April Rain Song by Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in the gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night

And I love the rain.

ooooo

McCoy entered the Captain's dining room. It was empty except for Cara who sat in one of the leather armchairs. With legs crossed, her head and neck bent over a thick hardcover book resting in her lap. The doors closed with no sound. He stood still and silent, watching her read.

Lost in reverie.

Gauging enough room remained in the oversized chair to slide in beside her and peer over her shoulder at the book she held.

Picturing a Sunday afternoon with no on-call. Lolling on the sofa beside a large picture window. Rain pitter-pattering on the skylight, a day of grey-blue, dense soft drops whishing as they collect on the glass panes. Cara is tucked in at his side; his arm wrapped round her, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She with a book in her hand, it's binding and pages dogeared.

Later in the day a meandering walk through a park where nature wears the exuberant Spring hodgepodge of green. Dogwood, crepe myrtle, and crab apple trees in red bloom. Sharing an umbrella; they splash in puddles.

His eyebrow raised. Oh hell Leonard, be realistic. Me scolding Cara as she skips through puddles.

At home peeling soggy socks off her feet, soothing their chill with his hands. Warming-up in an oversized soaking tub, his back snuggled against her breasts and abdomen, her arms and legs twined round him. Cara smiling as she drizzles water over his shoulders and traces with her fingertips the trail of the drops snake down his chest. Bubbles sloshing over the edge when he coaxes her onto his lap. They kiss.

A cozy supper in front of the fire. Holding hands across the table. Leaning towards her offering a morsel on his fork, she echoing his movement, their foreheads almost touching. Closing her eyes while savoring the bite. An early turn-in …

"Doctor?"

McCoy surmised this wasn't the first time she had called to him. For cover he planted hands on hips and grumped, "The hallways aren't big enough for Pavel, his ever-growing entourage, and any passersby. I blame you for this. Had to slidle along the walls just to get through."

"Slidle?"

"Slip and slide."

Her head tilted to its left.

"My grandmother may have made up the word." His inflection sounded self-conscious.

"Oh, I like it. A perfect onomatopoeia." She tapped an index finger against her temple as if storing the word in a mental databank. "It paints a vivid picture."

He scowled. "Me slithering eellike through the crowds I suppose."

"Well …" Her grin beamed. "Yeah."

Furrows creasing his brow deepened.

"Slithering in an endearing way of course." She heard a soft harrumph.

"Moving on," the phrase tumbled out at rapid pace. "Jim sent me with a message. He's delayed by a call from headquarters." He glanced around the room. "I could keep company while you wait … if … if you want."

"I'd like that." Cara gestured at the opposite armchair then closed her book and laid it on a shared oversized ottoman serving double duty as coffee table.

McCoy folded his tall frame into the chair, his shoulders and back relaxing against it. "I think our young helmsman has had more dates in the two weeks since your profile of him went viral than during his college years."

"Well, as Pavel was twelve at the time, it's premature to congratulate my column." Her eyes brightened and crinkled.

The doctor waited for the mischief he assumed would follow.

"On the other hand, investigative journalism may prove superior to logical mathematic algorithms for selecting partners. Or at the very least and more likely, hooking up torrid one-night stands. I should open a match-making service."

"A Tinder for word nerds?"

"Very cute."

"Did you hear the rhyme in my little one-line poem?"

"Don't hang up your stethoscope just yet."

"It's catchy. Feel free to use it as your slogan. Gratis."

Silence.

And more silence.

McCoy cupped his ear. "Is it possible I have finally achieved the last word?"

"Give me a minute," she said with a slight huff.

"Take all the time you need ma'am." His response was spoken in an exaggerated polite tone. He leaned back in the chair then crossed his legs.

"I … I … I have nothing," she said, crowning her concession with an imaginary glass raised in a toast to him.

"Your profile of Pavel, it felt real. Your words … I dunno how to say this. Your words receded; they were subordinate to his truth; they spoke his voice. I expected you'd laud his important, his admirable qualities. And you did by shinning a light on all the little bits and bobs, the everyday stuff and experiences that make a life. What I mean and I'm not saying with any coherence is …" He cleared his throat. "Well … I'm less anxious about having a reporter underfoot watching and commenting on my every move."

Cara held his gaze for several seconds. The corners of her mouth lifted. Her chin raised then lowered, a nod communicating appreciation of his praise in a simple, 'don't call attention to it' way. "Does this mean you're going to let me in, tell me a bit about Enterprise's dashing CMO and where he's been?"

"Considerin' it." He pointed at her book. "Steinbeck?"

"I admire the cadence of his prose, aspire to it actually." Reading between the lines of her body language, his mind's eye saw the implied brief head shake and rueful smile when she said, "No matter all my practice, I'll never achieve it."

"Steinbeck's that good huh?"

A happy smile did manifest at his implied compliment. "He's that good. I reread his short novels every year. I'm giving my copy of those works to James." Cara watched as McCoy stepped through the ship's manifest before prodding, "The Captain. Remember? James Kirk."

"Oh."

"You have questions?"

"That's your department," he said.

"True, still, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. The idiom is much better when used in its entirety, don't you think?"

"Umm. Sure. Never heard the whole thing actually. And I've never heard anyone use Jim's full given name," McCoy said.

"I address beings as they see themselves."

"You always call me Doctor."

Her response was a knowing look.

The physician rubbed his chin. "Ah. Fair point. Perhaps …" his voice drifted off. Then returned stronger when he straightened his posture and leaned in. "Perhaps instead you'll call me Leo? As my friends do."

"Yes, I'd like that." Her soft eyes communicated how very much she'd like that privilege. "And you'll drop the Ms. Aguirres in favor of Cara?"

He nodded.

"And the ma'ams?"

"Likely not, it's how I was raised. Well then now that that's all settled, indulge my second curiosity. Why a book, this book as a gift to Jim?"

The pitch of her voice raised slightly as if the question was unanticipated. Her hands motioned as she answered. "We both studied literature. 20th century Earth was my undergrad major, he took all the literature classes offered at the local college in Iowa."

"You're chatting with Jim in preparation for writing his profile?"

"Yes. That is the reason for dinner together this evening."

"I see." McCoy paused and his eyes defocused, staring over Cara's shoulder. "Jim and I shared a room during our three years at Starfleet Academy. Together we've survived battles. I've seen him through, and he's seen me through hangovers, bad dates, difficult anniversaries, failed tests, heartbreaks, the list is long. I have his back, he has mine." The doctor resumed eye contact. "This is a preamble underscoring my point. Which is, I didn't know this about Jim, that he pursued literary studies at the university level."

Cara's hands rested in her lap where she clasped and unclasped their fingers. "I didn't know … it was never my intention to share a confidence … James didn't say … it never occurred to me college classes were out-of-bounds topics. I know the two of you are close and assumed ..." She relaxed her hands. "Madre Mia, this is a rookie error. I'm sorry. And I'll apologize to James."

"An innocent mistake, nothing more. Apologies aren't needed and I assure you Jim would agree." McCoy sighed. "The very personal injures deepest. There have been people in Jim's life, especially during his childhood, who weaponized wishes, dreams, and confidences. Having learned this harsh lesson repeatedly, he compartmentalizes his feelings, his hopes, and safeguards his heart like a miser. Please remember this and tread carefully."

"With the protectiveness of an older sister." She placed a hand over her heart cementing the promise.

A steward entered the room. He addressed McCoy, "Sir." Then Cara. "Ms. Aguirre. The Captain sends his regrets. Ship's business prevents him from joining you this evening. Shall I serve now?"

"Yes, thank you."

After the crewman left, McCoy rose from his chair.

"Leo?"

He turned in her direction.

"Have dinner with me?" His hesitation felt lengthy, and her next words cascaded in a jumble. "Don't worry … off the record … I've eaten spent too many meals on my own … company … your company … would be nice."

"You think my pause was thinking over your invitation?" Her unsure expression answered his question. Seeing Cara lacking confidence felt wrong, as if the ship had flipped on its axis. Or fallen down a black hole. "Nope. Nada. Not at all. Tryin' to remember the last time a pretty girl asked me to dinner. And for the record it's been too long." McCoy crooked his arm, Cara stood and slid hers through the offered loop. He escorted her the few steps to the small square table set for two. "Honorary sister is not exactly the relationship Jim envisioned with you by the way. At least not at first."

"Excuse me?"

The doctor shrugged. "I hear things."

"Commander Spock says you are the recipient and source of all gossip on this ship."

"He's envious cause I'm affable. Folks share stuff with me and scurry from him," he said. "So I hear things. And added two and two together."

"Resulting in?"

"In this case a sum of five. Word is the Admiral warned Jim off."

"Chris is a little zealous in that area," Cara admitted as he pulled out a chair and settled her in it.

An image of Christopher Pike sitting opposite her teenage date, the Admiral leaning forward, expression stern, eyes piercing with an unblinking stare while grilling the nervous boy, flitted through McCoy's head. Searing the kid over hot coals, he thought then chose an opposite chair putting the table between him and Cara and shifting his place setting. Cause you never know what the brass can see, and Admiral Pike was rumored to have eyes in the back of his head. At least according to freshman cadets.

As if reading those thoughts she said in a casual tone, eyes focused on the middle of the table and the low, squat vase of white flowers placed there. Burning tealights ringed the vase. "You're not on his 'I'll get my phaser' list."

McCoy caught a sideways glance from her. At first, he dismissed the possibility as wishful thinking and his overactive imagination.

"Ma'am are you flirting with me … just a little bit?"

"A little bit, yes," Cara replied with a soft smile. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

ooooo

Receiving the prearranged message from his steward, Kirk left the bridge in Spock's care and withdrew to his quarters. There he poured a drink, ordered dinner from the replicator, and chose a favorite book to fill the upcoming hours.