The Officers Mess had been uncharacteristically subdued lately. The good doctor's absence was keenly felt by all. Mr. Spock habitually elected to remain on the bridge, to make advance preparations for the next day's shift, he said. If he weren't a Vulcan, Uhura would've sworn he was too upset to eat. She knew that he spent at least an hour each day at Dr. McCoy's bedside, just as she herself did when off-duty. She didn't know what Mr. Spock said or did when there. The only thing she could think to do was to take the doctor's hand in hers and hum gently to him (she knew he was partial to "Shenandoah" and other music indigenous to the old American South). She talked to him as well, encouraging him to stay with them, to hold on and come back to them. She bit her lip, trying to stem the tears that came every time she thought about it. The Captain spent each evening mess hour quietly keeping McCoy company. She suspected that both he and Mr. Spock knew more than they were telling about how the doctor came to be in this predicament. His coma had now lasted one week, and with each passing day, M'Benga and Chapel privately held less and less hope. Uhura caught Scott's eye as he sent a small smile her way. Scotty too kept a daily vigil.

"He'll pull through, lass. You'll see."

"I hope so, Scotty. I hope so."

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By the end of the day he had to escape, and slipped out alone to the front porch. He hoped he could keep the pain under wraps; he didn't want to lose control again. He felt lost, engulfed by a bewildering flood of conflicting emotions - guilt, regret, recrimination, sadness, anger, helplessness, loneliness, longing. He was so very afraid to allow himself to become attached to this man who reminded him in every mannerism, word and deed of his beloved father, and yet despite himself he found it happening. Sometimes he closed his eyes and relived precious memories simply through the sound of Horatio's voice. He sighed deeply and dropped his head into his hand. A moment later, he felt a hand shyly tap his shoulder. He swung around confusedly.

"Hey Cap'n, have you heard this one?" Gabe stood behind him with guitar in hand, and launched into song:

"Peas, peas, peas, peas, eatin' goober peas!

Goodness how delicious! A'eatin goober peas!

Just before the battle, the general heard a row,

He said, 'The Yanks are comin'! I hear their rifles now!'

He turns around in wonder, and what d'ya think he sees?

The Georgia Militia, a'eatin goober peas!

Peas, peas, peas, peas, eatin' goober peas!

Goodness how delicious! A'eatin' goober peas!"

He had to smile through the tears in spite of himself. He even laughed, if only to keep from weeping.

Gabe beamed a broad grin in return. It cheered him no end to see his Captain smile. He very rarely did so.

"Oh God it sure is good to hear you laugh again, son!" Horatio stepped out onto the porch. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was worried 'bout you. I see Gabe here has managed to put you to ease." He nodded gratefully to Gabe, who looked down in embarrassment.

"Doc, Cap'n. I was just headed t'the house. Sure I don't need to stay tonight?"

"Don't think so Gabe. I think me n' my boy here will be all right. Jus' come on over first thing for breakfast, y'hear?"

"Yes suh! G'night to y'both."

"Good night boy. Sleep tight!"

"Good night Gabe. Oh, and Gabe? Thank you."

Gabe returned, gave him a quick, awkward half-hug and then hurried down the steps and into the night.

He looked up at Horatio with a small, crooked smile.

"Son," Horatio nodded affably.

He nodded back. Just then white hot pain shot all the way from his wrist up to his shoulder blade, searing his mind and involuntarily creasing his face into a frown. Damn! Damn! Damn!

Horatio started forward, voice hardened by concern, "David!"

"Sir?" he looked down.

"How bad is it? You want some laudanum?"

He closed his eyes. Laudanum. Let's see. Laudanum. Tincture of…morphine?…No, opium! Highly effective against pain, also highly addictive in such a pure form. "No sir. I'll manage without," he said through lips tightened by pain.

"I'm glad you said that son, because I don't believe in using laudanum. Too dangerous. I always say that a little sufferin' is good for the soul."

You say that too?

"But, you've suffered enough. I'll rustle up somethin' for you." He left and returned shortly with a steaming mug. "Now sip on that slowly, boy. It's good for whatever ails you. As a matter of fact, I'll join you!" With an exaggerated flourish, he produced a glass and a bottle of Old No. 7 Black Label. "My daddy always said 'Show me four Bab-tists and I'll show you a fifth!'" He slapped his thigh, chortling at his joke.

He couldn't help but smile despite the pain (even though he didn't get it).

"I can't tell you how much I've missed you son."

I've missed you too. "That's good to hear sir." He took a tentative sip of Horatio's concoction. Whoo-eee! What is this? He took another sip, another, and then another. It immediately spread to every extremity of his body, resulting in a warm, fuzzy sensation that definitely took the edge off the throbbing ache in his arm. Horatio regarded him with bemused affection.

He remembered many such evenings spent with his father. Through good times, through bad times, he and his father spent many hours just like this, sitting on the porch, drinking, talking, joking. It ain't called Tennessee sippin' whiskey for nothing! Sometimes they talked through the entire night, raising bleary-eyed toasts to each beautiful Georgia sunrise. He raised suddenly misty eyes to Horatio's gaze, "I've missed you too. I really have."

"How's the pain son?" Horatio smiled.

"Not near as bad as it was," he truthfully answered. He took a large mouthful of the comforting brew. I'm gonna be out a like a light if I keep this up! He felt as though he were free-floating in warm water, buoyant, relaxed, free. "Thish, uh, this sure is good. What is it?"

"That's my little secret, son."

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Horatio smiled indulgently in return and reached over to snatch the mug from his hand. "Hey, wha-?"

"Think you've had enough son. That's what got you in trouble in the first place, remember?"

He looked down at his arm still useless in its sling, and nodded abashedly. "You're right, as usual." He yawned mightily, "I have no doubt I will sleep well tonight."

"Well that was the general idea, son."

Slipped me a mickey, eh? Oh well. He could use all the rest he could get. He struggled to stay awake as the comforting sounds of a Georgia summer night washed over him: a dog's bark in the distance, the crickets' chirp, the rustle of the trees with the soft breeze, and yes, the high pitched hum of the mosquitoes. He leaned back in the willow rocker, surrendering to his sleepiness, and closed his eyes, sighing, "Oh, I wish I could stay here forever!"

Horatio leaned forward, putting a hand on his arm, "I wish we both could, son. You're soul-weary. Stay and rest up for as long as you need to."

Soul-weary. That I am indeed. I might just take you up on that offer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Doctor! The vitals are dropping!"

M'Benga cursed under his breath, "C'mon Chief! Don't do this!" He looked up at the indicators, "Slight but definitely decreasing. Keep me updated, Chris." He turned toward the office, "It's all up to Leonard now."

He stepped into McCoy's office and wearily sat down. A moment passed before he reached for the 'com, "M'Benga to Captain Kirk."

"Kirk here."

"Captain, when you have a free moment I would like to discuss Dr. McCoy's condition with you."

"On my way. Kirk out."

Kirk rubbed his forehead tiredly as he listened to M'Benga's prognosis. "Captain, the longer he remains comatose, the smaller the chances of a full recovery. And there's nothing we can do about it. We can treat the physical symptoms. But the psychological…"

"You mean he has to want to come out it."

"Yes. The gradually declining vitals are not a good sign. I think he may be giving up. He'll become weaker and weaker and the next stage will most likely be pneumonia."

No! Bones, how could you do this to yourself? How could you do this to us? How could you do this to me? "What can we do?"

"Continue to do what we've all been doing. Sit with him, talk to him, touch him, hold his hand, show your care and concern. I've noticed that even Mr. Spock has been spending an hour each day simply sitting with him, talking softly to him. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I distinctly heard him tell Leonard not to give up. And Christine speaks to him during her entire shift, keeping him up to date on what's going on in Sickbay and the shipboard news. All the others spend at least a few minutes each day , encouraging him. And as we both know Captain, you're here every evening. He can hear and understand on a deeply subconscious level. I think that if we continue to reassure him, tell him how much he means to each of us, it may make the difference."