For Author's Note and Disclaimer, see chapter 1

Chapter 22

When McCoy got back to their shared cabin he was actually a little surprised that only Spock was there.

"Doctor," the Vulcan inclined his head in a greeting as he entered.

"Hey," a little surprised over how friendly he was he wondered for a brief moment if Spock was about to spring something on him, but he was too tired to care. There had been too many nightmares and not enough rest recently. He took the undershirt he had stripped off before and chucked it into the laundry hamper in the bathroom. Not that he had that many spare ones, but it was past wearable until it was cleaned. The sweat had dried into hard caked patches of material and it was obviously not sanitary. Hopefully if Jim had enough tunics to go around he might be able to spare an undershirt as well. If not, well, it wouldn't be the first time he was cold.

He sank down in the chair opposite Spock who was studying the computer screen on Jim's desk. The chess set was already set up for a game. Probably the Vulcan meant to rope Jim into one as soon as he got back.

Spock didn't say anything and he was too tired to even want to think about engaging in pointless polite conversation just to keep up appearance. If it had been Scotty the other man would probably already have started chatting amiably, and it could have been okay. With Spock though it would have been a trade of friendly insults, and right now he wasn't sure if he had the energy for that at all. For all they argued, they were friends, and it was easy to lose track of the invisible line when you were weary.

The good thing about Spock was he never seemed to see the point of polite conversation for the sake of it. He was perfectly happy to focus on his screen and ignore the human in front of him. That was until the door swished open and McCoy glanced up to see Jim enter, all happiness and energetic swager.

"Spock," the Captain grinned as he came in. "Bones, I thought we'd see you at dinner?"

"Was busy," he shrugged. He could have gone later, but he really hadn't felt like eating then either. He was hardly even hungry now even if he had skipped a full meal and usually felt it for all he was used to pushing meals now and again. "There was more to do today, and I'm down a few staff members."

"So I gathered, but I would have thought you wanted the stew after," Jim came over to them, putting a bowl down in front of him and he looked down at it confused.

"I asked, they said you never came by for yours," Jim perched on the edge of the desk. "I figured you got busy when you did not show to eat with us, but skipping it altogether… I'd rather you didn't."

"I just had to change my under shirt," he grunted. He did not want to go into all of that with Jim. If the man had got nosey enough to ask if he had eaten or not he wouldn't stand for the only explanation he had to offer. Telling a bossy nosy captain that you were too tired to care if you ate or not just wouldn't go over well and he knew it. Telling him why he had needed to change out of the under shirt was another thing that wouldn't go over well and he gritted his teeth as he stirred the stew. "Didn't have to act like a blasted nursemaid." Covering one emotion with another was something he was used to and he could only hope that the Captain didn't know to see through it yet.

"Just trying to do you a favour," Jim held up his hands, palms out, in a good natured manner as he leaned against the wall.

"You wanna do me a favour, keep your hands to yourself tomorrow," getting up to let the Captain have the chair opposite Spock he moved to the other chair a little off to the side.

"I will do my best," before he sat down Jim dropped a hand to his shoulder and McCoy could not help but shy back a little from the touch. It was just Jim being Jim, friendly warm and open but it wasn't what he really felt he could handle at the moment. There were too many memories haunting him, snapping at his heels no matter how fast he tried to run away from them. Jim wouldn't understand that, how some of it still had a hold on him and he never quite seemed able to put it behind him.

Scowling into the stew he spooned some into his mouth, it wasn't bad, it really wasn't but he had no appetite and it settled heavy in his stomach.

Jim threw him a concerned glance so he tried to force it out of his mind and focused on eating instead. It wasn't the first time he choked down something just because he knew he had to. He wouldn't call his mother a cruel woman, because she really hadn't been. She was a business woman on the bottom of the totem pole. A secretary who dreamed of more but never quite got there, working long hours because she did enjoy the job and hoped to advance. When she got home she was tired but never outright cruel, just worn out and distracted with no real understanding of what it meant to have a child. He had always been content to study until they got home, more the medical texts his grandfather would supply him with than the books the schools offered.

Making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk. Sitting on the porch swing reading while he ate. Sometimes he would put the milk in one of the old mason jars that his grandma had used for jams and he could keep it in his pocket as he climbed the old tree in the back. A ham and cheese sandwich because his mamma wouldn't let him make himself a grilled cheese, she said he was too young to make a hot meal. There were ways though, like putting cereals in the jar before he poured the milk in and he could still eat it in the tree as he sat with one of the medical texts and waited for either one of his parents to get home. His mother would always try and cook something but it was always hastily done and never good. Under boiled pasta, overboiled rice that was a mush, scorched chicken that was still half raw in the middle. The darkness heavy outside with nightfall as the crickets chirped and the hot humid air made his shirt stick to his back. The infamous meatloaf that had got so hard somehow it actually broke the serving platter when she burned her finger and dropped it.

Having learned to eat all that, and put on a happy face about it he had always thought he could choke down anything if he had a reason to.

Funny how memories of his mother's kitchen of horror actually put him in a better mood. Well, compared to the Academy just about anything was an improvement. Including some where he had wound up a captive and stuffed in a deep, dark, dank dungeon. Mostly because at the times he had been there with Jim and Spock and that was less hopeless than being stuck with his old instructor.

Jim always spoke fondly of his mother and claimed he always loved the food she used to make. He told them wistfully about his favourite dishes that she would make for him. It wasn't that he didn't understand that either. It was the way he thought about his grandma. She was a great cook and she always fussed about him saying he was too thin. She always seemed to have something in the pantry. A piece of pie or a bit of cold cuts for an amazing sandwich.

He figured it was much the same thing and was willing to leave it at that, but Jim seemed to be confused about it sometimes and feel you could only feel that way about your mother. Scotty was much the same way, he wasn't really against it but he did not seem to be able to understand it either. He spoke highly of the haggis his mother made, the roasted hams and turkeys. Bedtime stories and lullabies when he was small.

When the closest thing he got was to curl up on the floor under the window so that he could read a textbook about pneumonia by the Georgia full moon they just did not seem to understand each other. It was his fault, he was the odd one. He could not expect them to relate and since his wife had been even more outspoken about her disbelief he had learned to keep it to himself.

Dropping the spoon in the now empty bowl he just couldn't see why it was suddenly a problem. It wasn't as if his mother had intentionally abused him, she'd just been somewhat confused about what one did with a child and distant by her career. Jim was throwing him those carefully observant looks though, the ones where he thought he was so discreet no one would notice. Well, he knew him too well to be fooled by them and he sure as heck noticed. Paying him back a scowl that only had the captain grin as he turned back to his chess game.

"We'll be done in a minute Bones," Jim started now. Looking up just long enough to throw him a glance before Spock made his move and Jim started at the board again.

"Hrmp," leaning back he stretched his feet out in front of him. He didn't need anyone to bring stew or give him those overly concerned looks. He didn't need Jim to assure him he would soon be done with their game. He didn't need them to look out for him in that way and he would never allow himself to need them for it. He couldn't, because Jim was his friend, probably his only true friend and if there was one thing he knew it was that it wouldn't last forever.

He didn't need Kirk to be his friend because he would never be allowed to keep that friendship forever and then what would he do?

He would be alone.

TBC

Thank you all who's read and reviewed, the Cricket is very happy.