Seven Years Ago

Atlanta, Georgia

Between Joanna's medical treatments and McCoy's call schedule his honeymoon was delayed until eight weeks after the impromptu wedding.

Jocelyn pushed her lower lip out in a pretty pout. The one that melted away protests, plans she didn't care for, and others' nos. "But my love, we can go to your old beach house any time, this is our honeymoon! I want it to be perfect. Don't I deserve a bit of luxury?"

Morning sun cascaded through the windows. Joycelyn had opened the light-filtering blinds; she craved sunshine after two years living in the domed colony on Uranus. It was bright, too bright for the bleary-eyed doctor and he held up a hand for shade. Last night's hectic emergency room shift rendered his wife's typically enticing pout less alluring. Yawning repeatedly, he moved around the small kitchen brewing coffee and throwing together a quick breakfast while chiding himself, why didn't I pick up both at the hospital?

He said, "I want our vacation to be perfect as well. The beach house is walking distance to a small town. It's near Charleston if we want a night out. But more importantly, it's private and we, the three of us, can be to ourselves. A hotel is crowded and impersonal. And I don't want to spend two days traveling in each direction. That's less time spent as a family, fewer nights holding you in my arms." He set a plate and mug on the table where Jocelyn waited then kissed her.

Once McCoy sat in the straight-back wooden chair, Jocelyn moved to his lap wrapping an arm around his neck, knees bent and tucked at his waist, legs resting over his. She brushed hair off his forehead. "Sweetheart, even you must admit the beach house is shabby. And small. And tacky."

"Perhaps it is kitschy but isn't that what a summer escape's supposed to be?" he said between feeding her tidbits from the plate via his fork and chewing bites of his own. "I'd call it in lived-in comfortable. You know I'm not fancy or fashionable. It's walls are imbued with love; every piece of furniture, every nick-nack tells a story."

"It needs redecorating," Jocelyn countered wrinkling her nose as she spoke. She sipped from his mug and nibbled on the toast he'd prepared.

McCoy started to offer, 'there's a project for you.' But he held back. Because he liked the Folly Beach house exactly as it was. Not fancy. Not big. A home of happy memories and a refuge during difficult periods.

"Please," she pleaded with wide eyes and a faint seductive smile. "And I'll have you stylish in no time, don't you worry about that! We can go shopping this weekend and clean out the dated, worn, old things from your closet."

He sighed inwardly. Don't be ratty. Don't be selfish. She and Joanna have been through enough. Years and years are ahead for the beach house and making new memories there. And I can show Joanna the room I decorated for her any weekend. Jocelyn deserves pampering.

With a nod he agreed, "We'll go anywhere you want. Pick the best resort. And that shopping trip is for you and our daughter as well."

Jocelyn hugged McCoy tightly and whispered in his ear, "Oh Leo, you're so good to us. I'm so lucky. And happy."

ooooo

Present

Entering the cargo bay, Enterprise's chief medical officer found the soccer game already underway. Seeing Nick's hand wave, the doctor joined the photojournalist at the stop of temporary stands erected for viewing. After accepting a flask, sampling its wares, and coughing from the resulting burn McCoy said in a strangled tone, "That kicks like a team of ornery mules. Where's our compatriot?"

Nick pointed down the incline to the left and at the bench nearest the large three-dimensional stream of the game and answered in a dry tone, "As usual on Chile's goal line, ready to personally take up the defense." Cara was on her feet, clapping for a play which successfully deflected the ball from scoring.

"She does realize it's a hologram?" McCoy queried.

"Yep. But's that not going to bloody well stop her. At most it's a minor inconvenience," Nick cautioned. "And the reason we're here."

McCoy returned the flask. "Not a soccer fan? Or I guess that's actually football to you."

"Nope, down under we have our own version of American football. Soccer's not a bad way to spend a few hours but I'm a rugby man myself. You?"

"Other than social basketball, I'm likely to be found in an ocean or pool. And maybe playing a game of tennis now and then but that's rare. Growing up chores on my Granddaddy's farm were more strenuous than any sport, and I admit I don't usually have the patience to spectate through an entire athletic event," McCoy said. "So why did you suggest we come?"

Nick handed the flask to the surgeon who imbibed another lengthy drink. McCoy offered it back; Nick shook his head and held up a second. "Keep it." He then exchanged the narrow canteens. "You take the full one, I've had a head start on you."

The photojournalist pointed again at Cara now seated and chattering with an ensign on her right; their conversation was punctuated with frequent pointing and other hand gestures from her. "Remember the Federated Summer Games of 2254?" Nick asked then shook his head in disbelief. "Still cannot fathom the bullocks required for keeping Earth's northern hemisphere's seasonal bias after the Olympics morphed into a Federation wide contest. Anyway, that year Chile lost the gold medal to Rigel's United in the soccer final, a defeat some claimed was due to prejudiced refereeing. Remember the riot that broke out in the stands after the foul ruling against Chile seconds before the end of the game? Cara was in the middle of it. I wouldn't be surprised if she helped start it. Since then, if Chile is playing, I accompany her to the game."

"Keeping her safe," McCoy murmured with approval.

A snort. "Keeping those around her healthy and whole. Cara is intensely serious about soccer and supporting her home team. And she packs a wicked punch when provoked."

McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied her from a distance. "Damn foolish and reckless."

"Yes. At times she's all that and more. Cara's driven … by a lot of factors, mostly noble and admirable. And she's in a hurry. But that's her story to tell." Nick paused. "It's good to see her happy and having a bit of fun. And kudos to you by the way, in the aftermath of Metus … she wasn't bouncing back. Under your care she's not so … worryingly pale."

"She's headed in the right direction, but still requires monitoring. How long have the two of you, you know." McCoy ended his question with a head tilt to the side and back.

Nick rubbed his chin, fingers scratching his chiseled jawline. "Eight, nine, no, ten years."

Great. Just great, McCoy thought, they're so comfortable with each other and have been together so many years he can't easily remember how long. The physician drank another swig from the flask.

Nick sipped from his own (in order to be companionable with his mate.) "We met on the Beta Proxima colony, both there to report on the earthquakes. I liked her words: accurate and genuine without lapsing into tragedy porn, a call to arms without preaching, continued demands for accountability and lasting change when governments and celebrities and her readers moved on after the initial publicity. Our paths kept intersecting. When they did, we started publishing under a joint byline. And here we are. Cara signed up for this assignment first and then cajoled me into coming along. Not that it took much convincing. And she might need me."

"I'm bein' nosy and smack me upside the head if this's too presumptuous, but why did Cara do it? Why take an assignment like this," McCoy punctuated the query by sweeping his hands back and forth, "with her accolades and following?"

A chuckle. "You mean the groupies?" A fond smile. "Like young Pavel?"

McCoy's headshake indicated otherwise. "No. I mean more important stories."

"Don't sell yourself, this crew, your and their work, and this ship short. Now I'm curious why you joined up. And by the way, folks really are interested in those who serve in Starfleet and the beings you meet and the phenomena you witness."

McCoy remained silent. His feet shifted back and forth; his hands fidgeted.

"Okay, a topic for another day," Nick conceded, taming curiosity. "So you've finally read some of her pieces?"

A nod. "Chekov curated for me what he considers Cara's 'best of the best.' Actually he posted it on the internal net."

"Mostly this job was her favor to Chris Pike. And Cara wants to see as much as she can while she can," Nick answered. "In their heart of hearts, most journalists are explorers."

"Why written instead of on-camera? I mean she' clearly comfortable …" McCoy began his next question.

"Yeah, the camera loves her, making my job easy. Cara could walk into any network studio and an hour later walk out as a prime anchor or chief on-air reporter. But she prefers written words and keeping the focus on the story. Not that she won't use her celebrity to shine light on the overlooked, forgotten, and exploited if it will help."

"She is … intriguing," McCoy said in a soft almost longing tone of voice.

"Damn straight." Nick's hands clapped then rubbed together, "I have to say, even an old, jaded shutterbug like me is excited for the planned beam-down in a couple of days. Have the scientists and powers that be green-lit it yet?"

"Dunno. Spock was at his station still nursing his precious scanners when I left the bridge. But I haven't heard of a problem canceling the planet side excursion."

"Are you going to clear Cara for it? She'll be very disappointed if you don't. And I warn you, she's unused to another saying where she can and cannot go and when."

"I've decided to. I'll tag along for supervision," McCoy confirmed.

Nick flashed a knowing smile and said too softly for the doctor's hearing, "U-huh. Right. Supervision, clever smokescreen. Well played Leo." He raised his flask in a toast to doctor.

ooooo

Cara stood with hands on her hips in front of the doctor and photojournalist, glaring at both. They attempted returning the stare, but unfocused their eyes kept alternating among squinting with one eye closed and blinking due to the harsh lighting. And from repeated attempts at determining which of the two Caras was the real one.

She said "The game's finished …"

"Not so loud darlin'," McCoy yelped. It sounded like a plea for mercy.

She continued without a reduction in volume, "Chile was victorious by the way and moved to the semi-finals."

"Who's chili? And can we have some? I'm peckish. Need some tucker," Nick chimed in. He turned to McCoy and slapped the doctor's shoulder, "No. Chili cheese fries. Mmmmm."

"Was thinking of a spot of catfish myself. And hushpuppies. Or gumbo. Have you ever tried fried pickles?" McCoy countered. "When we're Earthside next, come along with me on a Bourbon street crawl. I know all the best places."

After an exasperated sigh Cara declared, "You two require constant supervision. Hand it over," she insisted with raised outstretched palm. Two empty flasks were delivered into her care. She opened one and sniffed. "Really Nick, your home brew? Shared with the uninitiated? It's more lethal than the bootleg gin on Charon."

"I'll have you know Ma'am … I was raised on homemade moonshine. It is … mmmmother's mmmmmilk to me," McCoy protested clearly demonstrating wounded pride. "And the day is yet to arrive when a southern gentleman like myself and in fact myself, can't drank … drinken … drunk … whatever … under the table an ant … anti …"

"Antipodean?" Cara prompted.

McCoy shook a finger at her. "That's it! No wonder you're the writer."

Nick puffed out his chest and beamed. "My new mate Scotty gave me a few pointers for tweaking up its punch. The alcohol I mean."

"Clearly whatever you did worked," Cara noted in a dry tone. "Alright then, can you walk? No. Let's start with attainable goals. Can you stand?"

The two men carefully rose each using the other for support. "See!" they cried happily in unison.

"Impressive," she said. "I'll take you to your quarters."

McCoy brayed he required no such assistance.

Her response to this declaration was a skeptical expression and "Are you certain?"

McCoy stood by his confidence.

Nick wrapped his arm around Cara's waist and said, "I'm not proud. Lead the way munchkin."

McCoy could hear her annoyed reply as she and photojournalist left, "How many times have I told you not to call me that."

ooooo

Later, tucked into his quarters, McCoy felt mellow. Very mellow. And waxed philosophical. Only he didn't remember the finer points made; and that was too bad he decided, their brilliant logic would've set a certain pointy-eared know-it-all back on his heels.

Fingers idly played with two pictures from the beach house, one of the bedroom he'd decorated for Joanna, taken the first night she slept there, one of a sandcastle with flags atop its seven elaborate turrets built with his daughter during a long, playful weekend. They'd debated the number of towers to include, she advocated four, he seven. And as typical she quickly gave way to her beloved stepfather wishes. The house and its property were now titled to her as part of the substantial trust he'd set up.

Joycelyn had never forgiven him for appointing a third-party trustee to manage its assets until Joanna came of age, a manager who worked for McCoy rather than the child's mother.

With a sigh he carefully placed the pictures in the lavishly illustrated hardcover edition of Little Women he'd sourced through a rare books store. The photos marked his current place in recording a reading of the book for Joanna. When finished, he'd place both in the care of her trust manager. This gift was too precious and personal to leave to the capricious whims of his ex-wife. Some years his birthday and Christmas presents were given to Joanna, other times they were returned unopened.

He patted himself on the back for reaching his rooms. Metaphorically of course because only Satis' had the anatomy to truly accomplish such a feat. Sure the Captain had helped a little after finding the CMO trying to unlock a science lab on deck twenty-two instead of his quarters on deck three.

Jim had fetched a strong cup of coffee for his friend before answering a call to the bridge.

Their first meeting on the Starfleet transport quickly grew into the sort of 'brothers from another mother' camaraderie lasting a lifetime helped along by the good luck of rooming together all three years during their tenure at the Academy. Though given Jim Kirk's involvement McCoy suspected that luck was neither chance nor coincidence rather more likely force of will. Supported by one of Jim's favored mottos – coincidence takes a great deal of planning.

Kirk joined Starfleet on a dare, secretly aching to prove himself to the one man he could respect as a father figure. McCoy joined to hide from the aftermath of his divorce and then flee all that was familiar. In the other each found the companionship he craved.

Jim possessed a quirky wry style the blunt physician appreciated. During that first meeting on the transport, after McCoy explained space was danger wrapped in darkness, Jim had replied, "Man, you came all the way here, to Iowa of all places, to shipyards in the middle of nowhere, to get drunk and start over. How bad do things have to be to do that? Were you even sober when you signed up at the recruitment office?"

McCoy had replied, "Evidently not because that was ten minutes ago."

"Didn't think this through much, did you?" Kirk had responded with a chuckle.

"Hell no. Thinking is what got me into this mess in the first place. Thinking and believing in love and togetherness and having a family and happily ever after, and so on as the fairy tales go. Hell no. I'm done with all of that." There had been an unmistakable finality in McCoy's tone of voice. "And you can tell Abby she was right, I admit it. The divorce and losing …" he gulped and a pained expressed settled on his face, "and losing Joanna … was … is all my fault. I hurt my little girl."

With hindsight, Abby's friendship, a great deal of soul searching, and Jim's willing ear, honest observations, and unwavering support, McCoy had accepted there were fine cracks in his marriage from its start and blame for the marriage's breakdown wasn't one-sided. Those lines might have been patched and smoothed with care and work, but rather they erupted into fissures from which the union never recovered.

Oh hell. None of that mattered, I never stood a chance once Joycelyn's ex came home.

Another thought pushed the old, tired recrimination aside.

Cara seems like the type who likes a well-worn, much loved beach house.