CHAPTER TEN

Ensnared in a dream, McCoy was oblivious to his actual surroundings. Razor-edged memories coiled around him, tighter and tighter, reopening old wounds…

Leonard kept his hand on the smooth bannister as he descended the stairway, the burnished wood cool and soothing beneath his bare feet. His brain was not yet fully awake, despite the hangover hypo he had self-administered before showering. Thanks to the medication, his thundering kettledrum of a headache was receding but he still felt like his body didn't quite fit, his stomach queasy, his mouth spitting cotton. The sour taste of old bourbon lingered on his tongue despite his vigorous employment of his toothbrush for a full five minutes.

He should have stopped after the second glass of bourbon. Now, he needed coffee. Lots of coffee.

When he reached the wide central hall at the bottom of the stairs, a gentle current of air caressed his face, ruffling the ends of his damp hair. The morning already felt warm and humid, promising another sultry day like yesterday's, when the mourners at the cemetery had practically melted beneath the heartless burn of the sun's rays. But then, no one living in this part of the country had expected a temperate day – August weather in Georgia was notorious. Southern folks, proud of their fortitude, referred to such days as "fit as a fiddle for Satan and all his imps."

Leonard figured they were right. The weather had been completely appropriate. For the past five days, he had been living in his own personal hell.

He made his way on silent feet down the long, gleaming hallway, drawn by the smell of coffee and caramel. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, the air brushing past him more strongly now. The big room was flooded with sunlight from a half dozen open windows, the brightness an assault to his eyes after the relative dimness of the hall.

His headache ratcheted up a notch.

On one of the gleaming counters, a portable comm unit played softly. Choir music, a choice likely made in deference to the day.

Yesterday's emotionally draining funeral service, and the luncheon that had followed, had been an endurance test. By the time the last guest departed, Leonard's nerves had been rubbed raw by the repeated condolences. Last night, exhausted by the day's demands, Marvelle and his grandmother had decided against attending church today. His relief had been profound. He would have scraped up the courage to accompany his grandmother if she had decreed otherwise, but he was glad not to have to face it all again today.

The song ended and a new one began. The stirring tune was unexpectedly familiar. Recognition clicked. It was one of the hymns the choir had sung at the funeral service yesterday. One of his daddy's favorites, the reverend had said.

Tears pricked his eyes, and he resolutely blinked them away. He wasn't a child anymore. He was a grown man, a doctor. David McCoy had been a doctor, too. A better one than you, a voice whispered in his head. His daddy had been kindhearted and generous. The beloved family physician had been known to shed a tear right along with his young patients when they showed off their 'owies' in the exam room.

Leonard knew he wasn't that kind of doctor or that kind of man. He had long since learned to keep his emotions hidden and under control. Competence under pressure was the expectation for a successful trauma surgeon.

David McCoy had never shown any disappointment in Leonard's choice of medical fields. He had always seemed proud of Leonard's academic and professional successes. When Leonard had been named Chief of Trauma at Atlanta General, David had enveloped him in a bear hug, proclaiming himself the proudest man in the county.

That hale, happy man had vanished, over the last eight months. The unstoppable march of the disease had reduced David McCoy to a frail, pain-riddled husk.

Two weeks ago, David had begged Leonard to release him from his torment.

Three days ago, Leonard had administered the hypospray that ended David's life.

Would David have made the same choice he had, if their positions were reversed? He'd never know for sure. There would be no more late night heart-to-hearts in David's library. His daddy was gone. 'At peace', many of the mourners had said, avoiding Leonard's gaze even as they gave lip-service to comforting him, as if on some instinctual level they sensed his guilt.

Leonard squared his shoulders. He needed to quit wallowing in his misery and do his duty as a McCoy. That meant finding the strength to put his own feelings aside. He needed to be strong for his grandmother. He didn't want her worrying about him when he returned to Atlanta. She had enough on her shoulders now, without the additional burden of his guilty grief.

Fortunately, ignoring his emotions had long since become a well-honed skill. Collecting himself, he pasted a smile on his face and stepped into the kitchen to greet the woman who had been a second mother to him.

This kitchen had been the heart of the house for generations of McCoys, updated regularly but never drastically altered. The air was even warmer in here, no doubt due to all the sunshine pouring in, but the strong breeze had the crisp white curtains snapping and dancing at the windows.

The swirling air felt wonderful against his skin as it swept past to seek the deeper recesses of the house. The breeze played with the dangling ends of his open shirt, blowing the shirttails back, exposing even more of his bare torso. The freshening air, a harbinger of a coming change in the weather, carried the mingled scents of baking and bacon and coffee, teasing his nose, and his stomach growled hungrily in response.

Marvelle stood at the sink, swaying a little, humming along with the music while she washed dishes. After placing a skillet on the dish rack, she turned, drying her hands on the towel tucked into her apron as she did.

"Mr. Leo! 'bout time you woke up, child." Her ebony skin shone like burnished metal. "I thought you were goin' to miss breakfast altogether."

"Now, that would be a real crime considering how good your cooking is." Leonard walked over and wrapped his arms around her sturdy frame in a fierce hug. "Thank you for taking such good care of us, and daddy, Marvelle. Gran and I couldn't have done it without you."

"That's what family does, Mr. Leo. It was good to have you back home for a time." Her dark eyes glistened. "This house is goin' to be too quiet when you leave, now that Mr. David is gone, the good Lord rest his soul." A solitary tear trailed down her cheek. "I sure am goin' to miss your daddy, Mr. Leo. That man always had a hug for me, too, coming and going, especially if there was one of his favorites for dinner. Lordy, that man could eat. I'm gonna miss cooking for him. Miss Elizabeth doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive."

"Where is she?" he asked, gently wiping the tear away with his thumb. "The dining room was empty when I walked by it."

"On the veranda. She thought the fresh air and open space would be welcome this morning. Weather folks are predicting thunderstorms early this afternoon, so we'll close the house up after you leave. We'll just be lazy and enjoy the cool air-conditioning." She waved a hand at the counters laden with dishes and containers of all sizes. "That's just the desserts. Folks have sent over so much food, I won't have to cook again for a week."

"Smells in here like that might not be completely true," Leonard said. "Weren't you the one that taught me it's a sin to fib?" He clicked his tongue. "And on a Sunday, too."

Marvelle tapped a finger against his chin. It was an old habit left over from his childhood, a loving warning not to sass his elders. "I wanted to cook something this morning I knew you'd enjoy, child, seein' as it'll be my last chance for a while. Now, you button that shirt and tuck it in before you go out to Miss Elizabeth's pretty table. Atlanta may be filled with all manner of rude heathens doin' as they please, but this house expects better manners."

"Yes, ma'am."

Marvelle nodded approvingly as he complied. "You always were a good boy, Mr. Leo. Hard as it was, you did right by Mr. David." She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and the gesture threatened his shaky composure. "I'm proud of you, child, and I know he is, too." She fussed with his collar for a moment. "Now, go on outside, before the scones get cold. There's a big carafe of coffee on the table to go with them, made just the way you like it."

The veranda, another welcoming space in a house filled with them, looked particularly inviting this morning. Leonard detected his grandmother's hand in the table setting. The small, circular glass table held an old silver teapot overflowing with pink roses and white stocks, their combined scents sweet and spicy. Soft green and white striped placemats, topped with white china and sparkling crystal glasses, decorated two places at the table. His grandmother already occupied one of the wicker chairs cushioned in a similar shade of green, her gaze on the distant field of horses. The lush green view was already hazy with humidity.

Leonard gingerly lowered himself into the remaining chair. "My apologies, Gran, for keeping you waiting. I didn't intend to oversleep."

Elizabeth McCoy transferred her gaze to his, intently searching his face. Whatever she saw must have been reassuring because she smiled. "No harm done. You were up quite late, Leo. I heard your bedroom door close around two."

She didn't mention the significantly depleted decanter or the empty bourbon glass he'd left behind in the library, or the way he'd stumbled up the stairs, but Leonard was under no illusions that any of it had escaped her attention.

"I'm sorry for waking you, Gran."

"You didn't," she said, filling his water goblet. "It was a long and taxing day for both of us, yesterday. Sleep proved elusive for me, too."

"You could have joined me in the library," he said, tacitly admitting he'd sought solace in the room's well-stocked bar. Then he picked up the water glass and drank thirstily.

"While you McCoy men have always enjoyed a glass of good bourbon as a remedy for chasing away the rigors of the day, I much prefer a hot cup of chamomile tea. I was just too lazy to get up and come downstairs to make myself one."

He didn't believe that for one minute. He set the goblet down and picked up the coffee carafe. "I would have been happy to make one and bring it to you." He filled his cup with dark, steaming coffee and then topped up hers, as well. "All you had to do was ask."

"I've already asked more of you than was fair, Leo."

Her quiet words nearly undid him. He took a few sips of coffee, looking away from her grave eyes, buying time before he had to respond. When his cup was half empty, he set it down, the china chattering briefly against the saucer.

"I don't want to talk about it, Gran."

"Leo—"

"We've already talked it to death," he said, flinching as the word 'death' passed his lips. "It's over and done now."

A taut silence fell over the table. Leonard had time to empty his cup and refill it before his grandmother spoke again.

"Very well. I'll honor your wishes, for the time being." She handed him a basket covered with a pristine white napkin. "Marvelle made your favorites this morning. Butter pecan scones and bacon. She'll be hurt if you don't eat them. And there's cantaloupe from the garden in the covered dish."

Leonard reluctantly selected a strip of bacon. Then, picking up a scone, he stoically bit off the tip of the triangle – the 'wishing piece,' Marvelle called it. If he had been correctly observing the ritual of his childhood, he would have saved that bite for last, in order to make a wish on it. As a child, when magic still seemed very real and close to hand, he had believed in the ritual, sure that it would grant him whatever he desired, so long as he followed the rules correctly.

Today, his childhood seemed very far away, buried along with his daddy, and he wondered if he would ever again wish for anything. The one thing he would have sold his soul for hadn't been within his reach.

The nut-studded pastry tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to chew and swallow the bite before speaking. Talking with a full mouth was not condoned at Elizabeth McCoy's table.

"What will you do today, after I leave?" he asked.

"Write thank-you notes to the people who brought a dish over this past week. Help Marvelle pack up some of the food to give to the needy. Nap. Nothing too strenuous." She played with a dainty bite of melon, her silver fork catching the light. "I was very disappointed that Jocelyn was unable to come down for the service."

Another landmine he had hoped to avoid. "She's extremely busy, right now, Gran. The case she's on has really heated up. It's headed for an early hearing in federal court. The firm needed her to stay in Washington."

"Her father is the senior partner. Couldn't he have made an allowance for one day? She's your wife, and she was David's daughter-in-law. Family should always come before business, Leo. Her decision was disrespectful. Not at all fitting behavior for a McCoy."

Leonard had made all those arguments and more when he'd pleaded with Jocelyn to set the case aside long enough to attend the funeral. To no avail. He recalled how her image had stared at him impatiently from the comm screen.

"I can't leave Washington, right now, Len. You know that. I'm knee-deep in briefs. Court reconvenes on Monday and I have to be ready."

"These last few days were… exhausting, Joce." He swallowed hard, the surge of tangled grief and loss and guilt forming a sharp-edged knot in his chest. He drew a shaky breath. "I need you here."

"What about when I needed you?" she retorted, her cold tone abrading his already shredded heart. "You certainly feel entitled to bail on social obligations whenever the hospital crooks its finger at you, Len. You're the one who got up in the middle of dinner on Christmas Eve and left me with a table of guests to entertain, a number of them from the firm. It was beyond embarrassing."

"For Christ's sake, Jocelyn, I told you when you were planning that party that I'd be on-call. I'm the chief of trauma surgery. My hours are unpredictable. It's the nature of the job. When the hospital needs my help, I have to go in."

"Then why should there be a different standard for me, Len? This is an important case and it's getting a lot of media attention. I'm responsible for making sure we win it. My father owns a majority of the law firm. I have to work harder than anyone else there, to show that I earned my position. Otherwise, people will accuse my father of nepotism."

"And you believe those same people won't think badly of you when they find out you refused to attend your father-in-law's funeral?"

"I doubt anyone will know, since I use 'Darnell,' not 'McCoy,' professionally. Besides, I didn't tell anyone that your father was ill and I don't intend to tell them he died."

Leonard recoiled as her harsh, unfeeling words struck deep wounds. He could barely believe that the immaculately groomed, cold-eyed woman staring daggers at him from the comm screen was the beautiful, passionate young woman with whom he'd fallen in love. When had self-interest replaced Jocelyn's warm compassion?

"That's cold, Joce. My daddy loved you like a daughter."

Jocelyn bit her lip, and he thought for a moment she might change her mind. Then she threw up her hands. "Len, I'm sorry your father died, but you knew it was going to happen. You told me yourself that Pyrrhoneuritis was incurable, although that didn't stop you from wasting hundreds of hours searching for a cure. Between your hospital duties and your research, you've hardly been home in months. I can't remember the last time we shared a meal at a nice restaurant or went dancing at the club."

He felt numb. Dancing? Had she expected him to just shrug off his daddy's diagnosis and go on with life as usual?

"We need to talk, Joce. Get things straightened out between us. I… I didn't realize you were feeling ignored." Leonard rubbed a hand over his face, feeling ancient. "You know I'd never deliberately disappoint you."

"We can't talk now, Len. Once this case is over, I'll come home. We can talk then." She brushed her hair back with an impatient hand. "I have to go. Clay will be here soon to go over the case, and I still need to finish dressing."

"Clay Treadway is in Washington with you?"

"Of course. Where else would he be? I told you he'd be traveling with me. He's one of the second chairs on this case. Weren't you listening at all when I talked to you about the case?"

Now was definitely not the time to admit that he'd been dead on his feet when they'd talked a week ago, consumed with worry and dread over his daddy's state of mind as the end drew near. And he wasn't really worried that Treadway was in Washington with Jocelyn, was he? It was only business, after all.

Besides, Joce knew that Clay Treadway was a self-centered jerk. He had dumped Jocelyn after dating her their freshman year at Ole Miss, intent on making the most of his cachet as the handsome starting quarterback on the football team. Joce had been hurt and humiliated, and Leonard had made every effort to show her how much he cared about her happiness, about her, when they started dating.

They had gotten engaged at the end of her sophomore year. Joce had seemed over the moon when he got down on one knee and proposed, her beautiful face alight with love and joy. They had married as soon as she graduated, holding the elaborate ceremony the summer before she started law school.

Leonard hadn't given Treadway a second thought in years until the man appeared in Atlanta and began making the rounds in the social circle comprised of Atlanta's rich and famous trendsetters. Treadway, he discovered, had gone to law school after failing to make the grade as a professional football player.

Jocelyn loved the glittering parties, fitting in easily. Leonard, however, had soon grown tired of the party scene, finding most of the people there shallow at best, interested only in being photographed with the flavor-of-the-month or being the first to uncover a juicy bit of gossip. Hardworking trauma residents, no matter how 'old money' they might be, just couldn't compete.

Fed up with sacrificing what little free time he had as a resident on the altar of Atlanta's beautiful people's social calendar, and taxed by the increasing demands of his hospital schedule, Leonard had stopped attending the parties and outings, except on rare occasions. His disinterest hadn't seemed to matter to Jocelyn. She claimed she was content to party without him – "I need to increase my visibility and the firm's" – and then come home to Leonard, her 'dependable rock.' She seemed as proud of his professional successes as he was of hers.

Admittedly, he had been surprised when Jocelyn told him that Treadway had been offered a position with Darnell, Chancey and Sherrard. "Networking connections, darling," she had explained. "The partners expect he'll bring in a lot of new clients." In the months following, Jocelyn had never acted particularly interested in or bothered by Treadway's presence at the firm, and had rarely mentioned his name.

But maybe, Leonard thought, his heart beating faster, that had changed. Belatedly, he wondered if Jocelyn had been part of the decision to hire Treadway in the first place.

Now wasn't the time to ask, though. "Good luck, Joce. We'll celebrate when you come home."

Her face softened. "You're so sure that I'll win?"

"Sweetheart, you're a force of nature. I have every confidence in you."

"Thanks, Len. I'm sorry about your dad. I really am. Give Elizabeth my regards. Bye." And she was gone.

"Joce was sorry she couldn't get away. But she did send that lovely basket of lilies."

Elizabeth gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Is everything all right between the two of you, Leo? The last few times you've visited, Jocelyn hasn't come along."

"We're fine, Gran. It's just been a hard year, work-wise, for both of us. Our free time doesn't often coincide, these days." Hearing his own words, Leonard realized how feeble his excuses sounded. His stomach clenched. How long had it been since Jocelyn had reached for his hand? He couldn't remember the last time they'd had sex.

"Leo, I worry about you. Oh, not about your professional capabilities. I have my own methods for keeping up with how you're getting on in Atlanta. You're acknowledged as an intelligent, gifted surgeon with a brilliant reputation, a sharp tongue, and no time for fools – an assessment I quite agree with, by the way. But I also know that, underneath that imposing reputation, you're very much like David. You care deeply for those you love. As you said, it's been a hard year. Your heart is grieving, and it's vulnerable right now. You take care you don't let your wife tramp all over it in her hurry to grab the brass ring of success."

"Gran…"

"I'll say no more. Now, you finish your breakfast in peace. Have another cup of coffee. We'll watch the foals try out their legs in the pasture while we eat, and be grateful for this fine morning."

"Yes, ma'am," Leonard said huskily, and refilled his coffee cup. The rich, bitter aroma filled his nose…

McCoy woke with a start, his heart pounding. The awareness that he was back in his dorm room, rather than the gracious and stately McCoy family home, was jarring. The dream had seemed utterly real, the grief and guilt and disappointment just as vivid as the day he had first experienced them. He threw a forearm over his eyes, a frail barrier between himself and the painful memories of two years ago. He would swear he could still smell Marvelle's coffee...

Strangely, the scent of coffee grew stronger in the silent room, rather than slowly fading away along with the dream. Awareness that he was alone in the big bed suddenly inserted itself, and he abruptly sat up, pulse racing, throwing the covers aside.

What time was it? And where the hell was Kirk? The sedative should have knocked him out for at least six hours. McCoy glanced at the beside chronometer and cursed.

It was nearly 1000 hours.

Concerned, he exited the bedroom at a near run, his mind presenting increasingly worrisome possibilities.

Relief nearly swamped him when he saw Jim sitting at the small dining table, one hand holding a mug, the other tapping away on a PADD.

"How long have you been awake?" McCoy asked, making his way to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

"A while."

The terse response was coolly polite, and all Leonard's instincts kicked into high alert. Something had changed, something intangible. He was acutely aware that Kirk felt a million miles away despite being close enough to touch if Leonard leaned across the table.

"You feeling okay?"

"Why do you care? Eager to drug me again?"

McCoy's gut sank. "How'd you figure it out?"

Jim's blue gaze was frigid. "Sedatives always leave a weird metallic taste in my mouth. Not to mention," he said, taking a sip from his mug, "the medication felt different than it did the other times. And I fell asleep about thirty seconds after you injected me." He saluted Leonard with his mug. "Nice work, doc."

"…I'm not going to sleep. I never do, after one of these… episodes…"

Goddammit, he'd really screwed up. The sedative had apparently been one step too far.

Okay, lesson learned, albeit the hard way. Now, he had to explain his actions to Jim and try to repair the damage he'd done to their doctor-patient relationship… and to their budding friendship.

"You're angry with me," Leonard acknowledged. "And I'm sorry, because my decision was well-intentioned. Obviously, from your perspective, giving you a sedative without discussing it with you first was the wrong call. At the time, though, I was exercising my professional judgment. Christ, Jim, you were shaken and wrung out. You needed to sleep. I didn't think it was the right time to have a debate over the pros and cons of administering something to help you do that." McCoy rubbed his jaw. "To be completely honest, I suspected you'd refuse the medication, and I wanted to skip an argument you didn't have the energy to indulge in."

"I wasn't going to die from lack of sleep."

"No, probably not. But you were scraping the bottom of a pretty dry well, stamina-wise. I didn't think it was going to do you any good to lie awake for the rest of the night, brooding."

"My body, my choice."

McCoy eyed the stubborn tilt of Jim's chin and sighed, feeling both the weight of Jim's anger and the echo of those same words spoken in a different context, at a different time. "Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I'd be in agreement with you."

"But?"

In for a penny… Maybe his decision had already ruptured the tentative trust he had been building with Kirk beyond any repair, but he owed the kid some honest talk.

"But you're my patient, and I took an oath in medical school to care for my patients to the best of my ability. For me, that doesn't just mean keeping you physically healthy – although based on your past history and attitude, I can already see that's going to be a challenge. Bottom-line, you're in Starfleet, an organization that doesn't give a rat's ass about your personal autonomy or feelings. But as your physician, now that I'm aware of your preferences, I'll try hard to keep my interventions to a minimum, although I strongly suspect this won't be the last time we butt heads over my medical decisions."

"I have the right to refuse treatment I don't agree with."

"Sure, but only up to a point. Starfleet, remember?"

"I can file an Advanced Care Directive."

The kid was stubborn as a mule. "I encourage all my patients to do that. But there will still be gray areas that I might have to navigate for you, as your physician. And, again, all of it will fall under the purview of Starfleet regulations."

"I know," Kirk said bitterly. "I've been there before and it sucks."

What the hell did that mean? But he had no time to ponder further before Jim spoke again.

"Just promise me that, next time – if there is a next time – you'll discuss your proposed treatment with me, instead of just making a unilateral decision."

"Barring an extreme situation where time is of the essence, I have no problem with that request."

Jim stared at him suspiciously. "Is that doctor-speak for emergencies?"

"Pretty much."

"I guess I can live with that," Jim admitted grudgingly. "But, for the record, nightmares aren't emergencies."

"It wasn't a nightmare. It was a night-terror." Leonard got up to pour himself a much-needed mug of coffee. "Do you get those often?"

Silence.

"Depends," Jim finally said.

"On?" McCoy asked, sitting down again. Giving Jim some space, he took a long sip of coffee. "That's damn good coffee, kid," he blurted, more than a little surprised. He hadn't expected Kirk to have much proficiency in the kitchen, given his lack of enthusiasm for the meals Leonard had prepared.

Maybe the concussion had skewed Jim's reactions to food – and his own suppositions about those reactions.

"Thanks," Jim said absently, his mind clearly elsewhere.

McCoy swallowed another mouthful of coffee, watching the kid over the rim of his mug. When Jim said nothing more, Leonard prodded him again. "I didn't realize I was asking such a difficult question. Do the night-terrors occur regularly? Rarely? Somewhere in-between? Narrow it down for me."

"Like I said, it depends." Jim sighed. "Don't worry, they don't happen all that frequently."

"Can you identify a trigger?"

Jim shrugged. "Not really." He toyed with his mug, turning it from side to side in short arcs, the scraping sound amplified by the room's quiet.

Leonard was fluent in 'I'm-uncomfortable-talking-about-this.' With Jim this withdrawn, pressing him harder for information would likely be counterproductive. But he did have one final question he wanted to ask while he had the chance.

"Is it always the same dream?"

Jim shook his head. "No, they vary. Mostly about experiences from… my childhood."

Well, shit. Of all the skills he learned in med school, changing the past wasn't one of them.

McCoy leaned forward and put a hand on Jim's forearm. "If you ever want to talk about them, I'm here and willing to listen."

Jim smiled crookedly. "I wouldn't want to give you nightmares, Bones. But thanks for offering."

If the kid was calling him 'Bones' again, maybe he was being given a second chance.

"Everyone has nightmares, Jim. Including me. But you displayed the classic signs of a night-terror, which is a more serious matter. If they become frequent, I can prescribe medication—"

"Drugs aren't an option," Jim interrupted. "First Years get hazed a lot by the dorm leader. I might sleep through a surprise room inspection. Or, a Red Alert, when I'm captain." He reached for his coffee mug, dislodging Leonard's hand. "Stop worrying about me. I've had bad dreams before. Other than losing a little sleep, I've been fine. I'm not a little kid anymore. I can handle it."

McCoy was beginning to hate the word 'fine,' but he knew when to back off.

"Okay. But you'll be under closer scrutiny at the Academy, with regular checkups required for some of your Command Track classes. So, fair warning, I'll be the first to know if you're not."

"Trust me. It won't be a problem."

McCoy hoped he was right. Jim sounded confident, and clearly considered the matter closed. But based on what Leonard had read in the kid's chart, Jim had experienced a lot of loss and trauma in his early childhood, with no indication that he had undergone therapy for any of it. On the other hand, the kid's medical records were missing a lot of information, so it was possible therapy had occurred without it being recorded in his chart…

Either way, now wasn't the time to ask. Taking a final swallow of his now-tepid coffee, Leonard rose. "I'm going to grab a quick shower. Then I'll make us some breakfast. How does French toast and bacon sound?"

"With butter and maple syrup?"

"Or confectioner's sugar and berries. Your choice." McCoy cast a stern eye on Jim. "But no more coffee until we eat."

Jim snapped off a smart salute and pushed his mug to the center of the table. "Whatever you say, Bones."

"I only wish," McCoy grumbled, and headed for the bathroom.

McCoy was watching Jim devour the last bite of his fourth piece of syrup-soaked French toast when the door chimed.

"Finish up. I'll be right back."

When he opened the door, a middle-aged man swathed in a buttoned gray cape and precisely angled cap handed him a large bag and a shrouded hanger. "Courtesy of the quartermaster," he said, and strode away, cape tails swinging, before McCoy could even say a proper 'thank-you.'

Leonard hefted the load into better balance, used his elbow to hit the button to close the door, and made his way back to the dining area.

Jim looked up from his empty plate. "Looks like someone's been shopping. What'd you get?"

"It's not for me," McCoy said, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. He hung the clothes bag on the head jam of the archway between the kitchen and the dining area of the living room. "It's for you. Some sweats and underthings, and a uniform to replace the one I cut off you in the emergency room."

Jim looked surprised, then pleased. "Nice. Thanks, Bones. I wasn't looking forward to dashing barefooted across campus in scrubs and risking a demerit."

"As if I was going to let that happen," Bones scoffed. "You'd freeze before you made it back to your room. With your luck, you'd get pneumonia."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a pessimist?"

"Several times."

"Several times a day, I bet," Jim replied cheekily. "I told you, I'm tougher than I look. Not that I don't appreciate the clothing."

"Even in your uniform, it's going to be a brisk walk, but at least it's not raining."

"I'll be fine." Jim pushed back in his chair and got to his feet. "I suppose I'd better get dressed and get out of your hair. I've taken up enough of your weekend."

"Not so fast, Hot Shot. Your 48-hour observation window won't be up until after six tonight." McCoy crossed his arms. "I'd prefer you stay put until then, given what I've seen of your dorm room and your roommates. Besides, I plan on making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner for us."

"It would be hard to pass up spaghetti and meatballs," Jim admitted. He stretched, then yawned hugely.

Suspecting the dregs of the sedative were still in his system, Leonard suggested, "Why don't you go grab a nap while I set things to rights in the kitchen?"

"I always get sleepy when I eat too much," Jim groused, rubbing his forehead. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Being completely useless. You've spent your first free weekend stuck here, looking after me, instead of getting out and exploring the city."

McCoy waved off the apology. "Don't worry about it. There'll be plenty of time for sightseeing later. If you behave yourself, maybe I'll let you play sous chef tonight." He watched Jim closely. Under the lights, the kid looked pale, and faint shadows marred the skin beneath his eyes.

Jim yawned again. "Deal."

"You want something for your headache?" Leonard asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual as he gathered up his dirty plate to put it in the recycler.

Jim hesitated. "Pills?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry," McCoy said, shaking his head. "The medicine cabinet is empty at the moment. The med kit from the hospital is all I have right now."

"Why isn't my headache gone? I thought you said the regen and the meds you gave me in the emergency room would take care of it."

"The Gafronil takes a full forty-eight to seventy-two hours to do its work. By this time tomorrow – or sooner if you're lucky – your headache will be a thing of the past."

"So this is your last chance to stab me in the neck before I leave?"

"Pretty much," McCoy admitted. "Unless you expect me to make a house call tonight. So, you want the medication or not?" He shifted, aware of the tension in his shoulders as he waited for Jim to make his decision, feeling as if more was at stake than a simple injection.

"Sure, Bones," Jim said easily, and led the way to the bedroom.