Chapter Text
The Vulcan desert was unforgiving.
Heat pressed down in a way that felt deliberate, as if the planet itself were testing how much more they could endure. The Klingon Bird‑of‑Prey sat half‑embedded in the sand, hull scorched and uneven, metal ticking softly like a tired irregular heartbeat.
Most of the crew lingered in the shade underneath the ship's left wing; each of them occupied with their own thoughts but trying to look busy. Scotty was sitting at an improvised workbench taking apart some Vulcan engineering tool, quietly muttering to himself.
Sulu was sitting in the sand looking at a PADD that he was not reading. Chekov alternated between offering unsolicited comments on Scotty's work, earning a few good-natured insults, and swatting at insects that seemed to have recently discovered the exquisite taste of human blood. Uhura reclined in a chair, pretending to be on shore leave in some resort; her frown betrayed the act.
McCoy was walking down the boarding ramp, coming to a stand at its foot, swaying slightly before he caught himself. There was a tremor in his hands that he'd tried to hide for some time now."Scotty says the warp coil alignment will take weeks," Kirk said quietly while walking up to McCoy on the ramp and coming to stand at his side. He was trying to look relaxed, for the crew's sake. For Bones. He did not feel it.
"Good," McCoy said.
"Good?" Uhura repeated incredulously, opening her eyes.
McCoy sighed. "Means we're not rushing into our own execution," he retorted.
That earned a faint, strained exhale from Chekov.
Kirk turned. "Bones."
McCoy didn't look up.
"Bones," he repeated quietly. "Sit down."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a request."
McCoy scoffed but didn't argue. He sat down on the sandy ground leaning against the ramp, breathing a little harder than he meant to.
Scotty wiped his brow, eyes never leaving the tool in his hands. "She'll be patched enough to fly again, Admiral. But she's had her share of punishment."
"Haven't we all," Uhura said softly.
Chekov shifted, clearly uneasy, trying to swat another Vulcan mosquito. "On Earth, ve vill answer many questions."
"Right. But not while we're sitting in comfortable chairs," Sulu added.
No one disagreed.
"You know," McCoy said, voice rough, "this whole thing reminds me of an old Earth story. British ship. The HMS Bounty. Crew took her and ran to Tahiti. A whole empire wanted their heads."
Sulu looked up from his PADD. "The mutiny on the Bounty."
McCoy nodded. "Seems about right, doesn't it? We took a ship, broke the rules, did what we thought was right, and now we get to pay for it." He jerked his chin at the Bird‑of‑Prey. "Hell of a bounty."
He leaned back, now fully stretching out against the ramp, closing his eyes against the light of Vulcan's two suns.
"Bones?"
McCoy squinted up at him. Kirk was watching.
"That name," he said slowly. "It's perfect."
McCoy blinked. "Jim, I was complaining."
"I know," Kirk said. "But I think you're still right. We need to log her under a formal designation. For Starfleet records. We can't just submit 'stolen Klingon Bird-of-Prey.'"
Scotty nodded reluctantly. "Aye. Stolen ship. Crew actin' on conscience."
"What happened to the Bounty's crew?" Uhura asked.
Sulu pressed some buttons on his PADD. "Apparently some of them escaped and settled on a small Pacific island called Pitcairn, where they burned the ship so that they wouldn't be found. Others were captured in Tahiti and brought back to England to face trial."
"Vhat vas their sentence?" Chekov asked.
"Three acquitted," Sulu said, shutting off the PADD, "three hanged."
McCoy let out a weak laugh. "Great."
"They don't hang people anymore," Uhura mumbled from her chair.
Sulu rose, brushing sand from his pants. "All this talk about the Pacific makes me want something tropical."
Scotty set the tool aside and wiped his hands. "A tropical drink? D'ye think the Vulcans have something like that?"
Uhura snorted. "Sure. They'll serve you a 'Mai Tai' if you ask nicely."
"I'm not fond of colorful drinks with little umbrellas," Scotty said, "but a glass of juice would do nicely." He held out a hand, and she allowed him to help her from the chair.
"Alright," she sighed. Turning to Kirk and McCoy. "I will adjust the transponder tag, when we come back, Admiral."
"No rush," Kirk answered, smiling.
Sulu nudged Chekov, who was still seated. "Come on, Pavel. We need to find some paint."
Chekov stood, nodding. "All right. Vhat's 'HMS'?"
"The real question is: What color should it be?" Sulu answered good-naturedly.
"Ye mean the color of yer drink?" Scotty asked, looking over his shoulder. Scotty's words were the last McCoy heard before the sound of sand swallowed the rest.
o0o
He tried to sit up, but dizziness rolled through him without warning.
Kirk caught him instantly, gripping his arm and hauling him upright so his face was back in the shade of the ship. He lowered his voice.
"What's going on?"
For a long moment, McCoy didn't answer. The desert stretched around them, vast and indifferent. Finally, he sighed.
"Lexorin," he said quietly.
Kirk stiffened. "Lexorin? You're still taking it?"
McCoy shook his head. "I stopped five days ago," he sighed. "Apparently it doesn't appreciate being abandoned."
Kirk's expression darkened.
"Withdrawal?"
McCoy nodded. "Tremors. Fatigue. Dizzy spells. Mood irregularities," he smiled shrugging. "More than usual," he added as if on afterthought.
Kirk didn't look away but studied him so intently it almost hurt. McCoy closed his eyes for a moment, "It will pass," he said quietly.
"How are you really doing, Bones?" Kirk asked softly.
McCoy let out a slow breath. "I just told you."
"I know," Kirk replied. "I'm asking again."
McCoy gave a weak huff of a laugh. "Persistent as hell."
Kirk didn't smile.
McCoy sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. The tremor was worse when he wasn't trying to hide it. "I'm… not great, Jim. I won't keel over or anything, but … I just feel lousy."
Kirk nodded once. "Not just the lexorin?"
McCoy swallowed.
"The fal‑tor‑pan," Kirk said. "You haven't said much about that."
McCoy went very still. "No."
Kirk sighed. "Did it hurt?"
McCoy shrugged. "I don't think it was meant to. I probably did it wrong."
Kirk frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He was ripped out," McCoy said, then stopped. And for a moment Kirk thought he was not going to get more, but then McCoy went on, voice low, stripped bare. "I tried to hold on to him. Thought I was supposed to. Thought that was the job … to keep him safe." His jaw tightened. "Then suddenly he was gone, and all I could think was, I failed. Like I wasn't strong enough. Like Spock died and it was my fault."
Kirk's breath caught.
"And when I realized," McCoy said, staring out at the sand, "that it was meant to be that way, that Spock was… back… I felt stupid … useless."
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
It felt like I could've died right there. And nobody would've noticed. Or cared."
That did it.
Kirk moved without thinking, grabbing his shoulders. "Bones—no."
McCoy finally looked at him then, eyes tired. "Jim, I'm not saying that's how it was. I'm saying that's how it felt."
Kirk swallowed hard. His throat felt tight.
"I still feel … empty," McCoy said, turning his attention to his hands that were still shaking, "like … the priestess took more out of me than she was supposed to. Because I didn't understand how to do it right."
The revelation drained what little energy he had left. His shoulders sagged, breath hitching just slightly. He closed his eyes, and then, without quite deciding to, leaned forward. Kirk caught him.
McCoy let his forehead rest against Kirk's shoulder, just for a moment. Just long enough for the tension to slip.
“I’m fine," McCoy muttered. "Just… need a second."
Kirk didn't move. Just stayed there, solid and steady, one hand firm at McCoy's back. His breath evened out slowly. After a moment, he straightened, embarrassed but not pulling away too fast.
"Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled, looking away.
"Bones…" Kirk said quietly.
McCoy didn't look at him.
Kirk frowned. "You had no way of knowing 'how to do it right'. No one alive experienced this before. No Vulcan, and certainly no Human."
"Hm." McCoy grunted, brushing imaginary dust from his pants.
"I'm sorry," Kirk said finally, "I should've paid more attention."
McCoy exhaled. "There was nothing you could have done," he paused, then went on more confidently, now looking at Kirk. "And it worked. Spock's alive. My … insecurities are unimportant."
Kirk was quiet for a moment.
"Bones," he said finally, not able to tolerate the silence anymore, "there's something you need to understand."
McCoy chuckled. "Dangerous phrase."
Kirk huffed a faint breath, then sobered again. "If it had been you … if you'd been the one who died, and there'd been even the smallest chance to bring you back …"
McCoy frowned, not liking where this was going.
"I would have done the same," Kirk said, "I would have stolen the Enterprise. Broken every regulation. Burned every bridge. I'd have done exactly what I did for Spock."
McCoy shook his head slowly, a tired half‑smile tugging at his mouth. "No, you wouldn't have," he said, then his voice turned gentler. "You think you would. But … no."
Kirk studied him, frowning, disbelieving. "You really think that."
McCoy considered, then sighed. "Yes. Because I know you."
"You think I wouldn't fight for you," Kirk said, voice low but edged. "That I'd just … what … stand aside and let you die? That I wouldn't even notice?"
McCoy looked up at him then, tired eyes steady.
"No," he said quietly. "That's not what I think."
"Then what do you think?"
McCoy shifted. "You'd throw yourself between me and a Klingon bat'leth, or whatever, without a second thought," McCoy continued. "You always have. You're ... a protective, loyal, reckless idiot."
Kirk's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"But if I died," McCoy said, voice steady now, "you'd believe I was dead."
The words landed.
"You'd tear yourself up over it," McCoy added quickly, "You'd blame yourself. But you'd accept it."
Kirk started to say something, but McCoy cut him off.
"Just hear me out," he said, "Spock's different. You believe in his strength. Not just his intellect. His physical strength, his endurance. His ability to survive things that shouldn't be survivable."
McCoy looked away, out toward the desert. "You never had that kind of faith in me."
Kirk's voice dropped. "That's not true."
"It is. You don't believe I could come back from death," McCoy said. "But you believed Spock might."
Silence stretched between them again, heavy and undeniable.
Kirk looked away, running a hand through his hair. "You make it sound like I choose favorites."
McCoy sighed. "No. I think you choose realities."
Kirk sat very still for a long moment after McCoy finished speaking, eyes fixed somewhere past the horizon. When he finally turned back, the fire was gone from his expression. What remained was something far harder to bear.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "You're human, Bones, not … immortal. But you're still standing. And that's more than those Vulcan priests expected from you. Or Starfleet admirals, for that matter. But not me. I know you."
McCoy turned away from him.
"I should have stood with you," Kirk continued, "instead, I took you, your strength, your dedication, for granted. I should never have permitted you to believe you're unimportant, a failure even. I'm sorry that I didn't see that, you deserve better."
McCoy's breath hitched, he wiped at his eyes. Kirk had wanted to say more but he stopped himself. Lexorin withdrawal. McCoy hated this. Hated being vulnerable.
Kirk took a breath, seeing Chekov and Sulu approaching from the distance, carrying something big between them. A paint bucket?
He cleared his throat. Then nudged McCoy with his elbow. "Bones. You're gonna attract all the attention like this. Give me some time to … tear my shirt, start bleeding or look heroic in any other way. I'm the admiral here, you hear?"
McCoy froze, swallowed, and turned to Kirk, his eyes red, but dry. "What?"
"Chekov and Sulu," Kirk pointed toward them. "Can't have you get the meaningful moment when I haven't had a chance to be heroic yet."
McCoy stared at him another moment. Then started laughing, Kirk joining in.
They only got themselves under control when Sulu and Chekov arrived, drenched in sweat and grumbling, thinking they were the reason for their laughter, feeling stupid.
"What color is it?" Kirk shouted after them as they disappeared behind the ship.
"Let's see for ourselves, Bones," Kirk said, pulling McCoy up from the ramp.
"It's probably bright pink, or something obnoxious as that."
"I don't think Vulcans have 'obnoxious pink' in their selection of paints, Jim." McCoy snickered as he followed Kirk behind the ship.