"Jim, I think I liked him with a beard better. It gave 'im character," doctor McCoy said, jokingly.
The original doctor was at his usual place, to the left of the Captain's chair on the bridge. Spock had done his part, and the four of them were transposed safely, materializing at the U.S.S. Enterprise's transporter chamber at the last moment. They seemed unharmed, and all was well.
"I always thought Spock was a bit of a pirate at heart," Jim said, a relieved smile in his eyes.
"Indeed, gentlemen," Spock returned, clasping his hands behind his back, "May I point out that I had an opportunity to observe your counterparts here... quite closely."
More closely than he would have liked, Spock thought.
"They were brutal, savage, unprincipled, uncivilized, treacherous," he went on, "In every way, splendid examples of Homo Sapiens. The very flower of humanity. I found them – quite refreshing."
Doctor McCoy was sure they'd been insulted, just as usual: somehow the Vulcan always managed to effectively harass people without using a word of profanity. Yet, the doctor saw something in that carefully blank face – he wasn't sure what exactly – that struck him as... not right. He said "gentlemen", but he only addressed Jim as he spoke.
Later, he found Spock in one of the recreation rooms. The Vulcan sat alone with his back to the wall in the far corner, tuning his harp. The strings were singing softly under his fingers as he pulled them, turned the tune-keys and cocked his head to the sound. He raised his eyes as the doctor approached.
"May I – ?"
Spock nodded, and doctor McCoy took a seat near him. There was a ball of crumpled blue fabric in his hands. It didn't take Spock a second look to recognize his own ripped tunic.
They kept silent for quite a while, not looking at each other. Doctor McCoy's fingers picked at the torn fabric, absently. Back at his quarters, there was shattered glass all over the place, and the used hyposprays scattered on the floor, and a scalpel sticking out of the intercom panel.
"You didn't really mean it, did you," the doctor said at last, quietly, "About the splendor of humanity, and flowers, an' all."
"I mean everything I say," Spock replied.
He twisted a key and probed a string, and it rang on re bemol. He turned the peg slowly, and the note became a half-tone higher.
"Well, ya, surely, they are vicious. But then, they merely had to adjust to the environment they live in, otherwise they wouldn't survive in there," the doctor said, levelly, "That's how natural selection works. You only survive if you can fit into the circumstances."
One of the strings twanged sharply and broke in two. Spock took a deep breath and removed the bits. More silence followed, hurtful, traumatized.
When the mirrored counterparts were led to the transporter room, Sawbones McCoy was the only one to shrug off the guard's grip and walk by himself. He did not rave or shout like the others. Wistful, almost dormant, he stepped up the platform – an agnus dei mounting the site of his own crucifixion, Spock thought as he watched. Sawbones gave the Vulcan a long look over the shoulder, and the next moment he was gone. The look lingered. It stood up before Spock's eyes while the mirrored counterparts were being replaced by the original landing party. And, for a fraction, it made Spock unsure which of the McCoys stepped down the platform afterwards. Of course, he knew instantly that his doctor was back, simply because this one looked healthier. But still.
"Spock, I – "
Bones McCoy felt his heart clench when he saw Spock's lips tighten at the sound of his voice.
"I don't know what the other one did. And I won't ask you unless you wanna share sometime," he broke off, his voice suddenly coarse, "I had hell of a time there myself, you know."
Spock glanced at him, and he smiled crookedly. The doctor's left wrist was bruised where the other Spock gripped it. And his mind was still banged up and bleeding from the forced meld. He clutched Spock's tunic and wondered if he could purge this horrible remembrance like the Vulcans did.
"The point is, the other Spock realizes the carnage he lives in, and he wants to change it. And yes, he did let us go, after all. It looks like – " he trailed off momentarily, "Who was it that said every living being was essentially good? Voltaire? Rousseau?"
Yes, Voltaire, Rousseau, Descartes, Kant, and many other Earth thinkers to foster this idea. That however twisted the circumstances were, there was a spark of good in every sentient creature. Spock saw it glisten in the mirrored McCoy's eyes as he was beaming away. And, as it turned out, Bones McCoy saw it sparkle in the other Spock at some point.
Their grouchy friendship, here, was perverted into harassment and hatred, there. But now the mirrored Spock and McCoy both had a universe to fix and some wounds to patch. Spock calculated the proximities and concluded that maybe they'd come to terms with each other while they were about it.
"It would seem that the theory has gotten a proof, doctor. As represented by my counterpart – and yours."
He turned another tuning key and ran his fingers over the strings in a re-minor chord. Doctor McCoy listened pensively as he played a low-pitched, dusky moderato. It sang of sorrow and regret, and the hideous, unbearable circumstantiality. But somehow, although one of the strings was broken, it vibrated in perfect harmony.
"I wonder what they're up to, the two of them, now," McCoy said under his breath, as if to himself.
"So do I, doctor," Spock replied.
And the strings strummed on.
