Work Text:
If Leonard was asked to trace his feelings for Jim back to a single point, he was damn near confident that they could be pinpointed to that first damned shuttle ride. Starfleet was never a great dream of Leonard’s, not something he sought out for adventure or glory. He left Georgia for the fleet out of desperation. With Jocelyn keeping him from Jo, he had nothing left keeping him there. He had nothing to his name, nothing to his person, except his divorce papers and his diploma from med school. He knew he was running away, and he felt the shame of that, but he couldn’t stay. Jocelyn always let him talk to Jo more the further away he was, when she knew his proximity had to be brief, and Leonard thought maybe if he left the planet, she’d let him establish regular calls. He wasn’t too pleased with the thought of being so far away from his little girl and he certainly wasn’t impressed with the idea of leaving Earth, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
He had been contemplating how it was very much not a good idea actually, when a man with a wide grin and a somewhat manic look in his eyes came to sit by him. Leonard had always been able to read Jim, and he’d known in that moment that as different as the two of them may be, they were cut from the same cloth. They were both running away, and neither of them were real confident where they were running to, but they weren’t gonna turn back now.
All of this was to say, Leonard had been dealing with the flowers since his first year at the academy.
One morning, after Jim had come back from a date with Gary, Bones had felt the burn in the back of his throat. When he’d gone to the bathroom and choked up the petals in the back of his throat, he hadn’t been surprised. He knew what was happening to him, and he knew why. He was a doctor, dammit, and he knew how to diagnose something as simple as this. He knew less about flowers than he did about rare diseases, but the flowers were pretty easy to classify with a few pointed searches on his PADD. The tiny white flower was called a shooting star, and it was found in abundance in the fields of Iowa, and Leonard knew that if he had thought he could ever hide who this was all about, he certainly couldn’t in light of that information.
Leonard was a doctor, and he knew how to keep the appropriate logs of his symptoms. He knew how to evaluate them, and how to treat them. No one else needed to know.
He’d read theories that the symptoms worsened due to the patient’s perception of their chances rather than the degree of feelings held by the other party, and he reckoned that was true. He’d read a lot of case studies and personal medical narratives from survivors, and it seemed the only reasonable conclusion to draw. He could see that in himself to some extent. The coughing got worse whenever Jim was with someone, and if he ever brought someone back more than a few nights, Leonard's chest would start to feel full in a way that caused a tension that spread to his back and shoulders. The thing that tripped Leonard up was that his condition was very manageable the rest of the time. He didn’t think he was harbouring hope of requited feelings, but his symptoms seemed to indicate that somewhere, if only subconsciously, his mind held onto that hope.
Maybe it was due to the nights Jim came home drunk and tried to climb in his lap. Jim was a tactile drunk, draping himself over Leonard and leaning in to talk in his ear instead of meeting his eyes. On those nights, Leonard would be subjected to the feel of Jim’s warm body against his, the promise of a good time whispered in his ear, and every time, he would stand up, bringing Jim with him, and lay the man in his own bed. Jim never mentioned the events in the morning, so Leonard never knew if he remembered them. Leonard remembered every time. Every word carried on Jim’s hot breath may as well have branded him, as well as they stayed with him. So Leonard knew, even if Jim didn’t harbour romantic feelings toward him, that Jim was attracted to him sexually. It would never be enough for Leonard, but it seemed to be enough to keep the disease from killing him.
His condition worsened after Vulcan. Or, more likely, it worsened the moment Jim met Spock.
Jim had met Spock’s eyes across that hearing, and Leonard couldn’t deny the spark between the two. Sure, they hated each other at first. Spock didn’t do himself any favours bringing up Jim’s dad, and Jim had even more to say about Spock’s mom. Regardless of the circumstances, they didn’t exactly endear themselves to one another. And anyways, Spock was with Uhura.
Everything changed once they set off on their first mission. Jim was enamoured with Spock, and Spock seemed to find Jim increasingly tolerable. The two bickered like an old married couple, bad enough that the crewmen referred to them as mom and dad behind their backs even before Spock and Uhura broke it off. By nature of their positions, they spent plenty of time together. It wasn’t long before Jim’s determined gaze softened into moon eyes whenever he looked at his first officer. If Leonard started coughing a lot more after that, he always blamed it on the bourbon.
Leonard may have been able to last, he thought, if it had just been Jim. Jim loved him, even if it wasn’t romantic, and that was enough for him. He knew with unshakeable certainty that Jim wouldn’t go out into the universe without Leonard by his side, and he never let their relationship fall to the wayside, even when he and Spock were in their ridiculous honeymoon phase. The real problem came when Leonard started coughing up petals of the same colour but of a markedly different size. He’d been unable to classify them but he knew they weren’t from Jim’s tiny little wildflowers. When his condition worsened bad enough for him to cough up whole flowers, he’d washed one thoroughly and brought it to Sulu in the botany labs. Sulu’s eyes had widened in surprise as he asked Leonard if Spock had given him the flower, and Leonard had frozen in place, turned on his heel, and avoided Sulu since. Sulu, bless him, hadn’t brought the matter up to him and seemingly hadn’t told anyone else on the ship either. He’d looked up the flower again, adding Vulcan as a keyword, and got his answer. The flower was translated either as “white star of night” or “death star.” Leonard couldn’t help but find some poeticism in that. Jim and Spock were his stars, and so too would they be his death.
***
Jim didn’t know how long he’d been in love with Leonard McCoy, but he knew he’d found out about it the first time he’d had a nightmare in their shared dorm. Bones had already been nice to look at, and to listen to, and Jim had liked him from the moment he met him. He just hadn’t realised how far he’d fallen until he had woken up, thrashing and screaming, to the feeling of strong arms around him and a sure, steady voice assuring him that he was okay. The nightmares weren’t new—Jim had plenty of trauma that liked to resurface at night—but the comfort was. Jim had clung to Bones’s arm and cried, and Bones just held on tighter, rocked him a bit softer. Jim couldn’t deny his feelings after all that.
Jim had tried to come onto Bones a few times at the academy, in subtle and obvious ways, depending on his mood and blood-alcohol level. Bones had always rejected him carefully, kindly, and eventually Jim got the hint. Bones loved him, but not like that. It was enough for him. It did make going after one night stands a bit less appealing, though. After feeling that depth of emotion for a person, Jim didn’t know how to be content with people he felt nothing for, who felt nothing for him.
He’d given up on dating, or even fucking, until he met Spock. Their first meeting had been dramatic and the next few not much better, but by the time they boarded the Enterprise for their five-year mission, Jim thought they understood each other. It didn’t take long for that understanding to blossom into something more, and Jim was happy. He had both the men he loved, if in very different capacities. That was, until Bones started avoiding him.
Jim had noticed that Bones was acting weirder than usual since he and Spock had gotten together. He knew Bones thought he hadn’t caught on, but Jim could read Bones better than his friend would ever admit. For as emotional as Bones acted, Jim knew he often used that bluster to hide his actual feelings. It was that skill, learning to read Bones’s real feelings, that had helped Jim do the same with Spock. Which is to say, Jim was the captain of this ship and he knew when his crew was struggling, especially if it was someone he loved as much as Leonard McCoy.
The problem was, Jim saw that Bones was struggling, but he couldn’t figure out why. His eyes seemed to always be a bit more sad lately, even when he was smiling. He didn’t drink with Jim as often as he usually would, and he seemed generally under the weather but insisted he was well. And then, shortly after the start of Jim’s investigation, Bones started avoiding Jim as much as possible. Jim couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with the guy. But, as anyone who knew Jim was well aware, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. He would figure out what was up with Bones, and he would fix it.
Jim found out about the flowers by accident, in the end. He was following up with Sulu about the flora they’d brought back from their latest away mission, and he’d been distracted. He apologised to Sulu, telling him he was only worried for Bones.
“Because of the flowers?” Sulu asked, quietly, knowingly.
It was his tone, more than his words, that put the pieces together in Jim’s head.
He didn’t know what to say, so he nodded to Sulu and asked that they speak on this later.
Jim left the lab in a daze. Bones had the flowers. Bones was dying. Bones was dying because he was in love with someone who didn’t love him back. It couldn’t be Jocelyn, right? Not all these years later. Definitely not. It had been getting worse, Jim was sure, so it must be someone on the ship. Jim knew better than to approach Bones about it, but he wouldn’t leave his friend to suffer alone. He would figure out who it was, and he would convince them to love Bones back. It was impossible not to love the man, he thought. Whoever it was, they just must not know Bones very well.
The problem now, Jim thought, was that no one knew Bones better than Jim. If he didn’t know who Bones loved, how could anyone else? In the absence of someone who knew Bones better than Jim did, he turned to someone who just knew more than Jim, although he’d never admit it, biological explanations be damned.
That night, in the captain’s quarters, Jim told Spock what had been happening, how Bones had been avoiding him, hiding something from him, and how Sulu had given him up.
He expected Spock to take a moment to reflect on the possibilities, but he didn’t.
“Are you informing me of the doctor’s condition to inform me that you will seek an additional relationship with Dr. McCoy, or because you would like to cease our relationship in order to pursue one with Dr. McCoy?”
Jim wasn’t sure what to say for the shock of it, but he choked out a definitive “no” before getting himself together.
“It’s not me, Spock.”
Spock’s eyebrow lifted slightly as if in disagreement. “On the contrary, Jim, I find the probability of the doctor holding anyone else on the ship in such regard—”
“It’s not me!” Jim shouted, surprising himself as much as Spock.
“It’s not me,” he repeated at a normal volume. “If something was going to happen between the two of us, it would have happened—” he cut himself off. “Spock, are you sure you want to hear this?”
“I have no objection to hearing about your interest in other beings, Jim.”
Jim filed that away as something worthy of further discussion, but for now, he knew he needed to stay focused on the matter at hand.
“I mean, we shared a room at the academy—you know that—and uh, well, it's not like I never tried, you know…” he trailed off, unsure how much to share.
“ Jim, I sense your hesitance but I assure you, you need not ‘hold off on my account’ as the good doctor would say. I am aware of your affection toward Leonard, as well as your attraction.”
Jim felt his face colour and snapped his head to look at Spock, whose face was nearly the same as it had been all night, impassive to the basic observer who would be unable to see the hint of concern in his features.
“I love him, Spock,” Jim admitted, his voice breaking.
When that garnered no negative reaction, Jim pushed on. “I love him and when we were at the academy together, I thought we could make something of that. I came on to him, a few times, and he never... it's not me.”
He cried in earnest then, in despair for his inability to help his friend, the man he loved. It wasn’t fucking fair. He had so much authority, so much responsibility on his shoulders, and what was the point? He couldn’t even save his best friend.
Spock considered Jim’s words for a moment, but ultimately nodded in acceptance.
“Would you prefer that I remain in your company tonight, Jim?" he asked.
Jim felt guilty about it, but not enough to deny himself. He allowed Spock to hold him as he cried and, selfishly, he clung to Spock, despite the knowledge that their contact was likely causing emotional transference.
I love him, he allowed himself to think. I don’t know if I can do this without him.
Life on the Enterprise didn’t change following Jim’s revelation. He couldn’t get Bones to meet him for meals like he usually could, but everything else was the same. It felt cruel, almost, for life to be going on as usual when Bones was dying. Jim didn’t give up his search, but he didn’t have any luck. Anybody he mentioned romance and Bones to in the same conversation looked at him like he’d suggested he was ready to retire and move back to Iowa.
He wanted to ask Spock again, but it felt inappropriate. Spock had melded with Jim before, he must have already known how Jim felt about Bones, but it was different, saying it out loud. It was an admission, not only that Jim was aware of the feelings, but that he was unwilling to hide them. He knew, this many years into loving the man, that his love wasn’t going anywhere. He’d thought that was it for him, until he met Spock, and, even under the anger and indignation of their first meeting, there had been an undeniable fire. He loved Spock. God, he loved them both more than he thought he’d ever be able to express. He didn’t know how to captain his ship without his first officer and CMO. He didn’t know how to do anything without the two of them.
Spock didn’t seem to think things were different after Jim’s confession, either. At first, Jim was hesitant, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it wasn’t a dealbreaker, but that didn’t mean it was nice to hear, that the man you loved was in love with another man. Spock seemed completely unperturbed, though. He didn’t mention it but he didn’t seem to be directly avoiding it either. Jim had to ask, though, with so much of his mind taken up by Bones right now, if Spock was suffering any of the effects.
Spock’s answer was absolute. “Your love for him does not interfere with your love for me. You are content in this relationship, as am I. I would take liberties to say that our relationship is mutually beneficial and enjoyable and that it is not hindered at all by your feelings toward Doctor McCoy. Your capacity for love is something about you which I hold most dear, ashayam.”
Jim cried in Spock’s arms again that night, and Spock held him steadfast. No matter what Spock said, though, Jim could feel the sadness through his skin.
***
Leonard knew he couldn’t hide from Jim forever. He was ashamed to, again, be running when things got too hard. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live to be old and happy, to see Jo grow up. He wanted to watch Jim and Spock continue to impress beings across the universe, wanted to be there to patch them up when things went south. And, in the end, he supposed, that was always his problem. He wanted too much.
Jim found out about the flowers on his own. Leonard didn’t know how, since he hadn’t told anyone about them, but his coughing had gotten worse lately, and it seemed possible that one of the newer nurses had seen him and had caved to the captain's authority. Leonard was glad Jim didn’t know who the catalyst was. He thanked his lucky stars, the metaphorical ones, not the ones spilling out of his lungs, that Jim hadn't realised Leonard held the same regard for the first officer that he did for the captain. Only, he thought, that wasn't entirely true. He saw the knowing glint in Jim's eyes too often when he and Spock got into their trifling little spats. Jim knew Leonard held the two of them in a similar regard. He just didn't understand the depths of that regard. And if Leonard had it his way, neither of them would ever know anything of those depths. Jim and Spock had each other, and they were happy, and as fucking miserable as he was about it sometimes, he was happy for them. They deserved each other. They’d be alright without him, eventually, if it came to that.
Spock seemed to disagree with Leonard’s assessment of the situation, which was just fucking typical. He found Leonard in his office after hours, looking stone-faced as ever but clearly upset. Leonard didn’t know when he’d learned to read Spock as easily as he could Jim, but he willed himself to focus on the determination in Spock’s eyes and ignore the pain behind it.
Leonard hadn’t been doing work. In a particularly morbid moment as he contemplated what the full flowers meant for him in the long term, he’d gone to Sulu to ask about flower pressing, and he’d pressed a couple of the flowers into cards he kept in his pocket. It seemed messed up if he thought of it too much, but he wanted to remember that the flowers were symbols of his love. Even if they were in the wrong place, they were beautiful. So Leonard made the conscious decision to keep them, to carry them with him, and held them in the chest pocket of his lab coat, next to his heart. This condition was making him a fucking sap.
Leonard opened his mouth to greet Spock, but was immediately cut off.
“I must implore you to reveal the object of your affections. You are refusing them agency in this decision, and I am confident there is no one on this ship who would willingly allow you to persist in this suicide mission of yours.”
Spock’s words hit him like a blow.
Fucking suicide mission? Leonard had spent so much time pathologizing his experience, constructing it in his mind not as a metaphysical affliction as it was so often characterised, but as a chronic illness which he had done his best to manage, that Spock’s words felt like salt on a very open wound. Spock’s confidence in some abstract figure loving Leonard didn’t mean shit when one of the very real “objects of his affections” was standing in front of him, bitching him out, no doubt on behalf of the other.
“They are already attached,” Leonard grumbled.
“That does not preclude—”
“They’re not interested, Spock,” Leonard interrupted. He didn’t need to hear Spock’s logical explanation for how someone might be secretly harbouring feelings for him despite their committed relationship to another. He saw how committed Jim and Spock were to each other, and he didn’t see how he could fit himself between them.
“You have no way of knowing that, as surely a direct rejection would have accelerated your condition past your current state. If you are uncomfortable sharing something of this nature with me, at least share it with Jim. He is worried about you.”
Leonard cringed at the mention of Jim. He must seem worse off than he imagined, if Spock is willing to call Jim by his name instead of his title. Worse, still, if Spock has lowered himself to an emotional appeal rather than a logical one. And suddenly, Leonard is angry. It’s an ugly, cruel anger, raging against the happiness of his most beloved friends in the absence of his own. Leonard wished he didn’t have the capacity for it, but it seemed that at his core he was the angry old man everyone thought him to be.
“Well, I'm not gonna tell you and I'm certainly not telling anyone else, so unless you intend to use your mind magic to get the answers I won't give you, you’re shit out of luck, Spock.”
Spock stiffened and Leonard felt the lancing pain of instant regret join the constant ache and tension in his chest.
“I would not violate you in such a way and I do not appreciate the implication that I am capable of such an act.”
There was only silence after Spock’s statement. Leonard knew he should apologise but he couldn’t form the words, couldn’t explain to the man in front of him why he couldn’t disclose this potentially life-saving information. Spock's body didn’t ease, and when Leonard looked up to meet Spock’s eyes, he could see the pain in them, the anger, clear as day. He thought maybe anyone on the ship would be able to read Spock right now. When Spock spoke again, though, all of the emotion had been systematically removed from his tone.
His voice was cold, empty, as he said, “Your stubbornness will be the death of you, Leonard McCoy. I cannot fathom how little regard you have for the pain your death would inflict upon others.”
Leonard still couldn’t bring his mouth to form words, though it moved soundlessly in response. Spock watched Leonard’s mouth closely but gave up quickly and continued.
“Doctor, in refusing to seek treatment, you are betraying your oath. You are doing harm. I ask that you reflect on that.”
Then he spun on his heel and left Leonard alone in his office.
Jim hadn’t tried to visit Leonard since before his confrontation with Spock, and Leonard could feel the absence exacerbating his symptoms. He heard the echo of Spock’s words in his head, calling him suicidal. He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. He had done so much over the years to balance maintaining his relationship with Jim with his desire for more. He’d had it under control until Spock came around.
He couldn’t blame Spock for it, couldn’t regret having known him, couldn’t regret how happy he and Jim made each other. He also couldn’t help but feel guilty about his own interference in that happiness. They were suffering, Jim because he was, Spock because Jim was. It was a vicious cycle, powered by these tiny white petals which had recently started coming out as whole flowers. They were pretty flowers, Leonard had to admit. He understood why the universe chose them for Jim and Spock. If Leonard could just be happy with their friendship, if he could just maintain that balance with the two of them, the flowers didn’t have to mean death for him. He had grown used to the persistent pain in his chest. The pain, which had once spread only to his back and shoulders, had started shooting up and down his limbs as well, causing bodily fatigue. If he could establish a new balance, with the new factor of Jim and Spock’s relationship, he could get back to that old normal. He could handle a bit of chest pain and a persistent cough. He didn’t want to die.
Leonard realised that the best way to do this, with the potentially limited time he had left, would be to have a frank discussion with Jim and Spock about what he needed from them. He could live on their platonic affection alone, if he could get it. Jim was a sure bet, he thought, but Spock was a bit of a wild card. He had been the one to insist that Leonard inform him who was catalysing the flowers, though, so he had no one to blame but himself if he didn’t like the answer.
Leonard groaned. He could not believe Spock had guilted him into sharing this information. He kept stopping on his way to the captain’s quarters where he knew the two of them would be playing chess to turn around and go back to his own quarters, but Spock’s voice in his head stopped him.
I cannot fathom how little regard you have for the pain your death would inflict upon others.
Spock had been talking about Jim, Leonard was sure, but he was also sure that Spock would do anything to make Jim happy, even if it meant occasionally throwing a fond expression Leonard’s way, or sharing dinner with him once in a while.
Leonard had managed to survive on Jim’s purely platonic affection for years, surely he could return to a stable enough state were he and Spock to enter into a similar relationship. He didn’t need Spock to love him back in this way, in the way they both loved Jim. He only needed the Vulcan to definitively express positive regard of any kind, to silence the doubt that was causing Leonard’s symptoms. And maybe spend a bit of time with him once in a while. He was sure that would be enough. He needed it to be enough. It was a better plan than dying, anyway.
***
Spock had never imagined himself as someone with a great capacity for positive emotion. He would never admit to anyone that he had such a thing as an imagination, but he could admit to himself that he had always striven to be a picturesque disciple of Surak due to his fears about his capacity for negative emotion. Throughout his childhood, he had often felt embarrassment, shame, and anger. Those emotions were dangerous, and he acted dangerously in response. He never could bring himself to regret attacking the peers of his who had spoken ill of his mother, but he did feel concern at his capacity for violence. There were positive emotions he felt strongly, too: love for his mother, excitement over his studies. He reclassified those as appreciation and fascination and he focused on eliminating his negative reactions. He made the decision to follow the teachings of Surak and to seek to become a pinnacle of Vulcan logic.
After the destruction of Vulcan, it became impossible to logically deny the emotions that ran deep in his people. Many persisted regardless, clinging to their traditional mores even in light of abundant evidence conflicting their conclusion. Spock didn’t blame them for trying to retain their cultural values, but he did consider their strategies illogical. It was based in the same illogical pride that had led the council to refer to his human blood as a disadvantage. He was familiar with this failing in the high-ranking people of his home world and he was unsurprised to see it persist. He could no longer be beholden to such strict dichotomies between logic and emotion, human and Vulcan. His father had confessed to marrying his mother out of love, he was relentlessly assaulted by the grief and longing of his people for a world that no longer existed, and he could no longer find it defensible to say that Vulcans were without emotion.
As Spock began to complete his mission with the U.S.S. Enterprise, he began to see that humans were not without logic of their own. Captain Kirk, as always, seemed a very emotional man, but he often chose to weigh logic and emotion in whatever measure he saw fit in a given situation. Spock admired his ability to balance the two, although he often disagreed with the captain’s priorities. For example, Captain Kirk never seemed to value his own life as much as Spock saw to be both logically and emotionally reasonable. Spock found an unlikely ally in this fight in Dr. McCoy.
Upon their initial meeting, and many subsequent meetings, Spock had found the man emotional to a fault. The doctor was disproportionately emotionally affected by nearly every situation they found themselves in, it seemed. Spock found this to be an unusual trait for a medical professional and questioned the fact that this man was trusted with the health of every crewman on this ship. However, upon further observation, Spock came to understand that Dr. McCoy was often able to successfully argue his points with purely emotional evidence. As a doctor, it was his responsibility to care for his patients, and it seemed he took this responsibility rather literally, investing himself emotionally in every patient that visited the med bay. Captain Kirk was in the med bay often, and it seemed Dr. McCoy was more emotionally invested in him than most, although Spock hypothesised this had much to do with their pre-existing personal relationship. The captain listened to Dr. McCoy, even if he rarely agreed with him, and Spock found himself coming to share this regard for the doctor.
Spock had not realised the true depths of his affection for Dr. Leonard McCoy until he had learned of his condition. He had already suspected, but the moment Jim confirmed for him the presence of flowers in Leonard’s lungs, Spock was transported back to the moment in the warp core, watching Jim fade away in front of him and being unable to save him. He was glad to be on the opposite side of the room from Jim at the time. He was sure Jim would have felt the revelation and its effects radiating from Spock’s skin had they been in close proximity. Spock did all that he could to compartmentalise this new information for the time being so that he might meditate on it later. At the moment, Jim needed his comfort. He was not surprised by Jim’s affection for the doctor. Surely anyone as close to Leonard as Jim was would hold the man in high regard, and Jim had such a great capacity for love. He considered sharing his own affections for the doctor to ease Jim’s mind, but he did not want to distract from Jim’s distress and subsequent comfort. Spock had much more practice than Jim at concealing and eliminating his negative emotions.
As he reflected on the current situation with Leonard, Spock wondered at the capacity he still held for negative emotion, as it seemed his very being was nearly subsumed with grief and fear. He maintained that he was better off than Jim, who had spent many a night crying himself to sleep in Spock’s arms. Spock felt helpless in a way he had not since the destruction of his planet and he could not allow these feelings to persist. He had tried to hypothesise on his own, but dismissed every option out of hand. He first thought it might be Jim, surely Jim was the person the doctor held in the highest regard on the ship, but if it were Jim, the solution would be clear, and Leonard would have undoubtedly sought to rectify their situation long before his condition advanced to its current state. Jim would be happy to acquiesce, Spock was sure, and Spock would be happy for the two of them. He trusted they would remain his close friends, even if they felt their relationship would prevent the continuation of his romantic relationship with Jim. So, no, it could not be Jim. Spock had considered that it may be Nurse Chapel that held the doctor’s regard, but dismissed this after only a day of observation. Leonard held Nurse Chapel in high regard, but it was clearly not romantic. He cycled through a few theories before he decided to approach Leonard directly.
He tried to reason with Leonard, first with logic, then emotion, but Leonard seemed unwilling to “hear him out” as the man himself might say. Having tried his own powers of observation and deduction, Jim’s strategy of subtly asking those around Leonard, and his own strategy of addressing the man directly, Spock saw no further potential solution in his power. He did not understand Leonard’s insistence on keeping this information secret from them.
He was reflecting on this across the table from Jim as they distractedly moved pieces across the chess board between them when there was a request to enter the captain’s quarters.
Jim looked up at Spock in surprise, then at the door.
“Let me in,” came through the door in Leonard’s cantankerous voice.
Jim stood up quickly, toppling the board in his haste and not sparing it a glance as he let Leonard in.
Leonard took a look at the scattered chess pieces and sighed. He met Spock’s eyes, then Jim’s.
“We need to talk.”
***
Jim looked terrible, Leonard thought as he crossed the threshold of the captain’s quarters. Spock didn’t look much better, by his own adjusted standards. Leonard felt a familiar guilt hiccup in his chest at their obvious misery but he powered through it.
“We need to talk,” he told them.
Jim imitated an old bobblehead toy and gestured frantically for Leonard to sit, pulling up a third chair to the table. Leonard hesitated, not wanting to sit, knowing it would slow any attempted escape on his part. On second thought, maybe that was a good security measure. He sat, careful not to step on the scattered chess pieces.
Jim and Spock were silent, watching him, as they all sat at the table. Leonard looked at Spock first. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I know you would never do that to me, and I shouldn’t have implied you would.”
Jim made a small sound in question, but Leonard pushed on. He needed to get this all out if he was going to.
“You were wrong, too, though,” he told Spock. “This isn’t a suicide mission. I’ve been dealing with the flowers for years now, and until recently, I’ve had the condition under control.”
Spock’s eyes flickered to Jim’s at the mention of years, but he didn’t interrupt Leonard. It seemed Spock suspected Jim was causing the flowers, and Leonard wasn’t surprised. It was likely everyone thought it was Jim, except maybe Sulu.
Leonard cleared his throat and sat back, looking between the two of them. “I’ve had the flowers since the first year in the academy.”
Jim sat up then, opening his mouth in protest before being cut off by a hand on his. Leonard looked at Spock’s hand on Jim’s and felt something blossom in his chest. He pushed on.
“I’m a doctor, and a damned good one at that, so I knew what they meant when they started showing up. I did a lot of research and I kept a log of my symptoms, and I managed them without too much trouble for a few years. It was only petals for a long time. It’s only been a few weeks that the disease has been progressing to full flowers, and that the rest of my symptoms have become a hindrance in my daily life.”
“Am I correct in assuming the symptoms began to progress following the initiation of a romantic relationship between Jim and myself?” Spock asked.
He needed to admit this if he had any hope of being healthy, Leonard reminded himself.
“Yes,” he said, impressed with the steadiness of his voice.
Jim, having kept quiet as long as he could, it seemed, stood up from the table to start pacing.
“What the fuck, Bones?” he demanded.
Leonard wasn’t sure how exactly to respond to that.
“No, what the actual fuck, Bones? Are you seriously saying this is about me? That I’m the one hurting you? That you’ve had flowers for me since the first year of the academy?”
Leonard didn’t know what to do with the venom in Jim’s tone. He sounded hurt, which Leonard had expected, but he also sounded angry, enraged even, to a degree that he hadn’t thought to anticipate.
“Jim,” Spock said, warning in his even tone.
“No,” Jim turned to Spock with his anger. “You saw! You’ve seen my mind Spock, you know this is bullshit.”
He turned back to Leonard. “Why would you lie about this, Bones? How could that possibly help anyone? How could you do that to me?”
“Jim,” Spock started to cut in again, but Leonard wouldn’t have it. Lying? Jim thought he was lying?
“I’m not lying, Jim.” He ignores the man’s bitter scoff. “The flowers started coming during our first year at the academy, dodecatheon meadia, little shooting stars, but I managed them. I did everything I could to manage them and I was doing fine until recently.”
“You know, Bones, you’d never know with how good a poker player you are, but you’re a fucking terrible liar,” Jim said, face red and words biting. “Either you’re lying about the flowers being for me or you’re lying about doing everything you could to manage your symptoms because you know damn well you could have done a whole lot more. Especially then.”
That’s what this was all about? Leonard remembered the nights when Jim had come to him, and he knew damn well he’d done all he could. If Jim were in his right mind, he would know it too.
“Jim,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm, knowing there was more to get through, “you were drunk and—”
“I was in love with you!” Jim shouted. He was looking Leonard in the eyes as he said it, daring him to deny it.
Leonard couldn’t. For the first time in months, he felt some of the pressure in his chest ease, and he felt his eyes water automatically in response, but he quickly blinked the tears away.
“I–” he said. He didn’t know what to say. He looked over to Spock who hadn’t seemed to react at all to his boyfriend confessing his love for someone else. There was no anger in his eyes, though they were still full of concern.
“I am in love with you,” Jim said.
And, oh, that one word made all the difference, didn’t it.
Leonard’s eyes were still on Spock when Jim said it, and he noted the lack of change in his expression before he turned to Jim, who was walking over to him.
“Tell me you weren’t suffering this whole time because I couldn’t bring myself to risk our friendship without a drink in my system, Bones.”
Jim’s voice had an edge of desperation in it, and Leonard was glad to be able to do that much, at least. He wanted to reach out to Jim, to hold him and to reassure him, but he knew he needed to get through all of this now if he wanted to do so at all. He pulled Jim down into the seat next to him and placed a reassuring hand on his knee. This much he could manage.
“As I said, the symptoms were manageable until recently.”
“Until Jim and I entered into a romantic partnership,” Spock repeated.
“Bones, Spock and I talked about it. My relationship with Spock doesn’t need to mean I can’t be with you. I love both of you. I want to be with both of you.”
There was a note of cautious hope in Jim’s tone, and Leonard hated that it wasn’t that simple. It sounded like a dream, to finally have Jim in all ways, and he hated that that wasn’t enough for him.
“Unless,” Spock said, noting his hesitance, “the reason for your hesitance was that the flowers react poorly to Jim and I, regardless of your own relationship.”
“Uh, not quite,” Leonard said. This was the hard part, and with how the rest of it had gone so far, he had no idea how this next part would play out.
“My symptoms have changed in a few ways since we left the academy,” Leonard admitted. “When y’all got together, there were more petals at first, then stems, and then whole flowers. But before that, before I started getting full flowers, I started getting different petals.”
Jim caught on before Spock, which surprised Leonard. Spock was a scientist, and Leonard would have thought him to understand the significance.
“There’s someone else,” Jim said, devastation taking over his tone once again.
“What do the other flowers look like, Leonard?” Spock asked.
He must have caught on about Jim’s flowers. Native to his birthplace, named after the thing that tied them all together. If Leonard told Spock what the other flowers were, Spock would know who they were for.
Leonard looked him in the eye. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t bring himself to confess so blatantly with no idea how the confession would be met. Swallowing against a cough, he pulled the pressed flowers from his pocket and handed them to Spock.
Spock took them easily, and, upon seeing the second flower, the “white star of night” as Leonard’s research had called it, his entire being froze.
“What is it?” Jim asked.
There was no answer.
“Listen, I know we’re not like that,” Leonard said. “I managed my symptoms for Jim for a long time with just regular friend stuff. I think—”
Spock’s gaze snapped to his then, and Jim, who had been looking between the two of them rapidly as Leonard spoke, froze in his own seat, gaze focusing on the flower Spock had just dropped on the table.
Leonard couldn’t continue to speak under Spock’s piercing gaze, and he knew Spock couldn’t use his telepathy without physical contact, but he had the feeling Spock was seeing to the very core of him.
“Seventy-two days and twenty-two hours,” Spock said, voice wavering in a way Leonard couldn’t read. He’d never heard such a modulation in Spock’s tone. “You have been suffering on my behalf since Jim and I informed you of our relationship seventy-two days and twenty-two hours ago and at no point during this time did you see fit to inform me that I was the cause.”
Leonard felt his face fill with colour and he moved to object, but Spock moved faster, standing up and pulling both Jim and Leonard with him. Leonard didn’t know what was going on and he could only be thankful that this uncertainty seemed to freeze the blossoming in his chest as thoroughly as it froze the rest of him.
“I understand that you have expressed distrust and distaste for the practice, but I would ask, this once, that you submit yourself to a mind meld so that you might see the depths of regard held for you by myself and Jim. I believe this to be the most expedient treatment for your condition, as it should serve to eliminate any doubt.”
Leonard stood dumbly, struck by the feel of Spock’s hand on his arm and the echo of his words. Spock had been careful not to touch Leonard's skin with his own, even in his agitated state, but his emotions seemed to be radiating off of him in a way Leonard had never experienced. He was determined, resolute, and his words…
Doctor, in refusing to seek treatment, you are betraying your oath. You are doing harm. I ask that you reflect on that.
Maybe it hadn’t only been Jim who Spock had been speaking about.
I would ask, this once, that you submit yourself to a mind meld so that you might see the depths of regard held for you by myself and Jim…
Depths of regard…
It didn’t have to be the same as Leonard’s. He was sure Spock’s plan would work. If he could see, for once, that he was surely held in some regard by Spock beyond that which formed as a result of their positions on the ship and their shared investment in Jim’s well-being, he predicted the flowers would become petals again. He could manage petals. He had done so for years.
It should serve to eliminate any doubt.
Spock seemed confident this would be an effective treatment for him. Maybe seeing their minds like this would allow Leonard to live comfortably. It had been so long since he had lived without this pain.
He took Spock’s wrist with his own hands and placed Spock’s fingers on his face.
“Are you sure?” he rasped out, hearing at the same time, “Are you certain this is something you desire?”
Jim laughed at the both of them and placed Spock’s other hand on his own face.
“Get on with it then.”
Spock watched Leonard’s face closely and Leonard tried to convey a confidence he only mostly felt. He nodded once, short but firm, and Spock nodded in return.
“My mind to your mind.”
***
Leonard had tried to not think about how it would feel to meld. He hadn’t seen how it could feel anything other than painfully invasive, but he trusted Spock. There was nothing in his mind, at this point, that he felt Spock hadn’t already known or suspected. He had no secrets left to keep, and he was willing to participate in the practice for his friend. Spock had been struggling, more than Leonard had been willing to see, with his inability to help Leonard with his condition, and if he felt this would help, Leonard wouldn’t deny him.
My thoughts to your thoughts.
Leonard felt the words echo in his mind and if this was a mind meld, it was nothing like he would have expected. There was a warmth surrounding every part of him, a sense of wonder that he could drown in, and there was no pain. He let himself bask in the warmth for a moment, his own wonder joining this shared space, until he felt a burst of amusement that felt like Spock. He had seen Spock amused before, could read the minute quirks of the man’s lips that he clearly thought was subtle, but he had never imagined it to be so strong, so bright in Spock’s mind.
Once he recognised this feeling as Spock’s he was able to separate that which was Spock or Jim from that which was himself.
You are a rather expedient learner, Leonard.
And, oh, he was always struck by Spock using his first name, but now, in his mind, where he can feel the depth of feeling behind it, he is rendered entirely inert by it.
It’s a lot, isn’t it?
Jim’s voice was soft, carrying a gentle affection they rarely brought themselves to express out loud, and Leonard wondered at it’s abundance here.
You may find it helpful to imagine us in our physical forms. The rawness of our emotions in this state can be overwhelming.
I’ve been best friends with Jim for years, I think I can handle a bit of raw emotion, Leonard thought, and although he didn’t intentionally transmit the thought, he felt their amusement, Jim’s tinged with indignation.
Leonard let himself bask in the amusement a moment longer, feeling it mingle with his own and marvelling at the feeling of all of them together, on the same page about something for once, before he got himself in check and tried to transpose their physical forms onto this mental landscape. He imagined himself opening his eyes to the two of them in the room their physical forms still inhabited, and he saw the two of them sitting at the table, the chess board no longer toppled.
Jim grinned widely at him and Spock smiled, an actual lifting of both sides of his mouth that caused Leonard to stare at Spock before he began to speak.
It is impressive that you were able to construct such a landscape in so short a time, with so little practice. It took Jim many sessions to organise his thoughts so clearly.
Jim kicked Spock under the table and Spock simply raised a brow in return.
Is this it, then? Leonard wondered.
He felt wariness from Spock and realised there was likely much more.
At the current moment, Spock explained, Jim and I are shielding our thoughts, sharing only that which we intend for you to feel. I would not ask that you submit your mind to ours without shielding in our first meld, but I would ask that you allow us to share more, as I believe proof of our affection will be the most effective deterrent to your flowers.
Leonard thought that over. This warmth, the wonder and affection he had felt from them in the moment their minds had joined, would likely be enough to bring the flowers back to petals on its own. He didn’t need for them to share more than that, but he could feel anticipation coming off Jim in waves, a small tendril of desire escaping Spock’s shields, and he could hardly deny his own favour toward the idea. He had always wanted too much, but Jim and Spock seemed willing and maybe even glad to give it to him.
Leonard nodded.
Spock looked to Jim and Leonard could feel Jim start to lower his shields. It was as though Jim was taking a single brick out of a wall of them, allowing his memories to flood Leonard one at a time.
He saw himself on the shuttle where they met and he felt Jim’s interest, the way Jim’s amusement rose at Leonard’s warning that he might throw up on him, the intrigue at a man afraid of flight joining the fleet.
He saw himself setting his things down on the desk in their shared dorm, felt Jim’s anticipation for everything Starfleet had to offer and for what their relationship could become.
He saw himself holding Jim, rocking him back and forth and brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead, felt the abject fear and panic in Jim slowly ebb as he recognised his surroundings, recognised the soft voice murmuring that he was safe now, that Bones would keep him safe. He felt the novelty of the situation and he ached for the boy Jim had been who had never known this comfort.
He saw himself sat at that same desk the first night Jim came to him, sat in his lap, and whispered in his ear, felt the pull in Jim’s gut and his chest, the desire not just for sex but companionship that he knew Bones would offer him.
He saw himself sneaking Jim onto the Enterprise during the attack on Vulcan, felt the trust and gratitude radiating off Jim in waves and he’d known then, but it almost takes him under with its intensity.
He saw himself on the ship again, settling in for their mission, felt the sense of right and home that settled into Jim’s very bones at the sight of Leonard in his quarters, in the med bay. Bones would always be here for him.
He saw himself from an odd angle, blurry and unclear, and he blinked until he could recognise med bay. He felt Jim’s confusion, and a spike of fear, until Leonard stabilised in Jim’s vision and he knew, without a doubt, that everything would be okay.
He saw himself in his office, avoiding Jim’s gaze as he told him for the third time in a week that he was too backed up on paperwork to make it to lunch with him today, and he felt Jim’s worry, his fear, an ache settling in.
He saw himself talking to M’Benga in med bay, unaware of Jim’s presence, coughing into a handkerchief and pointedly ignoring the concern in his colleague’s eye, and he felt Jim’s desperation, his despair that anyone could look at Bones and not love him so utterly and completely they thought it might destroy them sometimes.
He saw himself finally admitting that the flowers were getting worse, that the flowers had started for Jim, and he felt a rage he hadn’t felt toward someone he loved since his mother left for space. When would the people he loved stop choosing to remove him from their life instead of talking about their feelings? He wanted to help, wanted to love them through all their struggles, but they never let him. People had always told him he had an admirable capacity for love, but no one let him direct that love toward them without erecting some kind of barrier. He felt the joy and anticipation of Bones agreeing to a meld, of knowing that Bones would finally know it all and would never be able to deny it—
Leonard was pulled out of Jim’s thoughts carefully but firmly. It took him a moment to separate himself from Jim and when he reoriented himself at the imagined table, he could see a sheepish look on Jim’s face.
I’m still learning.
Leonard, a scientist at his core, decided to experiment, directing a concentrated burst of reassurance toward Jim, who lit up in response.
He really is a fast learner.
Leonard wondered if the imagined construction of his face was flushing as hot as he felt it was at the suggestive note in Jim’s tone, and then remembered that they were all in his mind, and they would know how it affected him even if they couldn’t see the physical result.
Jim winked at him.
Leonard felt amusement from Spock and looked over to see him smiling at Jim indulgently. Even in here, Spock’s smile was little more than a quirk of his lips, but it was beautiful.
May I?
Please.
Spock didn’t so much as open a portal to all of his memories as he handed them each to Leonard like PADDs, each holding a significant moment between the two of them.
He heard himself before he saw himself, his voice saying “I don’t know, but I like him” to Jim at the academic hearing. He hadn’t realised Spock’s hearing was that good, but he felt Spock’s wonder at such a seemingly nonsensical statement. He saw himself on the Enterprise after the alarm sounded, following after a seemingly out of his mind Cadet Kirk, trying to mitigate the damage the cadet was causing. It was curious, he could feel from Spock, that such a man would inspire such loyalty. Around the memory, he could feel his amusement and Spock’s at where they had all ended up.
He saw himself on the bridge again, Kirk in the captain’s chair, Spock’s chair for the time being, and he felt nothing but irritation from Spock at the CMO questioning his hypothesis. That was more of what Leonard had been expecting, honestly.
I am attempting to contextualise the development of our relationship . Spock sounded almost embarrassed, although if he was feeling as much, he wasn’t emitting it to Leonard.
It’s alright, Spock. I was there for that; I’m hardly going to hold you to that first impression.
Spock channels his gratitude to Leonard, then shows him the next memory, Leonard’s distress over Kirk’s removal from the ship. It was the distress of this man, rather than Kirk’s angry shouts, that almost gave Spock pause, but he didn’t allow himself to be swayed.
He felt Spock’s surprise when, later, once again on the bridge, he attempts to acknowledge the doctor’s struggle and is met with a nearly incomprehensible string of questions involving racehorses. He felt a flash of anger that was quickly repressed, at this man’s request that he present himself as emotionally distraught in front of his crew, and a hotter flash of the same emotion when he heard the doctor mutter about him under his breath.
You’re doing a lot of contextualising here, Spock.
The next scene he sees is one he wouldn’t expect. It’s him and Jim after a first contact mission, Leonard couldn’t say which one, meeting in the transporter room, and he felt Spock’s longing, there in a flash before it disappeared, at the easy comfort between the two men.
He saw himself pacing next to Jim’s body as Spock carried a limp Khan into med bay, watched from Spock’s perspective as he snapped into action. Spock had only just realised how deeply he felt for Jim but he knew if he intended to keep Jim in his life, Leonard, despite his apparent dislike of Spock, would have to become an ally.
Leonard tried to reassure Spock, sending his own memory of the moment through to Spock, a screenshot of an impression that was Spock arriving with the one thing that could save the love of Leonard’s life, and Leonard’s inability to not feel an overwhelming gratitude and devotion for Spock in this moment, regardless of their relationship to this point.
Spock’s mind was muddled for a moment, racing through a variety of emotions before he sent back, thank you, Leonard.
He saw himself in the mess, laughing at Jim in a way he rarely did, full-bodied and full of genuine amusement, and he remembered this moment. Jim was the only person who could get him to laugh like that, who could make him forget every trace of bitterness that plagued him. He felt the surprise Spock felt at the sight, the way he felt compelled to share in this joy somehow. Leonard was always surprising him, and he couldn’t help but find the sensation fascinating.
Leonard started a bit at the word, one he had heard directed toward Jim with such affection, and he felt an unexpected warmth spread through him.
Spock surrounded that warmth with his own before bringing him into the next memory. It was the first time Spock had seen Leonard after Jim had informed him of their relationship.
He saw himself poorly hiding his distress under an intimidating air as he informed Spock that no matter how antiquated the practice of threatening one’s friends’ and families’ partners with bodily harm was, Leonard McCoy was the Chief Medical Officer of this ship, and he could make Spock’s life miserable. He could make that misery as prolonged and untreatable as he damn well desired if anything bad happened to Jim because of their relationship. He felt the warring emotions Spock felt in that moment, a mix of amusement and genuine discomfort at the possibility, and, under that, a pull in his gut at the way the doctor leaned into his space, cornering him against the wall, finger in his face…
Spock pulled them both out of the memory quickly and Leonard could definitely feel his embarrassment now, and he grinned to himself. Spock’s affection for him wasn't entirely about how much he cared for Jim, then.
Something in Spock recoiled at this thought, and Leonard cursed the fact that he had projected his insecurity at Spock.
That is rather the point of this exercise, Leonard, Spock reminded him.
Before he could reply, he saw himself again, coughing under his breath at lunch. This was the last lunch he had eaten in the mess for weeks, and he watched as he brought out a handkerchief to cough his flowers into. It was the day he had coughed up his first large white petal, the day he realised it was not only Jim causing his flowers. He had been laughing at Jim with Spock, not that Spock would actually laugh, but Leonard could see the laughter dancing in his eyes, and he’d thought, I wish it could be like this forever, the three of them happy and together. He felt Spock’s joy at Leonard’s laughter and Jim’s feigned offence fade into concern at the sound of Leonard’s coughs. That sound could not mean anything good.
Spock’s distress followed them into the next memory, as he saw Jim confirm to Spock that Leonard had the flowers, and he felt the tumult of Spock’s mind as he remembered the devastation of seeing Jim die, the salvation that was Leonard telling him Jim had been saved, and he resolved to find a way to save Leonard.
He saw himself in his office earlier today, sitting at his desk turning the pressed flowers in his hand, though he couldn’t see what they were from Spock’s perspective. He felt Spock’s fear and desperation, his love as clear as day as he failed to understand how any individual could not love a man as loyal and noble as Dr. Leonard McCoy. Spock didn’t want to be on this ship with another CMO, the same way he could no longer imagine serving under another captain. As Leonard refused to provide the information required to save his life, Spock could feel the echoes of Jim’s pain reverberating against his own and he allowed it to fashion itself into a weapon as he told the doctor he was violating the oath Spock knew he held dear.
You are doing harm echoed again in Leonard’s skull.
I’m so sorry, darlin’, he heard more than consciously thought. He made a real mess of all this, he thought as Spock pulled him back to their neutral mindscape.
He felt Spock startle at the endearment, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do anything about it either. Spock loved him. There was no denying that any longer. Leonard could call him darlin’ if he damn well pleased.
Spock released them from the meld slowly, allowing them to adjust as they returned to their bodies, and Leonard nearly collapsed onto the floor at the relief that flooded his body. Spock, noting the change in his posture, picked him up without any pomp or circumstance and deposited him carefully on Jim’s bed. Leonard had half a mind to cuss the man out, picking him up like he’s some simpering maiden in one of those regency novels he knew Jim still kept around, but he felt Spock’s strong arms around him, the absence of pain in his body, and the easy flow of air in his lungs, and he burst into tears.
***
Jim followed Spock over to his own bed, climbing in next to him and Bones. There wasn’t really room for three of them, and it was only by virtue of Jim’s position as captain that it comfortably fit two of them, but Jim needed to be close to them now. He was always clingy after a meld. Bones’s sobs faded quickly with his exhaustion, and Jim and Spock simply laid with him, bracketing his body on the too-small bed as the man slowly faded into unconsciousness.
When he was sure Bones was well and truly asleep, Jim lifted his eyes from the man’s softened features up to Spock’s.
“How are you feeling,” he asked, and the absence of Spock’s immediate denial was telling.
He waited as Spock seemed to gather his thoughts.
“I believe my emotions are currently rather difficult to quantify. I had never thought to imagine Leonard might return my affections. I am overjoyed to have been incorrect on this matter. I am ashamed that my oversight has caused him so much pain.”
Spock looked away from Jim’s face then, and Jim reached over Bones to bring Spock’s chin up, to encourage Spock to face him again.
“He’s okay now. I think we’re all going to be okay.”
“Are you ‘okay’, ashayam?”
Jim smiled softly at the endearment. “I suppose I’m feeling much the same as you are. I can’t believe he never knew I felt that way for him. I’m angry with myself for not showing him how I felt. I’m angry at him for not seeing it. I never thought I’d be able to have him like this. I thought that getting with you had closed off that possibility forever. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so happy, or so scared.”
It was Spock’s turn to touch Jim’s face, as he wiped away the tears that had fallen down his face. He pulled his hand back to join Jim’s in a kiss.
“Regardless of the circumstances surrounding our arrival, we are all here now,” Spock told him. “I suggest you rest. I will join you after a brief period of meditation.”
Jim nodded, snuggling into Bones’s side, and Spock slipped out of the bed, making his way to his quarters to retrieve his incense. Jim was asleep by the time he returned.
***
They woke in the morning tangled together, Spock somehow finding himself in the middle of the two men. He suspected the coolness of his blood had something to do with the positions they found themselves in, as Jim had often commented on this anatomical difference as an “unexpected perk” of their recent sleeping arrangement. Spock could not deny that he enjoyed the warmth emitted by his lovers, and he found himself staying in the bed despite his having awoken. Vulcans needed less sleep than humans, but he was content to simply lay here with them, feeling the contentment and peace radiate off of them along with the heat of their human blood.
Jim woke first, but, after a quick exchange with Spock, he quickly went back to sleep. When Leonard woke, Spock conceded that he must finally remove himself from the bed. Jim woke immediately at his movement, always a light sleeper after he had woken up once, and Spock held his hands out to them as he stood.
“I must insist that we visit med bay before alpha shift this morning. I expect Dr. M’Benga will be able to confirm the current status of your condition.”
Leonard grumbled as though his current appearance, hair standing up in every possible direction, didn’t prevent one from seeing him as anything but adorable at the moment, but he quieted when Jim touched his arms and said simply, “please, Bones.”
“Yeah, alright,” Leonard conceded.
A grin spread across Jim’s face, the likes of which Spock hadn’t seen since they’d learned of Leonard’s condition.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, a hint of suggestion in his tone.
“Oh, I’ll bet,” Leonard added in an exaggerated accent with a leer to match, and Jim’s laughter had him falling backward onto the bed.
Spock watched them both fondly until Leonard, laughing, caught Spock’s eye with a look that clearly communicated, can you believe this guy?
Spock could not find it in himself to be surprised at either man’s behaviour and simply quirked an eyebrow.
Dr. M’Benga seemed concerned to be called to the med bay when he was not officially on duty, but Spock knew he was the only medical professional Leonard had confided in regarding his condition, although Spock was certain that Nurse Chapel had found out much on her own.
At the sight of the three of them walking in in good spirits, Dr. M’Benga’s pitched expression smoothed out, although his shoulders remained noticeably tense.
“Captain Kirk, Commander Spock,” he greeted them, “I was under the impression I was meeting Dr. McCoy for a private appointment.”
It was only the gratitude Spock felt from the hand on his wrist that kept him from chafing at the doctor’s words.
“Thanks for looking out, Geoff, but they know.”
Dr. M’Benga glanced between them, Spock’s face impassive as ever, Leonard a bit flushed, and Jim looking rather pleased with himself, and Spock could see the understanding enter Dr. M’Benga’s expression, though he made no comment on the matter.
“Alright, then, shall we see how you’re doing?”
Leonard cleared his throat and nodded, and Spock felt an illogical surge of concern at the sound.
Leonard climbed up on the biobed and let Dr. M’Benga examine him without complaint. Spock found himself mildly impressed; he had not thought either of his partners capable of such an act.
When Dr. M’Benga brought out a machine that would take imaging of Leonard’s chest, Spock felt Jim’s hand grab his own tightly, and he returned the hold.
The image that appeared, though, was entirely devoid of any foreign matter. Leonard would no longer need to manage his symptoms, it seemed. The flowers had disappeared.
Relief sang through Jim and Spock’s joined hands, coming off both of them in steady waves. Jim dragged him to stand next to Leonard so they might see the image more clearly. The closer view only confirmed what Spock already knew. For the first time in years, Leonard McCoy could breathe freely.
Spock listened intently as Leonard spoke with Dr. M’Benga about the unprecedented nature of such a swift recovery, and he looked forward to reading the paper they were sure to publish about it, but he was largely uninterested in those details at this time.
***
Jim insisted it was macabre, but Leonard kept the flowers he had pressed in the pocket in his lab coat. Jim felt guilty about their time apart, Leonard knew, but Leonard didn’t have it in him to regret what had brought them to where they were now. What if they’d gotten together at the academy and Leonard had never gotten the flowers? What if them getting together had kept them from their relationship with Spock? What if they hadn’t figured it out in time? Leonard didn’t think it worth the effort to worry about what might have been. He was well and truly happy, in a way he never would have hoped for.
He asked Spock to let him show Jim this, and they both agreed. Leonard showed him the memory of pressing the flowers, explaining to M’Benga, the only one who knew enough to ask, that he wanted to remember the beauty of his love, even if it caused him pain. You’ve always been my guiding stars, he told them, ensuring Spock heard him too. I’ll never regret anything that brought me to you.