Double Shot

The doctor's words struck squarely, and sank in with an unexpected sting: 'Enough to risk it getting back to you?'

Maybe. Maybe Pike was worried enough to risk it getting back to Jim.

Or, to Spock.

Was Pike that worried?

"When did you talk to him last?" McCoy's tone was lighter, curious – He wasn't pressing, just asking. "What did he say?"

"Not much. A personal call, a few weeks back, checking in: Nothing official. He asked about the ship, told me to take care of her. You know: The usual." Although, come to think of it, how would Bones know? It was both great and awkward at the same time, whenever Pike called: Chris tried to treat him like an equal, joke like he would to any fellow Captain – But they weren't fellow Captains: Pike was an Admiral, injured and promoted, and Jim was the guy who had taken his ship. The calls would invariably end with Pike trying to make a joke - trying to keep from getting too somber, or being perceived as interfering, maybe, or maudlin; while Jim felt young, inexperienced - raw and completely inept… A wanna-be Pike, falling far short.

Exchanging messages was better. Easier. (There was no need, then, to look for disappointment in Pike's eyes…)

So was 'official business'.

How sad was that?

"So, you're thinking – what?" Jim let the words out slowly. He realized McCoy had no idea he'd spent time with Spock, talking - no idea what the other had divulged. He wasn't sure what he could say about those conversations anyway - what wouldn't be a violation of the other's confidence.

"Ah, hell, Jim, I don't know." McCoy was on his feet again, trying another bound-to-be-abortive attempt at pacing out his thoughts. "Maybe the business at the base lounge has me spooked, seeing things that aren't there.

"I guess, maybe… I'm thinking, you've got me. And, in various ways, other people on this ship: Scotty, Sulu... even Uhura.

"If I need someone to turn to, I've got you. And people come to talk to me all the time – Lord knows, I'm aware I'm not alone in this vale of tears.

"Who does Spock have?

"Uhura, yeah; but that's different. Does he talk to her? Would he?"

Nothing Jim could share, there, either. No matter – McCoy was still pacing, and hadn't noticed the grim line Jim felt his own lips forming.

"Me, I'm betting not.

"And, apparently, he's not talking to Pike, either."

There was a silence. Bones took another absent step or two, trying, perhaps, to loosen a few more thoughts; then he headed over to Jim's galley. There was a dual gurgle-and-hiss, then he came back with a couple of cups of steaming black liquid. He had already handed one of them to Jim before he noticed the untouched cup still perched next to the computer monitor. His mouth gave a half-mocking quirk, then he raised his cup to Jim in a small salute, and took a tentative taste.

He made a face.

"Christ, when it's bad, it's bad," he muttered, as he dropped, again, onto the visitor's chair.

He settled in and took another sip of the steaming brew, wrapping both hands around the cup as if he needed all the warmth it could afford. He drank again, and looked at Jim over the brim.

"Did you know there's a whole section on dealing with Vulcans in the Starfleet Medical Code?"

Jim took a taste of his coffee - He'd tasted worse. "That right?"

Bones nodded. "Yep. Chapters." He took a sip. "Probably have that in the Command Manual, too, huh?"

Jim shrugged, and covered with another sip. He had no idea. Probably.

"You know how many Vulcans there are, in Starfleet?" McCoy's tone was challenging, his brow quizzical. He seemed sure Jim would get this answer wrong.

But Kirk could still hear Spock speaking, cool and remote… 'I am the first (and, likely, the last) of our people to serve within its ranks,' that deliberately distant Vulcan voice had said.

"One." Jim's stomach was tightening, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

"One," McCoy responded. "I checked." He was out of the chair, then, his unheeded hands forming fists at his sides.

"Chapters, and chapters, they got, all sayin' the same thing: Leave them alone."

The doctor was leaning on the desk again, forcing Jim to look up into hazel eyes flashing with frustration and long-suppressed ire. "How's that supposed to help?" He reared back, pushing himself off the desk with one balled-up fist. "I swear to God I can hear Spock's voice in every last word. I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damned thing, himself – or recorded it, anyway, for some poor sap to transcribe."

This time Kirk was the one to get the refills of coffee, while the doctor's feet wore holes in the carpet.

Jim handed a cup to McCoy, who took it with a distracted nod. He took a sip, then shot a glare at the Captain. "You know what recourse that leaves me?" he demanded, turning to face Jim squarely, his furious aggravation plain to see. "Nothing. That's what.

"Not a damned thing.

"Oh, sure, if I have 'reasonable cause', I can relieve him of duty – and wind up filling out paperwork for a week-and-a-half. But I can't make him eat – like I can you – force him to take a day off, take shore leave - send him off to bed, like a good little boy. Vulcans, apparently, don't need to eat, or sleep, or go out to play. They don't like to, so they don't have to."

McCoy's voice was a growl of unrequited rage.

"Well, at least they'll eat their god-damned vegetables – unlike some people I could name." This last was delivered in an undertone no less vehement for all that.

This was one of his Chief Surgeon's best rants, yet; and – justified though it was, in its way – and however sincere the emotion - by the time the last words faded into silence, Jim found himself doing his best not to smile. When Bones looked at him and said, "Aw, crap," it was over.