At best, It would take them several more weeks to limp home. But he calculated the probability of success at 98.9%: Mr. Scott was a competent engineer, Mr. Chekov was a proficient navigator, and on the whole the crew itself was well above average. He was likewise certain that his own performance was similarly adept. His every action had been purely logical, without the slightest emotional bias. He knew this, because if he felt anything at all, it was that his human side no longer existed. It had died, along with the ship's captain and communication's officer.
He did not mourn its loss. It was, after all, preferable to the alternative.
"Nurse Chapel informs me that you reported for your shift in a state of inebriation," Spock said.
Dr. McCoy looked back at him, unshaven and puffy-eyed, and took another drink.
"She also expressed concern, on behalf of the medical staff, that you are not dealing with your bereavement in a manner which is either healthy or constructive."
"Well, I considered pretending he never existed, but figured that wasn't too bright an idea." It sounded something like an accusation, but it was possible that he was misinterpreting.
"We did this all the time, you know," the doctor continued. "She and I, when we'd come close to losing one or both of you. We'd just get drunk while you were sedated or covering the paperwork, and try to figure out how we were going to fit your pieces back together."
"As your commanding-" Spock began, but McCoy cut him off.
"Nyota loved you. I guess the feeling wasn't reciprocal."
Spock has the doctor pinned to the wall by the throat before the need to move had even registered. He loosened his grip almost immediately, but did not move away. "And I see you have spent entirely too much time with Jim."
"Not nearly enough."
He could taste the bitterness of those words on his tongue as he lent in to kiss him. Although, perhaps kiss was not the right word. All of his previous experiences with the act had either been a manifestation of an emotional connection, or performed under extreme duress or the influence of a mind altering substance. This was neither of those things. And it was all of them.
His fingers dug into McCoy's hips. They were at the wrong angle and there were hard planes where there should have been smooth curves. The doctor's hands were clenched around his shoulders, and he could tell that similar comparisons were being made about him. Their not-kissing turned violent; he felt a sharp sting as his lip split open, and when they pulled apart to allow McCoy oxygen his lips were smeared with green.
Nyota had not been a biter. She had scratched though, scored marks across his shoulder blades and back as she came, head thrown back until the tendons in her neck jutted out. He dug his nails into the doctor's thighs as he slid his pants and undergarments to floor. When the differences between the two were made so obvious, he reasoned, comparisons should cease.
He was correct. He did not think of Leonard at all. His mind was full of Nyota: the questions she asked back when she was merely his brightest pupil, the way her illogical preference for dangling earrings and the mini-dress contrasted with her practical footwear and short nails, the feel of her body as she lay curled alongside him in the mornings, her worry over word choice as she wrote and rewrote her request to be put in command of the delta shift on Tuesdays, her determination, her brilliance, Nyota, Nyota, ashayam.
Leonard came with a sob that might have been a curse, and might have been a name. He was uncertain of everything as the hand in his hair shifted back to his shoulder and pulled him forwards.
/
Dr. McCoy was placed on compassionate leave. Spock handled the paperwork himself. He spent the remainder of his shift sitting in Jim's chair, and watching the reflection of Nyota's station in the view screen.