Late in what was the Enterprise's 'evening' he often walked his ship's mostly empty corridors. It was his down time, his solitary time. Although he belonged to them every minute of every day, if he saw other crew members they passed without engagement, instinctively respecting his need for distance. Alone he had the time to ruminate. Alone he could reflect and consider and mull events within his own head without input from anyone or anything but the Enterprise herself. The ship might be his love, but she was demanding, exacting a high price from him in turn. Sometimes the weight bore down. On that night, the burden was heavy, and he found no solace in being alone.

James Kirk found his steps had actually taken him to McCoy's quarters. He stood with his hand on the chime for a span, not quite sure if he would ring or not. Finally he knocked lightly, but got no response. The Captain paused a moment, then turned and headed for the nearby Sickbay.

The CMO was indeed at his office desk, his PADD and an almost empty bourbon bottle in front of him. McCoy looked up wearily as Kirk rounded the screen.

"Jim." McCoy waved him in. Kirk approached, studying the doctor's face for signs of inebriation, but all he could see was exhaustion and sorrow. McCoy noted his inquiring glance and nodded toward the bottle. "I've only had one shot. Uncle Jim Beam was already empty." He pushed the bottle across the desk. "Do you want the dregs, Captain?"

Kirk sat heavily and picked up the bottle, turning it in his hands and then replacing it on the desk. "I don't think it will help, Bones."

"You're right. It doesn't." McCoy turned it up and drained the last swallow, thumping the empty bottle down on the desk. "I have the medical reports ready."

"Yes, I saw them earlier. I already have the transmission packet ready to send to Starfleet and the family." Kirk's fingers drummed on the desk.

McCoy observed Kirk's tightly wound movement and waited for him to speak. It was their usual pattern; a little self examination, followed by acceptance of loss, absolution, and the beginning of recovery. For Kirk that process was customarily pretty quick. He was resilient by nature, and also convinced that he had made and would continue to make the right decisions. It was the confidence of command, and the Captain wore it as well as any officer in Starfleet.

"The field transmitter has been repaired at least. Scotty fabricated a new part and beamed down to install it himself. They're almost done down there, so we'll be warping out in a couple of hours." More finger tapping. "So Littlefield and Oates are going to be fine?"

"Yeah. Oates will need some followup treatment on outpatient basis for a couple of days. Both are being referred to PTS counseling." McCoy shrugged. "You know the routine."

"Ensign Rinehart was standing directly in the path of the explosion when the seal gave way," Kirk said. "He never had a chance. He had a lot of potential, placed in the top ten percent in his class." Kirk sighed. "He wanted to serve in engineering. I'm glad he had that opportunity, if only for a little while."

McCoy couldn't help the tightening in his expression, but managed to bite back his immediate thought about the opportunities that would never happen for the young man now. "I guess so," he managed to say.

Kirk peered closely at his friend and chief surgeon. "Bones, are you going to be OK?"

"Jim..." He swallowed, considering what he might say that wouldn't seem accusatory, even though he didn't intend to be. He knew neither the accident nor the death had been the Captain's fault at all, but railing against the uncertainties and callousness of fate might seem to point a finger of blame at Kirk. That he would not do, as a physician or a friend.

"Yes," he lied. "I reckon I'm OK. This has been a hard day, and you're here at the end of it to see an old man who is past the point of being tired and is no longer thinking straight. I should be asking how you are, Jim."

"You're not old. And you'll be fine. The ship depends on you. I depend on you. You're upset now. So am I. But we'll work through it."

"Age is a state of mind more than a number. I feel old." He rubbed his eyes. "Very old. And tired. But I suppose you're right."

Kirk rose to his feet, "Maybe something is coming along that will give you a chance to rest and recharge. We all could use a break. I'm feeling pretty old myself"

McCoy raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I don't have the orders yet. Soon, I think, maybe tomorrow. Hang in there. It will get better."

"For some of us, maybe," McCoy said. "We lucky ones have the luxury of time and the hope of tomorrow. 'Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.' "

Kirk was not sure how to respond to McCoy's mawkishness. "What was that? Poetry?"

"Yes. King James Version of the Bible. You know my Great-Grandpa was a Baptist preacher." McCoy took a deep breath and exhaled. "Grandpa was disappointed in the state of my salvation, though. We couldn't agree on the nature or the necessity of a God. But that verse is absolutely true. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. Happiness or sorrow. Maybe love. Maybe death."

Kirk was dumbfounded. A Bible quoting McCoy was outside his paradigm. "Come on, Bones. Let me drop you off at your quarters. You need to call it a night."

He was a little surprised when McCoy stood to accompany him. "You're right, I do need to call it a night. And so do you." He shoved the empty bottle in the recycler and they walked together to his cabin, both silent in their own thoughts. McCoy turned to Kirk as the door slid open to his quarters. "Good night, Jim. Go to bed yourself. Doctor's orders."

Kirk nodded. "Physician, heal thyself."

McCoy smiled wanly. "I think that's in Luke if you want to look it up. But I promise I'll stay put tonight." He grasped the younger man's arm in a gesture of support and friendship then stepped through the door which closed quietly behind him. The lights came on and he quickly ordered them to thirty percent. He kicked off his boots, leaving them where they fell, shedding his clothes on the way to the bathroom. He had already showered once directly after surgery, but the sharp smell of blood still seemed embedded in his nostrils, so he let the water rush over his body for a long time. He dried and pulled on pajama pants and a regulation black T-shirt. He stopped at his liquor cabinet and removed a bottle, holding it a long moment before returning it to the shelf unopened.

Instead he stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head, thinking about yesterdays and tomorrows until fatigue finally overtook him and he slept.