Present

Last night, as he had on this date every year since they started at the Academy, Jim sat with McCoy and waited for news. Or rather for the lack of news. This year Spock joined the vigil as well. The day had crawled for McCoy. Their presence kept the evening and night from feeling like an eternity. Conversation was sparse; the simple warmth of an established and a new friendship quelled worst-case scenario demons and calmed ratcheting anxieties.

At midnight McCoy exhaled slowly. Joanna's annual checkup came and went without word from his ex-wife. Jim then tucked the exhausted physician into bed carefully covering him with a blanket.

After they left the CMO's quarters Spock said quietly to Jim, "I fail to understand why the child's mother withholds positive news. It is not logical. A message requiring no interaction with McCoy sent immediately once the exam's results were known would be appropriate." The Vulcan paused. "And kinder."

Jim rubbed his chin. He said, his tone of voice atypically harsh, "Kind and Jocelyn rarely inhabit the same space." He sighed. "Perhaps that is an unfair characterization. Leo granted her every demand in the divorce, without argument, without opposition. He established a sizeable trust fund for Joanna. He gave them the house they lived in. I get Leonard reminds Jocelyn of a painful time in her life, but … if Joanna relapses Jocelyn will contact him, partly as a kindness but mostly, I am convinced, because she wants and expects him to rush to their aid. And he will, despite the personal cost, he will."

ooooo

McCoy opened his eyes, swung his long legs over the bed's side and stretched his back. He grumbled aloud, "I hate waking up alone."

He rubbed his temples. Defiantly his head continued throbbing in time with his heartbeat. "Damned inferior whiskey. A proper Kentucky bourbon doesn't leave a man hungover." A pause. "Ok maybe … it might … in those quantities," he admitted begrudgingly.

He pushed to his feet and once standing in front of the sink in the bathroom splashed cold water on his face. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. "Serves you right," he said to the mirror's reflection. Fumbling through the drawers he pulled out a hypospray administering fluids to counteract the dehydration and swallowed aspirin for the headache.

Showered and dressed McCoy began another day.

ooooo

Cara looked up, placing an outstretched hand across her brow line for shade and squinting in order to block the harsh brightness in the main mess hall created by overhead lighting bouncing off the pure white metallic walls which was like sunlight shining on snow. Next time remember your contacts, she thought. "Good morning, Dr. McCoy. Sorry, I missed what you said."

"I asked you if that," he jabbed a finger at the half-eaten piece of toast on her plate and nearly empty coffee cup, "is what you consider a proper meal?"

She chuckled. He frowned. She then queried, "Are you the food police?"

"I am when my prescription for three balanced meals a day is ignored."

Cara confessed with a sheepish look, "I'm not much of a breakfast person," Her expression brightened. "I promise to do better at dinner."

Harumphing McCoy sank into the chair opposite her, resting his folded arms on the table. "I'll hold you to that. Otherwise … well a more direct solution may be called for."

"Are threats a regular part of your bedside manner?"

"I find they save time, especially with this crew."

Flashing an impish smile Cara asked in her unaccented, modulated, professional voice its volume precisely between loud and soft, "May I quote you on that?"

His finger stabbed the air. "I knew it. We'll have to watch every damn word around you …"

"Teasing," she interrupted then drew an X across her heart. "I promise."

McCoy settled against the back of his chair; eyes still narrowed. "We. Shall. See." Silently admitting his mistrust was more about his ex-wife than the profession of the woman in front of him, he took the time to study the journalist. Her heart-shaped face was pale and thin, evidenced by hollowed cheeks. Too thin, he thought, though we'll get that corrected in a few weeks. Her ivory blouse complimented an olive skin tone and dark hair whose waves skimmed her shoulders. "How long have you known Admiral Pike?"

"Since childhood. He and my uncle are close. Chris … the Admiral often spent his leave with us."

"You were raised by your uncle?" McCoy asked.

"Partly. I went to live with him when I turned nine. Chris had a hand in my upbringing as well. Madre Mia, I will never get use to calling him Admiral Pike."

"Oh. I'm sorry … I didn't mean to bring up difficult memories ..."

Cara patted his hand. "My parents are alive and well. And to answer your next question, it's a complicated but not a sad story."

McCoy uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on the table leaning closer to Cara. "The Admiral is like another father to you. He and your uncle are friends …" His voice trailed off.

"I believe you want to ask if my uncle and the Admiral were or are lovers?"

He shook his head. "Where are my manners? I apologize. My Mama would tan me. You will find gossip is an important safety-valve among starship crews and rampant. Due to his very private nature, Admiral Pike's personal life is a favorite topic."

"I see. And no apology is needed. I understand the curiosity. Since they choose not to share with others the nature of their relationship, neither will I. By the way, that is neither a confirmation nor a denial. Nor an indication of Admiral Pike's sexual orientation."

"But you know?"

Cara's expression was enigmatic. She tilted her head to the side. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. This ship is huge with dozens of corridors. I have a series of appointments in the observation lounge on deck 10. Would you point me in the right direction?"

"I'll do one better and escort you there," McCoy said as he rose to his feet and circled the table, poised behind her ready to pull out the chair. He reached out a hand.

With a smile she accepted, placing her hand in his while murmuring thanks. "Oh and I need to stop at my quarters on the way."

"The VIP rooms are near that observation lounge."

"Actually, my quarters are on deck 8, I asked for the same housing as a junior grade lieutenant. After all I am tasked with writing about life as a Starfleet crewman."

ooooo

McCoy waited while Cara stepped into the small bathroom area. He made a mental note to have the quartermaster move her to the opposite side of the corridor where the one-room quarters included a viewport. A few moments later she was standing in front of him rapidly blinking one eye. "Ah … I'm having some trouble with my contacts. I don't quite have the hang of getting them in yet … would you …"

The physician ducked into the bathroom and thoroughly washed his hands. After returning he tilted her head up, gently spread the lids, and examined the reddening eye. "The contact is lodged in the outer canthus, I mean corner. Your eyes are too dry; so the contact can't adhere properly. Did your doctor prescribe any lubricant?"

She handed him a bottle. McCoy squeezed out two drops and carefully coaxed the disc into place. He held out his hand for its mate and inserted it on the first attempt. "Better?"

Cara nodded. "Thank you."

The physician continued scrutinizing her eyes. "Contacts are rarely used these days."

"I have a quirky astigmatism which resists surgical correction."

"Hmmm …" McCoy mused out loud as he gingerly moved her head to the left and to the right continuing his exam. "I can take a look at the records … maybe find a way."

"I appreciate the offer, but they're rarely needed. Starfleet public affairs scheduled a series of video interviews for today. The contacts are a precaution, insurance against missing anything on the prompters." She glanced at the clock. "And I'm running late. Shall we?"

ooooo

McCoy entered the bridge after escorting Cara to the observation lounge. The usual alpha shift officers and crewman manned its stations; Kirk perched in his chair. Unlike Admiral Pike when Enterprise belonged to him, Kirk rarely used the ready room, preferring to remain amidst the center of the action. Only the ship's CMO understood Kirk disliked being alone.

Chekov, midsentence, did not miss a beat as he spoke his tone bordering on awe, "… Cara Aguirre has won a Pulitzer Prize, a Peabody Award, and the Andorian Historieforteller Badge for her columns about the Aenar and their disappearing culture. Also, there is talk of a nomination for an Edward R. Murrow award commending her series exposing the warlords on Metus." His voice slid up an octave closer to a prepubescence range, "They imprisoned her twice!"

McCoy crossed his arms. The gesture was unconsciously done. Unexpected annoyance sparked. Foolish and reckless, he pronounced in his thoughts. Metus is a lawless planet on the rim outside of the farthest reaches of Federation space and therefore its protection. This explains her malnutrition and dehydration. What in the name of all that is holy was she thinking when going there?

Chekov's voice returned to normal, his tone now appreciative rather than awed. With a dreamy far-away look in his expression he said, "Ms. Aguirre has pretty eyes. Soulful. A man could get lost gazing into their brown limpid pools."

"Actually her eyes are caramel with flecks of almond and streaks of dark brown like the molasses my Granddaddy used to make on the farm," McCoy spontaneously corrected. "And there are golden starbursts around the iris."

Myriad conversations ceased as all heads swiveled in the physician's direction. Kirk cocked an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a knowing but faint smile. "That's a …" his smile slowly inched several notches higher. "That's a detailed observation. A very detailed description. Requiring close … very physically close … observation."

"Oh good grief," McCoy responded in a huff. His face morphed into his most innocent expression with a touch of wounded grievance. All eyes remained laser focused on him. He quickly added, "For the record, she needed help with her contacts. Acting in my role as a medical officer, I assisted and corrected the problem."

Chekov and Sulu exchanged amused glances. Uhura casually placed a folded hand over her mouth effectively hiding her smile. Another officer rolled his eyes.

Kirk spoke for the group saying in an exaggerated soothing tone clearly communicating disbelief, "Of course Bones." He tilted his head in the direction of the ship's navigation console. "Chekov is filling in some blanks about our guest. Seems he has a touch of the journalist … or would like the touch of the journalist."

"I've read her columns since I was a teenager," Chekov informed the bridge crew for the fifth time.

"You're barely nineteen, for the record, you are still a teenager," McCoy retorted.

Chekov shrugged. "I'm not embarrassed by others knowing I admire her."

"Hmmm." Kirk beckoned at McCoy who leaned closer to the Captain's chair. In a whisper Kirk said, "Admiration being a euphemism for puppy love."

"Give the boy a break and invite him to the dinner tonight so he can meet his idol face to face," McCoy whispered back.

"Already did."

"Dr. McCoy, you're needed in Sickbay. There's been an accident in science lab three," Uhura called out.

"Tell them I am on my way." He turned to Spock. "When are your officers going to stop blowing things up?"

Spock did not lift his head, eyes continuously scanning multiple screens on his console. "We are not, as you imprecisely observed, blowing things up. The dark matter escapes containment. Rapid percussions and conflagration often result.

"In other words, it goes boom and catches fire," McCoy countered. "I'm only a country doctor, but that sounds like the definition of an explosion to little ol' me."

"I calculate a way for safely housing the dark matter will be discovered within the next 36.23 hours," came the reply in a tone of voice that would be labeled 'testy' if uttered by one other than a Vulcan. Because after all, even the impeccably honest and logical need their illusions.

McCoy looked up at the ceiling and then back at the ship's first officer. "Wonderful. By then no scientist or engineer on board will have eyebrows." He exited before hearing Spock's pithy (for a Vulcan) response.