Two Days Later

McCoy raised his head off the desk where it had laid cradled on folded arms and with bleary eyes looked up at the visitor standing in the doorway of his office. Eighteen hours previously a seal had ruptured in engineering quickly spreading toxic gases and burning acids.

Cara raised the tray she carried tilting her head towards it. "A bite to eat. I heard you and your staff had a busy and rough time of it." She nailed him with a look combining admiration and admonition. "Have I correctly assumed you've seen to everyone injured and everyone working for you but not yet to yourself?"

"Time?" he croaked. Weariness prevented uttering additional words.

"Early afternoon," she answered before setting the tray on the desk and taking a seat. "Drink the orange juice and nibble on the toast first."

"Bossy," he said before downing the juice in one gulp.

Her mouth curled upward. "Coming from you I take the assessment as a compliment."

McCoy closed one eye as if shutting out half of the visual stimuli foisted on his brain would nurture coherent thought. "Not sure if that's praise or the opposite."

"I'll let you work it out," she replied in a neutral tone without betraying hints. "Eat. I'm not leaving until you do, and I'm satisfied you've had enough."

Hunger eventually overcame stubborn intention of keeping Cara with him as long as possible. "This is good, very good," he pronounced the omelet. Then grumbled between rapidly consumed forkfuls, "Spock must've reprogrammed the replicators again. Damn it, now I'll be forced into admitting his prowess."

Cara placed a hand over her heart. "Why Doctor, you wound me. Your repast was prepared by my own two hands."

"Really?" he queried in a skeptical tone with a raised eyebrow.

"Really," she confirmed. As she did, her chin jutted up and out. Then she held up her hands. "I have the cuts and burns to prove it."

McCoy expression brightened. "Excellent." He shook his head. "Not about the harm to you, and I should take a look at those cuts and burns, but I'd hate to have to praise Spock's work."

She wiggled her fingers. "Kidding about any injuries. Nor did I ignite a fire in the galley."

"Funny." He started on biscuits and gravy. "Almost as good as my Aunt Ellie's and she makes the best dumplings and breads in five counties."

"Tell me, do you ever get a second date?"

"Always," he pronounced then grinned. "Cause I'm charming."

Cara shook her head communicating continuing disbelief.

McCoy caught her faint smile. "Therefore, your biscuits being lauded nearly as good as Aunt Ellie's is saying somethin'." He took another bite. "Didn't have you pegged as possessing culinary skills."

"Meaning?"

He waved his fork at her. "You know. Journalists exist on a diet of coffee, whiskey, and cigarettes."

"That's a very old stereotype," she pointed out.

"Un-huh. When you think I'm not paying attention you live on coffee and toast," McCoy countered in a stern tone.

"Don't forget poptarts. And pizza. I like a good taco. And hot dogs with sour cream and tomatoes." Cara leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. "I never said I cooked frequently. Just that I can. My uncle taught me. And Chris Pike. They often cooked together when he visited us. In fact, those pancakes are Chris' recipe."

"I'm beginning to see said Admiral in a whole new light. Never imagined he had a fuzzy side. Nor a domestic one."

She chuckled. "You've not seen the Admiral in his apron. To ensure dignity and discipline continues, I won't repeat the slogan printed on it." Cara took a pancake from a second stack, slathered it with butter then rolled it into a log.

McCoy watched as she daintily licked her fingers after finishing. Which he found endearing and this simple action spiraled his thoughts to places he wanted to roam but dared not. As a distraction he drowned the other stack of pancakes in sauce. "How'd you know I like Karo dark corn syrup instead of maple?"

"Research and an educated guess." Cara wrinkled her nose, "How does that stuff not put you in a sugar coma?"

"Years of building up immunity," he said. "This was the only option my Grammy served on pancake day which was Sundays after church. Once we ate, she turned us kids loose outside and locked the door while the grownups sat down to a leisurely lunch." In an afterthought McCoy added, "Though it was rarely a quiet meal." Memories triggered a brief smile. "I missed those Sunday afternoons with my cousins after Dad and I moved to Atlanta."

"It was just the two of you?" she asked.

"By then, yes," he replied, growing quiet and staring over her shoulder.

Cara let the conversation drift off, patiently waiting while McCoy finished his meal.

"Satisfied?" he asked, holding up and showing off empty plates. He patted his sated and happy tummy.

"Satisfied," she echoed. "When can you take time for sleep?"

With a weary sigh McCoy leaned back in his chair. "Dunno. Once I'm sure Ensign Stuart is out of the woods. Had to transplant his lungs, the fumes he inhaled seared the tissues and airways, compromising his original set beyond treatment. Andorians often reject new organs and if that happens, we'll have to try again. Sorry. Shouldn't be blabbing details about a patient. I'm a stickler for that. Must be tireder than I thought."

She nodded. "I'll keep your confidences." A pause. "Always."

This simple promise flooded his body with warmth, and he thought, That'd be nice, having some to confide any secret to.

McCoy queried, "Chef's proprietary over his galley. How'd you get him to let you not only be present in it, but also use his toys?"

"We've bonded over Rumi and bodice ripper romance novels," Cara explained. She closed her eyes and recited, "The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere, they're in each other all along."

"That's beautiful," McCoy murmured lost in his own hurts and hopes.

"It's my favorite poem by Rumi." Her voice grew quiet. "And a wonderous possibility I want to believe in, as well as love surviving difficult change and soulmates following one another across space and time."

In his tired state, McCoy missed her pink infused cheeks and pensive expression.

"Thank you," he said gesturing at the tray. "It's been … well awhile since someone spontaneously took care of me."

"You are welcome."

A nurse approached the door. "Sir, the latest scan results on Ensign Stuart."

McCoy took the PADD and swiped through the readouts. "Okay. Well done. You can move him out of the surgery bay and into intensive care. Call me if there is any change."

"I'll walk with you to your quarters." Cara rose.

He bent his arm at the elbow and offered it. She twined hers through and around his.

Before leaving McCoy snatched the second plate of pancakes. "For later."

Cara hid her pleased smile.