Apparently putting a 'day off' into his public scheduling program can be overridden by high enough clearance, because he receives a comm from someone at Starfleet HQ as they're making their way back up to his apartment. Spock simply gives him a brief nod and makes himself scarce in the spare bedroom, door closed, while Jim diverts to the living room to take the aforementioned call, and to read whoever it is the riot act if this is not actually an emergency.
It's an important call, but not critical; and under nearly any other circumstances he'd be thrilled to hear that he's apparently being shortlisted for the newly refitted Enterprise's shakedown cruise, with a potential (second) five-year mission to follow.
But he's had time – too much time – to reflect on his admittedly ugly behavior at the start of the V'Ger mission, where he did all but push a fine young man out of the command chair in a way that's both unbecoming as an officer, and not a little embarrassing as a human being, in retrospect. Decker had worked hard for that rank, as had all the other young officers who were shunted aside by his pulling strings he had no right to pull.
In retrospect, it's exceedingly obvious that desperation was the driving factor; if this were to be his one chance to captain the Enterprise again, he would do whatever he had to, in order to take that chance. No matter what the cost, or who he hurt in the process.
That, at least, cannot and will not happen again. He isn't the man for the job, if he can't keep his emotions off the Bridge.
In addition, he has no idea who else has been shortlisted for officer positions on this prospective voyage, very much still in its infancy. It's more than possible, actually quite probable, that Spock's been suggested as captain for a new ship, and that Bones told the Admiralty they would have to drag him back kicking and screaming.
The rest of his former senior crew, he might be able to convince, because it would still be the best career move for most of them. But at this point, who even knows if they still want to serve with him – or if he's even capable of leading them.
And is there any point in taking a command which will never feel complete?
Actively captaining a ship in service is a rare opportunity for an admiral, much less one who's been grounded for several years; and it's probably not going to be offered again. This is likely his only chance to go back into space, unless he leaves the 'Fleet entirely.
Until very lately, the idea of that had been more appealing by the day. And now…now, he just doesn't know. He feels nothing, really, about where his life is headed. Nothing so serious as despair, or even frustration – just nothing at all. It's like he's been running on autopilot for a while now, and doesn't even realize it's happening most of the time.
Apathy is probably not a good sign overall, but he rather thinks he's entitled to cope however he can, particularly after the events of this week.
Before he can do more than briefly consider the comm information, however, the door of his condo chimes impatiently. Probably a courier from HQ, with a written copy of what had just been discussed on the encrypted call.
It is not a courier; it's worse.
"You've got to be joking. You hate public transporter systems."
"Yeah, well." Leonard McCoy shrugs, and bounces slightly on his feet. "Earlier today, it sounded a lot like you need someone to talk to."
"Did Spock put you up to this?"
"No, he didn't. You gonna let me come in, or should I get comfortable here in the hall?"
Kirk is not exactly feeling hospitable, but he's incredibly tired and not up to a verbal sparring match tonight. It would also be very in-character for McCoy to just calmly keep ringing at a locked door until the occupant waves the white flag. And so, he finally steps back and allows the doctor entrance, sending up a vague prayer for patience as the door closes.
Clearly no one is listening to said prayer, because Bones does not stop talking about the heat of Georgia summer, and how you'd think after thousands of years they'd've figured out how to make the southern regions of the continent more livable with adaptive terraforming, and Jim has no leg to stand on complaining about summer in the Bay area, and –
"Why. Are you here." Jim finally interrupts the rambling monologue, with what he considers to be admirable patience.
McCoy leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Like I said. Sounded like you needed to talk to someone."
"I don't."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes."
"Really. Nothing you want to say to me? Or to him, for that matter." There's clear disbelief in the tone, and that is what dissolves the exceedingly thin veneer of control that's been keeping his reactions at bay all week.
"Yes, really," he snaps, sharp as broken glass. "Why do you suddenly care so much about what I have to say, anyway? I've already apologized to you, for everything, more than once. I can't, and shouldn't have to, do it again."
He snatches up his key card and comm-link from the bowl on the kitchen counter, where they'd been tossed not twenty minutes previously.
"Jim, that's not why I'm here." McCoy's eyes are worried now, when they were more amused than anything else prior. "I told you, we're good, you and me."
"I'm glad you think so," Kirk replies quietly, and heads for the door.
"Seriously? You're just gonna run away, instead of talking to me?"
He whirls in an about-face so sharp his boot-heels squeak on the flooring. "You do not get to lecture me about running away." And that, that there is the first real anger he's felt in a very long time. It's a painfully burning coal in his chest, and it's going to lead to saying things he really would regret, despite everything. He has no desire to actually hurt either of them, no matter the cost. These bridges may have a lot of water gone under them, but they're not completely burned yet.
That is the price you pay when you finally give someone the ability to hurt you. Inevitably, though probably unintentionally, they almost always do.
"Jim…"
"Look, I just - I can't do this right now," he adds, with a vague, frustrated gesture. "I'm going to take a walk and clear my head. Make yourself comfortable if you want. Or better yet, go home. You said that was what you wanted, and I've tried – I've been trying – to respect that. Consider your retirement back on, I won't pull the same stunt again."
"This isn't about the damn regulations," McCoy says, frowning. "People retire all the time, y'know. And I wasn't the only one who left the service when we finished the mission. It didn't have to be the end of all things, Jim. And I know it might not feel like it, but this wasn't actually about you."
"Oh believe me, you made that very, very clear. Did you get coaching from Spock on how to file your resignation with the most efficiency?"
"Jim, come on." McCoy sighs. "I get you bein' mad at Spock for cutting and running, Lord knows I was too for a while. 'Specially with how he went about it. But why're you so bound and determined to hate me for it?"
"I don't hate you, Bones." There's no anger in the words anymore, not even sadness – just a faded, worn sort of resignation. "Everything would be a lot easier if I did."
"Half the crew decided to take leave when that last mess of a mission ended. Why are you mad at me for just wanting to go home for a while?"
Pausing briefly, Kirk looks back at him. "Because you took the remaining half of mine with you when you did," he whispers, and the door closes behind him.
Horrified at the sentiment – and that it was actually admitted to, aloud – McCoy stares at the expanse of cool durasteel in consternation, which is swiftly chased by a sickening sense of guilt.
What have they done?
Behind him, he hears Spock hesitantly emerge from the guest room, and put a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"We messed this up. A lot worse than I realized," McCoy finally says quietly. "I thought he was just holding a grudge that neither of us talked to him before resigning, Spock. That's not what is."
"I have become aware of the fact, yes."
"Did you even tell him why you were dragging him around the city today?"
Spock looks uneasy. "He has made mention of the guest room being a temporary solution, more than once since we returned to Earth. I thought perhaps the truth would become apparent at some point today."
"So that's a no." McCoy sighs, and leans back against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He took a day off of duty to help you find a new place, because you suggested it, and because he'd still do anything you asked. And you for some reason thought it was more logical to keep up a charade than just telling him how you feel."
"I do not know how to do so," is the honest, if heart-breaking reply. "I may have damaged our rapport beyond quick repair, Doctor."
McCoy gestures vaguely with the hand that had been trying to stave off a headache. "You're not alone in that. So…don't tell him, show him. You can't hide things in a mind-meld, can you?"
"Affirmative. It is completely impossible to do so."
"Well?"
"I have offered," Spock replies. His eyes are unaccountably sad, there's no other word to describe it, and he finally looks down at the floor. "More than once, since our parting from the V'Ger entity."
"He said no," McCoy supplies, with a sigh.
"Correct. His reasons were perfectly logical, each time. I can find no fault in the reasoning."
"But we both know that's not the actual issue. Dammit, Spock. You know he's not going to assume he understands anything, anymore. You have to actually talk to him."
An eyebrow inches upward. "As you did, a few moments ago?"
"Don't you snip at me. We're both at fault here, at least I'm trying to fix it now." The doctor nudges one of the barstools away from the counter, and sits with a heavy thud, head in his hands. "It's like we've all forgotten how to talk to each other. If we ever did, to begin with. That probably wasn't healthy then, and it definitely isn't now. Codependency rarely is."
The silence is every bit as telling as a verbal agreement would be.
"Perhaps it is not entirely a bad idea, to implement some physical distance until the rest can be dealt with," Spock finally says quietly.
"You don't want that, and I don't think he does either, really. I know I sure don't." The doctor sighs. "I guess I can't blame him for not wanting to set himself up for more disappointment.
But I dunno how to fix this without making it worse. What do we do?"
A brief pause, and then Spock looks up again, with a hint of the old determination McCoy remembers from years past. "I might have an idea," he says, and seems about to expound on that fact when the door opens again, only minutes after it had closed.
Oh. If it were any other night, McCoy would probably laugh outright; obviously, a late summer thunderstorm had decided to wreak havoc upon the city shortly after the admiral left the building, and not with enough warning for him to find shelter from the downpour. Just one more thing in a long line of them today, probably.
Kirk is soaked to the skin, and rather than being spitting-mad about it, only looks unutterably miserable. Like he can't even be bothered to be angry, like it was only to be expected.
Strangely enough, or perhaps not strangely, it's that which snaps the last thread of petty frustration McCoy has been holding onto. There's about 1701 things in life that are more important than holding grudges, on either side, and while he can't fix the past, he can at least try to heal the present.
Muttering something under his breath that causes Spock's eyebrows to incline even further, he slides off the barstool and stalks with dogged determination across the kitchen.
Clearly caught off-guard, Kirk's eyes widen, and he slides a damp step backward before being suddenly reeled in to a hearty embrace, completely disregarding his somewhat bedraggled appearance.
McCoy vaguely registers Spock making a hilariously quick getaway to the living room, no doubt to stave off any expectation of being pulled into orbit as well, but his attention is more arrested by the unnatural way in which Jim's holding himself, hands at his sides and uncomfortably stiff. He's made no move to reciprocate the gesture, or to even relax into it.
"What are you doing."
The words are barely audible, even next to McCoy's ear, and they certainly finish the job of breaking his heart. He shifts backward just a few inches, and for the first time really sees what his medical experience, and more importantly his friendship, should have noticed long ago.
"I'm gonna apologize, and for real this time, here in just a second," he finally says, hands still on Kirk's shoulders. "But before I get to the humble pie…you've always been tactile, Jim. How long's it been since somebody touched you?"
And that's an edge of panic, somewhat like a cornered animal, that suddenly appears as well, and Kirk's glance darts to the side as if hoping Spock will suddenly pop up with a well-timed rescue.
"Jim."
"I don't…I don't know, all right?" The words are no louder than before, but carry a desperate sense of loss, of longing. "Just drop it, Bones. Please."
Good god.
"C'mere, you," he says quietly, and suits the action to the word. For a second, it's as before; stiff posture, uncomfortable and awkward and unyielding and has the antique clock on the writing desk always been that loud?
But then the change is instant, and it's as if whatever steel had been holding Kirk proudly upright vanishes like it's been lost in a transporter beam. His hands fumble almost painfully at the back of McCoy's shirt for a second before latching on in a death-grip, and he exhales raggedly, barely inhaling again afterward. He's shaking, and not because of being rain-drenched.
"Breathe, Jim."
A jerky nod into his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," McCoy then continues gently, after a painful moment. He brings a slow hand up to cup the back of Kirk's neck, firm and steady. "I've been a fool, this whole time. I know, we all said things we shouldn't have, and we've still got a lot to talk about," he adds, when there's a vague, muffled noise of dissent. "But for what it's worth, well. I should send my psychology degree right straight back, there's no excuse for not seeing what it was doing to you. What it did, to you."
The hands tighten slightly on his back, in lieu of a verbal response.
"Also," he adds after a moment, because he knows Jim would rather walk out an airlock than admit he's weeping hot, angry tears into someone's collar. "Just so you know, because he's just as emotionally stunted as I apparently am: Spock's dragging his feet on the apartment thing because he doesn't want to leave this one. I'm pretty sure he'd sleep in the tub if he had to."
"Doctor!" Spock's indignant interjection of betrayal across the room is the most human thing McCoy's heard since that bizarre conversation in Sickbay a week ago.
Jim strangles one brief laugh into his shoulder, and finally lifts his head, looking somewhat dazed. "Seriously?" he inquires, looking over McCoy's shoulder in that direction.
Spock finds an antique fountain pen to be of great interest on the writing desk. Finally, he looks back up, and barely shrugs. "You stated a very clear preference for my locating a suitable residence of my own, just yesterday."
Jim then takes a squeaking step back, nearly taking McCoy's eye out when he slips slightly on the wet floor. "You were talking about rescuing the cat that sleeps in the trash bins outside the building!"
Spock frowns. "That is correct, but I do not have a causal link between the two facts."
"I'm allergic, Spock!" Jim's tone is rapidly escalating to a decibel range that'll make the poor terrier next door hide in the pantry for days. "Saying 'if you plan on rescuing a furry fleatrap, you need your own place to keep it' is not – not serving Vulcan divorce papers, or whatever the right analogy is!"
Spock blinks, with not a hint of deceit in the expression. "Oh. I am gratified to have the clarification."
"I'm sorry, did you really just say good to know?" Kirk asks incredulously.
McCoy clears his throat, trying not to laugh. "Jim, go get a hot shower, or at least get out of those wet clothes. You'll develop pneumonia."
The doctor had in the last few moments skulked around the kitchen island to check out the contents of the small refrigerating unit. Apparently finding nothing to his liking, he now reappears, grumbling about poor diet choices and caffeine dependency. In that same time, Kirk seems to finally realize he's leaving a smallish pond of rainwater on the floor of the entryway, and vanishes down the hallway with an aggrieved huff.
"Still think all those feelings you have now are simple, Spock?" McCoy drawls, leaning on the kitchen island with both elbows.
Spock ignores him with practiced serenity, and places a data-padd on the counter beside him. "I have taken the liberty of drafting the correct forms to facilitate your permanent re-enlistment and acceptance of the position of Chief Medical Officer for the Enterprise's crew complement. They include an office and residential quarters on-campus, at least for the present."
"I'm guessing you also conveniently forgot to tell him you'd already accepted the First Officer's position, contingent upon his acceptance of command," McCoy says pointedly, pausing in his initial-scrawling.
"I was uncertain that was even the desired outcome, Doctor, and did not wish to make further presumptions." Spock's brows is slightly furrowed, even now. "I thought perhaps the housing misunderstanding was symptomatic of a larger conflict."
"It is," Jim's voice comes from behind them, much calmer than it had been. "But we've always been good at conflict negotiation when we put the effort in, haven't we." There's only a hint of a question in the words, and something dangerously like hope burning bright as a star at the back of it.
Spock inclines his head. "That is an accurate assessment. Doctor?"
"Agreed." McCoy shoves the padd back across the island. "We're locked and loaded for the Enterprise, Jim. Does that help at all, as a gesture of faith? Unless, like Spock said, you want us to give you some space. It's only fair that you call the shots here, for a while. Do you want us to leave you be?"
"I didn't want that before, but it didn't stop you. Did it." There's no real accusation in the words, only a sort of resigned sadness, and regret for what might have been.
"It did not." Spock's words are equally quiet. "But it is most illogical to repeat the worst mistakes of one's life, Jim. I for one have no intention of doing so. I can only request the Time to prove to you that this is accurate."
"You certainly weren't the only one who made mistakes, Spock. I had a responsibility to the crew and the 'Fleet, to handle the transition professionally. And that didn't happen, needless to say."
"We need to actually sit down and talk about all of that, and everything else for that matter. Before anybody steps foot on that ship again. Agreed?" McCoy glances back and forth between them. "None of us goes anywhere unless we all do."
"All for one, and one for all?" Spock quotes in an undertone, almost to himself.
Jim's lips twitch in a small smile. "The Three Musketeers. Eager to do some space swashbuckling, Commander?"
"Perhaps the merit of all things lies in their difficulty would be a quote more relevant to the situation." Spock side-eyes McCoy, who doesn't notice the implied insult until Jim laughs.
Well.
They'll get there.