For McCoy the morning after he and Cara were stranded in the turbolift felt a little brighter, a bit more inviting than usual, and his mood less downhearted. Assured by the on-call physician nothing in Medbay required the CMO's personal ministrations, he grabbed a thermos of coffee, ignored his stomach rumbling for breakfast, and headed to the observation lounge.
On arrival his eyes scanned the crowded busy room. Like yesterday Cara faced a bank of cameras and she was seated in a director's chair beside the floor to ceiling viewport. Today outside the window several ships were docked in preparation for Enterprise's launch tomorrow evening. Unlike yesterday she was surrounded by a half circle of talking, gesturing human men, all in Starfleet uniforms except for a newcomer.
McCoy tamped down annoyance reminding himself, You're against having a journalist on board.
Well, maybe not this particular journalist, he admitted surprised at the disappointment triggered by sharing her with others.
Noticing his arrival, Cara raised her eyes without moving her head and offered a warm smile. This simple greeting reignited his good mood. With a slight head tilt she beckoned him over.
"Bones," Kirk greeted with an accompanying nod. Chekov said with his typical cheerfulness, "Good morning, Doctor." An engineer also nodded while mumbling, "Sir." Ensign Toole shifted back and forth greeting his department head with a sheepish expression and a hasty, "The charge nurse said it was OK, we don't have patients." Having avoided his assigned duty shift as well, McCoy waved off the apology.
Scotty thumped the physician on the back. "Come join our wee confab."
At nearly six feet two inches, McCoy was used to standing taller than most of his species. When he turned in the direction of the unfamiliar male, his eyes trailed up. And up. Today, in this company, not possessing a height advantage annoyed him.
Cara placed a hand on the stranger's arm. McCoy noted it was a familiar touch. In spite of wanting to, he couldn't look away from the comfortable intimacy between her and this stranger, it riveted his attention. Kirk elbowed his side and once gaining McCoy's focus Jim inclined his head at Cara. "Oh. Excuse me," McCoy apologized, "Would you repeat that?"
"Of course. This is Nicholas Taylor, he's the videographer. Nick, this is Leonard McCoy."
The blonde man reached out a hand. McCoy stared at it for a few seconds before his mind caught up with events. Kirk and Scotty exchanged amused glances.
"Doctor," Nick said in greeting, his smile broad and friendly.
"There's more than one of you?" McCoy blurted out while shaking the videographer's hand.
"Our chief medical officer is skeptical of journalists. And wary of his unorthodox methods, which at times stray into the sphere of witchcraft, being exposed," Spock explained in a dry tone.
"Thanks to my skills, potions, and mysterious ways you're still walkin' and breathin'," McCoy grumpily retorted to the Vulcan.
Nick looked at Cara; her eyes crinkled, and she shook her head slightly. The Starfleet officers correctly interpreted this gesture as code between the two journalists, one they'd used for years, communicating: I'll explain later. She then said, "I'm responsible for the words, Nick the visuals."
He further explained, "Because Meg can't, sorry, Cara can't take a decent picture." Nick favored her with an affectionate bemused look, "Unless its composition is meant to frame subjects sans their heads."
McCoy's mood notched down. This glorified shutterbug has a pet name for her? Likely he prefers a long lens like any disreputable paparazzi.
"Excuse me," Nick said, and he retreated behind the cameras. After a conversation with the director that, though whispered, felt heated, technicians repositioned the lights necessary for filming. Grateful the harsh, bright lights were no longer shinning in her eyes, Cara mouthed "Thank you," in Nick's direction.
"Two minutes to the first interview," the director announced. "Clear the area."
Deciding he'd rather spend his shift in Medbay after all, McCoy left with the others. In the turbolift the group narrowed to him, Kirk, Scotty, Chekov, and Spock. Chekov bounced up and down on his heels. "She's prettier in person, don't you think? Maybe from the warmth in her eyes." He paused. "Do you suppose they're together? You know, as a couple."
"Who?" Spock answered with a question.
"Ms. Aguirre and …" Chekov started his voice low and hesitant.
"Adonis?" Scotty finished. When the others' turned in his direction, he shrugged. "Not my label, dubbed so by the transporter operator on duty when Taylor beamed on board."
"Oh, call him Nick, everyone does," McCoy replied mimicking the videographer's voice and casual, breezy mannerisms. No one missed the doctor's hint of sarcasm.
"Besides, brainy is the new sexy," Chekov pointed out, his good cheer returned.
"Och aye," Scotty said. Spock raised an eyebrow in agreement and nodded sagely. Chekov added, his expression sincere and intense, "Who'd prefer a guy looking like he's just rode in the pro wave at Bondi Beach?"
Scotty completed the visual. "Blue eyes flashing in the sunlight, the great white shark he's wrestled tamely subdued under one arm, and the lads he's saved from the fearsome predator cheering in the distance?" He set his chin firmly. "Any lass would choose someone who can fix her replicator …"
"And read and understand the owner's manual," Chekov chimed in.
"Instead," Scotty finished, then punctuated his observation with a jutted chin, "No contest, we'd get the girl every time."
"Logical indeed," Spock affirmed before correcting, "Though the currents at Bondi Beach do not produce professionally graded waves."
"Not relevant, you pointy-eared database," McCoy retorted. "Or should I amend that to pointy-eared sex symbol? And you," he stabbed a finger in the young navigator's direction, "What could you possibly know about surfing? Have you ever even been to Bondi Beach?"
"Sure," Chekov replied.
"When?"
"Spring break."
McCoy harrumphed. "I always imagined you spending any time off from school huddled over books in a dark musty library. Or covering the windows and walls of your dorm room with equations."
"Doctor, I believe the point of the teenage Earth vernal equinox respite is mating. Therefore passing the time in a library is counterintuitive," Spock said. "Though … perhaps … your experiences … differed."
Spock's comedic timing is improving, Kirk thought.
Chekov grinned and blushed.
"The boy's got game after all," Scotty said proudly.
"Surely, we have better things to do than … than to …" McCoy stuttered.
"Pointlessly conjecture over another's romantic or sexual liaisons?" Spock helpfully clarified.
The comment elicited another grumpy snort from the doctor. "You know those aren't supposed to be either/or. Everyone needs a little good old-fashioned romance – like wooing and courting. Though this advice is wasted on a Vulcan. I imagine your idea of a romantic evening is reciting logic axioms while gazing into each other's eyes before unemotionally getting down to the act."
Spock's eyebrow cocked again, conveying a very different sentiment than agreement this time.
"We're parked in space dock. There are no aliens to meet and greet, No enemies to slay. Enterprise still has that new ship smell as well as shiny unscratched paint. There's not even a bolt to tighten. Leaving gossip for passing the time," Scotty interjected as a diversion.
Kirk remained quiet, listening to the conversation while watching his friend. The others exited the lift at various points finally leaving only the Captain and his CMO. Kirk quietly asked, "Wanna talk about it?"
"What's there to talk about?" McCoy muttered as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "And I'm needed in Medbay." He remained silent until his stop.
ooooo
Knowing Jim wouldn't let his question drop and assuming his friend had come to press the subject once again, McCoy instructed the computer in a huff, "Let him in," when the notification chimed thinking, might as well get this over with. Its going to be much ado about nothing.
The doors swished open revealing a different visitor.
"I realize it's late, and I apologize," Cara said from the doorway.
McCoy rounded the corner and held up a hand. "Just give me a minute." Back in the main living area he eyed the stacks of books on one chair and the litter of PADDs on the low coffee table as well as other possessions randomly stashed throughout the room. "No help for it," he mumbled to himself then said at normal volume, "Come on in."
Cara tentatively approached the arch framing the room.
"Sorry for the mess, it's not usually this bad. Since the ship was rebuilt back from studs and keel my gear was in storage. The boxes arrived this afternoon." He pushed a stack of papers to one side of the couch and gestured, "Please sit."
She smiled in thanks. "Storage? Is that usual for a member of Starfleet? Do you live elsewhere from Earth now?"
He deflected her queries with charming smile. "You've worked enough today. Questions tomorrow. Drink?" Inexplicably to him, McCoy did not want Cara to know the truth; he didn't maintain a residence off the ship, Enterprise was his only home.
"That'd be nice," she replied.
"Any requests?" he asked.
"Surprise me."
McCoy uttered quiet instructions to the replicator after sorting through a cabinet.
Cara drank from the offered opaque mug. "What the hell," she sputtered.
"Hot milk, what were you expecting?"
"Coffee and cream? Maybe laced with whiskey?" she suggested hopefully.
McCoy sipped his glass of bourbon. "Hot milk is better for getting your rest. My Memee swore by it. Always sent us grandkids off to bed with a cup. We slept like proverbial babies."
"But …" her brow creased. "I sleep fine."
He fixed her with a skeptical stare.
"Most of the time," Cara amended.
The stare remained.
"OK, now and then I take a sleep aid," she confessed. "Rarely … well maybe more frequently the past few weeks." An idea popped in her head. A smile lit her face. "Alcohol is also useful for relaxing into sleep." Point scored, she thought.
"True," McCoy replied. Her smile grew. "However," he drawled, "it does not sustain sleep, rather the opposite."
Her smile retreated a bit. "But …"
"Are you going to argue with a physician trained in biochemistry?" McCoy questioned, eyes cast down at her in the stern look reserved for interns waking him without good reason.
Cara leaned against the back of the sofa with an exasperated sigh. "When you put it that way, I should probably concede."
A pause.
"Go on," he prompted.
Silence.
More silence.
"I'm waiting," he reminded.
Cara sipped from her mug; on another day she might admit the drink spiced with cardamom, nutmeg, and star anise was soothing. "I'll get back to you."
He chuckled. "Your stubborner than …" he bit off the word mule. Nope, bad choice if you want her to like you. And in that moment McCoy admitted to himself he did want Cara to like him.
"Than?" Cara prompted, her narrowed eyes and mischievous smile clearly communicating she'd guessed exactly what he'd almost said.
"Moving on …" he improvised then thought, real smooth there Leonard.
His accompanying wince called to her empathy. "There are many who'd agree with you," she offered then burst into laughter. "Well, if I'm honest, most." She wrinkled her nose. "OK. All." Her eyes moved to the guitar case propped in a corner of the room and the violin case laying on the floor beside it. "Do you play?"
"I … are asking in professional capacity?"
"No. Not at all. I'd never ambush anyone like that … well, unless you're a bad guy, then I might. I'm asking because I'm interested."
His face felt unnaturally warm. "A little. More than a little. But not like you think, I'm a doctor not a musician."
"I see. Fascinating. Playing builds dexterity in your hands and fingers?" she guessed.
McCoy nodded.
Cara glanced at the stack of papers on the adjacent cushion. Closer examination identified them as sheet music. "Spanish guitar?"
"Among other styles." He raked a hand through his hair. "I … this … most folks don't know this about me, it's private, belongs only to me."
"And will remain so," Cara assured. "But may I ask one more question?" He nodded. She continued, "What does playing the violin offer in addition to the guitar?"
"You're insatiably curious, aren't you?" McCoy muttered.
"Un-huh.
"Applying the bow correctly requires nuanced pressure, too much and the sound emitted is an ear-rattling screech, too little and it's a scratch. Similar subtle precision is vital in surgery and emergency treatments. Otherwise the healer may harm." He fetched the violin from its case and sat beside Cara on the sofa cradling the instrument in his lap. "See? No fret markings. And the player never looks at the strings or the bow. You learn where to place your fingers, where to draw the bow, what angle to use, by sense and touch. With these skills I can treat patients even when little to no light is available." He demonstrated placing his fingers across the instrument's neck, strumming the strings with his other hand, then sliding his fingers down. He encouraged her to try.
Crouched over the violin immersed in studying it, Cara brushed her fingertips over the taut strings. She smiled then placed her fingers across the strings. "Holding them down takes more strength than I imagined."
"Yeah. That's another benefit from both instruments. And plucking harder is OK, you won't break it," McCoy encouraged.
And suddenly he was back six years ago and the woman beside him wasn't Cara but his ex-wife. And Jocelyn wasn't gingerly exploring the violin with appreciation but threatening to destroy it. This had been one of their often repeated seemingly unending fights.
With a tired sigh McCoy set the instrument on the nearby table. The playful atmosphere faded.
"Did I say or do something wrong?" Cara asked softly.
The concern and disappointment in her tone of voice soothed him, but not enough. McCoy shook his head too quickly. "No. But it is late. And I never asked why you stopped by."
"Of course. Mostly to thank for your kindness, for your care and comfort, in the turbolift last night."
"That's my job ma'am," he politely responded.
"Oh … yes … of course," Cara said hesitantly.
Damn it Leonard, he thought, why'd you make it sound like a duty?
Unsure how to unravel the awkward feeling now hanging between them she continued, "And I'm here to accept the offer to borrow Dr. Phlox's book. Your copy, the unredacted one. In order to finish preparing for tomorrow's interview with the Denobulan anchor."
"I marked the omitted passages," McCoy said as he retrieved the book from a drawer and handed it to Cara.
"Why? I mean why the omissions?"
"A human medic's oath, still referred to as the Hippocratic Oath, differs from the Denobulan equivalent."
"Do no harm," Cara said in response.
"Yes, OK, that's a very high-level summary and overly simplistic, but adequate for this discussion. Tend the patient in front of you to the best of your ability is the pillar of our medical ethics. The core of Denobulan treatment mores is the patient's will or choice. We, Earthers, have since reconciled the many variations for professional conduct among cultures throughout the Federation, but at the time Phlox's book was published those differences were viewed with unease and even suspicion. To prevent alien ideas from infecting Earth customs, passages were censored. If you have questions about those sections, let me know."
"Thank you." Cara leaned forward then pushed to the edge of her seat. "I …" She stood, holding the book in front of her chest like a shield and said before quickly exiting, "I should go. Good night."
McCoy poured another drink and wearily sank into a chair. Will I ever escape the ghosts?