Doctor McCoy checked the time, although he wasn't anchored to the answer. Earth and its concepts left him, even before the opposite occurred; he had forgotten about 'day' and 'night' upon entering Starfleet's medical school.
Beside the growing collection of Hypos, Christine had left him a packet of authentic paper, borrowed from one of the archive rooms. They were mostly blank, fraying at the edges, and caked with dust.
He was careful in setting out three pieces on the desk in front of him, collecting the soft blue light of the Sickbay. They were lined up precisely, as if vital to a life-saving procedure, so the edges touched but did not overlap. The doctor collected a traditional pen and tested its weight between his fingers.
The next step was obvious, but McCoy had not prepared for it. He wrote gently on each page, unsure of the ink and ashamed of his penmanship. After addressing each piece, he paused, letting the pen start a pool of color at the bottom of the third page.
L.J. Akaar
Natira
Joanna
All the words existed inside him, trying to fight through the unfamiliar pen. He stared, until he only saw the color of the paper, blurred over all of his vision.
He checked the time again.
Upon shaking his head, he decided to measure the time in words. So far, excluding the names, there were ten.
He heard the door to his office opening, and glanced reluctantly at the visitor.
"I was sent here by the captain," Spock explained.
"Of course you were," shrugged the doctor, still staring at his papers, "Anything in particular?"
"Your completed report on the atmosphere of Aristotle IX, for transmission to Starfleet Command."
The silence drew him closer; the captain required an answer and he could not leave without one.
"I should hope, Doctor, that you are not completing your report on paper."
McCoy looked up, momentarily.
"I'm not," he said dryly, "It's on that tape." With the pen in hand, he drew a vague circle over the table behind him. Spock stepped toward it, picking up tapes and comparing them.
"Doctor," Spock recited, selecting a tape, "Are you purposely restraining your emotions? I do not require such accommodation; it does not suit you."
Soon he wrote. Twenty-eight words, spread across three pages. When one called to him, he would answer.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Mister Spock."
Admirable.
"These are tapes of alien languages," Spock proceeded, after pocketing the report.
"You're very observant today."
Wonderful, one page earned. Kind, he gave the next. For the third, he reserved beautiful, written slowly in large, sweeping letters. Like the breezy fields that inspired it.
He had to stop and consider the correct symbols for each recipient; when he thought too quickly, he wrote in English on each one. He was never one to be inconsiderate of cultures. Except, playfully, those native to Vulcan.
"Is there some way I can assist you, Doctor?" Spock leaned over him, near enough to read the words.
"Did you find the report?" McCoy spread out his arms, smearing the ink between his sleeves and the paper, but covering most of the messages.
"I did."
All three cards earned variations of Mother. Sixty-four words. Hopefully. Sixty-five.
"You're taking it to the Bridge yourself, aren't you, Mister Spock?"
"I assume the captain would enjoy seeing you, as you have been curiously absent today."
Fine. Eighty, when he utilized English rules.
"Fine," he said, "Give me a minute… and don't start counting."
Quietly, Spock stood and watched.
McCoy looked compulsively at the time-reading, having promised himself one minute.
He would send them from the Starbase on Aristotle IX, assuming they still ran freight-ships that would regard paper as a package. Maybe it would be considered an antique, and no one would dare to touch it.
Fine.
I hope you are well.
Two minutes passed, ready to welcome a third, as the pen hovered vainly over the final paper. Often, that was the last thing a doctor needed to say.
Spock continued watching, not reminding him of the time or commitment. He began composing advice about the cards, as he recognized them, and would offer it if McCoy asked.
"I don't suppose you're the one to ask," McCoy began, turning in his chair, "but what do I do with these things?"
"In my reading, I have discovered they are sometimes marked with lyrics to ancient Christmas songs."
"You don't happen to know any, do you?"
McCoy held one open hand at each end of the paper procession, allowing Spock to study it. The Vulcan chose not to, and instead called on memory of the song.
"You are incorrect; upon reading one, I was immediately reminded of you and your fondness for sentiment."
"That's a somewhat… sentimental thing to do, isn't it, Mister Spock?"
"It was the correct, human response."
"Half."
"Yes," Spock stared, "Half."
The doctor smiled, and wrote down every word Spock said. They were flat, but not cold.
Love, to you my thoughts are turning
All for you my heart is yearning.
All through the night.
Though sad fate our lives may sever,
Parting will not last forever.
There's a hope that leaves me never,
All through the night.