Except for the guard, the alcove was empty when McCoy arrived. He chimed at T'Phol's door and waited for a moment. He was almost ready to ring again when the door opened.

"Come in. I was engaging in a bit of programming. I did not intend to ignore you."

He entered, noticing the Moog was opened on its stand and her violin was laid across her bunk. "So you've been busy. I napped."

She stepped back to the Moog, which was now sporting an attached keyboard filled with symbols. Her fingers played over it for a moment, then she hit a final button and turned to him.

"I usually meditate rather than nap. Both are sometimes necessary. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I guess my nap was productive after all." He looked at the keyboard. "These symbols are Vulcan, aren't they?"

T'Phol nodded. "This interface was built on Vulcan. It seemed presumptuous to insist it be in English or Standard. This is how I program the Moog for new instruments, or different pieces of music, or translate. I can also use it to integrate into an external computer."

"What are you working on now?"

"A composition for violin. Watching space flow by from the window suggested a new movement and direction for the piece. I think it will be ready for its premier by tomorrow night. We shall see." She gave a slight lift of her shoulders. "At any rate, I am hungry. Are you ready to eat?"

McCoy picked up her sweater from the back of the chair and held it open for her, smiling a little at her raised eyebrow. "Come on, T'Phol. Allow a Southern gentleman a little bit of chivalry."

"I will accept this courtesy as a well meaning gesture, outdated though it appears. I do not understand the romanticized infatuation with Earth's Middle Ages. It does not seem a good time to be alive to me. Nor, I would think, to a surgeon, unless being a Sawbones and hacking off diseased and putrefying limbs with primitive equipment is also somehow enamoring." She shrugged into the garment.

"Courage, honor, and justice are timeless." McCoy smoothed her collar. "I read about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table when I was a kid. Of course my childish view of the saga was sanitized and wholesome. I was just a kid playing make believe. Actually, I was Sir Galahad. Daddy made me a lance and a shield, and I rescued damsels in distress and fought evildoers from the back of my noble steed Annie, alongside my brave and gallant companions Sir Rambler and Sir Bel." He looked at her a little sadly. Make believe was a thing where she likely had little experience. Certainly she had never roamed through the woods in search of imaginary adventure, unfettered by obligations or commitment.

T'Phol's eyes warmed with amusement and a hint of apology. "I would like to hear more."

McCoy decided it was not too late to bring a little playfulness to her current life. "Hark, fair lady. Follow me to yon pavilion to break thy fast, and I shall regale you with tales of daring and bravery over ye ole sup." He bowed, gallantly, sweeping his hand toward the door, offering her an elbow. After a very short hesitation, she played along, slipping her hand through and together they went to eat.

The officer's mess was empty. They ordered and sat, attending to their meals, T'Phol hungrily and McCoy from a sense that he should. When she finished, she requested a tea for herself and a coffee for him, then sat expectantly.

"I am waiting for your tales of gallantry and triumph in the face of great peril, Sir Galahad." T'Phol realized that in their time together she had done a great deal of talking and sharing, and he had done little, almost none. She had no way to know if he resisted opening up to her in particular, or whether his reluctance was globally part of his character. She greatly suspected the latter. It was a gulf she wanted to breach, but gently and with care.

McCoy took a sip of coffee, his neck flushing pink. "Aw, I don't know that there's really much to tell," he drawled.

"So you fabricated this story of damsels and dashing steeds?"

"Oh, no. The steed was real enough." His face folded into a gentle smile, remembering. He took another sip and sat back, taking a breath.

"My steed was a mule named Annabel Lee. I might have embellished the narrative a little about rescuing damsels..."

"Mule? A hybrid of horse and burro?"

"Donkey. Specifically a jack and mare. Sixty-three vigorous, hardy, and intelligent chromosomes. Inter-species breeding at its finest." He stopped, aware of what he had said. "Well, that didn't come out quite right."

T'Phol raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with humor. "I shall try not to take that personally, Doctor. Please continue."

McCoy gathered his thoughts again. "We had horses, too, but Annie was mine." He fiddled with his cup a minute. "Mules are smarter than horses, friendly, steady. I was a runty kid. She would hold her head down so I could bridle her. She really didn't need a bridle, though. I could ride her bareback and guide her by pulling on her mane. She followed me everywhere if she was out of the pasture. She would look in my pockets for treats.

"When I was in my King Arthur phase, she tolerated me clashing around with the lance and jousting at peach trees and hay bales. I was about eight years old." He paused. "Grandma helped me deck her out in medieval finery. We made trappings for Annie and armor for me, too. She wore her barding and caparison with aplomb and a lot of patience. We rode in our town's Christmas parade that year. Later I was a Nazgul, but she didn't like being shrouded in black. There was no evil in her."

McCoy thought he might have to explain the Nazgul reference, but obviously T'Phol was acquainted with the Tolkien Trilogy. She looked at him with a sharpness and comprehension that made him a bit uneasy.

"Interesting that you were a creature of darkness and not a kind wizard or a king of men. It does not seem to fit you at all."

"At the time, it did."

"When I read the series, I felt more like Boromir. Or Eowyn, if I must remain a female. Buffeted by forces that I had little love for and could not control. I have never ridden a horse. Annabel Lee sounds wonderful." T'Phol's voice was weighted by a wistful sadness.

"She was."

"Ah. There you are!" Uhura peeked around the doorway and stepped through, carrying a lute-sized bundle. "I thought I might find you still at dinner."

McCoy pulled a chair out for Uhura to join them. "We just finished. Have you eaten?"

"I had a sandwich. But I have brought dessert. They're called agele." She pulled three round, pale yellow fruits from her carry bag. She handed one to each of them before beginning her own.

"Thank you," T'Phol said, biting into hers immediately. McCoy sniffed his before taking a cautious nibble. His face lit and he continued with gusto.

"This is the Vulcan version of a peach," Uhura said. "Supply had some fresh food brought aboard while we were at Vulcan. I have connections."

"That was tasty," McCoy said, finishing the last bite. "I miss real food."

"Reconstituted food does get old," Uhura agreed. "It's always a treat when we have fresh things on board, or when we can get them on shore leave."

"Had I known, I could have brought you a bag of them. My grandparents' garden has several mature agele trees." T'Phol gathered the empties and put them in the recycling unit. "Are you ready for a lesson?" she asked Uhura.

Uhura patted her bag. "Any time. But business first. Have you considered a program?"

"Yes. Your crew is predominately Earth Human, is that correct? Would a mixture of classical and current popular tunes be acceptable? I have a list of possibilities on the PADD in my cabin."

"All right, let's go put it together," Uhura said, standing and gathering her bag. "Then I'll post the program on the inter-ship bulletin board so everyone can see." She turned to McCoy. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"You ladies go ahead. M'Benga has thrown me outta my own sickbay for today. I'm going to pout with Jim."

Unura poked his arm. "Don't pout too much."

"I'll be bright and bushy for tomorrow, don't worry." He looked at T'Phol. "If you need anything, have them call me."

"I will. Goodnight, Doctor."

They left in different directions. McCoy stopped by his quarters, selecting a bottle of brandy before continuing on to Kirk's cabin. Kirk answered his chime PADD in hand, looking a little weary. He was energized by crisis but found prolonged quiet, uneventful periods to be draining.

"Bones." Kirk grunted a greeting and moved aside. "Come on in."

McCoy stepped in, holding up the brandy bottle. "You wanna take a break for a minute?" he asked. "Everyone is workin' tonight but me."

Kirk got a couple of glasses and McCoy poured. They sipped for a few minutes, comfortable in companionship without banter to fill the silence. McCoy kicked off his boots, slumping in his seat.

"M'Benga release you yet?"

McCoy snorted. "Not yet. Tomorrow."

Kirk looked closely at him. "You're OK, though?"

"Yeah, 'm OK." He sat up straighter. "What do you think is going on with Vartheb and Kelan? They have got to be the strangest visitors we've ever had on board."

Kirk shrugged. "Whatever it is, I will be glad to have them off my ship. They won't be returning to the Enterprise once we reach Aminta."

"T'Phol wondered about all the equipment they brought on board. It was quite a lot."

Kirk frowned. "Nothing was out of sorts on the manifest or through the screening. I am a step ahead of you anyway. After your incident I had Kyle double-check the transport records. It was mostly computer equipment, a few archeological tools and gizmos. Nothing out of the ordinary"

"Yeah. The same screening that didn't identify the Def'Kato as a dangerous substance."

"It wasn't dangerous until it was burned."

"That's like sayin' a bomb isn't dangerous until it explodes."

"I know." Kirk took another swallow. "We'll get them off the ship, then have a few restful days orbiting Aminta."

'Famous last words. How long will we be there?" He drained his glass and poured another large splash, offering Kirk a refill which was declined.

"A few days, maybe a week. Uhura will be joining the science team, at least in a limited capacity. And they need a medical team to do routine physicals and inspect and supply the clinic facility. Set that up tomorrow when you return to duty."

Kirk's com-link chirped with an incoming message. He turned to it and tapped the screen, looking over the content for a minute. "Concert invitation," he said, turning the screen toward McCoy who leaned closer to read it then sat back, closing his eyes and nursing his glass without comment.

Kirk turned the screen back and forwarded the information to the ship-wide bulletin board. He looked at McCoy, who was unusually quiet and subdued, noting how thin and tired his friend appeared, wondering how long he had failed to notice the decline. McCoy was the constant he leaned on, depending on him to know when he needed a friendly shoulder, a kick in the pants or something in-between. It was hard to think that his pillar might have needed some support of his own and he hadn't noticed. He made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.

McCoy heard him and opened his eyes. "What's eatin' at you, Jim? Missing Spock?"

"In fact, yes." Kirk finished his brandy and set the glass aside

"Me, too." McCoy's mouth quirked in a little smile. "Don't act surprised, and don't tell him I said so. You'll ruin my reputation."

Kirk chuckled and looked at him speculatively. "Are you sure you're all right? Any thing you need to talk about?"

"Aren't you confused? Listening to confession is my job."

"I know, but...Sometimes everyone needs someone to be there." Kirk waited.

"I'm fine." McCoy tossed back the remainder of his drink and settled back, closing his eyes again to shut out Kirk's inquiring and concerned expression.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Miss Grayson."

McCoy's eyes snapped open. "What if I have?"

Kirk leaned back, wary of the sharpness. "I'm not prying, Bones. Take it easy."

"Sorry. You're not the first person to notice. Nothing is private on this tin bucket. I don't understand why all the interest."

"Well, she's a Vulcan. It seems odd."

McCoy flashed with genuine anger. "What in blazes is that supposed to mean? Odd? "

"Nothing." Kirk held up a pacifying hand. "Bad choice of words."

McCoy sat up, planting his feet on the floor, not willing to be soothed. "Damn straight it is." He ran a hand over his face, waiting for his indignation to pass so he could speak civilly, but he was angered beyond reason and the words spat themselves out anyway. "So what word were you looking for? Scandalous? Reprobate? Fatuous? Reckless? Lecherous? Do you want a fucking dictionary? I never demand that you get my approval before you act. Never. Do you think I have to ask for yours?" He glared at Kirk, who looked taken aback, hurt by his sharp ire, and maybe confused by the sudden turn of sensibility.

"That was ugly," Kirk finally said, echoes of the hurt bleeding through along with some anger of his own. "You knew I wasn't implying anything reprehensible. Certainly I was not assaulting your character. You dredged up those words from your own head, not mine. How about the word 'unexpected'. Is that better?"

McCoy suppressed a wild and inexplicable urge to laugh, thinking that nothing he did should surprise Jim after so many years. He found his anger draining away as suddenly as it had flared, leaving him empty and profoundly sad. He looked down. When he spoke it was not at all the tirade he originally intended to unleash. His voice was Georgia soft, tempered with sadness and affection, and maybe neediness.

"You and I have been friends goin' on fifteen years. We've served together with Spock on the Enterprise four and a half years now. You know our roles. You're the Golden Boy, youngest captain in the Fleet, gorgeous, a natural born leader. People gravitate to you, wanting your approval, wanting your light to shine on them. And Spock... Hell, he's Spock. A certified pointy eared more than genius brain with his unshakable sense of loyalty, decency, morality, you name an admirable quality, he's got it in spades. Mysterious, sexy in his austere Vulcan way. You two are different sides of the same coin.

"Then there's me. The third wheel. The irritable curmudgeon who has to be saved all too often from his own rashness. The one who is prone to making dubious choices and who argues and harangues and scolds. The plain old country doctor, getting plainer and older. And lonelier."

Kirk shook his head, brows drawn together in a frown. "You've got it all wrong. Not a coin. A teeter-totter. You're the fulcrum. The middle that keeps us balanced. And puts us back together when things fall apart. You're our humanity. Not to mention the best doctor in the Fleet and possibly the galaxy. How many times do we owe you our lives?"

"I owe you plenty, too, but that's not my point. We three are what we are, separately and together. The adoration is aimed at you two, and that's all right. People are cautious around me, reluctant to engage. I see it. Oh, I know," he waved his hand, glancing up briefly, "I bring a lot of that on myself and I actually cultivate some of it. I've earned respect, even trust. I am not traveling through my life to collect accolades, meaningful or not, and I sure don't want to develop a bunch of superficial friendships. You know that. But it's rare, rare, that someone actually gets me without breaking through first. You did. Uhura, too. Spock and I had to work through things. That's an ongoing process, we're still working out our friendship. Even Scotty and I had to learn each other, and we have more in common than than I do with anyone else on this ship. T'Phol is different. She knows I'm here with a load of baggage that would bring a pack mule to its knees and it doesn't matter. She wants me anyway. Maybe 'odd' wasn't such a bad word after all to describe our situation. But not because she's a young and beautiful Vulcan and I'm an old disillusioned grump and you think that's strange. There's something here, a lot lying under the surface. I don't understand it myself yet, so yeah, it cut when you labeled it so simply and thoughtlessly. Things are complicated for both of us, and for once I'm trying to be careful. But that doesn't mean I know what I'm doing or where this is going." He breathed deeply, hating the desperation that was creeping into his voice. He looked up at Kirk, his eyes brilliant sky blue in his intensity. "I can't screw this up." He fell silent.

Kirk searched his friend's face, uncertain and puzzled. He thought he knew the doctor as well as anyone, but this McCoy was unfamiliar, more volatile and frantic than normal and a little frightening. He sensed the man was on an edge, but he didn't know what, and he thought McCoy himself did not know either. His finger tapped on the desk unconsciously as he worried and formulated a reply.

"I promise I've never thought of you as a third wheel. Grumpy, yes, but you do that on purpose. To keep people distant." Kirk's voice got very soft. "To keep from getting hurt because you feel things so deeply." He looked at McCoy, who was not meeting his eyes. "I never knew you thought you were...Unliked. I should have noticed."

"Nothing you could do about it. I don't feel like that all the time..." He trailed off, looking at the floor. "I'm prone to a bad patch every now and then. Memories are gonna eat me alive. Or bury me." He almost shook himself, looking up. "This will pass," he said, seeing the worry reflected in Kirk's face. "Brandy always makes me maudlin and forlorn. That's why I prefer good Kentucky bourbon."

"That wasn't all brandy talking."

"Not all, but enough." McCoy sighed. "I took out my frustration on you. You deserve better than that, especially from me."

"I accept your apology. You're wrong about all that anyway. What I see is affection, maybe from a distance, but still there. You just don't see it. I'm worried about you. You're not yourself. This 'bad patch'...How bad is it? "

McCoy shrugged. "Uncomfortable. Not insurmountable. I told you I'll get through it." He almost flinched, thinking of describing the events of two nights before as being 'uncomfortable'. He did not want anyone to be privy to his abject misery. It was a darkly diseased thing inside him, usually well concealed but still capable of purulence when it stirred. He wished it would lie quietly forever, but it seemed that was not to be.

"I'm asking you, as your friend, if you think you need help." Kirk was leaning toward him, intent on the reply. McCoy heard the unspoken message clearly, that he would ask again as his CO if he thought it was necessary. He schooled his features into a neutral visage.

"If I do," he said, carefully, calmly, "I will see to it. I'll report to Doctor M'Benga."

Kirk nodded, for the moment satisfied. "I'll accept that answer for now. I need you to feel better, Bones."

"I know. And I will," McCoy said, trying to sound reassuring, falling into their pattern of 'Jim needs, Bones delivers'. When it came to himself rather than his medical skill, he imagined the delivery schedule might be uncertain and the product capricious. Still, Kirk needed to hear he was 'fine', or if he wasn't that he was close. Placating the captain had been his cottage industry for years, but duplicity was not in his nature. Kirk was a man who lived by the seat of his pants, but conversely liked order and predictability, and preferred events and people to follow a timetable. McCoy was often anything but ordered and predictable, and the Human mind could not be put on a schedule. He could not promise a return to his normalcy in two days or twenty. Or ever, whispered the dark thing, but he quickly pushed that thought out of his brain.

He leaned back, drained, wondering how many emotionally charged encounters he could withstand in a short period of time. The notion passed through his mind, not for the first time, that he should get Spock to teach him how to meditate. He closed his eyes, holding himself still and quiet. He didn't move when Kirk left his desk and sat beside him on the couch, and then he felt a hand, gentle but strong, squeezing his shoulder. He accepted the touch, grateful for it although he didn't say so aloud. Jim always thought things could be fixed by wanting them fixed. Usually that wanting also required an absurd amount of effort along with a lot of knowledge and sometimes a little luck. Right now, wanting seemed a good enough place to start, and for once Jim was quiet and not demanding, lending strength in just being there. He allowed himself to sink into that self-assured power for a few minutes. Eventually he straightened and Kirk let his hand drop away.

"If I can help, I expect you to let me know," Kirk said, almost a command, but made kindly and with an understanding that came from old friendship. "I have one more thing to say. You have the soul of a healer, filled with compassion and forgiveness. You should try offering some of that to yourself." He got up and moved back to his desk chair, slipping back into his Captain persona without further comment.

McCoy nodded. "Thanks, Jim. I..." He cleared his throat. "I appreciate that." He reached for his boots.

"You don't have to leave," Kirk said. "But no more brandy for you tonight."

He harrumphed as he pulled on his boots. "Right. I'm either going to bed or to watch the jam session, if it's still going on. You wanna come?"

Kirk picked up a PADD. "You sure about that? You look pretty beat. Anyway, some of us have work to do," he said, smiling. "You go on. I'll be at the concert tomorrow night, though."

McCoy paused at the door. "Tomorrow, then. Keep the brandy." Kirk waved him out.