Disclaimer: All Star Trek characters belong to Paramount. Jessica Quaint belongs to me. I am doing this for fun, not for money.

Author's note: This is the third part in The Homerun trilogy. Although the first two parts created some of its background, it can still be read separately, with no great discomfort. Important to know: Jessica Quaint is a Beta Shift science officer, who had served with Spock before Kirk took command. She and three other female characters (Uhura, Chapel, Rand) had a peculiar adventure somewhere in the past, which made them close friends (Part 2. The Split). The time frame is mid second season.

Warning: this is still an adventure story, but I must confess that I have for once indulged my own inclination towards relationship-centered storyline, and if emotionalism is not your preference, you'd be wise to skip this. I should have been stronger, but (sigh) what have you.

Note of gratitude: Any feedback much appreciated. Special thanks to SLWatson for support, rendered despite my many flaws, and invaluable advice.

Codes: K&S, S&M, Sc, U, ensemble. General/Adventure/Drama/Friendship.

Summary: What happens when you take one particular friendship several steps too far?

HOMERUN

Part 3. The Finish Curve

By Anna Amuse

Prologue

Automatically, he looked in the mirror and frowned. The expression was becoming him, the color was not. The color looked weird. It was, if anything, too cheerful, too optimistic. He felt neither. It had been a week since he was obliged to wear this color. A week was not too short a time to get used to a simple change like that. Everyone else seemed fine with it, and he, most certainly, showed no sign of his own misgivings. But he had them, unreasonable as it was, though certainly not regarding the color, but rather what it represented.

If McCoy knew how he felt, the Doctor would have been ecstatic in chiding him. That is, if his CMO was still on speaking terms with him, which did not seem very likely. The last time they spoke, it definitely didn't sound friendly or even professionally respectful. He found that it was harder for him to deal with the former, than with the latter. After all, respect wasn't something the good Doctor demonstrated on regular basis. He had never thought he would miss the continuous nagging or glancing over his shoulder, and yet he did. This week seemed to be full of unpleasant discoveries.

The door chimed softly, and he turned to utter gravely:

"Enter."

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott stepped in, glancing around warily, before focusing his attention on his commanding officer.

"Ye've asked me to report when the engines are restored to full capacity, Captain," he said.

"I take it they are, Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, sir," he squirmed visibly under the continuous scrutiny.

The silence was becoming uncomfortable.

"You demonstrate signs of fatigue, Mr. Scott," the Captain observed finally. "Be sure you rest for at least six hours before returning to duty. That will be all."

"Aye, sir."

The Engineer started for the door, then, looked back, hesitating. Watching this familiar figure, rigid from unprecedented tension, he was suddenly awfully close to experiencing something he had never felt towards this person before – deep, burning compassion.

"If ye don't mind me sayin' so, sir, ye look mighty tired yerself."

There was no reply. Well aware he was playing with fire, Scotty stepped back in, just a bit, unable to stop himself.

"Ye had done what was necessary, Captain. It's no yer fault."

A sharp glance thrown at him made him shudder.

"Isn't it? What would you have done, had you been in my place, Mr. Scott?"

Damn. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Scotty shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know, sir."

"No, Mr. Scott. I didn't think that you would."

Suppressing a sigh, Scotty staggered back into the corridor, letting the door shut with a soft hiss. The Captain of the Enterprise stood once again alone in the semi-darkness. As he reached to turn the rotating shell back in order, his eyes caught a glimpse of his own reflection once more – a dark shadow clad in gold velour. He complied with his orders. Two stripes on his sleeves were the only indulgence he allowed himself to maintain, as if signaling to the world around him that he did not want to be here, not in this capacity, not like that. He felt a grimace of pain creasing his strict features, as he stared in the mirror. His appearance allowed almost any color to suit him easily. Yet, somehow, gold simply didn't want to fit.

With a decisive gesture of his hand, he slapped the mirror to face the wall. The color of one's uniform had actually very little to do with one's true colors. The revelation still rendered him pain and desolation, no matter how many hours he spent in meditation.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" Spock whispered softly. "Was I?"

But the soulless darkness held no answer for him that night. No answer and no hope. Only silence.