Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker, Paramount, the Bride of the Great Bird of the Galaxy, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others are mine, and if you want to play with them you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: general eighth season.
All righty then. It's been more than a year since I posted the original story, and I didn't mean for it to go further, but Mossley wrote such a great take on the idea that I had to, well, finish. So here it is at last, just in time for her birthday. Many happy returns of the day, Mossley, and thanks for both your patience and a really terrific Sofia/McCoy tale!
We're all still nutbars, though.
Thanks also to Cincoflex, for betaing supreme, and everyone else who squeed at the idea. Also, discerning fans will realize that I owe a great deal to Diane Duane's stellar ST:TOS novels, which to me are more canon than the actual canon. I hope she doesn't mind my mentioning a few incidents here.
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McCoy tapped an analgesic into his palm and washed it down with a gulp of water, wishing he had his hypos. But spray hypodermics were one thing Vulcans hadn't invented, so when packing for his trip with Spock McCoy had been forced to rely on more old-fashioned items.
He sighed and leaned back against the headboard of his motel room. It was small and shabby and smelled vaguely musty, but despite his winnings at poker McCoy didn't feel comfortable renting something nicer. Lady Luck might not be so kind tomorrow. Besides, there's a few things I need. A change of clothes, for starters.
His outfit, designed to blend into the Vulcan of the past, wasn't too bad, but he was a man used to pulling a fresh uniform from the laundry slot whenever he chose, and cleaning facilities in this time were a lot less efficient.
Hell, when did I start sounding like Spock?
Unfortunately, one of the things he couldn't obtain were the ingredients for phosphophthylate, given that it was refined from a plant native to Tythonus III. Too bad. If I could whip up the antidote, I wouldn't have much to worry about in the meantime.
After all, this century offered some interesting distractions...
McCoy found himself smiling at the memory of his meal with the charming detective. As she'd promised, the mimosas were excellent, though he'd passed up the lobster salad in favor of a steak sandwich, and they'd bantered and flirted their way through the meal--two people enjoying each other's company without strings. Sofia had lovely eyes and a charming laugh, and McCoy was willing to bet that she had felt the same delicate stirrings of attraction that he had.
But he wasn't Jim, prone to jump into bed with whoever came along as long as she was female and attractive. It seemed to work for Enterprise's Captain, but McCoy considered himself more selective. Besides, half the fun was the chase.
He'd even still enjoyed himself when he'd remembered that the steak came from an actual cow, and Sofia hadn't commented when he'd left the last quarter of his sandwich on the plate. McCoy wondered just when French fries had gone out of style, and why.
Maybe I can get Scotty to program them into the dispensers.
...If I make it back.
He rolled over onto his side, the one that wasn't tender, and blinked at the squat version of what looked like a viewscreen. He hadn't yet bothered to try to turn it on. Face facts, Len my boy. Odds are you'll be dead inside a month.
The thought had a strong tinge of desolation, but there was no horror. As a doctor, he'd seen and fought death thousands of times, and won a goodly percentage of those battles, but he also knew that for most species there came a time when death was the natural thing.
On the other hand, we've all been close to death before...and we're all still alive.
He grunted softly, and tugged a pillow under his head. Part of him insisted he should be panicking, but the chief physician for a starship had to wear many hats, including that of psychiatrist. McCoy knew that his lack of reaction was due in part to the shock of temporal dislocation, but mostly it was just that he'd been through so much in his career that this was just one more thing. He'd been in weirder situations, in much more dangerous ones--facing down the entire Rihannsu High Council, for one, and most of them out for my blood--even some in other times.
And I'm still here.
His will, back on the Enterprise, was up to date. His pension would go to his daughter, and aside from a few knickknacks he didn't have a lot of belongings to worry about. That's the trouble with the spacer life. You don't have room to carry much around with you.
He would regret leaving his friends, McCoy thought, and there was no telling what kind of wet-behind-the-ears youngster they'd get to replace him given that Dr. M'Benga had left, but on the whole he didn't have many regrets, and most of those were old companions.
Pity I can't say goodbye to Jim and Spock, and Scotty and Nyota and all the others. But how often does anybody get to say their farewells before they pass on?
Deep in his heart, where he was carefully not acknowledging it, was the knowledge that Spock was going to be crushed if he didn't find McCoy in time. The situation wasn't the Science Officer's fault--not really--but he would blame himself all the same.
McCoy scratched his nose and closed his eyes. Since Spock hadn't turned up right after McCoy had fallen through the Guardian, there must be some temporal law or something keeping him from doing so.
Or he isn't turning up because he won't find me at all.
With a deliberate effort, McCoy let the thought go, and composed himself for sleep. He needed the rest.
Remember the rules. Never start fights with Romulan commanders; always bet on the Horta; and sooner or later you'll be awake for thirty hours doing combat surgery. He snorted softly. So sleep while you can.
He let himself slide into oblivion.
************************
Sofia found herself humming on the way to work, which was so cliché that she rolled her eyes and made herself stop. But her good mood persisted.
Well, when was the last time you were out on a date?
She had to admit, she'd had a great time, no matter if the whole thing was spur of the moment. Len was funny, smart, and extremely courteous, and had made it clear without words that he had no expectations beyond sharing dinner and a little light flirting.
Sofia appreciated that, very much.
He'd tried to pay for dinner, too, but Sofia had drawn the line at that and they'd gone dutch. Still, it had been...nice...to be the focus of someone's flattering attention for a couple of hours, to be regarded as an attractive woman rather than a threat, a minion, or even a co-worker.
As if responding to her mood, the shift was an easy one, with no bloodbaths or truly puzzling cases. Sofia had time to remember the dinner--and reflect on the reasons why she didn't date much any more.
No time was a big reason, of course; working night shift was another and her profession was a third. Being a cop held a certain glamour for a guy, but for a woman mostly what it got her was the kinks who just wanted her to use her handcuffs.
Len had been a refreshing change.
Sofia frowned a little as she drove back from a scene. "Come to think of it," she muttered to herself, "I don't really know much more than I did when he was a suspect." He'd managed to deflect most of her curiosity, instead drawing her out about her work and life, though he had related a tale or two about interesting or intractable patients. Yet he had none of the smell of a scam artist.
Well, people come to Vegas to get away from their lives for a while. Probably that's all it is. She smiled sourly. "Not everybody who's private is guilty of something."
This time, at the end of shift, Sofia went to the nearest grocery store, stopping by the florist to pick up a bouquet of mixed flowers before heading for the edge of the city. The path, traced once a week, was automatic by now, but Sofia was never unaware of the blossoms lying on the passenger seat of her car, nor of the reason behind them.
The cemetery was relatively new, and not very stylish. Sofia parked and took the flowers and her sunglasses, and walked out into the morning glare, following the paved driveway into the artificial green of the well-tended lawn. She could have driven closer, but somehow that seemed disrespectful, and Sofia often remembered Grissom's statement about small rituals in daily life. The walk was her way of shedding work concerns and stress.
She swung wide to avoid disturbing an interment, and eventually came to the two bronze plaques set flush into the turf; one a bit tarnished, one still shiny-new. Last week's bouquet was long gone, cleared away by the groundskeepers.
Sofia let herself down onto the grass and laid the flowers neatly between the plaques. "Hi Mom," she said softly, and nothing more.
During the past three months Sofia had spent hours talking in this spot, ranging from angry diatribes to tears to just quiet recitations of her latest shift. But lately she seemed to have run out of things to say, and the knowledge gave her a bleak peace. Her relationship with her mother had never been an easy one, and the woman's sudden death had given them no chance to come to any terms. Sofia didn't really think her mother was there listening to her words, but she'd spoken them nonetheless, and felt some of the anger and anguish ebb.
The truth was, with her mother gone, Sofia felt at a bit of a loss. All the expectations, the pressure, had died as well, and she had nothing to push against. It had made her start to rethink her life and career, and she was still thinking.
But at the moment, none of that was urgent. Sofia sat on the grass and remembered her parents--her gentle father, gone more than ten years now, and her mother, who had made police work her life's calling and had never quite seemed satisfied with her daughter's choices, though Sofia had never doubted her mother's love.
"I don't know," she said at last, speaking quietly even though there was no one living nearby. "Do you know how long it's been since I'd been on a date? Just a simple date."
She sighed, and pushed her hair behind her ears. "Maybe it's time I changed my priorities."
No maternal scold broke the peace of the morning, not even an imaginary one, and Sofia smiled wryly.
************************
Four nights later, a high roller from Manila was found dead in his suite at New York, New York, and Brass assigned Sofia the lead on the case. Cause of death was no mystery--three stab wounds to the back had bled him out fairly quickly--and without signs of forced entry it looked as though the victim had let his killer in. Warrick took the room and Greg went to collect surveillance tapes, and Sofia busied herself interviewing casino personnel in hopes that someone had seen something.
It was all fairly straightforward, if sad, and Sofia was just finishing an interview with a blackjack dealer on the main floor when she sensed someone watching her.
She thanked the woman and sent her back to work, then turned, half-expecting an overcurious bystander or potential witness. Instead, blue eyes met her own, and Len McCoy smiled easily at her. "Hard at work, Detective?"
She smiled back, surprised and pleased. "You could say that, yeah."
Len was wearing a polo shirt and jeans, she noticed with the quick sweep of the trained observer; the shirt set off his eyes, but he'd stuck with the same soft boots he'd been wearing three days before. He looked relaxed but at the same time still tired, and genuinely glad to see her.
"Dare I ask?" he said, stepping a little closer to get out of the path of a passing waitress.
Sofia shrugged. "There was a death in one of the suites, and that's all I can tell you."
Some people tried to coax more from her when she made such statements, but she didn't expect Len to do so, and he did not disappoint her. "Right. Well, it's serendipity for me anyway. Care to join me after you finish up here, ma'am?"
Sofia felt her lips turn up. Len raised one finger admonitorily. "I'm buyin', this time," he added in a firm tone.
She hesitated, then wondered why. "Sure. This could take several hours, though."
Len shrugged in turn. "I'm in no hurry."
The cynical part of her half-expected him to be gone by the time she'd wrapped up the questionings and written a preliminary report, but when she made it back to the casino he was sitting at the bar as promised, nursing a glass of what looked to be whisky and chatting easily with the bartender. He glanced up before Sofia reached him, and the slow, appreciative smile that spread over his face had her insides warming, and she returned it.
By the time she'd settled onto the stool next to him a mimosa had been placed in front of her. A little surprised that Len had remembered, Sofia tilted it to him in a toast. "Your health."
His mouth twisted, but he raised his glass back at her. "And yours."
They had both finished their second drinks by the time they got around to actually eating--at least, it was her second, though Len showed no signs of intoxication. He had spaghetti and she had pancakes, and he made her laugh by telling her more patient stories. And while she'd had the feeling all along that he was still hiding something, she couldn't bring herself to care very much. Everyone's entitled to some privacy.
In turn, she told him about some of the dumber criminals she'd encountered, or the weirder cases that weren't confidential. Vegas had double its share of peculiarities, to be sure, and Len was a good listener, leaning back in the restaurant booth and watching her with crinkled eyes.
Abruptly Sofia had to smother a yawn. "Damn, I'm sorry. Guess it's my bedtime." When she glanced at her watch she was surprised to see that it was past her bedtime.
Len sat up. "Forgive me for keeping you out late, m'dear. It's been quite a while since I've had such attractive company."
Again, the line was hackneyed, but Len somehow managed to sound completely sincere, a gentleman offering a compliment as he might a flower, without trying to diminish her. Sofia smiled at him, touched, and reminded that he was an attractive man. Older than she, sure, but she happened to like older men.
So she let her smile go a little more sultry. "Me too."
Len chuckled, reached across the table, and lifted her hand to his lips without taking his eyes from hers. "Then we should remedy the situation. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? Or whatever meal you call it right before night shift."
Sofia cocked her head and regarded him, the feel of his kiss not yet fading, and decided that caution could go screw itself--she still had her gun. "I'd like that, Len."
************************
I do love a strong woman. McCoy sat in the poorly sprung chair that his motel room provided and used the remote device to flip through the various offerings on the viewscreen. The machine was muted, but most of what it was showing was either dead boring or simply incomprehensible, and he played with it mostly to pass the time. He was getting sleepy, which was a good thing; his sleep cycle had been thrown way out of whack by the time displacement, and seemed to be settling more on a nocturnal setting at the moment. He refused to worry about it.
If Spock's going to find me, it won't matter if I'm awake or asleep.
He had to wonder a bit at his own recklessness; asking a police detective for a date, particularly one as sharp as Sofia, was just asking for trouble. But what the hell else am I going to do to pass the time? Within a few weeks he'd either be dead, or vanished back into his own time; and while he wasn't one to play with hearts, a little feminine company was sweet, and certainly nicer than just keeping to himself.
And Sofia was smart, and thoughtful, and her mouth had a lovely curve, and he really wanted to find out what that long hair would feel like in his hands. And she's not looking for anything more either.
McCoy palpated his side carefully. The tenderness was no more advanced; he suspected the infestation was entering its final stage, stalling its growth in favor of maturity. The good thing about this--the only good thing--is that the damn critters won't survive once they break out of me. Earth's atmosphere held far too much carbon dioxide for them; no one else would die from what he carried.
So, he calculated, he had maybe two weeks, maybe three. Get a move on, Spock.
****
He slept for a few hours, then woke again, too early to meet Sofia for dinner. McCoy spent half an hour in the shower--water was a luxury for a shipboard man used to sonics--but even that left him too much time, and he didn't feel like fleecing any more poker players at the moment. So he dressed in another set of his newly purchased clothing and set off for the other haven he'd discovered--the library.
He'd tumbled out of the Great Mojave that first day, pockets fuller than when he'd entered, and wandered for a while, just taking in the town, before spotting the big building and its inviting shelves. Books, actual physical books, were something he'd appreciated for a long time, though a starship's living quarters didn't have much room for such extras. Being surrounded by thousands of them--even if they were all antiques by his standards--and having no pressing business was a luxury.
The first day, it had been mystery novels. Then he'd moved on to medicine, sternly repressing the urge to scribble corrections all over the margins of those he picked off the shelves.
Today, McCoy decided, he had a yen to find out how history looked from, well, this point in history. He strolled up and down the pertinent shelves, head tilted to read the titles, filling his arms with whatever looked interesting--mostly books about the settling of the American West, along with a few concerning the War Between the States.
But it wasn't until he was making his second pass that he realized what was missing.
Wait. It's 2008, right? He blinked at the shelf in front of his nose. Cold War, Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq...
Where the hell are the Eugenics Wars?
It took him an hour to be certain, but there was no mention of the Wars in any book that he consulted. No mention, in fact, of augmented humans at all, nothing about Khan or any of the leaders. A discreet query at the information desk brought only puzzlement from the librarian, and directions to the fiction section.
Baffled, suspicious, beginning to be scared, McCoy sat at a corner desk surrounded by the books he'd pulled and tried to think. History as he knew it seemed to be pretty consistent to the point of the late 1980s, but after that--
He couldn't imagine censorship to the point of no one knowing anything about the Wars a mere decade or so later. Which means...
Temporal physics had never been his strong point; he left that to minds like Spock's or K's't'lk's, and concentrated on dealing with the here and now. But my now isn't here--or is it that my here isn't now?
McCoy suppressed a dizzy snicker. Looks like you're not just lost in time, Len my boy.
Under the stunned feeling, he wondered idly if the phaser blasts had had something to do with it, or whether trips to alternate realities was an ability the Guardian of Forever had just not happened to mention. Somehow, the latter didn't seem very likely.
He wasn't just lost in time; he was lost among realities, different strands of time. And what little he knew about such things told him that alternate realities sprang up constantly, countless divergences every second.
There is no way in hell Spock is going to be able to find me.
****
McCoy came back to himself more than a mile from the library, wandering along the city streets, and smiled to himself with grim humor, diagnosing mild shock. No surprise there. There's a difference between accepting the possibility of death, and accepting its inevitability.
Still, nothing had really changed. He was still stranded in a twenty-first-century Las Vegas, alone but not quite friendless, and neither destitute or without resources. He had enough money for maybe a week, and given a day or so and a bit of help from Lady Luck, he could double that.
In fact, I've got nothing to worry about. His immediate needs were taken care of, and he wasn't going to have any future needs.
The thought was oddly freeing. McCoy straightened his shoulders, and turned back towards his motel. He had a date to get ready for, and after that he would enjoy whatever time he had left. No reason to do otherwise; moping wasn't his thing at all.
Sure wish someone in this town played fizzbin, though.