Enough

Like the death of the universe, it's slow in coming and despite his best attempts, McCoy realizes, inevitable.

Perhaps if he'd told the truth from the start, they wouldn't have gotten here. Regardless, he didn't, and even as he works himself to the bone at the hospital and on errantry, doing what he's always done—fixing, healing, saving—he remains ignorant of the deep cracks and faults slowly forming in his and Jocelyn's relationship.

It comes to a head one evening, a quiet evening that he's on call but nothing's come and they're sitting together on the couch and his arm is around her shoulder and if he were there he might realize how tense she was, how distant she'd been all evening—for weeks now, really—but he's not, his mind is elsewhere, it's always elsewhere, and she knows, and finally she pulls away and he looks at her and something in her face stops him cold and in a split second of intuition he knows what is coming.

"Leonard—" she says, and he tries to stop the inevitable, "Joc—"

"—I want a divorce."

Hearing the words stops him cold again. His mouth works and then shuts, and he just looks at her, again, and dimly he realizes that perhaps he should have seen this coming months ago. Finally, he manages to speak.

"Joc, I—please—"

"Leonard…don't. Your work comes first, it's always come first and I think I knew that and thought I could deal with it, but…I can't. Not anymore. Did you even remember that our anniversary is this Sunday?"

It's a low blow, a knife straight to his heart, because the answer is no, he hadn't, and he doesn't say anything but Jocelyn can see it in his face, and she sighs. "I think you'll be happier, in the long run," she says and he wants to protest, tries to protest, but thinks better of it and instead asks, "But will you?"

She's quiet again. "I loved you," she says, finally. "I still do. But there comes a time when loving someone means letting them go. …you can't say this comes as a surprise."

And she's right. As much as he wants to, as much as he wants to deny it, as he looks back, he can't. All those late night calls, the errantries that kept him away for days, sometimes weeks—it's a wonder it didn't come sooner.

"…what about Joanna?"

She doesn't say anything, but the answer is in her face, and his chest tightens, and silently he tells her go on, dares her to say it.

"I'm going to sue for full custody," she says at last. "But you'll have visitation rights."

There it is. And he wants to yell, to say Bullshit, she's my daughter too, except when was the last time he was her father? When was the last time he tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, when was the last time he sat and helped her build dough castles and then turn them into cookies, when was the last time he took her to the park, when was the last time he knew who her friends were or what she liked or what she didn't like, when was the last time he told her he loved her—God, when was the last time he was there for her at all in any meaningful way?

He doesn't remember, and that sickens him down to his core, and he knows Jocelyn can see it. "Jocelyn, I—"

Later he won't be able to explain why, why he did what he did at that precise moment, except desperation.

"There's something I have to tell you."

So he tells her. He's been trying to, been meaning to, for years, but it was never the right time and neither is now, really, but still it comes spilling out, everything, and she doesn't understand, doesn't believe him, thinks he's crazy, he can see it in her eyes, and so he throws caution to the wind and he shows her, takes the spell he's had sitting in his notes for ages, waiting for that right time, and he takes her to Titan to watch the Jupiter's Red Spot roil and writhe and move from scarcely a stone's throw away. The stars are fire in the velvet sky and Jupiter is mammoth on the horizon and no wind sings here, only silence, and in spite of himself he smiles because it's been too long and it's still as exhilarating as the first time and she sees and though he doesn't feel it quite yet, something fractures then.

He can't keep them there for long—it's been a long time since he was at the height of his power—but as they reappear in their living room he thinks now, now she'll understand, now she see why I'm the way I am, and oh, she does.

She understands that she and Joanna will never be first, or even second, for him.

She shakes her head and goes to bed and leaves him standing in the dark, and in the morning when he wakes up after fitfully dozing on the sofa for the night she's making breakfast for her and Joanna and there are three suitcases by the door.

He should be fighting this, doing something, doing anything, but all he can do is stand there and come to the slow-creeping realization that they are past fixing, past healing, past saving, and have been for a while now.

He hugs Jocelyn stiffly, kisses her cheek, but then he kneels to hug Joanna who thinks they're just going to visit Grandma and Grandpa for a while and finds himself holding her tight, his face pressed into her hair, and he's more present than he's been in months. She's warm and her hair smells like strawberries and he can feel her heartbeat and God, how could anything—how could he let anything become more important than this?

"I love you, JoJo," he murmurs, and he has never meant anything more. She giggles and kisses his cheek, sloppy and wet. "I love you too, daddy," she says, and then leans in as conspiratorially as a child can. "More'n chocolate, even!" and his chest tightens even as he forces out a laugh and tells her he's honored to be held in such high esteem and ruffles her hair and tells her to be good.

Then they're gone, and he's alone. The house is silent, empty, and he wanders aimlessly into the living room, only to spot his manual sitting where he left it on the coffee table.

A wordless noise of frustration and grief breaks out of him and in two strides it's in his hands and with another he's thrown it as hard as he can against the wall. It mocks him as it falls to the floor, undamaged, and he makes the same noise, softer now, more grief than frustration, as he sinks onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands and wonders what's the point of being a doctor, of being a wizard, if you can't fix the things that matter.

There is a third installment of this in the works, but right now my to-write list is so long it isn't even funny. Still, hope this one was enjoyable.