I was not expecting this to get so long. Originally, this was intended to be a one-shot, but I split it into three chapters. In my fanfic universe's timeline, McCoy and Spock mentally bonded after the events of "The Immunity Syndrome." However, I am still working on writing that part of the story, and I tend to update this universe in sporadic installments, though it follows a linear timeline.
While "The Empath" is one of my favorite episodes of TOS, there are several issues with it from a writing standpoint. Some of the major problems are the Vians' way of saving another sentient race, taking three men captive when only one test subject is needed, and McCoy not being punished for tranquilizing Spock and Kirk, despite his intentions. This is my interpretation of the questions I have about this episode, but I won't insist this is canon (and frankly, Star Trek is very much open to differing headcanon).
Continuity Notes: Donna McCoy (married name Withers) is referenced in Dreams of the Raven by Carmen Carter, and met by Kirk in Crisis on Centaurus by Brad Ferguson. She was not given any speaking lines in either book, so I had a blank slate to work with. Dr. David McCoy having a strained relationship with his son due to Eleanora McCoy dying in childbirth is from Crucible: McCoy: The Provenance of Shadows by David George III. The Darnells, McCoy's community being closed to new families, and Jocelyn having a pre-arranged marriage to Clay Treadway are from Shadows on the Sun by Michael Jan Friedman. I actually do not take Star Trek I or V as part of my personal canon due to various reasons, but there are three elements from V that I include: the camping scene between Kirk, Spock, and McCoy, McCoy terminating his father's life support, and Scotty and Uhura eventually forming a relationship. I have seen fan interpretations where doctor or family-assisted euthanasia is legal in Star Trek, and went off of that. Conyers is never mentioned as McCoy's hometown, but I've seen this as his town in multiple fan works, due to DeForest Kelley hailing from there.
"Your decision is highly unethical."
Spock looked vulnerable like that, completely surprised, and fighting to stay awake. McCoy ached to see him in such a way, the betrayal evident on his face. Spock likely wouldn't forgive him for this, but he found that he didn't much care. He was alive, he was uninjured, and he was safe. It could not have been logical, how he had underestimated his importance. If they were going to get out of here alive, Spock's mind would be needed.
But more so, McCoy knew that it was out of his own guilt that he had done it. Two years ago, he thought he had accidentally blinded the man he had loved. It was a shade of his unhappiness that remained from before that hung over this. He felt that he had to atone. In some ways, his reasoning was also selfish, having grown used to feeling Spock's presence in his mind, and hearing his thoughts. He didn't wish for that connection to be destroyed. He decided against wallowing in self-pity on it; he hadn't been expecting to find someone to want to spend his life with, again, after Jocelyn. If the glimpse of happiness (though not necessarily bliss) was all he could be afforded in his lifetime, then that was enough.
Spock had Jim. He would be all right.
His resignation, however, met a fierce, desperate battle. Spock mentally fought with him as he struggled to stay awake. He pleaded with McCoy to reverse the dosage, and let him go, his mental control slipping with his fading awareness. Fear of what the Vians would do to his lover prickled through him, with grotesque mental images that sent chills racing down McCoy's spine immediately cancelled. McCoy knew he had the upper hand, anyway, but nevertheless decided to soothe his body into sleep. He projected calmness to Spock and shared an image of the two of them having that drink, during the incident involving the Tholians. It would be all right, he projected, it would all be all right, as it had been then.
Spock collapsed beside the bench, and McCoy sighed. It would be the last time that he would ever see him. For it all to end like this…He couldn't be upset over it now. It was too late. Pity he hadn't thought of something poetic to say to Spock, but that would have given him away. He spared Gem one final glance and could see how utterly lost she appeared to be, his fear mirrored back at him. "Take care of my friends," he ordered quietly as the Vians waited for him, "They'll take you home." Gem's face, however, remained lost, and McCoy felt dread descending upon him as he was taken away.
XXXXXX
He thought he heard someone call out to him, but he wasn't sure. McCoy's eyes were open, but he wasn't registering the movements of gold, blue, and a light purple before him.
After some time, the utter horror he'd felt at his own body being mutilated had faded away. He had come to silently accept it, the pain overtaking all of it, leaving him with numbness. He had a name, he thought, but couldn't quite recall it. Someone was cradling his limp body and lying it down upon a soft surface. The voices slowly registered as Jim and Spock hovered over him. Two fingers were placed upon his arm. Spock was kissing him. A last kiss, how romantic. He'd come for him. He shouldn't have done that, he should have taken Jim and Gem, and returned to the ship. But, all the same, Leonard was relieved to see him.
"How long?" Kirk asked quietly, his voice betraying his utter helplessness.
"It could be anytime."
He had to quip with Spock about that. Too bad it caused him to cough. But damned if he came off as too wounded to not resemble himself. He lurched sideways upon the couch and felt Spock's hand steadying him. It always seemed to, but that was silly. He'd only known the man three years out of his long life. How could he place so much importance upon him?
Then again, he had run from companionship, in the past. He had often shirked his emotional problems, or utterly failed to deal with them. Had he not run off to space, he would not be dying now. But he would not have met either of these men that he was willing to give his life for. He'd felt utterly alone without Jocelyn, and alone with her, as well, as their marriage fell apart. He'd gotten lost in his own mind and was short-sighted with what his own daughter was going through. She didn't need him. She needed a parent, not a hollow shell of a man. At least, that was what he'd told himself, and believed, at the time, for as warped as his mind had been. But that couldn't be changed. It was all slipping from him. He was falling into darkness, and little by little, he began drift away.
Spock looked utterly exhausted. He hoped that the Vulcan had remained passed out for most of his session, as the hypo he'd given him been potent enough to last for a few hours. Now, however, he knew that his mate could feel the pain radiating from him. He was sorry about that. McCoy chided himself for being so selfish. He should have cut the bond, and Spock would not have suffered anything. But, whether it was due to a childish or animalistic element buried within him, he couldn't do it. He didn't want to die alone. He could try to cut it now, but given the amount of pain he was in, he could barely see straight, let alone focus upon such a thing.
And Spock was so tired…McCoy knew that he was making it worse, by suffering like this, and dragging him through it, but cutting the bond was another thing. It would rip him from Spock's mind, disorienting him, and leaving a wound where he had once been used to having McCoy's presence. Even ignoring the emotional component, which Spock would not consider or acknowledge, there was simply the fact that he was so used to Leonard, as Leonard was to him. And right now, miles below ground on a lost planet, whose star was about to go supernova, it was the last thing he needed.
Leonard's father had grown philosophical about death, in his weakening state. He'd asked his son not to bring Joanna to visit him, as he didn't want her to see him so sick like this. The only other accepted visitor was Donna. It had taken her longer to be at his side, due to travel from Centaurus. Leonard, meanwhile, had been on Earth, his ship having docked for refit. He was granted leave to care for his ailing father, but it had felt, in some ways, as if he was still on a different world. He was isolated from his hometown, as he had always been, the prodigal son returning to nothing. As for his father, it was if the tension between them had been forgotten. Leonard didn't care, as it wasn't worth it.
David often needed his help to move about, as well as to be fed. His body mass had been greatly reduced, and his was hair falling out. From time to time, he barely recognized his son, save for whenever Leonard raised his head, and locked his gaze on him. He figured, cynically, that his father recognized him as an extension of Eleanora, rather than himself. It was better, he supposed, to be thought of as an extension, than a tumor. Eventually, he had to carry his father, like a baby, to bed. Donna, upon arriving, took over her brother's shifts in the house, even flat out ordering him to go lay down.
It was Leonard who broached the subject one night. Donna had collapsed, exhausted, at the kitchen table, and he'd pushed a plate of food before her. "If Dad stays here, he's not going to live for very much longer," he commented.
Donna solemnly nodded her head. "I know, but wouldn't he want to die here? This is his home."
He folded his arms. "And he wouldn't want to live with wires and machinery sticking out of him."
Donna gave him a pleading look. "Hasn't there been any progress on the cure at all?"
He gestured over his shoulder to the doorway to the hallway. To the left was his father's office, which he had taken over. "I've been checking the feeds constantly. Research is still stalling. Optimists are saying that a cure is around the corner, but progress has looked more like a loop."
"What are you saying, then? We take Dad to a hospital, and hope that maybe he sticks it out long enough for a cure? What kind of life is that?" Donna asked, her voice taking on an edge.
"It's his choice."
She slid her plate aside. "He barely recognizes you, from time to time."
He indicated his uniform, which he had continued to wear off-duty. "Hence, this. Even if he doesn't, I'll still be talking to him as a doctor. This, he recognizes. Maybe it'll make it easier for him to think that way."
"Do what you want," Donna replied in acquiescence, "but don't be surprised by his answer."
He nodded, standing to leave. A half hour later, he descended the stairs, and returned to still find her sitting at the kitchen table, her plate cleared, and staring at the wall. She turned her head sharply at his entrance. "He wants to go," he announced quietly.
"What do you think made him change his mind?" Donna inquired.
"I didn't press him on it, but you remember how Dad was with his patients. He's a fighter."
"Think it'll last?" Donna asked.
Leonard leaned against the door frame. "We'll see," he buried his head in his arm, "I don't want to think about it right now."
Donna sighed. "Len, there was a message for you."
"From who?" He swore. "Is it from Fred? Is it about Joanna?" He dropped his arm. "Is she all right?" He'd been so buried in the feeds that he hadn't paid attention his personal inbox.
She waved a hand. "She's fine. It's about her, though. The Darnells sent it."
He groaned at the mention of his former in-laws. "What do they want? Of course, they'd send a message, even if we're just a few streets apart."
Donna folded her knee and propped it against herself. "They want Joanna."
Leonard's gaze hardened. "They're not getting her. I have a copy of the custody papers in my desk. Don't tell me they're trying this again!" He paced back and forth in anger, "They didn't want anything to do with her while we were married!"
Donna nodded solemnly. "I scanned the copy and sent that to them as a reply. I also told them in polite terms to get lost."
"What excuse are they using this time?" He asked, stopping.
"That you're an unfit father for sending her off to a colony. Centaurus doesn't fit the bill. I attached a copy of the Centaurus City charter, as well," she added. The first argument he'd had with the Darnells over his daughter was that he was mentally unfit, after the divorce, of parenting Joanna. Leonard, while humiliated by the accusations, had defended himself, as he had taken care of her, despite the hole his depression had lowered him into.
While visiting his son and granddaughter, David had taken Leonard aside, and spoke quietly with him about his current circumstances. Despite his anger about not having been reached out to for any assistance or solace before, Leonard had agreed that something needed to be done. He'd been shocked that his father, despite their clashes, cared about him that much. But then David returned to the main room, picked up Joanna, and placed her upon his knee. Leonard shook his head and chided himself. After seeing the poster to join Starfleet, he contacted Donna.
It wasn't petty revenge, he knew that much. It was the fact that she was Jocelyn's daughter. It was a contained community, with the Darnells being one of the oldest. Jocelyn had eventually gotten together with her pre-planned mate, Clay, after all. Leonard knew his in-laws had disliked him for disrupting that arranged marriage and saw Joanna as merely an indicator of that. However, it was likely that other arrangements involving Joanna could be made, and he would not have had a say in it. That was, if the Darnells had their way.
"Thanks," he replied, and she nodded. He realized how much he missed seeing his daughter, although she felt like a lifetime away. He wouldn't expose her to this.
David's resolve eventually ran out, within the confines of the hospital. Leonard's heart sank as his father called him in alone and told him that it was time. Out in the hall, Donna's head was in her hands as she wept. She scrubbed at her eyes. "Len, no. Don't bring this on yourself."
He knelt before her. "Donna, I've shouldered him already. Let me see this through to the end." She raised her blood shot eyes, and he added, "He knows me better than he knows you, now."
She brought her arms about her brother. "I'll go in with you. You'll need a witness, as proof that he wanted you to do this."
Leonard shut his eyes and buried his head in her hair. She used to smell different when she was younger, of sweet smoke, dirt, and cheap booze. Now she smelled of perfume, tropical flora, and metal, all smells of Centaurus. She squeezed him, and he knew that if he backed out, she would take it. But that was exactly why he stood up with a tight nod to her. "We can't keep putting this off," he decided.
Donna nodded, and stood, gathering herself with a sigh.
The room was darkly lit, with McCoy's father appearing to have more in common with a medical dummy than a man. His chest barely rose and fell. His hair had withered way from the illness. He didn't turn his head to register the footsteps of his son and daughter as they reentered the room.
Leonard's sister stood at the closed door, her hands folded, and silently kept vigil.
He had half a mind to remove his ring from his finger, as it seemed like he was taunting his father with the image, but let the thought go. Rather, it seemed fitting, that a reminder of his mother would be there. He scrubbed vigorously at the tears that stung the corners of his eyes. His father slowly turned his head to stare at him, barely able to form an expression upon his face. Leonard nearly turned and walked away, telling himself that he couldn't do it. How could his father have given him permission to take his life? He was in too much pain to think clearly.
David's gaze locked upon something, though not him, exactly. Leonard was caught off guard for a moment, until he realized that it was the ring on his hand. He raised his gaze to him, his eyes narrowing as he registered him standing there. Leonard hesitated at that. Donna said nothing. Donna, for all he could register, was not even there. If David said the word, or gave the slightest indication, he would leave now. For as much as it tore at him to see his father in pain, there was still a chance that a cure could be produced, if only he waited longer. There could have been a chance that his father had reacted emotionally and wanted death in just one moment. While it was legal to euthanize him after receiving consent, he couldn't take it in good faith.
David gave a very slight nod, and Leonard's hand felt like lead. "Dad," he whispered, his hand moving toward the controls for the life support machine, "I'm so sorry." David's eyes drifted shut for the last time.
Leonard felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Donna. She closed her eyes, and solemnly nodded her head. For a moment, he felt as if he was a little boy again, waiting for his father to come home from a long shift at the clinic. Donna's hand remained upon him as he collapsed into a chair next to the corpse and realized that both of their parents were now dead. Donna's blue eyes stared through him, and he figured that she probably saw it, too.
And back in time, all those years ago, his older sister came out and sat on the porch steps with him. Leaning his head on her shoulder, his face pale in the moonlight, Leonard murmured, "Tell me about Mom."
She'd always start by raising a finger to her lips and warning him never to talk about her in front of Dad. When he was little, and asked why, she told him it would only upset him. She'd gone away and would never come back. Leonard, being had found that hard to understand, as they visited a headstone labeled ELEANORA MCCOY four times every year to place flowers.
She'd tell him that Mom was sweet, and intelligent. She enjoyed needlework and gardening. She couldn't carry a tune and was quite stubborn. She was also quite meticulous and tended to argue with their father about matters that bothered her. It was something his sister had in common with her, as well.
Sitting with his head back against the wall, the stairwell beside him, Leonard would listen to his father and sister scream at each other. His sister would take the offensive, and demand that her father stop neglecting his son. His father then would yell at her to hold her tongue. Whenever Donna pressed the point (and she often did) that it was unfair for Leonard to be ignored, her father would say something awful about him. Leonard, overhearing it, would put his head in his knees, and pretend that he did not exist.
"Hey, cowboy," Donna greeted, her elbow propped up on the surface of the bar and staring down into her glass. Her black shawl was draped over her shoulders, and a few telltale signs of her mascara dripping shadowing her eyes. Leonard set his glass down upon the beside her and swung onto the stool. "Anyone else left?"
He shook his head. "Just us. They won't kick us out until another hour."
She put a hand to her forehead. "I probably shouldn't have drunk so much. I'll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow."
"It's a wake. You've got a good reason to," he replied, swirling his glass.
Donna lowered her chin to her arm, staring out at the tap. "Tell me about Dad."
He stared into his glass. "He wouldn't want you to hear it."
"I know," she replied, "but what he never understood was that I always saw him like that. He had ugliness within him for much longer than he had the disease."
Leonard raised his glass to his lips. "After Mom died?"
Donna rubbed at her temples. "It's wrong to speak ill of the dead, but it's also wrong to lie." She dropped her hands, her decision made. When she turned her head, he already knew what she was going to say from the utterly pained expression on her face. It twisted a knife that had wedged itself into his heart many years ago. "I had a lot of fights with him about you. It wasn't your fault that Mom died, and it wasn't right for Dad to take it out on you."
"It was either he did, or he railed at the universe. I've done that. It's useless," Leonard replied, putting his face in his hand to avoid looking at his reflection in the bar's mirror.
"Leonard," Donna's voice took on a warning tone, "that doesn't make it right."
"It doesn't matter," he replied, his voice muffled by his hand.
"'It doesn't matter,' he says, while not even being able to look at me," she repeated in annoyance.
He dropped his hand and glared at her. "You weren't there the whole time. I was. I can decide if it matters."
Donna stared down at her lap. "You're just like me, you know. We both run away when things are too much for us."
Leonard narrowed his eyes. "I tried to stay in Conyers. That's more than you did."
"You had a reason. You had your practice, and you had Jocelyn. I didn't have either." She shook her head. "Come on, Len, you can't be this dense. Dad was ashamed of me. The town could at least accept you as a doctor, but me? It wasn't until I got to Centaurus City that I even figured out what I wanted to do with my life."
Silence fell between them. Leonard's fist tightened on the bar. "You stayed for me, didn't you?"
"And if I didn't? Neither of us fit in, there. It was hard to make friends." She cleared a lock of hair away from her face. Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat before trying again. "Mom looked forward so much to having you. I can honestly say that you're one of the best things to happen to me."
"How?" He prompted, "Most of your fights with Dad were about me. If it hadn't been for me, Mom would still be here."
Donna brought her fist down upon the bar. "Damn you, Leonard!" Her glass tipped over, and she barely caught it in time. "You still don't understand, even after all this time. I loved hearing about how much you wanted to be a doctor, when you were little. With Dad away so much, you kept me company. I liked to teach you about the world and see what interested you."
"You were parenting me. Dad should've been there," Leonard pointed out, guilt descending upon him, "You shouldn't have fought with him over me. It only made things worse."
"If it did, then, I'm sorry." Donna sighed. "Len, we've got to quit meeting like this."
"Not as if I plan it that way," he muttered bitterly, "I hadn't often heard from you during my marriage and divorce, either."
"I was on a different planet, it's a little difficult to communicate," she replied evenly.
His eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that claptrap! It's not as if you were part of a colony! Centaurus is a highly populated world."
"And you didn't call me much either. I didn't know how bad it was. When it comes to your problems, you hide things. It's hard to tell when something's bothering you."
The anger slowly died from his eyes. "What has Joanna told you?"
She braced her chin against the side of her hand on the bar. "She says that some nights, you and Jocelyn really scared her with how loudly you yelled at each other. It woke her up a few times." He looked away in embarrassment, recalling a couple of occasions when either Jocelyn or he comforted her before coaxing her back to sleep. Donna's eyes narrowed, and her arm dropped. "From what she tells me, I'd better not catch Jocelyn near you again."
His vision locked back on hers. "Not all of the fights were started by her." Several of them, to the point where he'd lost count, had been started by him, as well. Stressed and exhausted by long days at work, and used to their arguments, McCoy had instigated, channeling his negativity into a fight with her. It was childish, and only helped to widen the rift between them.
"Maybe not," she commented, "but you didn't take them that far."
"Doesn't matter, she's gone," he replied dismissively.
Donna shook her head. "Don't be so sure." Letting go of her glass, she cracked her knuckles. "I can see it in your eyes. If Jocelyn came back tomorrow, got on her knees, and begged you to take her back in, you would do it."
"I married her!" McCoy shouted in disdain, "Of course I would take her back!" Realizing how loudly he'd yelled at his sister, he sheepishly turned to take a swig. Placing the glass back down, he breathed hard before continuing, "But it won't happen. She's not coming back, and she never will."
Donna took a breath before continuing, "Joanna also told me that you always seemed sad after Jocelyn had gone. You took care of her well, but you couldn't hide that from her."
"I had a feeling," he muttered.
She lifted her hand, indicating that she didn't want to fight with him any longer. "I don't profess to know what you're going through. I imagine that if Fred left me, I'd be a wreck, too. But what I do know is that your daughter misses you." Donna tilted her head back and drained her glass before thumping it down on the bar. "I adore Joanna, but I don't want to replace you in her life."
"It's better than she's with you, anyway, after the bastard I've been."
She leaned forward. "Hon, you're not going to be happy if you continue to see yourself like that. And that's something I can't help you with."
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"I know that. I'm only saying it because you're my brother, and I love you," she slid off her stool, and walked away, her high heels tapping over the floor tile. Glancing over her shoulder, she called, "Take that for what it's worth."
XXXXXX
McCoy wasn't sure if his life signified much of anything. He'd ruined his first marriage by devoting his life to medicine, and for what? He might be remembered in the medical books, but that was about it.
He'd swum in and out of consciousness while the Vians had tortured him. Groaning, barely awake, he'd muttered, "Why three of us? Why not just me?"
"You are interchangeable, Doctor," one of them had replied simply, "If the empath fails, she will have two more chances. There are so many of you involved with the Federation. We can expend you."
He coughed, and hacked up blood on the floor, his body lurching. Having his feet dangling above the floor had caused him to lose his center of gravity. "Why not contact the Federation, then? We could help you. We could even save you."
The Vians looked at each other and let out sighs. One of them turned back to him. "You do not understand. We are the only two who remain. We have killed each other."
"Why?" McCoy rasped.
One of the Vians stepped back and indicated the room with a wave of his instrument. "Technological devotion. Our lives became meaningless in comparison."
"I don't understand." Squeezing his eyes shut, he yelped in pain as one of them sent a pulse through him that spread throughout his nerve endings. He jerked on the chains.
"This conversation would have been more productive, had it been with the Vulcan," one of the Vians commented. The other nodded.
"Don't touch him," McCoy groaned out.
"Doctor, you do not have that privilege of determination any longer."
"Fine, I ain't too proud to beg. You want to dissect me, then go ahead. Keep me alive through all of it. Revive me if you must. Just don't harm him."
One Vian shook his head. "Doctor, you don't understand. You aren't our object of interest. Rather, you are an instrument."
McCoy tilted his head to the side. "Beg your pardon?"
"We wish to leave behind our greatest legacy, to right our wrongs," the other Vian replied, "We wish to leave a society built upon compassion, and goodwill, as opposed to war and unfettered innovation."
"But to do it at the expense of others? How ethical is that? The Federation—"
"Interferes," one of the Vians cut him off, "This is our territory, to be cultivated as we see fit. It has been for generations."
"You didn't communicate with us. That outpost—" McCoy cried out as a blade sliced into his uniform, and tore into the skin beneath. He breathed heavily as his blood seeped down. He was beginning to think that the Vians were just not willing to listen to a contrary opinion. Perhaps they were also as single-minded as their computers, if that was their point. However, if there only two of them, it was also likely that they were attempting to hold onto whatever precious little power they had left.
"We were the dominant power in our domain for centuries, McCoy. We will keep our claim."
"You don't have the right!" McCoy spat. His lungs felt as if they were being squeezed, and he coughed, straining for air.
"Neither do you, yet your Federation explores, and takes the planets it desires. We wish only to lead the next race to fruition."
"Eugenics and genocide," McCoy commented, "This isn't about mercy, is it? This is your own pride."
"We do not want to fade. We want to leave a gift. The gift must not be extinguished." For once, an emotion, fear, seemed to enter the Vian's voice.
"And is this how you want to create your gift?" McCoy questioned.
"Doctor, you are one to talk. You and your commander were nearly lost, many times over, in your own histories," one of the Vians replied, "You cling so much to life for your own selfish purposes."
"I am only harming myself!" He replied evenly.
"That is comforting for you, but you are not in our position. You have but your captain and your commander to worry over. We have far more."
"Then tell us! Don't subject us to this! We can help you!" McCoy exclaimed in desperation.
"We do not want your help. We want our legacy. It is ours alone."
"Not when you're murdering innocent people to have it!" McCoy cried.
The Vians exchanged one last glance. "We have spent long enough arguing with you. It will not matter, as we will also be dead."
"Then that is your legacy, as well. Soak it up," McCoy hissed.
"We know, doctor, we know," one of the Vians replied before lifting a white-hot instrument toward him.
XXXXXX
Lying upon the couch proved to have a different reflection to him. Spock's gentle touch conveyed other memories to him, which he had considered not as important, but were viewed in a different lens. McCoy often spoke with Kirk, who valued his opinion, and leaned upon him for support. Jim would be lost without him. Several crewmembers had owed their lives to him, and his staff had thrived under his guidance. He hadn't much thought of it, curmudgeon he'd considered himself to be.
As for Spock himself, his mind was like a labyrinth, in that it consistently shifted. McCoy hadn't helped him to sort it out, as he lacked the resources to do so, but he had been a torch, a flame Spock could carry with him for warmth, and solace, if only for a while. While McCoy ribbed him over his different manner of thought, he had defended him, multiple times, for being who he was. He had a place with this human man, and now he was drifting away. He didn't have to weep, for Leonard could feel his despair.
It all seemed a fantasy, a sweet dream to keep him at peace. For all he knew, the afterlife was but a lie, and he was consigned to oblivion. His faith slipped further and further from him, as he felt his life force slipping from his fingers. He was facing utter obliteration, out of sight, out of mind. No love, no gentle touch of a friend could pull him back from the unknown.
But then, Spock called to him. "I will find you there, Ashayam."
Struck by his words, McCoy's eyes widened, and he rasped, "You've got a good bedside manner, Spock." Spock's eyes widened, and he released a breath. It pained McCoy to see him so upset, but it seemed whatever comforts he was offering his mate just weren't working anymore. He wanted to ask Spock why, but he was too tired. He leaned his head to the side and closed his eyes. He'd wait for his mate, wherever he was. It didn't make sense, but it gave him faith to cling to.