Spock had always approached a visit to adult recreational facilities—whether they were called bars, clubs, or, in this particular case, the Starfleet Headquarters Officers' Lounge—as akin to an ethnographic fieldwork experience. He observed the natives by immersing himself in their environment and, over time, having collected what he deemed to be sufficient data from multiple venues across the Alpha quadrant, he had drawn a conclusion: that the primary activities associated with these gathering places consisted of either imbibing excessive amounts of recreational-grade ethanol and/or seeking one or more partners for engaging in sexual activities. He had also observed that partaking in the former activity often increased the probability that his subjects would attempt to participate in the latter.
The former activity was the one in which his crew mates and friends were currently partaking, with great zeal. He attempted to calculate the odds of their progression to the latter and speculated, based on multiple data points, that Kirk was exponentially more likely to do so than McCoy, whose odds were vanishingly small.
He had also learned, over time and with no small degree of chagrin, not to share these speculations with his companions.
The captain and the doctor were at the moment having a fiery debate about the merits of Texas barbecue versus Kansas City barbecue. Having no vested interest in that topic, Spock let his gaze pass over the room, taking in and cataloguing a plethora of environmental factors that could influence the eventual outcomes of his subjects: the dim lighting; an overwhelming scent of cooked animal flesh; the soft background music that he identified as Gonzalez-Ortiz, early twenty-second century Earth jazz fusion; the gentle clinking of tableware; muted conversations; and a decor of a pleasantly muted color palette.
At a table near the center of the room, he spied two Qhos'nan engaged in what he knew to be—for their species—a shockingly intimate act. He averted his eyes momentarily, but the mostly human guests around them were oblivious. He supposed it appeared to be the mere holding and stroking of hands—or limbs, rather—to most observers.
"Fascinating," he murmured, and sipped his sparkling water.
"What's that, Spock?"
His captain was not yet inebriated, but he was, as he had heard McCoy once describe it, tipsy. He noted that in an unexpected development, the doctor had waved the server away with a shake of his head after finishing his second drink, and was now nursing a tumbler of iced tea.
"It is of no importance, Jim," he replied. There would be no benefit in exposing, as it were, the highly unbecoming-of-an-officer behavior occurring in plain sight. He made a mental note to research the sexual proclivities of the Qhos'nan in greater depth; perhaps they were a species for which exhibitionism was acceptable or even expected. If so, that knowledge could be useful should he find himself in a similar situation in the future.
He had not meant to stare, but the couple must have sensed his attention, because one of them turned an eyestalk in his direction and, after a moment, crooked a tentacle toward him in a suggestive manner. He looked away quickly and decided to conclude his research for the evening.
"I think comms may be a good fit for her," McCoy was saying. "But she'll have some time to figure it out."
"I'll make sure she has whatever opportunity she wants when the time comes, Bones," the captain replied, his demeanor uncharacteristically muted. Spock surmised they were speaking of Ensign Janice Rand. "I have a few favors I can call in."
McCoy grunted and toyed with the stir stick that had come with his drink. Janice had refused to see him earlier. But he knew he was just the safest target for Rand's anger; he winced at the memory of her waking up after surgery and finding herself in restraints and under round-the-clock observation.
"I am relieved that the planet is under quarantine, but I remain concerned," Spock said, breaking into his thoughts. "We do not know that the...entity can be contained on the planet."
Kirk frowned at his science officer. "What are you saying? It could leave and go somewhere else?"
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "We do not know how it got there in the first place. Perhaps it arrived from another location. There are reports of similar entities possessing the ability of interstellar travel. The creature the Farragut recently encountered, for example. Incidents of homicide on Deneb Two and Rigel Four within the last few years are thought to be linked to a non corporeal entity capable of traveling between the two planets."
"Well, fuck," McCoy muttered. "That thing destroyed an entire civilization. We shoulda figured out some way to get rid of it."
Spock did not reply. Across the table, he was impassive, unblinking, and unreadable. "I would submit," he said after a moment of reflection, "that the safety of the universe cannot be the sole responsibility of the Enterprise."
He was right, and McCoy knew it. Jim glanced up and squinted at him. "Prolly shouldn't argue with him. That wouldn't be very logical." His words were beginning to slide together. McCoy gave him a concerned look.
"Chekov all right?" Kirk signaled for another drink and slumped a little further down in his seat. His eyes were hooded and glassy now. Spock permitted himself a revision of his earlier speculation and determined that at this rate, the captain would be fortunate to leave the premises of his own volition, much less in the company of a potential romantic partner.
McCoy took a moment to look around and collect his thoughts before responding, and his eyes widened as they wandered over the table with the Qhos'nan. "Are they—?" He whispered in Spock's direction, and the Vulcan nodded.
"Affirmative."
"What?" Kirk was struggling to keep up.
"Never mind, Jim. Chekov will be fine, I think. He's resilient and has a good support system. I also think…" he hesitated, but didn't want Jim to be blindsided later. "I think he may be considering a change of pace as well," he said as diplomatically as possible as he busied himself with collecting the unused drink coasters and stacking them in a neat pile.
"What does that mean?" Kirk sat up with some difficulty, and directed an apprehensive look his way.
"Well, I just get the impression he may be thinking about another career path, that's all. He was awfully young when he ended up on the bridge, you know. But he hasn't said anything specific."
"Jesus Christ," Kirk mumbled. "I really fucked things up. Nogura was right." He motioned toward the server, who obligingly dropped off another whiskey sour. "Chekov's the best in the Fleet."
McCoy resisted an automatic admonishment as Jim tossed his drink back in one long gulp. "He wouldn't leave because of you, Jim." Or whatever happened back there on Marena.
"I concur, Captain. The ensign mentioned pursuing other options prior to the events at Marena."
"And no one thought it would be a good idea to tell me about this?" He laced his hands behind his head and pulled himself forward, as if to loosen a tightness in his neck, then let out a deep, groaning sigh. "No, never mind, it's not your place, that's his call. But he would be missed, that's for sure."
"Nogura was out of line putting this on you," McCoy said bluntly. Kirk flinched, and he knew it was a scalpel well-aimed. Better to lance that lie before it had time to fester.
"What happened isn't anyone's fault, unless you want to count the people who sent us down there," he continued. It was something he had said more times than he could remember lately, but it didn't seem to be getting through to anyone. It didn't even seem to matter when, as soon as they had returned to the ship and he'd finished treating Janice properly, he ran all of them through a comprehensive functional neuroimaging series and pointed out the lingering alterations, clustered mostly around their limbic systems, that had caused the emotional and behavioral anomalies they had experienced.
But he also understood how much humans, in general, struggled to reconcile the distinction between their brains and their minds. And that on a more personal level, humans abhorred and were inclined to reject the notion of being used as tools, as conduits for another being's appetite. Free will was far more appealing than determinism, even when believing in such meant affirming that one was capable of unspeakable evil.
Hell, he'd spent hours examining his own neuroimaging, then documenting the residual damage in the corpses they had brought back with them, and still had difficulty absolving himself of the pain he had caused.
"Patience, Leonard," Anna had admonished. "Trust that has been wounded in the context of an interpersonal relationship can be restored in the same manner. And that pertains to all of you involved. As a healer, you must guard against the assumption that their hurt is somehow worse than yours."
In the here and now, he cleared his throat. "Where's Uhura?"
The Vulcan leveled his unreadable gaze at him. McCoy did not know what, if anything, she had disclosed to Spock about those wretched few minutes they had spent among the statuary, and he did not want to know. As Nogura had noted, the official report had been an exercise in deliberate minimalism, and included few details about the words or blows that were exchanged, the dreams that had ravaged their sleep, and the unspeakable impulses that had overtaken them. Spock would not have read about precisely how they had sustained their injuries, visible and otherwise. Even Kirk didn't know what had transpired between McCoy and Uhura, beyond the scene he had interrupted, him crushed against her, hand at her throat, her tears dripping down the front of him.
But he did know that his decision to assign her care to M'Benga for now was the correct one, after she had recoiled from him in the shuttle back to the ship. In fact, he'd delegated much of his clinical work to M'Benga and others, unable to suppress the image of his hands around Uhura every time he reached out to touch a patient.
And when he had found himself in the lift with her a few days ago, she had at first tried without success to slip out before the door closed, then stood facing forward, silent, as the decks flashed by.
"Nyota."
She shook her head without turning, her hair swinging across her back. "No, Leonard. Not yet."
When the door opened again, he let her go.
"She did not advise me of her travel plans, Doctor," Spock replied, jarring him out of the memory. There was, he thought, an unexpected hint of kindness in the Vulcan's otherwise impassive tone, and he looked away, unsure of whether Spock meant it or if he deserved it.
The intensity of the day was creeping up on him. His eyes were scratchy and raw and even the iced tea had not soothed the tightness in his throat. Sleep had been elusive for a while and fatigue was tugging at the edges of his awareness in the insistent way that he knew could not be long ignored. One look at Kirk told him that his friend was well on his way to needing a stretcher to get out of there. He pressed the palms of his hands flat against the tabletop to push himself up.
"I think I'm going to call it a night."
"I will as well," Spock said. "Captain?"
Kirk looked up, bleary-eyed. These days, he was unused to drinking to excess. The demands of captaincy had taught him some difficult lessons about moderation. But they were on leave, and grappling with a soul-shaking experience, and besides, McCoy knew that no one here would blink twice at another officer leaving with assistance from their companions. What happens in the Lounge, stays in the Lounge, was the unspoken motto. He slipped an arm under Kirk's and was grateful when Spock went ahead to call the lift.
"You been raiding my chocolate stash again, Jim?" He puffed as they made their way unsteadily toward the foyer. "You're about due for your physical, so I guess the truth will out, hmm? Hate to have to put you back on salads." He ignored the string of four-letter words Jim muttered in his ear.
When they had wrangled their thoroughly-sloshed captain into the lift and called for the officers' guest quarters levels, McCoy straightened and took a deep breath. Their destination was quite a ways up, and this was not an express lift. He wondered if he should pop over to the urgent care clinic on this side of the building to pick up a hangover preventative for Jim tonight, or wait until the morning to administer a remedy intravenously. His dad had always said that a little suffering was good for the soul, but in practice the elder McCoy had tried to leaven suffering with a dose of mercy.
"She values you, Leonard. As a friend. And she always will."
Again, he was startled out of his stream of thought by the Vulcan. Before he could respond, the lift came to a halt with a soft ding. "Floor forty-two," it said politely.
"This is my floor," Spock said, and disappeared.
Damn him. McCoy was now a conflicted mess of exhaustion, irritation, and angst, trying to support a nearly dead-weight friend. He decided on the more immediate treatment for Kirk, so that he could at least sleep in tomorrow without worry and guilt. The lift stopped again.
"Floor forty-seven."
"This is us, Jim." There was no response from the man, his head lolling against McCoy's shoulder.
After a few more moments of guiding him zig-zag down the hallway to his quarters—thankfully just across the hall from McCoy's—then prompting him to place his hand on the palm scanner, his captain was safely ensconced in his room. Jim was snoring before McCoy could straighten his legs out on the bed, then he gulped in a breath and collapsed on the edge of the high-backed chair that faced the only window in the suite. It overlooked a cluster of mid-height skyscrapers, some of the lights in windows still on against the inky sky, and a well-lit stream of civilian transport vehicles passing below. He supposed bayside views were reserved for higher ranks. As he stifled a yawn and rose, trying to recall the location of the clinic, his comm unit gave off the small beep that told him he had a text message.
He flipped it open and his gut tightened. Uhura, Nyota, Lieutenant, the entry read. Then he saw that there was no actual message, just a meeting invitation on his calendar for the next day, a lunch meeting at the little bistro next to the Academy where they had shared more conversations than he could recall.
His finger hovered over the message for a moment, then he tapped "accept." A tremendous weight lifted from him, one he hadn't even realized was there. He stepped to the bedside and leaned over Kirk to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
"All right, Sleeping Beauty," he said, "I'll be back in a minute with a nice, happy hypo. You won't even know what hit you, and tomorrow will be a better day. I promise."