Hello There,

Two comments: One, it's gonna start getting angsty. And two, there is the slightest reference to both nudity and intimacy. Nothing graphic, nothing dirty; I promise.

~Cooper

CHAPTER 8

Aggie had finally fallen asleep with the help of a mild sedative and McCoy had reluctantly left her to return to his quarters. He slid The Hobbit back onto a shelf where he kept his small collection of books. Aggie had turned out to be a voracious reader and preferred the antique books of paper and glue to that of a screen.

Beauty, brains, and good taste, McCoy thought, glancing at the other books without reading their titles. He was remembering the fear and the agitation that crept into Aggie's voice and gestures as her sleep cycle approached. Her somniphobia, fear of sleep, was not entirely unexpected. McCoy knew of several crewmembers who experienced cases of somniphobia after being in short-term comas. Feelings of lost time, powerlessness, and anxiety were common, along with nightmares and sleep walking.

McCoy abandoned the books and dropped onto his bed. Agitated, he rolled onto his side. He regretted being so far from Aggie. He'd woken her from several nightmares in previous nights and the terror in her eyes had twisted his stomach into knots. She never spoke of what she'd dreamed of, but they'd chat the rest of the night away on the couch in his office. More often then not, she'd fall asleep there, leaning into McCoy's side. He would simply hold her close, enjoying the sound of her even breathing.

Now though, alone in his quarters, his arms ached with the memory. He missed the weight of her head on his chest and the way her breath would warm the skin beneath his uniform. He fought the urge to return to Sick Bay, just to make sure she was all right, but knew the biobed would alert him if her heart rate or brainwaves spiked. He had bypassed the general alert for Beta staff and linked the scans directly to his personal computer.

Not for the first time, McCoy's thoughts drifted to the cryo-unit sitting in Science Lab 3A. He still hadn't mentioned it to Aggie, and he hadn't been able to bring himself to look at it again. One hundred twenty-five years . . . frozen. Helpless. Alone.

He clenched his teeth. McCoy wished Jim would just blow the damned thing out into space. The very idea that it was sitting two decks beneath Aggie made him sick. What kind of person could box up another living creature like outdated clothing? If they planned on leaving her, why the cryo-unit? Why keep her in a quasi-living state? Why the torture?

He rolled onto his other side but the thought followed him. How many more years would Aggie have slept away before a seal broke or another part eventually wore out? Three hundred? Three thousand? Three hundred thousand? Would she have gone quietly into the dark? Or in those final moments, would she have awakened into the living nightmare of already being in her coffin?

Was that what Aggie dreamed about at night?

McCoy quickly reminded himself that Aggie was safely on the Enterprise, sleeping in his ward. She would have a second chance at life, at happiness. Already she had made dozens of friends among the crew. Her gentle nature, warm humor, and intense curiosity were perfectly suited to the personalities of those who had dedicated themselves to the adventure and science of space exploration.

His mind drifted over the last fourteen days. It didn't seem possible that it'd only been two weeks since they'd come across the Ginny. It felt like years since he'd lifted the slight, seizing form from the metal container and raced down the corridor. He hadn't thought of it then, at least not consciously, but his subconscious suddenly reminded him of how smooth and damp her skin had felt against his hands, the way the weight of her naked form had bumped against him as he ran, the unavoidable glimpses of feminine features that—

"What the hell?" McCoy yanked himself into an upright position, shocked at where his thoughts had taken him. "You're her doctor, McCoy," he growled. "Not some fool intern who can't control himself." Disgusted, he swung his legs to the side of the bed so that his booted feet rested firmly against the deck. He suddenly felt edgy, upset, tense—he wiped at the perspiration that had formed along his upper lip.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He got up and poured himself two fingers of bourbon. His hands shook and a few drops landed on his desk. He swallowed the fiery liquid in one gulp and quickly poured another.

"Ethics aside," he said out loud, trying to sound reasonable. "You're just too damned old for her." He was surprised that he was having this argument with himself. He was even more surprised to find that the words hurt.

McCoy sat on the edge of the bed, drink forgotten between his fingers, as he mentally explored the familiar wound that reappeared inside his chest. It was a dark and deep thing with ragged edges. He tried to deny it, telling himself that he was simply overtired. He was working too much, obviously. Hadn't Rand been after him of late, reminding him that shore leave was actually a requirement every three-month period? Maybe he'd even take Jim's advice and visit one of those pleasure parlors on Montis. He told himself that he would this time, but he knew it was a lie.

He downed the second bourbon in three neat sips and set the empty glass on the Fleet-issued nightstand. He felt calmer already; the hole no longer so defined. His thoughts skirted it as he changed into a pair of sweats and a cotton T-shirt. Everything was fine, he told himself. He was fine.

McCoy's sleep did not pass untroubled but that was nothing new. Once, he cried out as if in pain. An hour later he'd yelled "No! Breathe, damn it!" The nightmares were common enough now. He'd seen too many dead faces not to be haunted.

Even in sleep, he could not escape the wails of the injured, the smell of burned skin, the unnatural stiffness of flesh beneath the autopsy knife. The memories took turns tormenting him.

"No, please! Not again," McCoy groaned, burying his face into the pillow. Surprisingly, his subconscious relented for once, and he found himself standing on Earth beneath a cloudless, late-summer sky.

McCoy held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and immediately recognized his hometown in Georgia. He stood on a brick walkway before a white, two-story home. It was elegantly built in a classic southern-style with a large wrap-a-round porch. There were rocking chairs, flowering bushes, and a little white birdhouse off to one side where a small flower garden had been planted. On a slight mound in its center—obviously a place of honor—a tall flower shivered its leaves in greeting. McCoy laughed in delight as he recognized it. It was an Alice plant! He gave it a little wave before glancing at the house with new eyes.

This is my home! And as it sometimes happens in dreams, memories of a future he had yet to live came flooding back. The Enterprise had successfully completed its five-year mission and had come home to resounding fanfare. All had received commendations, many accepted promotions, and those that remained in Starfleet were now scattered across the galaxy like stars themselves.

McCoy, however, had remained on Earth. He'd opened a small medical practice like he'd always wanted, one where he could be part of his patients' lives without worrying that some alien infection would steal them away. He loved his close-knit community, his friends, and his—

—Another memory sprang up in his mind abruptly, sending him stumbling toward the house. McCoy gripped the railing and climbed the steps. Quicker, then quicker still, and then he was standing before the screen door. On the other side, silence. With a creak that made his body tense, McCoy opened the door, stepped inside, then held very still. Ears straining, he could just make out the softest of melodies coming from somewhere in the house.

He followed the sound like a man mesmerized. He shuffled down a long hallway toward the back of the house. A door was partially ajar and light spilled across the tips of his shoes. With trembling fingers, McCoy pushed the door open.

Aggie sat in a rocking chair by a large open window. She wore an oversized sleep shirt that hung mid thigh Her hair hung loose and comfortably messy around her head like an unkempt halo, the sun highlighting the gold tones in her hair. Her face was turned toward the window, and McCoy's eyes devoured how a healthier weight had softened her features into the very definition of loveliness.

A board creaked beneath McCoy as his weight shifted, and Aggie's singing stopped.

"Hey, you're home early," she called softly, then glanced at the chronometer on the wall. She wrinkled her nose apologetically. "Or I lost track of time. We're gonna have to order take-out. I've been putting the final touches on the new transporter designs for Scotty. He's been chomping at the bit to get them installed on Sulu's ship." She sounded amused despite the look of exasperation on her face.

"Aggie," he whispered, the name falling from his mouth like a prayer, but he couldn't say anything else because he'd caught sight of the raised cradle next to her.

"Not to mention this one has been a bit fussy today," she added, following his gaze. "I think she's been missing her daddy." She gave the cradle a gentle push and McCoy caught a glimpse of a tiny pink face, curled fingers, and blues eyes that matched his own.

McCoy gripped the doorframe for support. He tried to move forward, to see more, but the image suddenly blurred and faded into another scene. Another open window, dark this time; he was in a large bed. Fingernails were scraping down his back and there was a soft moan of pleasure beneath him.

His body was moving in an age-old rhythm as he made love to his wife. The night was warm, and the top bed sheet had been kicked away ages ago. Sweat and moonlight covered their skin as the pressure inside of their bodies slowly built to an unbearable crescendo.

Aggie's body shook and her soft cry was like magic to McCoy's ears, but before he could join her in release, she disappeared.

McCoy's eyes flew open as he reached for his wife, but his arm hit the empty glass setting on the gray nightstand in his quarters. It shattered against the floor.

The sound jarred McCoy who was still partially enveloped within the dream. He clawed his way to the other side of the bunk but it was not the larger bed he expected, and he tumbled onto the floor. His knees hit the deck with a crack but McCoy barely noticed the pain. Reality had slammed down around him like a judge's gravel, sentencing him to his own life once more. McCoy raged against it! Grief and loneliness pierced the remnants of the dream even while his body remained tense and hard with the want of it. It was a cruel and bitter combination, and he fisted the bed sheets, buried his face into the mattress, and screamed.

Why? He just wanted to know why he couldn't have what most men had—not the casual relationships which Jim enjoyed, nor the self-sufficiency of Spock—but the love of one woman and a young voice crying out for daddy. What was so wrong in wanting that? What was so wrong with him that he couldn't have it?

And Aggie. . . . McCoy couldn't deny loving her now any more than he could deny his need for air. She was everythinghe'd always wanted. But what good was knowing it when he couldn't act on it? All he had to offer was himself and God, how he wished it could have been enough! But he would never burden her that way, never taint their relationship with an old man's sorrows.

Slowly, McCoy became aware that his clothes were damp with perspiration. He pulled himself to his feet and stripped the sweaty clothes off. He felt shame that a certain part of his anatomy remained stubbornly alert. Disgusted with himself, he tossed the clothes in the refresher unit as he passed and walked into the sonic shower, turning the cleansing vibrations to the maximum setting, far above the normal range for human use. Without hesitation, he walked into it.

The pulses were brutal—punishing every pulled muscle, every errant twitch of desire. He gritted his teeth against the pain and refused to budge until his body felt as battered as his mind. Only then, empty of all thought and barely able to move, did McCoy allow himself to return to his bunk.

Sensing that he was on the ledge of something of which there was no return, his subconscious was merciful: McCoy did not dream again that night.

So, yeah. That was a toughie to write. I'd appreciate your thoughts. To those who have commented, I want to thank you. It means so much to share my little story and know that, hopefully, you're enjoying it.

~Coop

PS. Complimentary joke to lighten the mood after that chapter -

Scotty: Hey, Captain. I heard you had sex with a Brazilian woman.

Kirk: Very possibly, how many is a brazillion?