A/N: Oh my goodness, you guys, I am SO sorry for getting this chapter up so late! Dx It's still Saturday where I live but it's really late. I'm so sorry! I've been super busy all day and never had a chance to put this up. Sorry again!

warnings: this chapter has more heavy language than usual.

As always, comments and critiques are welcomed! Please enjoy!

Chapter Three

"Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him." -Louis L'Amour

Jim's good mood proved to be short-lived.

He went to grab dinner on the late side, and when he walked into the officer's mess it was nearly deserted – save for the lone figure of McCoy sitting in the corner, eating his meal quietly.

Their eyes locked when Jim entered to room, but McCoy looked quickly away, back down to his food – Jim stood in the doorway staring at him for an uncomfortable moment before coming to his senses. He replicated his meal quickly, hesitated a moment – then walked resolutely over to McCoy and sat down across from him.

"Hi," he said brightly. McCoy did not look at the younger man as he mumbled in reply,

"Hey."

"How've you been?" Jim continued, starting on his meal. McCoy did not respond right away, glancing briefly at Jim then back to his own meal, and he mumbled,

"Fine."

"Yeah? That's good. We haven't talked in a while."

"I've been busy," McCoy replied curtly. For a moment Jim was hesitantly silent, then he asked,

"Are you mad at me?"

"Me? Mad?" he spat bitterly. "Why the hell would I be mad about my best friend suddenly deciding it's a great idea to just up and invite the guy who nearly destroyed his life back onto the ship, into his bed for all I know. I'm not mad." He threw down the silverware he had been holding, his face reddening with his tirade. "I'm not mad – I'm fucking disgusted, I'm furious!"

"Is this seriously what this is about?" Jim demanded heatedly, resentment and indignation and shock and disappointment and every other horrible emotion he had ever felt suddenly erupting in him. "You're seriously ignoring me because of – because of Spock?"

"You may be head over heels for that sonofabitch but I sure as hell ain't," McCoy snarled. "Maybe you forgot, but he kind of, I don't know, raped you then jumped ship because he was too chicken shit to face – "

"Are you serious – oh my fucking god," Jim exclaimed. "Maybe you forgot about this Vulcan thing called Pon Farr – it wasn't him, Bones, he wasn't in his right mind when it happened and it's half my fault it happened in the first place, we've been over this same fucking thing a million times – and he left the ship because I told him to – because I was hurt and terrified and stupid, okay? Because he was guilty and ashamed and couldn't stay."

"None of that makes a shred of difference," McCoy snapped. "I was the one who had to pick up the pieces of what he left behind and I'm not gonna forget that. He nearly killed you in every possible way – and I will never forgive him for what he did to you."

They glared at each other for a moment, rage scrawled across both sets of features, until finally Jim stood, meal forgotten, and muttered darkly,

"I can't believe you. I can't deal with this." He took a step towards the door, paused, and added bitterly, "You said you wanted to see me happy again. Well, I am happy – but you're not. I guess that you only wanted that happiness to be with you, you sick greedy bastard."

"Fuck you, you piece of shit," McCoy snapped. "Don't come crying to me when he tears you apart at the seams again."

Jim walked out the door. Enough was enough.

McCoy glared at the door for a moment after he had left, then furiously threw the food-laden plate across the table at it – it hit the wall and the plate didn't break but made a satisfying crash as its contents splayed across the wall and the floor. He glared at the mess he had made for a moment longer, then stomped out into the hallway while paging Maintenance to clean up the officer's mess hall.

The moment Jim stepped back into his quarters he kicked off his boots, sending them soaring across the floor to land noisily across from his closet. He paced about the room restlessly, angrily, before swinging his fist into the unrelenting wall with a growl that gave way to a shout of,

"Goddamn selfish lying asshole, I can't even believe him, jesus christ...!" He stood there panting for a long moment, his knuckles throbbing in painful protest as he took another swing at the wall, then another and another, then finally, slowly, leaned forward to rest his forehead on his fist, eyes closed as he sighed in defeat.

There was a brief silence as he stood there, his breathing coming in short heavy bursts, then a hesitant voice came from his bathroom door,

"May I come in?"

Spock. For a moment Jim wanted to be angry at him, too – but he couldn't bring himself to hold something against Spock that he had no control over. He took a deep, calming breath but remained against the wall as he called out,

"Yeah, come in."

The door slid open quietly and Jim listened to the soft noise of Spock's footsteps as the Vulcan approached him carefully.

"Something has occurred," he said, a statement rather than a question.

"It's nothing, I just..." Jim began, then trailed off. "I... I had a fight with Bones."

"A physical altercation?" Spock's voice took on an alarmed undertone and Jim shook his head wearily; the movement caused his hand to ache mercilessly, but he could not bring himself to move to a more comfortable position.

"No, just... Just a shouting match." He gave a bitter chuckle and carefully lowered his bruised hand while lifting the other to scrub at his hair, his back still turned to Spock.

"May I inquire as to the nature of your disagreement?" came Spock's voice again. Slowly Jim turned to face him, wearily noting the muted concern on the Vulcan's face.

"He doesn't like that you're here," Jim replied bluntly. "He's mad that you're here and mad that I let you be." Spock was silent for a moment, steadily meeting his gaze, then he replied slowly with a slight quirk of an eyebrow,

"Curious that he has expressed anger towards you, as all the anger he has expressed towards me has been in your defense. Most peculiar."

"Yeah, well," Jim sighed. "Illogical Human stupidity at its finest, I guess." A pause. "I just... I don't understand him, I can't believe he'd be acting like this – god, Spock, he's supposed to be my friend, he's always been the closest friend I've ever had, I don't think I've ever felt so – so – " He struggled for words, his face contorting in his concentration. "So betrayed, so hurt, in my entire life – he should understand, he's supposed to understand better than anyone, but..." He trailed off miserably, looking away in frustration. Spock nodded slowly, pensively, before replying,

"I have a suggestion. I cannot advise you on how to handle Dr. McCoy, but I believe I can be of assistance in remaining calm and collected."

"I'm listening," Jim murmured.

"While the Human mind is not capable of the depth of meditation Vulcans require, using Vulcan meditation techniques are known to relieve stress for Humans," Spock said evenly. "Come to my quarters and I will show you." Jim sighed heavily, deeply. He had paperwork he needed to catch up on – but he knew he wouldn't get it done anyway, not with all the jumbled thoughts and hurt feelings puttering about his mind.

"Okay," he agreed, and he followed Spock through their connected bathroom into the Vulcan's quarters.

Every time Jim was in Spock's quarters he expected to start feeling panicky or uneasy – but he never did, and on the contrary always felt comfortably at home, if a little warm and sweaty, in the other man's living space. He was glad, at least, for that.

Spock's meditation mat was already on the floor and when Jim smelled the burning incense filling the room he guiltily realized he must have interrupted Spock from his own meditation. Way to go, jerk, he bitterly told himself, looking down at his feet as Spock laid out a blanket as an impromtu meditation mat for him to sit on.

"Sit," Spock said, and Jim lowered himself onto the floor, imitating Spock's cross-legged stance with his hands folded loosely in his lap.

"Focus on your breathing," Spock continued slowly, softly, sending a shiver down Jim's spine. "You should be aware of nothing but your breathing and your heartbeat." For a moment they were silent until Spock began again, his voice even softer now, "When you have reached this focused state, allow your mind to wander briefly. Every thought, every feeling it brings up – push it away. Allow it to depart from you. Find it, and then release it, until you are empty. Imagine you are looking at a flame of a candle. Feed your thoughts and emotions into that flame. Or that you are looking into the night sky, and everything you let go goes to be a star in that sky. Allow yourself to become nothing and everything, to transcend yourself, and you will find tranquility and balance."

At that, Spock fell silent and Jim tried to do as he instructed. It was not an easy feat with his mind buzzing about frantically, but he tried to let the thoughts go. It took a while and some conscious effort, but finally it seemed like his mind was calming down. He focused on the scent of Vulcan incense, heady and bittersweet and familiar because Spock always smelled of it. He focused on the deep even sound of Spock breathing across from him, realized they were breathing in harmony with one another.

He had no idea how long they sat there until he felt as though his mind was finally empty, until he stopped feeling the texture of the blanket he was sitting on, stopped feeling the warm air in the room, stopped feeling and simply was.

Time had no meaning in this sudden emptiness that he floated in. There was no time and there was no Jim or Spock or McCoy or Enterprise – simply silence and pure existence that he quietly, peacefully slipped into.

When he finally opened his eyes again, the lights had dimmed and he looked around groggily as though he had woken from a deep sleep. Spock sat tranquilly across from him, features free and easy, deep in meditation still.

Jim felt... calm. At ease. The thought of McCoy did not anger him now – only brought on a simple acceptance and a resolve to wait and work things out.

He didn't want to disturb Spock so he got up as silently as he could, padded over to Spock's bed and lay down gently. He was still in his uniform but that was okay, he had slept in his uniform plenty of times before. He curled up under the sheets, breathing in Spock's familiar, cherished scent that filled the room but was particularly strong and comforting combined with the faint hint of clean linen, and, in his relaxed, drowsy state, he fell easily into slumber.

When Spock came out of meditation, Jim was no longer sitting across from him – but he could clearly hear the Human breathing deeply from the other side of the room. In his bed. He stood and put away his meditation mat and the incense and tidied up a bit before changing into his nightclothes. It was 0157 and he was working Alpha shift tomorrow as per usual, but he could not bring himself to join Jim in bed right away.

For four minutes and twenty-one seconds he stood and studied the sleeping form in his sheets. The captain's features were relaxed in his sleep, betraying his youth that was often hidden in his waking hours. Spock studied his golden eyelashes, the strong set of his jaw, the faint scar next to his mouth that he had long been curious about but had never inquired after. He studied the golden creature before him and wondered what he had done to allow this to happen. From Spock's perspective, Jim should have considered him a monster, lower than the scum of his boots – but he did not. He said he loved him, and Spock did not know why.

He longed to reach over and press a finger to Jim's lips – a kiss in both cultures. But even as he flexed his hand, the desperate longing turned to fear and anxiety as images – no, memories – of Jim sobbing and wounded beneath him as the haze of plak-tow lifted – and it paralyzed him. He could not do it. He didn't think he ever would be able to.

Quietly Spock slipped into the empty space next to Jim – the beds were really not big enough for two people, but they managed. He lay a careful distance from the sleeping man and, wondering if Jim really could love him, fell asleep as well.

McCoy was sitting in his quarters, slumped in his chair as he nursed a bourbon and water. The remnants of his previous fury still simmered unpleasantly in his chest as he stared, unfocused, at the blank wall across from him. His door chimed. He called out,

"Come in."

Christine Chapel stepped into the room, out of uniform as he was, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at the liquor on his table but said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone,

"I just wanted to let you know that we've finally gotten the shipments of gauze and things you sent in for. M'Benga signed off for them and the Beta shift nurses are sorting through everything now."

"Good," McCoy sighed. "They sure took their damn time with it, too. I sent in those orders three weeks ago – started to think I'd have to replicate popsicle sticks for tongue depressors." The tirade was delivered in an uncharacteristic weary, distracted tone, and Chapel frowned slightly and took a step closer to him.

"Everything all right, Leonard?" she asked, transitioning easily from professional to casual conversation. "To be honest, you look like hell." The older man grimaced at the words.

"Long story," he muttered in reply. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, obviously dissatisfied with so obscure an answer.

"I've been told I'm a good listener," she said primly, and without any hesitation she sat down next to him. "Talk to me, Leonard, I haven't seen you this stressed in a long time." He glanced warily at her, uncertain and hesitant, until finally he said bitterly,

"I just got in a fight with someone, that's all."

"The captain?" she pressed. McCoy winced.

"That obvious, huh?" he sighed.

"We all know he's the only person you care enough about to get this worked up over," Chapel replied with a stifled chuckle. "What happened?"

For a long while McCoy was silent. How could he tell her how badly he'd been hurt by Jim choosing Spock over him – how keenly he felt the sting of betrayal, how used he felt for having so diligently cared for his friend, only to be spurned, cast away in preference of the man – the thing – that had wounded the young captain in the first place? How could she understand?

"It's like this," he grumbled finally. "I just – I don't like Spock, and Jim doesn't like that I don't like Spock."

"Mr. Spock?" Chapel repeated, surprised – whatever she had been anticipating, this had not been it. "But why – I mean, I understand the crew having trepidations about him coming back all of a sudden, but – why are you so upset with him?" McCoy was about to snap back that that wasn't what he had said, he wasn't upset, but decided better of it. If Christine Chapel was good at anything, it was understanding people, reading between the lines to uncover the truth, and he knew that.

It would not be an easy thing to explain. Really, doctor-patient confidentiality kept him from saying anything – but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn about technicalities, and Chapel was a professional, too, dammit. He knew if he told everything to her that Jim would never forgive him, much less Spock – but, hell, the captain deserved to feel the same burn of betrayal the doctor had suffered when Jim had taken all the support and friendship he had so freely given, then thrown it in his face and ran back to the cause of all his heartache like some stupid, lovesick domestic abuse victim. He deserved a taste of the bitter drought he had given McCoy.

That settled it.

McCoy leaned forward in his seat, eying Chapel speculatively, then began, "What do you know about the Vulcan mating drive?"

A/N: Uh oh! Bad place to leave off? Sorry! ;) Next chapter will be up next Saturday!