleep! Stop talking nonsense and go to bed.”

While he remains standing, he feels as if their eyes on him make him sway. Unbalanced. Everything he wants written all over both their faces, everything he can’t have.

Jim recovers first.

“Hypocrite. I only called Spock up here to drag you out of your office, seeing as I’m not allowed to move and do it myself.”

The shock on his face has morphed into a frown, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Spock stands beside him, like he’d done earlier, though less relaxed.

“Doctor, I do not believe it is nonsense,” Spock says, effectively ruining any hope McCoy had that they’d all just ignore the situation and forget about it.

“It’s nonsense if I say it’s nonsense,” he mutters.

Something in Jim’s expression shatters. Instantly, guilt sinks its claws in McCoy.

“Do I really have to say it?” he sighs, shoulders slumping with it. “What’s the point talking about something that can’t happen? You can argue all you like about my feelings, it doesn’t change a damn thing. We’re only on this ship for as long as Starfleet lets us, and who knows what happens when the five-year mission finally ends, or if they decide it is against the regs. I don’t want either of you ruining your careers on my account.”

“Spock’s career won’t be ruined.”

McCoy glares at Jim.

“I said enough. We’re not discussing this.” He turns to Spock. “Back to your quarters, Spock. Next time Jim calls you ignore him, alright?”

“You’re being unfair,” Jim argues, but another glare silences him.

At least for the time being. He doesn’t hold much hope they’ll truly drop the issue. The hard look in Spock’s eyes tell him as much. Still, Spock nods stiffly in acknowledgment, and turns on his heels to stalk out of sickbay. McCoy stares after him even though he shouldn’t, trying to tell himself it’s pointless to long for something that will only end in pain.

“How much did you hear?” Jim asks.

There’s more color in his face now, less of that sickly pale that comes with blood loss. He curbs the urge to reach out and feel the warmth of his skin, just to make sure.

“Does it matter?”

Jim pushes himself a little further up, to sit more comfortably. He looks determined, but McCoy’s too tired to argue with him.

“Go to sleep, Jim. I’ll be in my office.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

☆☆☆

He’d hidden the flower in his medkit, but now he picks it up and digs up a tall glass to serve as a vase for it, and places it on a table in his quarters. The scent is sweet, but not cloying. He hopes water’s fine – he’s no botanist, and of course no one had bothered telling him how to care for it. Maybe it would die in a few short hours.

Though, water seems to do the trick just fine, because he exits the bathroom to find the petals unfolded from its previous bulb, soft lavender with a darker purple towards the middle. It mostly resembles a lily, though without the long pistils, instead a dark pillow of pollen nestled inside it. He should take it to the botany lab. Something makes him hesitate.

It would feel wrong to subject a gift like this to experiments, even if it is alien and unknown and who knows what trouble he’s signing himself up for by keeping it.

Nothing happens. He finishes writing his report, swings by sickbay, then returns to his quarters at the end of shift. Spock hadn’t said anything about dinner, but as soon as he’s had the thought, the buzzer to his quarters goes off.

“Come in,” he calls, and there Spock is.

“Doctor, if you have no other pressing matters, perhaps we can have our discussion now? You appeared rather fatigued earlier.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He waves Spock inside. “I just don’t like surprises, that’s all.”

Spock enters, then stops short as his gaze falls on the flower. An eyebrow rises, predictably, in question.

“A gift from the Centerans.”

Walking closer, Spock reaches out to touch the edge of a petal gently. His nostrils widen as he draws in the scent, and then he turns, wide-eyed, towards McCoy.

“Doctor,” he says. “Are you certain it was not a courting gift?”

“A courting gift?” he parrots, confused. “Well, that’d be the day. No, nothing like that.”

Spock does not look convinced.

“You should have declined.”

Staring at Spock, whose first priority would always be cultural sensitivity, McCoy wonders if the flower has some kind of effect after all.

“Of course I couldn’t decline, Spock! And it seems harmless, anyway, since we’ve left the planet now. I suppose the diplomats can figure out the meaning, if they need to.”

It’s unnerving to have Spock’s focus on him when it’s as intense as it is now. His fingertips slide off the flower, hand clenching into a fist instead. In a few long strides he’s in front of McCoy, the same hand that touched the petals touching his jawline instead. McCoy sucks in a breath, then takes a quick step back.

“Spock?”

“A simple flower like that is hardly worth your attention. The gardens on Vulcan-that-was would have been far more fitting.”

Well, that does it. Whatever the flower’s for, it’s clearly affecting Spock. When Spock comes closer again, McCoy moves back, except he hits the wall. It’s a damn cliché, crowded against the ship’s hull like this. There’s no mistaking the intent in Spock’s expression, either.

“Uh, Spock, I think the flower has to go to the labs, after all. Seems like it’s doing a number on you.”

“I am adequate, Doctor. However, I would appreciate it if you refrained from accepting such gifts from others in the future.”

“Are you–“ He bites his tongue. Whether the flower inspires people to act on their desires or simply creates desire out of nothing is irrelevant. “Spock, I need you to move so I can take that flower somewhere we can contain it.”

“Leonard, as you do not seem uncomfortable with my proximity, I see no reason to move.”

Well, damn it all! McCoy puts his hands on Spock’s chest and pushes, for all the good it does him. Spock remains in place, and isn’t this a highly inconvenient moment to find that Vulcan strength enticing?

To his luck, his door buzzes again.

“Come in!”

If the words are tinged with desperation, he hopes it isn’t too noticeable. In comes Jim, who does a doubletake at the scene.

“Should I… come back later?”

“Jim, grab that flower and put it away somewhere, it’s making Spock act crazy.”

Everything goes well until Jim touches the flower. He pauses, blinking down at it.

“That’s weird,” he mumbles.

“Just put it away!”

“It’s as if the flower’s telling me not to.”

When Jim starts eyeing him with consideration – the kind that never ends well and usually shows up in bars late at night – McCoy decides the time for reasoning with them has passed. Stifling a groan, he ducks under Spock’s hold and strides over, snatching the flower out of the vase, careful to only touch it with his sleeve. Holding it in front of him like it might bite, he makes it two steps to the door before Jim catches his arm.

“Hey, Bones. Who gave you that flower, anyway?”

“One of the Centerans,” Spock replies in his stead, causing Jim to frown.

“They gave it to you?”

“I advised him he should have declined,” Spock says.

Closing his eyes for a moment, McCoy wishes he’d simply stayed asleep that morning.

“Which, like I said, would have been culturally insensitive!”

Jim rounds him, but drops the hold on his shirt. His face takes on a teasing smile, and McCoy is relieved to see that whatever’s affecting Spock, it’s not affecting their captain without him touching the flower, at least.

“Bones, if you wanted flowers, you could have just asked.”

“Out,” he says, having had enough. “Both of you, out!”

He forces them outside into the corridor, locking the door firmly with his override code even as Jim snickers at him. Then he stares down at the flower. Was it some kind of aphrodisiac, after all? He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. Carefully, he wraps the flower in a towel, and orders the computer to decontaminate his quarters.

When he opens the door, Jim and Spock are still outside. They look caught, Jim’s mouth open in interrupted conversation. They both turn to frown at the towel-wrapped flower.

“Some kind of pollen reaction?” Jim asks, glancing at Spock. “It felt really weird to touch it. You didn’t feel anything when you touched it, Bones?”

“I didn’t, and I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but I’m taking it to the labs.”

Darting his eyes towards Spock, he finds him already watching, face blank. Something about the way he quickly averts his eyes makes him wonder if he’s uncomfortable. Maybe the effect ceased as soon as he left McCoy’s quarters.  

“Anyway, whatever happened in there I’m chalking it up to the flower, and that’s that.”

The frown stays on Jim’s face but he nods, clearing his throat.

“Whatever you say, Bones.”

☆☆☆

McCoy doesn’t sleep, despite his insistence that Jim and Spock do just that. He’s never been one for following his own advice.

The chronometer ticks closer to the start of alpha shift, and he rubs at his eyes, cursing the passage of time. There’s no alien flower to blame the overheard conversation on, no convenient excuse to go back pretending there’s nothing between them. He’s had a few too many close calls already, on missions gone wrong, on late nights in the rec room, or bent over time-sensitive research in the labs.

It would be amusing that Jim and Spock argued over him if it weren’t so damn complicated. Not that McCoy is particularly fond of or attached to space. But he can’t imagine space without Jim and Spock, has already somewhere deep in his subconscious decided that if the end of their five-year mission splits them up, he’ll ask for a commission at Starfleet headquarters. He could probably teach, if he had to. For as much as he’d believed Jocelyn had taken the planet in the divorce, Starfleet HQ was alien enough that she hadn’t seemed to claim it.

He could handle (well, he could maybe handle) staying grounded while Jim and Spock went off into space again. At least he thinks he can handle it better than being moved to another ship, or even staying on the Enterprise with a new captain.

He’s probably ruined for any other commanding officers. He’d get kicked off the ship right away. Or, in a more likely scenario, he’d resign voluntarily.

He can save lives on Earth, too. There’d be less duty getting in the way of–

Sitting up straight, he almost bangs his knee against his desk with the abrupt movement. He wasn’t thinking of Earth as a way to make an impossibility into a possibility. Long distance might work for some, but knowing the kind of missions Jim and Spock would be given… Maybe on different ships…

And if Spock got his own ship, it’s not as if McCoy would know how to choose which one to go with. Though, if push came to shove… No, better not tie any heartstrings together, after all. The mission will end and so will their tight-knit trio, and duty will pull them in different directions. He might be satisfied with planet-side work, but the other two won’t. Not for a long time.

Part of him considers waiting. Thinking, in ten years, maybe fifteen, twenty surely. If they all live that long. Spock might, if he follows the path of the Ambassador. Things aren’t as strict on the ground.

Ships are tiny, delicate ecosystems, the command team more delicate than most. Regulations exist for a reason.

Burying his face in his hands he groans, loudly, and then gets up. He needs to check on Jim, and then he needs breakfast, and then he needs to avoid Spock somehow. Dealing with one of them will be bad enough.

Jim looks somber when McCoy nears him, and the look doesn’t leave him even when he notices the company.

“Morning, Bones,” he says, sounding as tired as McCoy feels.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

“Did you?”

Not much he can say to that. He runs a tricorder over Jim, lingering on his side where the worst of the damage was. Everything is as it should be, the relief he feels palpable.

“Think I can do the rest of the healing in my quarters?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He goes about the preparations for releasing Jim, ending with filling in his chart while he watches him drinking water out of the corner of his eye. When Jim swings his legs over the side, McCoy offers him an arm.

“I’m not that weak,” Jim protests, but takes his arm anyway.

They make their way slowly to Jim’s quarters, the crewmembers they meet along the way expressing their concerns and wishing Jim a speedy recovery.

“Good to see you standing, Captain,” Sulu says when they pass him in the corridor. “Things seemed pretty serious there, for a while.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jim replies, smiling at him. “I’ve got Bones here to patch me up, after all.”

There’s a twinge in McCoy’s chest, and he chases it away with a frown.

“You’re damn lucky, that’s what you are,” he mutters, Sulu grinning as he looks between them.

“Well, I’d better hurry up to the bridge.”

“Don’t be too hard on Spock,” Jim throws after him as he leaves, the pilot waving over his shoulder. “Did you tell Spock you’re releasing me, by the way?”

“Nope.”

He herds Jim into his quarters, ignoring his question of why not.

“He can come visit you at lunch, I’m sure you’ll survive until then.”

Depositing Jim on the couch, he makes his way over to Jim’s replicator and punches in a request for breakfast foods. Jim’s getting broth, but nothing says McCoy has to eat the same.

“You’re a cruel man, Bones,” Jim complains when he puts the food down and takes the armchair opposite him.

“I could always walk you back to sickbay,” he threatens in return.

He’s gotten used to the taste of replicated coffee, but now and then he thinks longingly of the freshly ground beans at the café near the hospital he did his residency at. He’s never found anything better than that café, though it might be simple nostalgia.

“It’s more than the food,” Jim murmurs, after a long enough pause that McCoy has almost forgotten what he’s referring to. “We should talk about last night.”

“We really shouldn’t.”

“You and Spock have no reason to hesitate,” Jim barrels on, pointing at McCoy with his spoon. “I mean, Spock and Uhura dated, and that was–“

“A disaster,” McCoy fills in for him. “Why are you so eager for me and Spock to date, anyway? Spock didn’t seem to agree with you, if you insist on talking about it.”

“I do insist.”

“Well, explain it, then.”

Jim swallows, fiddling with the spoon. There are dark bags underneath his eyes, and McCoy worries for a moment that he’s getting back into the slump he apparently was in before Yorktown.

“I know how Spock feels about you. He’s not very good at hiding it. Well, he hasn’t been good at it lately, I mean. The flower, for example.”

“I think we determined that really was an aphrodisiac, and that it only affects Humans by touch whereas Vulcans are sensitive to the scent, just as the Centerans are.”

“Which, by the way, was a shitty thing to gift someone at first contact.”

He gives McCoy a look. Usually, McCoy’s the one lecturing Jim about accepting weird alien things without checking they’re safe, first.

“Anyway,” Jim continues. “That flower also supposedly only enhances already present feelings. Which you know.”

“Yes,” McCoy concedes. “I do know that. We’re not talking about the likelihood of Spock having feelings for me, we’re talking about why you think it’s a good idea for him and me to date.”

Jim opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyeing McCoy like he’d said something strange.

“Wait, you’re not even denying it? That you have feelings for him?”

“You seemed so sure of it, so what’s the point?” he replies, drily. Taking another sip of coffee, he waves at Jim to continue. “Go on, then. What makes you think the CMO should date the first officer when the captain can’t?”

“Because I think you two would be good for each other!” Jim exclaims, catching himself after the outburst. “And it’s a lot easier to claim there’s a grey zone in the regs when you’re not in a direct chain of command over each other.”

McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Except for all the times that Spock has to step in as captain when you’re knocked out,” he says. “This isn’t about the chain of command, anyway. It’s about a conflict of interest. Isn’t it?”

Jim gnaws on his lips, staying silent.

“You think Spock can put duty over emotions.”

The sigh Jim lets out is heavy.

“Yeah, fine. But he could.”

“Then he can just as well date you,” McCoy points out. “In case you think I’m the type to put logic over emotion, which I’m not, as you know. Dammit Jim, what’s the real reason?”

More silence. McCoy wonders if he should just give up trying to get a decent answer. He drinks his coffee, considering the man opposite him. Jim’s still young for a captain. Still younger than the second youngest captain, though a few more years and he’ll get there. It’s easy to forget, nowadays. In the beginning, Jim’s youth was impossible to ignore. Now, he’s ground down the hard edges, growing into his captaincy like an inherited shirt – too big at first, and now beginning to stretch over the shoulders.

“I don’t want either of you to walk around unhappy,” he mumbles, and then, when McCoy clearly waits for him to continue, he does. “And if he won’t date you… then one of these days I won’t be able to help myself, and everything will get messy. Don’t you get it, Bones? I can’t have either of you, but that shouldn’t stop you from having each other.”

Jim’s voice takes on a pleading note, but his gaze stays fixed on his bowl. He looks devastated, as if McCoy pulling the truth out of him was more than he could bear.

“You’re that serious about the regulations, huh?” he asks, because the Jim he knew at the Academy wouldn’t have been. “Like I get it, I’ve thought about it too and there’s just so many ways it can go wrong. And I’m not the kind of person who deals well with break-ups.”

Mouth twitching into a half-smile, Jim glances up at him.

“I’ll tell Spock he’s not allowed to break up with you.”

“Jim,” he sighs. He puts his elbows on the coffee table, leaning forwards. “I’m already anxious enough about the end of the mission. I don’t think I can handle a relationship knowing it’ll have to come to an end.”

The smile fades into a frown.

“Why would it end? I don’t think you’d have any problems getting on a ship together, or if Spock wants to teach for a bit you could work at Starfleet Medical.”

“Jim,” he says again. “I refuse to choose between the two of you.”

It’s clearly not what Jim expected to hear.

“And if I had to choose…”

“Bones,” Jim interrupts him with, sounding pained. “Don’t say it.”

He doesn’t. He’s not entirely sure how that sentence ends, anyway.

“So that’s why, then,” he says, keeping his tone light even as he stands. “You thought I prefer Spock over you.”

He picks up his cup and heads to the replicator, making himself a fresh one. It’s steaming as he takes it out, and he blows a little on it, biding his time. Jim’s neck and shoulders are tense, hunched over.

“I’m going to ask for another five-year mission,” Jim says.

McCoy stares at him.

“And I want you to stay on the Enterprise with me. With Spock. I don’t think I could do it without you.”

“You’re mad.”

Turning around, Jim’s rueful smile seems to agree with him.

“Still,” Jim says. “I want you there.”

I want you now, McCoy thinks.

“You think if we’re together, they won’t give it to you.”

Jim’s smile widens, just a bit.

“I don’t know if that’s the real reason, Bones. I want you so much.” His expression dims again, turning serious. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

There’s something painful lodged in his throat, his breath shaky when he draws it in.

“That’s because you’re blind and an idiot.”

Jim laughs, a little wetly.

“Come here, Bones. It still hurts to stand up.”

He goes.

He could never resist Jim, not like this, not when his whole body aches for it. And Jim has never asked before.

McCoy sinks into the couch, lets the dip in the pillows slide him side by side with Jim. He lifts his arm, lets it fall behind Jim’s shoulders, pulling him close. Jim settles into him with a heavy sigh, palm fitting itself over McCoy’s thigh. Exhaustion seems to fall over them both, McCoy’s eyelids drooping as he presses his lips to the top of Jim’s head.

An idea crosses his mind, then, his brows turning down in suspicion.

“Is this why you applied to that vice-admiral position?” he asks, feeling Jim stiffen even before he finishes the sentence.

“I’m not answering that,” Jim mutters.

“Idiot.”

McCoy sighs.

☆☆☆

In the labs, the day after Centera and the flower and a night of very little sleep, McCoy is almost surprised when Spock joins him. The research he’s doing isn’t pressing, but it’s interesting enough to keep his mind off things. Spock seems determined not to give him any respite.

“Doctor, I wish to apologize for last night.”

McCoy straightens up. His mouth twists in a grimace as he leans against the desk, hands gripping the edges of it.

“There’s really no need to apologize. Let’s forget about it, alright?”

“If I made you uncomfortable–“

“You didn’t.”

Spock stands at parade rest, shoulders stiff and hands clasped behind his back. His eyes narrow just so, expressing their doubt of McCoy’s answer.

“Really, Spock. It’s fine.”

“I do not believe it is ‘fine’, as you say. I had no right to demand you cease accepting gifts from others.”

Clearing his throat, McCoy finds it impossible to meet his gaze. He can’t exactly tell him he would very much like giving Spock the right to stake a claim on him. He bites the inside of his cheek, and Spock must mistake it for discomfort.

“Leonard, please allow me to apologize. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, or for this to affect our continued… work together.”

It’s not like Spock to hesitate. Suddenly, McCoy is struck with the idea that maybe, Spock truly enjoys his company and is worried this will put a strain on their…

Well, now he’s the one trailing off. Friendship? Work relationship? He’s not sure what to call it. They have to be friends, but to declare it out loud? Whatever Spock had been about to say, he’s relieved he changed it.

“It won’t affect anything, Spock, I promise.” He chances a glance at him, finding his scrutiny as difficult to handle as the day before. He has the strangest feeling that Spock wants to say something emotional. “How about we forget the whole thing and carry on as usual?”

“If that is your wish, Doctor.”

It both is and isn’t. Still, he musters up a strained smile, waving at the desk in general and his microscope in particular.

“Well, this research won’t complete itself.”

“It certainly will not, Doctor, as that would indicate it has become sentient.”

His smile turns a little less strained at that.

☆☆☆

It’s barely an hour later that Spock enters Jim’s quarters. Jim’s fast asleep on McCoy’s shoulder, and there’s a crick in his back that’s going to be hell once he gets up.

“You did not inform me of the captain’s release,” Spock starts.

“Obviously,” McCoy replies with an added eyeroll. “He needs sleep, not a continuation of last night’s argument.”

Spock looks as unhappy as a Vulcan can get on a normal day.

“Your appearance suggests you solved the argument for him.”

Giving Spock a fond smile, McCoy pats the narrow space beside him. It takes a few meaningful additional pats to make Spock actually sit down, back ramrod straight and hands on his knees. Now that Spock’s here, a warm body just barely pressed against him, McCoy’s unsure how to proceed.

“Jim’s requested a second five-year mission,” is what he manages to say, tilting his head uncomfortably to look at Spock.

"That is news to me.”

“Did you have any other plans after this mission ends?”

Spock glances down at Jim, then back up.

“I have received some invitations.”

“I thought understatement was illogical. You must’ve gotten more than some.”

The tension at the corner of Spock’s lips turns irritated.

“Most were not fit for consideration.”

Jim lets out a quiet snore, almost startling him. He’s still asleep, though. Which is good, because he should probably talk to Spock without Jim listening in first.

“Well, let’s not beat around the bush. We were both waiting to see what Jim would do.”

Spock does not acknowledge it, but McCoy knows it’s true. He knows Spock well enough to read when silence means disagreement, and when it means he just doesn’t want to admit the other person is right.

“Y’know, Spock, it’s kind of weird to hear people arguing about dating you. Especially when they could just as well be arguing about dating each other.”

“If you and Jim have resolved things between you–“

McCoy grabs Spock over the wrist, effectively silencing him. He stares down at their hands. While he’s not touching skin, it still feels significant. Slowly, Spock’s grip on his own knee loosens, and he turns his wrist at McCoy’s prompting, palm up.

“I suppose we have,” he mumbles, sliding his fingertips along the inside of Spock’s wrist, over the shirt, pausing just where it ends before the heel of Spock’s palm. “But only insofar as agreeing that there are feelings present and that the rest is complicated.”

“I am certain there is an appropriate solution.”

Is it wishful thinking, or does Spock sound a little strained? Thoughtful, McCoy pushes his pointer finger forwards, pressing into soft skin. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and he glances up at Spock’s face. McCoy has always been told he has a surgeon’s hands, and it is with precision that he moves now, tips of fingers brushing over the lines on Spock’s curved palm, settling in the middle.

“Leonard,” Spock says, and he does sound strained now.

“Yes?” he asks, innocently.

“If you are not aware of the significance in Vulcan culture of touching hands–“

McCoy presses his fingers down, Spock pausing to draw in a sharp breath. He can’t help the grin forming on his lips, the heat blooming in his chest.

“I’m aware,” he teases. “Well, sort of aware. You and Uhura didn’t seem to do much of the sort.”

“It was not her preference.”

Spock is definitely strained now, blinking down at their hands with flared nostrils. McCoy should take pity on him, but it’s nice to be the one in charge for once.

“The thing about feelings, Spock, is that they tend to spring up on you unawares. And maybe you and Jim are right. Maybe I should stop avoiding them. But I’m not going to let you two argue about which one of you gets to do the honors, alright?”

He watches Spock swallow, watches his fingers twitch as McCoy keeps digging his fingertips into the meat of his palm.

“It’s a little insulting when you tell me to confess to Jim and you won’t even do the same.”

“I was not aware you held such feelings for me,” Spock chokes out.

McCoy does take pity on him, then, removing his hand. He sighs, knocking his knee against Spock’s.

“You’re something else, both of you,” he says. “Yes, I like you, Spock, and I like Jim, too. And you’re both driving me absolutely crazy in the worst possible ways. What were you even trying to accomplish, convincing each other to date me?”

“Well, excuse us for trying to make you happy, Bones.”

A look down at Jim shows he’s still got his eyes closed, but he must have woken up quietly enough for McCoy to miss it.

“What, by making yourselves miserable?”

Jim groans, stretching his legs out before burying his face into McCoy’s shoulder. He mumbles something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“I believe he said, ‘you are the one who is miserable’.”

He gives Spock a glare for good measure.

“I was doing perfectly well, thank you.”

Huffing, Jim sits up, shifting to make himself more comfortable with one leg folded underneath himself.

“Are we going to keep arguing or can we skip to the part where we kiss and make up?”

He tugs at McCoy’s shirt, impatient, eyes glittering with mirth. McCoy feels an overwhelming sense of affection for him, for the fact that they get to sit here and argue about something like this, for him being alive and for Spock’s inevitable rebuttal.

“Captain, it is logical to resolve our discussion before moving on to such displays of affection.”

“Hmm, well, if you’re asking me as captain…”

“You’re on bed rest,” he grumbles at Jim, faking outrage, before turning to Spock. “And you’re supposed to be on the bridge.”

He stands, biting his cheek against the amusingly insulted look on Jim’s face.

“Bones, I already said you’re cruel, but you’re really the cruelest–“

Jim’s mouth snaps shut when McCoy reaches a hand out, pulling him up. The wary look soon turns delighted when McCoy leans in for a chaste kiss, tasting Jim’s lips for the first time since that time they got drunk at the Academy.

It’s soft and quick, just enough to feel his heart flutter and his cheeks heat up.

“I’m serious about the bed rest,” he says, glaring when Jim immediately opens his mouth to make a lewd suggestion.

“…fine,” Jim relents, swallowing down whatever idea he’d been about to blurt out.

“Perhaps the Doctor may join you,” Spock says, and both he and Jim turn to Spock with equal shock.

“Spock,” McCoy splutters, even as Jim’s face threatens to split in two with how wide he’s grinning.

“I knew I could count on you,” Jim says, reaching out for Spock before hesitating. “I mean, maybe we should talk about it, but I…”

In silent answer, Spock lifts his hand to meet Jim’s, gently caressing the back of his fingers with the tips of his own.

“Jim, we may discuss this at length after you have had proper rest. I must return to the bridge.”

Spock turns to McCoy, opening his mouth before closing it again, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Oh, come here,” McCoy tells him, pulling him close by the front of his shirt and pressing their mouths together.

“Unfair,” Jim complains, but McCoy’s busy with the thrill of their contact, the knowledge that he’s actually kissing Spock darting around his brain.

He’s determined not to play favorites, but somehow Jim catching feelings for him was a lot more likely than Spock, and he thinks he’s allowed to feel a little smug about the way Spock leans into the kiss like he’s needed it for a long time.

“I’ve known you longer so you should kiss me longer,” Jim says, but he’s smiling brightly and only laughs when McCoy pinches his cheek in retaliation.

“Bridge,” he tells Spock, whose expression is full of reluctance before he nods at them and leaves through the door.

Once he’s gone, Jim sidles up to him, hugging his waist and leaning his chin on McCoy’s shoulder.

“We should have done this way sooner,” Jim mumbles, and McCoy turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Technically, we shouldn’t be doing this at all. It’s just that neither of you have any sense.”

“Ouch, Bones. I’m already wounded.”

He doesn’t look wounded, though. He looks like he’s seen the wonders of the universe for the first time, and it’s almost too much for McCoy to bear. Something tugs at his heart, something painful and familiar. A sweet pain, tinged with promises and delight.

He sees it mirrored in Jim’s eyes, and wonders why he waited so long.

“Bedtime for you,” he says gruffly, maneuvering Jim towards the bed like an unruly child.

“Bones,” Jim groans as he falls on his back, making a face at the lingering pain in his side. “You’re supposed to kiss it better, have a little bedside manner. Don’t tell me Spock’s the one who brings out your softer side.”

“I don’t have a soft side,” he lies, tugging off Jim’s shoes first and then his own. “And if you keep complaining I really will drag you back to sickbay.”

Jim pinches his lips together obediently as McCoy climbs onto the bed beside him, shuffling around a little awkwardly with the covers. It’s been a while since he shared a bed with someone, but Jim only beams at him once he’s finally settled.

“No funny business,” McCoy warns him, but he’s helpless against an answering smile when Jim’s laughter fills the room.

“I’ll be serious,” Jim says, turning towards him, smile turning into a smirk. “Extremely serious.”

“Not when you’re wounded you won’t.”

McCoy pushes Jim’s face away from his own, but only for a moment. Soon enough they’re warm and cozy under the covers, and McCoy knows his arm will fall asleep quickly with Jim’s heavy head on it, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

He knows it won’t be easy from here on out, but maybe just this once he can drop his worries and pull Jim a little closer, send a thought towards Spock on the bridge where he’s keeping their ship and crew running. Just as he’s had the thought, the door wooshes open, and a moment later Spock appears beside the bed.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asks immediately, starting to sit up before McCoy pushes him back down.

“Well, well, well,” McCoy drawls, enjoying the way Spock’s eyebrow twitches just a bit in embarrassment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you only spent enough time on the bridge to hand over command and then rushed back here like you had the devil hot on your heels.”

“Vulcans do not rush,” Spock disagrees.

He does, however, delicately remove his shoes and his blue science shirt, ignoring Jim’s appreciating whistle at the sight of his bare arms in the black t-shirt underneath. Scooting closer towards the wall dividing the bed from the rest of Jim’s quarters, McCoy decides not to argue back in favor of letting Spock join them.

The bed is a little cramped with all three of them in it, despite the captain getting all sorts of luxuries compared to most of the crew. Jim pulls Spock closer, their legs tangling, Spock’s hand hesitantly folding over McCoy’s where it rests on Jim’s chest.

“Personally, I think this is a great idea,” Jim says, letting out a happy sigh.

McCoy, whose position is not the most comfortable, resigns himself to a horrible sleep schedule until they figure out a way to either widen the bed or perhaps take turns.

“Great, you can explain it to the admiralty.”

Jim’s second sigh is more of an annoyed huff.

“Spock can explain it to them,” he says, grabbing Spock’s face to drown his objections in a kiss.

Well, McCoy thinks, leaning up to watch. Maybe alien predictions aren't so bad, after all.