Chapter Text
Spock stands with his tricorder in hand, scanning the expanse of jungle around them. The rest of the landing party is circled nearby: Jim, standing too close; McCoy, his arms crossed and his lips in a frown; and Ensign Jacob Neale, who even Spock can sense is trying not to vibrate with excitement.
“All readings are normal,” Spock announces. “There is no fauna in our immediate vicinity.”
Ensign Neale bounces on his toes. He's been assigned to the Enterprise for a few months now, in the science department, and he’s shown a lot of promise. Eager to learn and easily excitable.
“So, it's safe to explore further?” The Ensign's eyes dart between the other members of the landing party, and he grins brightly.
Spock only hopes that eagerness doesn't get him into trouble.
“I'd stay cautious, Ensign.” Jim's look back to him is scolding, but kind. Patient. “Animals aren't the only thing we have to worry about. Plants can be just as dangerous.”
“He's right. Did you hear about the man-eating flowers on Vega Gamma III?” McCoy scans the canopy of trees. “They tripped their prey with their roots, then used vines to pull them in.”
The Ensign’s face falls slightly, as if he is trying and failing to maintain his smile.
“Must I remind you gentlemen that our mission is to explore?” Satisfied with his readings, Spock tucks his tricorder away. “I hardly see how scaring the Ensign will help us achieve that goal.”
Neale's shoulders relax. “They were kidding?”
Spock blinks. “No. The doctor's description of the flowers were accurate, though I'd hardly call them man-eating. They prefer large animals, similar to Earth's deer.”
Neale doesn't look any more at ease.
Jim chuckles and pats him on the shoulder gently. “Would you like me and Spock to scout ahead?”
The Ensign swallows and shakes his head. “No, sir. I would like to go first. If there’s a man-eating plant, I'd rather not be responsible for subjecting my captain to that.”
Jim laughs again, more heartily, and the sound bounces off the trunks of the trees. “That loyalty will get you far, Ensign. Don’t worry– those plants have yet to be seen on any other planet.” With one more pat on his back, Jim pushes him lightly forward. “Bones, how about you keep the young man company? We’ll be close behind.”
McCoy snorts and rolls his eyes, but he still falls in line next to Neale. “Sure. Protect the captain and expose me to the horrors of the forest.”
Jim doesn't let them get too far ahead. The two of them walk maybe a dozen feet before Jim motions for Spock to follow them.
“It's beautiful, isn’t it, Spock?” Jim throws him a soft look. “I'm sure it feels nice to be somewhere warm.”
Spock keeps his eyes scanning ahead– on Neale and McCoy, on the flora surrounding them. “The heat is a nice change, though the humidity is more than I am accustomed to.”
Jim chuckles quietly. “Yes, I suppose that's fair. It's certainly more than <>I'm accustomed to.”
Spock says nothing. He stays alert, listening for any sign of danger.
“I thought it might be nice for us to have a moment alone,” Jim says. He bumps his shoulder against Spock’s.
“Captain, this behavior is hardly appropriate while we’re on a mission.”
Spock's voice is stern, but Jim just laughs, and Spock’s posture softens.
It's been three years and thirty-six days since he and Jim initially decided to pursue a romantic relationship. He’s happy– something Spock could almost admit aloud without shame. He feels whole with Jim at his side. Complete.
He glances at Jim, at the subtle smile playing on his lips. Jim is happy, too. It would be illogical to even doubt that.
In front of them, McCoy brushes past a large leaf. Ensign Neale’s boots snap a stick.
“Spock, I've been thinking.” Jim keeps his voice quiet, so the two men ahead don't overhear. “About your proposal.”
Proposal seems a specifically selected word, given the circumstances. “And have you come to a conclusion?”
Jim tilts his head. His eyes are on McCoy, as if he's searching for something he won’t find in the forest. “I want to. But I'd like to tell Bones first, before we do anything.”
Spock nods. It's an expected response, and it isn't one he feels he needs to take personally. He knows the importance the doctor holds to Jim.
“We'll have some time after we're done surveying this planet. He and I were planning to drink together. I'll tell him then.”
Spock allows his eyes to settle on the doctor as well. A branch is stretched too far out of the way and ricochets back into McCoy’s arm. The curse echoes through the trees. “What will you do if he is not receptive?”
Jim is quiet for a long moment. “I suppose it depends on why he isn't,” he says finally. “But I believe he'll be supportive.”
Spock hums in response. He feels a spark of affection, running through his nerves like electricity. He realizes Jim’s fingers are wrapped lightly around the bare skin of his wrist.
“You and I– we have something special, Spock. I plan to nurture that. But, Bones is my best friend. I need his support.”
Spock knows the real reason is deeper than that, but he also knows better than to prod at unhealed wounds and what-ifs.
He radiates reassurance back through the touch. “I understand, Jim.”
They walk forward in silence. Jim doesn't release Spock's wrist, and the weight of his thoughts and emotions pressing on Spock's own is a welcome and familiar comfort.
“I imagine it's time to catch up with those two properly,” Jim laughs. “I don't want them to think I'm setting them up to take a hit for me.” His pace quickens, and Spock follows easily.
Neale’s foot slips on a wet leaf, and he slides into the dense vegetation that surrounds them with a yelp. McCoy tries to grab his arm as he falls. He misses, but Neale nearly crashes right into him as a result. McCoy stumbles forwards.
Jim tenses, as if anticipating danger. “Are you two–”
Spock hears it before he sees it. A hissing, similar to the sound a spray bottle would make. Jim rushes to help the two ahead of him, and Spock instinctively grabs him and pulls him back.
A plant, standing tall, its stem swaying back and forth where it had been kicked. It ends in a heavily-petaled flower, similar to a chrysanthemum. The blood-red petals unfurl as it releases a stream of something. Pollen or seeds, perhaps.
Immediately, McCoy and Neale are enveloped in a cloud of yellow. They begin to wheeze, and then they're coughing. McCoy doubles over with the force of it, and Neale curls in on himself from where he's prone on the ground.
Spock can feel Jim's panic, even without seeing his face. Jim struggles in his hold, but Spock keeps an arm tightly around him. There’s no point in allowing Jim to get exposed to this, whatever it may be.
The air clears slowly. As soon as Spock deems it safe to do so, he drops his arm from around Jim. The two run over to their companions together– Jim to McCoy, Spock to Neale.
Spock helps Neale to his feet and glances over to see Jim firmly rubbing McCoy’s back. Gradually, the two catch their breath and straighten up.
“What the hell was that?” McCoy's voice is hoarse and strained.
“I'm not sure.” There’s a strain when Jim talks, too, but it's emotional rather than physical. “But I want you two to report to sickbay immediately. I want a full physical examination.”
McCoy nods, clearing his throat. Neale suddenly looks panicked, but Jim rests a hand on his shoulder as Spock pulls out his communicator.
“Don't worry, Ensign,” Jim says with his most reassuring smile and a wink towards McCoy. “We've got the best doctor in Starfleet. He'll give you a once-over and make sure you're taken care of.”
Ensign Neale swallows. After a moment, he offers a shaky smile back. “Yes, Sir. I'm sure it was nothing, anyway.”
–
McCoy and Jim don't get to have their drink together. He's too busy in sickbay, running every test he can think of on both Neale and himself.
A flower releasing a burst of pollen or seeds or whatever isn't that unusual, and it isn’t even the coughting that has McCoy worried. But there is a tickle in his throat that won't go away.
Every test comes back clear, and all scans are normal.
According to the evidence, there's no need to be worried. He tells himself that over and over, trying to set his mind at ease.
The next few days are busy for Jim, and so their drink plans are pushed back even further. Spock is otherwise occupied, too, and the only times McCoy manages to see either of them is during meals or when he sneaks off to the bridge to kill some time.
It's okay that neither of them has time for him. Things are bound to be that way sometimes for the captain and first officer of a starship.
Still, they seem to have time for each other. With every report Spock makes on the bridge, Jim looks at him with love in his eyes. Their knees brush during lunch, and they retire to the same room every evening.
They're things McCoy thought he had grown accustomed to, over the last three years. He thought he'd gotten over the ache in his chest. He thought the jealousy buzzing in his brain had been pushed out. Spock and Jim are together. Jim had chosen Spock. That’s okay. He'd come to terms with that.
Right?
The hollowness in his heart argued otherwise.
McCoy is on his way to his quarters, ready for another evening alone, when Jim jogs up behind him and claps him on the shoulder.
“Bones! Just who I was hoping I'd see. Are you busy?”
McCoy fights off the urge to flinch from the touch. He wants to lie, to say he has plans. The words don't come out. “No, I just so happen to be free the rest of the evening.” Just as he has been every other evening for the past three days.
Jim nods. “Good. How about that drink I owe you?”
McCoy sighs. That itch in his throat is still just as irritating as it had been the first day. He can’t muster any enthusiasm into his voice. “Sure, Jim. A drink sounds great.”
Jim falls into step beside him. Neither of them makes an attempt to fill the silence. Jim is worrying his hands together. Is he nervous about something? He’s a strong captain with a powerful presence, but McCoy has known him long enough to see his tell-tale signs.
They reach McCoy’s room, and Jim is making a beeline for McCoy’s liquor as soon as they enter. He pours two glasses of Saurian Brandy– the strongest stuff McCoy has, he notices with a slight bitterness.
Jim hands McCoy his glass and leans against the desk. McCoy makes no move to drink.
“I'm sorry this is so long overdue,” Jim sighs. “It's been a busy three days. We had to lead the rest of the evaluation of the planet, Spock had to run tests…” He waves his hand. “You know how it is.”
Yeah. McCoy knows how it is.
“But we're here now.” Jim holds up his glass in a toast that isn't met. “Together.”
McCoy takes a long sip of his drink. It only adds to the burn in his throat as he swallows.
This resentment is unlike him. At the very least, it’s something he thought he'd left behind years ago.
Maybe he's just tired.
Jim's holding his glass in one hand, worrying the smooth surface with his thumb. He’s looking at McCoy sideways, like he can't bring himself to look at him directly.
“What’s bothering you, Jim?”
Jim sighs. He sets his drink down on the desk, and the quiet ping of the glass hitting its surface is the only sound in the room. Jim is still leaning, and his fingers wrap around the desk’s edge. His jaw is set. “Am I that obvious?”
McCoy eyes him, his expression tired. “You are to someone who knows you as well as I do.”
Jim chuckles softly and ducks his head. “Yes. Well, bothering me may not be the correct expression. But there is something I need to talk to you about.”
Whatever it is, McCoy knows it involves Spock. And that thought alone is enough to twist his heart in his chest. His hold on his drink tightens. “Go ahead. I'm all ears.”
Jim hesitates. He opens his mouth, but the communicator on the wall chirps to life before he can speak.
“Doctor McCoy, please report.”
McCoy can recognize it immediately as Nurse Chapel. He flashes Jim a look he hopes is apologetic and steps over to acknowledge the call. “This is McCoy. What do you need?”
“Ensign Neale has reported to sickbay, Sir. He is requesting your immediate assistance.”
McCoy considers downing the rest of his drink. “Understood, Nurse. I'll be there shortly.”
He releases the button to end the call and looks to Jim again, and this time he finds him with his brow knitted in concern. “Bones–”
“I'll bet it's a coincidence, Jim. A sore throat from coughing, maybe.” He sets his drink down on the nearest ledge instead of stepping closer to Jim. “But I need to take care of it, whatever it is.”
Jim nods. McCoy hates the way he's looking at him– like he has any reason to be worried.
“We can continue this conversation later.” McCoy is already heading out the door. “Sorry to cut things short.”
The door slides shut, and McCoy makes his way quickly down the hallway. This is just his luck– Jim is finally free, and he's suddenly busy. Not that it matters, anyways. Jim wasn't there to spend time with him. He was there to drop some shattering new development on him.
He steps into the turbolift and instructs it to the proper floor. His sore throat is getting worse. He bets that's exactly what's wrong with the Ensign– he probably pulled him away for something that could be solved with a cough drop.
He exits the turbolift and finishes the quick walk to sickbay. As the door slides open, he sees Neale sitting on the edge of a biobed, his fists clenched at his side and Nurse Chapel running a bioscanner over him.
When Neale turns to look at him, McCoy can see panic etched into his features. His chestnut hair is messy, like he's been running a worried hand through it, and his green eyes are wide with panic.
“All systems read as normal,” Chapel reports. “But you'll want to take a look at this, Doctor.”
McCoy steps closer. “What seems to be the problem, Neale?”
Neale swallows. He takes a shallow, shaking breath and opens one of his fists, so the palm is facing up. In the center of his hand is a crumpled white petal.
McCoy looks from the petal to the poor kid's face. “I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more clear, Ensign.”
“I coughed it up,” Neale says weakly. “I've had a sore throat since we were attacked by those flowers. And then… Well, I had a coughing fit, and next thing I knew, this thing came up.”
McCoy furrows his brow. He barely fights off the urge to raise a hand to touch his own throat.
“It's the same type of petal that those flowers had.” Neale's voice is growing in desperation. “I know it is.”
McCoy shakes his head. “Nonsense, Ensign. Those flowers were red.”
Neale's face falls. “You don't believe me.”
McCoy can feel himself shifting into doctor mode. He shoves off the flutter of anxiety about his own health. This kid needs him. “Now, I didn't say that. I'm just saying that it's probably all a coincidence. I'm going to take the petal, and I'm going to run some tests, and we'll get this all figured out. Alright?”
Neale nods. He offers the petal to McCoy, who takes it gingerly between two fingers.
“Good. Go get some sleep. Call me if anything else comes up. Got it?”
Neale pushes himself off the biobed, and his boots hit the floor with a quiet thunk. He throws one last look to McCoy before heading towards the door.
Nurse Chapel is at McCoy's side as soon as they're alone again, and he places the smashed petal into her hand. “Run a full analysis on this. If anything urgent comes up, let me know. In the meantime, I'm going back to my room.”
He doesn't have to so much as glance at Chapel to know how she's looking at him– a soft crease to her brow and a gentle frown. She nods, barely noticeable from the corner of his vision, and hurries off to run the tests.
And so, McCoy heads back to his room. Only once he's in the privacy of the turbolift does he allow his fingers to brush against his neck. Is there a petal in there? Is there a whole garden growing in his throat?
He’d already run every test possible on both him and Neale. They should be fine. So why was the Ensign coughing up petals?
The door to his room slides open, and McCoy is ready to curl up in bed. Instead, he finds Jim still waiting, sitting at the desk. His hands are steepled and his lips are pressed softly to his fingertips. He startles as he realizes McCoy is there.
“Bones.” His hands fall onto the desk, and that too-easy smile returns. “Is everything alright?”
McCoy's drink is exactly where he left it. He picks it up and takes a long sip. “Nothing we need to worry about tonight.”
Jim nods. He runs a finger along the edge of his now-empty glass. “I'm glad to hear it.”
McCoy leans against the wall. He'd been hoping to escape this conversation tonight, whatever it may be. To spend the night anxious both about what Jim had to say as well as the petals that were likely already in his throat. Faced only with hypotheticals instead of reality.
It seems he would not be given that luxury.
He crosses his arms. “So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Jim sighs, steadying himself. “It's about me and Spock.”
McCoy doesn't flinch. He’s Jim's best friend, first and foremost. No matter what bitter feelings are choosing now to rear their ugly heads. “Is everything alright?”
Jim nods hurriedly. His smile is warm. “Everything's great, Bones. We're happy. Happier than we ever were on our own.”
McCoy swallows down the lump in his throat with another long drink. “Then what's there to talk about?”
It doesn't seem to be the right response, because McCoy catches a flash of confusion on Jim's face. He recovers quickly, as he always does. “Spock asked me to form a telepathic bond with him.”
McCoy feels his heart fold in on itself in his chest, like the crushed petal in Neale's palm. He breathes deeply through his nose before he speaks. “That's a big deal, Jim.” It's meant to sound happy, but he isn't sure the right inflection is there.
“It is.” Jim's features soften. “I've been calling it a marriage proposal, though I suppose in some ways it's deeper than that.”
McCoy sets his glass back down. His heart pounds. He offers a small smile. “That'll really seal the deal. There's no undoing a telepathic bond like that.”
Jim shakes his head. “No, and I wouldn't want to undo it, anyway. But I wanted to run it by you first, because…”
He trails off, his gaze shifting to the wall instead of McCoy.
“Well, you're important to me, Bones.”
It feels like an arrow in the chest. A reminder that McCoy is enough, that he matters– but it's in the wrong way.
Maybe this is why they haven't had time for him these last few days.
“Jim, it's great news. I'm happy for you.” He means it, with all of his broken heart. It's been more than three years. Of course things were cemented by now.
I'm glad you found him, he tries to add. But the words stick in his throat, and he can't push them out.
Jim eyes him carefully, as if he's suddenly delicate. McCoy hates it. “It's alright with you?”
“It's more than alright, Jim. It's fantastic. You don't need my blessing, but you have it.”
Jim picks up his glass and holds it in both hands, keeping it close to his chest. It looks like there's something he wants to say, and there's a sadness in his eyes that has no business being there. But then he wipes it away with a bright smile, and he nods. “Thank you, Bones.”
“Now, is that what you'd gotten yourself all worked up over? You had nothing to worry about.” McCoy lets a smile spread across his face. He's trying to fool himself along with Jim.
Jim chuckles. “No, I suppose not. I'm not sure what I was so worried about– you have a habit of putting me at ease.”
“I wouldn't be a good doctor if I didn't have a good bedside manner.” McCoy allows his eyes to scan over Jim, watching the tension drain from his body.
Things’ll be okay, he tells himself. As long as Jim and Spock are happy, I'll be just fine.
But at the same time, everything is too much. Having Jim in front of him is almost more than he can handle. And his damn throat hurts, and–
“Listen, Jim. I hate to cut things short, but I'm not feeling my best. I was thinking I should turn in early tonight.”
Jim blinks and looks at him with a softness he can't understand. “Yes, of course. I'll get out of your hair.” He pushes himself up from the desk, leaving his glass behind. As he passes McCoy to leave, he rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Bones.”
“‘Course, Jim. What else are friends for?”
The corners of Jim’s mouth turn upwards. A soft smile that Jim has always saved for the most intimate of moments. “Right, right. Well, rest up, Bones. I'll see you tomorrow.”
He lets himself out. The door closes swiftly behind him.
And McCoy is alone.
He picks his glass off the ledge and goes to gather Jim’s. His fingers brush against the surface of the table, and he pauses.
Things used to be different. He thought he and Jim had something, once– or at least the potential for something to grow.
McCoy leaned against his desk, his fingers loosely grasping the edge of its surface. Jim sauntered closer to him, closing the distance from across the room.
“I've missed you, Bones. You've been too busy for your own good.”
McCoy smiled. Smiling came so naturally with Jim, when it was just the two of them. “I'm the Chief Medical Officer. I have things to do. Maybe if the captain pulled his weight, I'd have a little more free time.”
Jim's brows knitted together. He stepped even closer to McCoy, who kicked out a foot lazily. “Are you saying your captain isn't hardworking? He's awfully busy too, you know.”
“Is he?” McCoy laughed. “It seems to me he's too busy ogling members of his crew.”
“Hm.” Jim closed the distance between them completely. He slotted his leg between both of McCoy's and leaned forward, resting a hand on the table behind him. “Well, I wouldn't suppose it's the captain's fault he's been assigned such a good looking crew.”
It occurred to McCoy that Jim's face was only inches away from his. It would be so easy to close the distance, to press their lips together. And he could, too. He knew Jim would likely return the kiss with enthusiasm.
Jim's communicator beeped, and he pulled away. The moment is over, and McCoy's chance is gone. He watches Jim flip it open. “Kirk here.”
“Captain. Your presence is required on the bridge at once.” It was Spock’s voice that emerged from the machine. McCoy's heart twisted in a way he couldn't comprehend, but it was easy enough to ignore.
“Understood. I'll be there shortly. Kirk out.” Jim snapped the communicator shut and flashed McCoy an apologetic smile. “Duty calls. It would seem your captain has things to do, after all.”
“It would seem so.” McCoy straightened up. “Go ahead, Jim. We can catch up later.”
Jim eyed him softly as he tucked his communicator away. He left the room without another word.
McCoy and Spock had been playing a sort of tug-of-war with Jim back then, though neither of them had realized it. But Spock had won the game regardless, and McCoy had been the one to end up in the mud. That must have been over three years ago now– right before Jim and Spock officially got together. The flirting had ceased, though McCoy isn't sure if it had been him or Jim that had put a stop to it.
Now, he looks at the empty glasses. One in his hand, one on the desk. There's a lump in his throat.
Even now, he can't say he thinks Spock stole Jim from him. Jim was never something to be stolen. But Jim had made his choice, and McCoy had to live with that. Even if his heart aches with every glance Jim and Spock share. Even if seeing the two of them bumping shoulders or touching fingers makes McCoy nauseous with jealousy.
His throat begins to itch.
He thought he'd gotten over this. He thought he had shoved these feelings down where they never needed to see the light of the day. He is Jim's friend, and damn it he’s something akin to that for Spock, too.
Now, he can't ignore the emotions bubbling back up. Jealousy for what they have, bitterness at not being included, at not being the one chosen. A longing to be side by side with Jim. Grief at what they could have had. All of that, swirling together into a storm of resentment.
The scratch in his throat magnifies until it's unbearable. McCoy tries to clear his throat, and it only makes the irritation worse. He sets his glass down and presses his palms flat, leaning his weight onto the desk. The rumbling cough becomes a fit, and before long he's hacking. His lungs burn and his throat rattles and–
He feels something dislodge, and the force of his coughing pushes it upwards. It settles on his tongue, delicate and light, and McCoy knows what it is even before he catches his breath enough to reach into his mouth and pull it out.
He holds it in between his pointer and middle finger and opens his eyes that he hadn't realized had been squeezed shut.
It's curled in at the edges, from the turbulence of being pushed up his throat, but its shape is still distinct enough to be undeniable. McCoy can feel his heart pounding in his chest.
A white petal.