"So let mercy come
and wash away
What I've done!
I'll face myself,
cross out what I've become,
Erase myself,
and let go of what I've done".
(Linkin Park, "What I've Done")
USS Enterprise 1701, sickbay, CMO's office, early morning
One of the things Doctor Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise, was undoubtedly (and repeatedly) guilty of in his life, were his not-so-healthy habits. Something he dutifully (and rather creatively) scolded others for, but repeatedly indulged in himself. Even when said others (especially one very annoying Vulcan) took pleasure in reminding the good the doctor to practice what he preached. He stayed true to his habits even when those not-so-healthy habits got the best of him. He stayed true (fine, he indulged!) even when he had to pay the price afterwards. He was only human, after all…
This is one of those times. Paying the price. Paying the price big time.
McCoy awakens at his desk, head on folded arms, neck stiff and head hurting. "Awakens" is too grand a word, though. More like slowly and painfully comes around from a deep state of unconsciousness. Like rising through deep waters, brought back from the darkness of his dreams by some strange disturbing sounds. It takes him several minutes to finally dare open his eyes a little. It's the buzz in his ears, the pain behind his eyes and the heavy thumping in his temples that make his awakening a slow and painful process. It's the stony stiffness of his neck, too. And it's those strange disturbing sounds from the outside. But the awareness is coming back gradually. So, he fell asleep at his desk, near the monitor. This can feel bad in the morning, but not that bad. Not that a man can't even lift his head. And that taste in his mouth…So, he drank last night too. A lot.
... And then he remembers why he drank – and the guilt hits him like a train. And the memories of yesterday return. Flashing before his eyes.
Doctor Leonard McCoy shuts his eyes back tightly and groans: "What have I done?!"
"You committed a crime of medical malpractice, Doctor McCoy, and a crime of negligence, and you ruined… well, everything", says his inner voice. "You are a criminal, a hopeless idiot, and what's more – you are a lousy doctor!"
McCoy opens his eyes again and stares at his reflection in the dark glass of a nearby bourbon bottle. He flatly tells it: "No". His voice sounds strangled and lifeless, just like in yesterday's talk with Jim on the intercom. Right after the real cure from the Denevan parasites was found and put into use on others, but Spock had already been crippled in the experiment - permanently. Blinded by the light. The bright light equaling the full force of the Denevan sun when a ship is flying right into it.
The dark reflection of McCoy stares back. It says nothing in return (so he is not hallucinating yet), but in its eyes there is an equally flat "Yes".
Leonard McCoy is a doctor, not a raging alcoholic. He usually knows his measure, even if he is a bit undisciplined about his time of drinking. After all, he has a very stressful job which requires a little pacifying of the soul and calming of the nerves now and then.
But this particular morning, the morning after that day, Doctor Leonard McCoy – now for the third time in his life - sincerely wishes he could drink himself to death.
Sickbay, CMO's office and main ward, 06.31 ship time
It sure took the doctor a long time to regain at least enough of his senses to start functioning and actually get up this morning. And then, rising from his desk and painfully craning his neck, he finally identified the noise that was bothering him when he had first awoken. Voices and laughter in the main ward…
The laughter was feminine, sure enough. But one of the voices was… By now, a year since the start of the Enterprise's grand exploration mission, the doctor would recognize it anywhere. The same voice that was always so intent on (and so damn good at!) getting on his nerves, ever since he stepped aboard the Enterprise to become Chief Medical Officer. The same voice that used to stubbornly contradict McCoy in most cases - but sometimes, in the direst and the most critical of situations, it unexpectedly supported him. The same voice that (the doctor had a hard time admitting it to himself, but had to admit at least out of respect for his instructors in psychology) McCoy was unexplainably growing to rely on to relieve his work stress in a battle of wits and in snarky banter. He was growing accustomed to seek that voice out and to challenge it for an argument - because, really, no one else here was a true match for the good doctor's formidable snarkiness. But that particular voice somehow managed to both get on his nerves and calm him down.
And lately – these past several days of the whole Denevan affair - the doctor had heard that familiar, usually calm and thoughtful voice produce enough gasps, groans and silent choked screams to fuel his nightmares for a long time ahead.
And right now, that voice was carrying around the morning-empty place sonorously and effortlessly… telling a funny story? For real?!
McCoy ran a hand through his hair and straightened his uniform as well as he could, pricking his ears to grasp the words from behind the door and wondering what the hell was going on now. Then he shook his head and rubbed his face to get rid of the remaining sleepiness – and stepped out of his still-dim office into the brightly lit sickbay ward. And there he stopped again, blinking. Blinking not only from the light.
The owner of that notorious voice was now seated comfortably at the table wearing a bath robe and drawing lines in the air with a spoon, explaining something to a captive audience of Nurses Chapel and Smith. They must be very funny lines, because the ladies laughed again. And First Officer Spock, content with the effect he produced and obviously lounging, almost leisurely helped himself to another spoonful of something purple.
The tray before the bathrobe-clad Vulcan contained a pretty colorful display. There was a bowl of purple stuff – the funny-smelling mixture of nuts and herbs, the Vulcan equivalent of porridge that the doctor used to call "nut meal" (pun intended). The golden-amber herbal tea in a standard white cup complemented the purple stuff well. Cheerful colors continued on the plate that held – blueberries? Except that they were the size of plums and their color a true electric blue. A fruit like a very big pear but colored bright orange kept them company. And then there was a plate full of surprisingly un-exotic but still richly-colored reddish-brown round biscuits – un-exotic until one of them suffered an attack of sharp Vulcan teeth and revealed its bright yellow inside.
The doctor stared at all these lush colors and felt like an idiot, their true meaning taking many a slow second to dawn upon him. Because, even brighter above it all, a pair of Earl Gray tea-colored eyes turned his way and met his own eyes with a sharp and amused gaze.
