The Death of An Angel
Chapter 2

As if by magic, Scotty's sparkling transporter beams snatch up their particles and they all experience the odd, short tingling that accompanies the change in location. Their boots are each planted in the center of a tiny circular plate, but for one person the tingling doesn't stop and the transporter and the panel and purple wall keep tipping sideways until somebody catches his arm and straightens him.

He looks up and Scott is there, his eyes an overflowing combination of worry and relief. "Doctoor McCoy!" he bursts out. Scotty looks to Jim, expecting an "escort him to Sickbay," but his face is completely unrevealing when he glances at the doctor, and he turns away without saying a thing.

"Are yah all right?" Scotty says, anxiously.

Bones makes the effort to give him a slight smile. I'm not the one who's wounded, Scotty, and even if I am, there's someone here who's hurting even worse. But he replies, cordially, "I'm fine, Scotty, no need for concern. I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet, that's all. The cordracine has completely worn off."

If Scotty were a student of medicine, he wouldn't have believed it. Cordracine takes a few days to "wear off," with some odd effects in the meantime, he'll bet (he doesn't want to think about what the stuff did to him). But anyway, Scotty would never believe his explanation because, to him, they were only down on the planet for a short time. He didn't experience the—time-traveling,he forces himself to sounds so unreal, but they've done it before, and the sensation was almost as weird as when—Not now!

"Well, I'm certainly pleased to hear it," Scotty is saying when he focuses again. The man is smiling, but true to his character, his eyes are still melancholy. Bones is thankful, sometimes, that he's a doctor and not a certain overworked engineer. "Yeh were out o' sorts for a time, doctoor. Spock hadtah give yah the pinch."

But Bones doesn't hear this because his eyes are pinned to the concrete shoulders, following them out of the automatic doors and taking in Spock. Just the way the Vulcan's standing there—hands locked behind his back, head down—tells of a noiseless battle being fought.

I don't know if there's anything either of us can do, Spock, he says, silently, and interrupts Scotty's happy babbling. "If you'll excuse me, Scotty, I'd like to speak with Spock for a moment."

His response is all too hearty. "Why certainly, Doctor, don' lemae runnin' off at the mouth keep yah from yer duties . . ."

The dismissal leaves him slightly guilty. He turns and blurts, "Uh-hum—I'll stop by your quarters for a drink when I'm off-duty."

It was probably the one thing he could have said to pull Scotty's attention away from resetting the transporter controls; he grins wickedly. "Yer on, doctoor."

That resolved, he turns to Spock, who lifts his head and pulls his eyes back from the private place of contemplation that he is most comfortable in. "You wish to speak with me?" he says, but it is not really a question.

"I do. But I don't think this is the time or the place, do you?"

"I am needed on the Bridge," he says, as if deaf.

Bones reaches out and snatches a shoulder, turning Spock's graceful withdraw into a jerky, fierce movement. "Whoa! Not so fast, Spock. We both know there's nothing on the Bridge which requires your urgent attention, and besides, you sauntering around there like everything's just dandy's probably not the best of ideas, Jim the way he is." He doesn't need to say anymore; they both know what he is alluding to.

"Doctor"—Spock's voice is icy—"if it is your judgment that the captain is unfit for duty, you must log your report with him, not I."

"And you think he's not? Spock, you saw what just happened!"

"Indeed. And as you are so fond of reminding me, humans must sometimes give expression to their emotions. I believe that, given the circumstances, the captain's behavior was predictable, if unbecoming of a starship captain. It should be duly noted that he was not in command of anyone except myself at the time and that the crew suffered no resultant ill effects. Therefore, I judge the captain's behavior to be irrelevant to the current status of his command. Do you dispute my assessment of the situation?"

He shakes his head gently, still frowning. "No, Spock, but I've never seen—"

Spock understands that he doesn't know how to convey it and offers something to fill the gap in their conversation. "It is highly unlikely that the captain's experience will affect his ability to command. I say this with the confidence of my previous first-hand observations."

Bones blinks at him. "Hate to break it to you, Spock, but previous observation has little bearing on now. He's never faced anything like this that I'm aware of. I agree with you that there is naturally to be some trauma involved—and I think in this case that's understating it—but I can't relieve him unless I can get him to submit to some basic psychological tests."

Spock looks as impatient as he ever gets, a brief inhalation serving as a sigh. "Again, that would require that you speak with the captain, not I. Should that fail, I suggest that you exercise the medical authority granted you by the position of Chief Medical Officer. Good day, Doctor McCoy." The automatic doors open and swallow him.

Bones sticks his head out and follows him into the hallway, but Spock is already entering the turbolift. Frustrated, he curses and slams his palm into a bulkhead. Spock isn't going to back him up on this, and he has a feeling that nothing he can say or do will get Jim into that Sickbay without making a scene, not even the ol' "unfit for duty" card.

True, he's seen Jim in pain before, but not like this—never this much. His mind reels at how it must feel to have to keep himself composed like that, when it's the last thing on earth he feels like doing. It is a much wounded Jim who doesn't strike back when he's been hurt; such retaliation is second nature to him.

Why didn't you destroy the portal, the Guardian? I don't understand what happened down there, but I know you wouldn't want anyone else to go through it. I don't think any counterargument Spock would have spewed about "preserving scientific artifacts" would have kept you from doing it, either, if you were mad enough. But I guess the most important question here is, "Why didn't you save her?" I could tell you wanted to, but it was like you couldn't, for some reason. Even as you held me back, it was like somebody, something, was holding YOU back. I wonder what it was . . .

He finds himself frowning at the automatic doors as if they've committed some offense against his person. He has no answers to any of his questions, and for what reason? Spock's not going to spill the beans; probably feels like it'd be violating Jim's privacy, the nut . . . Jim's already in a mood, so bringing it up with him is out of the question, at least until he dies down . . . And oh! How convenient! The same two people who can explain what happened down there are the same two people who aren't talking about it! There's a reason he's being left out of the loop and he wants to find out why, but—

"I'm a doctor, not a detective!" he growls. An idea hits him then, and he bursts through the doors and rushes to the transporter controls. "Scotty! How soon are you off-duty? I'm gonna need your help . . ."

Careful to keep it vague, he describes what he wants to do and the Scotsman launches into intricate explanations that he does his best to understand—this information is worth ignoring his aversion to technology. As he does so, he's aware that he's plotting the worst kind of betrayal. It'll be easy to clear Scotty's name—he'll just say that he tricked him into it. He can probably even get it past Starfleet with only some minor disciplinary action, as long as he explains the reasoning behind it. But what worries him is how to justify it to Jim, the victim of his conceived crime. It will be hard—no, close to impossible—to convince him that this is necessary. He'll almost certainly lose Jim's trust and respect, and possibly even the friend he has in his captain.

Well, lost friendships had never kept Leonard Horatio McCoy from doing his duty before, and they weren't going do so now. I'm really going to go through with this dirty plan, he realizes. I'm really going to do something wrong for reasons I think are right. But what's morality, he thinks, when your best friend is in agony? I have to do it, because I know, even without the tests—just that look on his face said it all, if you know Jim like I do!—that he can't take this one on alone, like he does so many other things. He's got to lean on us sometimes. Why doesn't he understand that? Well, he understands, but he's stubborn—too stubborn to admit he needs me, needs Spock . . .

At his science station on the Bridge, Spock bows his head briefly, not in the least surprised when Jim steps down and says quietly, "You have the conn. I'll be in my quarters." There is no accompanying smile. In fact, Jim hardly gives him the acknowledgement that he would the newest ensign.

Spock nods sagely as he stands. An unfortunate development. It would appear the doctor has legitimate cause for desiring to perform the standard battery of psychological tests. He collapses the line of thought and walks towards the captain's chair before seating himself in it, choosing to ponder the familiar planet which now fills the viewer, thanks to a few commands the captain issued before his departure.

Earth, Spock thinks. As it was meant to be—without a living, breathing Edith Keeler to plunge it into darkness. Odd—she did not intend to do so. Her intent was to assist those in poverty, or, failing that, to make them aware of the brightness she saw in humanity's future. The woman possessed a noble philosophy, but also very bad timing, he mused.

Because of the time he and the captain had spent together in the City, their mind-link had become increasingly difficult to suppress. There was a scientific explanation for it; this was not a failing due to his human half. Simply put, when there are minds present, a telepathic mind will almost impulsively attempt communication with them (even if the communication is one-way), much the way that humans require conversation and interaction with other humans to stave off a lethal feeling of loneliness.

The link is still fresh, and consequently Spock is finding it difficult to concentrate on maintaining command of the vessel, as he is both sensing and experiencing Jim's weariness, albeit not to the same degree. Slumber, he commands, knowing that it is best for the both of them.

Inside his cabin, Jim sinks to the sequined bedcovers without bothering to throw them back. In his current state, his mind is completely susceptible to Spock's suggestion. He doesn't even have time to come completely undone, as he'd planned to do.

Sleep, he thinks, and submits to it. The crack is there and hurts just as much as it did in the City, though he's kept from spilling out any further by pasting a thin veneer of control over it. He is certain that this sudden wave of semi-consciousness won't keep him from breaking. It has only postponed this agony, which lies like a lit bomb, counting down to itself, quietly . . .

Three . . . two . . . one—The mechanized voice of the computer pauses for a moment. Zero. With that calm word, the center of the great ship erupts in light, smoke, and fire, and he is in the center of it, burning at its heart. He is the great captain, going down with his ship . . .

"I don't want to die!" he calls out, or thinks he's called out, but it's too late—there's no chance to speak. There are simply thoughts that flash across his mind and presently there is another: "Not like this!" And then, with elation: "But it's the way I should die. Alone, but not alone, because she is here. I'm beside her, inside her. I have lived as she lives, now I must die as she dies."

The braveness of his statement dissipates and slowly reality rises up and finds him again, stretched out of his back and blinking, disoriented, at his cabin ceiling. It's only a moment before he sighs.

Another dream of self-destruction. Another dream of death.

The sense of panic he felt is gone, as it always is. None of his dreams ever extend into reality; he never fears them, never has to take sedatives. They are simply little things from his subconscious that feel real for awhile and then fade somewhere back into his mind.

Edith, he remembers. Not a thing to watch and believe and feel and then forget. Not a dream. REAL. She was REAL . . . He winces. If only I could forget her forever . . . if only she HAD been a dream!

He regrets that instantly, because of course his life is the better for those big, beautiful eyes and the voice that knew the future—of course he's the better for knowing her! And he repents a thousand times, for even thinking, wishing that he hadn't known her—because the thought should never have crossed his mind you disloyal, murdering traitor!

Then he is angry with himself, terribly angry, and his stomach seizes fiercely, tightly, and he gasps in a breath, surprised at the sudden switch. He feels as though everything is being constricted and he's going to die if he doesn't just let it out, let it out now, let it go! So he lets himself sob—hard. It hurts. He hasn't cried in so long . . . hasn't had a reason to, because he hasn't lost so much in so long. He hasn't felt so much . . . thinks he's never felt so much. His mind tells him that's just a product of the moment, but his heart screams it's true because I loved her! I loved her! It's all he can think. I loved her I killed her I loved her!

This had not been one of his many sensuous, one-night flings with some Orion slave girl—oh, no. He had wanted her for his own, to be hers, to own her, to have her always, to know that she was always going to be there and that everything about her belonged to him and that she felt the same about him . . .

Senseless, stupid angel! You had wings; you should have flown away! Or at least you should have looked before you crossed the street! Didn't your mother ever teach you that?

On the Bridge, Spock reels from the explosion of grief that is coming to him from over the link, sits stiffened as the sorrow flows over him like waves—crashing, pounding. He can do nothing to stop the battering—he himself has been stretched to his limits from spending hours hunched over "stone knives and bear skins," and there is nothing left to fight this with.

Perhaps I should call the doctor, he thinks. The weakness and nausea are almost too much to bear, and he is forced to slump against the back of the chair, grateful that at least he was sitting down when the attack hit. In his present condition, he judges that he would be unable to stand unsupported.

He begins his usual chants in the hope that he can wait it out, instead of having to report to the doctor—perhaps prematurely, for it may pass. There is no pain, there is no pain . . . I am a Vulcan . . . Fascinating. He realizes suddenly that he can hear his own heartbeat, soft and rapid in his ears.

Helplessly, he sits stranded in position and watches and familiar figures of the crew go about their jobs, oblivious to his predicament, their fingers scattering and stretching over the various control panels . . .

I . . . am a Vulcan. There is . . . NO PAIN.

But he is linked to Jim, and the powerful emotion isn't typical for him. If Spock does experience grief, he never experiences it at this magnitude—total immersion, the inability to think of anything else—and just when he thinks it cannot possibly get worse, empathy kicks in because this is Jim! Strong, unbreakable, unyielding, I'm-fine-let's-go Jim!

An eternity later, his mind begins to regain some sense of where it is, yelling, you stubborn, stupid Vulcan! Look at you! What are you doing? Break it! Break the link or so help me God, I'll sedate you into oblivion, do you hear me? He laughs a little at that, unable to stop the smile (it nearly splits him in two) and he knows at once that it's what clouds feel like when the sun strikes through them in beams.

Somebody grabs him, shakes his limp, unresponsive body.

Now, Nurse! . . . You should've just cooperated, Spock.

Perhaps he has become entangled in someone else's mind, because the thoughts do not seem his own. Somebody promises him that they are going to take him someplace—your quarters—and he remembers the place, with the heat and darkness of Vulcan but with a feeling of his own and acquiesces, nodding as best he can. He feels something stick quickly and sharply into his arm, plunging deep into the flesh—!

A/N: Heh heh. It got more intense than I realized it would in this chapter. I have one more written, and I've had writer's block ever since that. Maybe when I upload it, you guys would care to help me out with suggestions? I'd appreciate any input you might have when you read it, thank you!