Chapter Text
“You can’t reason with your own heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.” – Mark Twain
It was hot. Hotter than hell and twice as dry. It was nothing like the humid heat of Georgia or Mississippi, McCoy thought somewhat nostalgically, as he lifted his hand to his brow to block out the sun and get a better view of the building on the horizon. The sweltering heat made waves in the distant air, distorting the words on the sign in the distance: New Shi’Kahr General Hospital. That must be the place, McCoy thought to himself as he wiped sweat from his brow and continued the trek to what would be his workplace for the next little while.
The five-year mission had ended in some pomp and circumstance—a celebration of high-ranking officials shaking his hand that he didn’t much care for, and a slap on the back for a job well done. Then they were ordered to “take it easy” for the next year. Mandatory grounding. He understood the reasoning well enough; as a doctor himself he knew the kind of toll that prolonged space travel could have on the body and mind. So, he sucked it up and resigned himself to working in a hospital for the next year.
He hadn’t originally planned on working at the hospital in New Shi’Kahr on New Vulcan, though. At first, he had hoped to get in touch with his ex-wife, Jocelyn, and see if he could see his little girl, Joanna. That hope was quickly dashed as he was informed by her sister that they had gone to Rigel V for an extended vacation, courtesy of Jocelyn’s new husband having found freelance work there.
He definitely didn’t lose sleep over it. What’s another year not seeing Jo, after all the years he had been in space, staring at the holo of himself holding the infant in his arms, right next to his decanter of bourbon? He could handle it. Compartmentalize. That’s what doctors do best.
He took a deep breath and was forced to remember that the air on New Vulcan was thinner than he was used to, and exhaled in a deep sigh. He reached the door of the hospital, non-emergency, and it slid open. The air was cooler inside the building and he shuddered as goosebumps covered his arms. At least he was wearing sleeves—his blue Starfleet uniform, for lack of anything else—and didn’t have to worry about anybody seeing them. McCoy walked up to the reception desk and cleared his throat.
The woman working the admin desk had the characteristic up-swept eyebrows all Vulcans sported, and long, black hair done up in an intricate style accessorized by golden adornments. She looked at McCoy, unimpressed, and asked in Standard, “Can I help you?”
“I’m, uh, Dr. McCoy. I’m supposed to be meetin’ the director?”
The inflection at the end of the sentence made it sound like more of a question than a statement and McCoy silently chastised himself for his nerves. It’s been years since he worked in a hospital and he was feeling a little out of sorts because of it. The woman at the admin desk didn’t seem to notice or care, because why would she? He was just another emotional human.
The Vulcan woman pressed a button on a panel next to her and said something in Vulcan. McCoy could just make out the word khartausu, the Vulcan word for someone who manages or directs, and the name T’Lara, the woman he was appointed to meet. He felt a wash of relief at the realization that the woman behind the desk was actually assisting him, and then chastised himself for thinking she would do otherwise. He had no reason to believe this woman would not do her job. As penance, he looked for her name tag and found a plate on the desk that had her name in Vulcan and Standard.
When the woman finished her comm to the director, McCoy smiled at her and said, “Thank you, T’Prea.”
She stared blankly and replied, “You can have a seat while you wait, Dr. McCoy.”
The seats in the waiting area were hard and uncomfortable, made of some sort of metal and plassteel that they must have sourced from the devil himself. The cushion of the seat was mostly air, judging by the whooshing sound it made when he sat on it. His leg bounced up and down of its own accord while he waited anxiously for the director to arrive.
He heard the clack of her heels before he saw her. She was a tall woman, made taller by the pumps she wore without regard for the general consensus of the fashion world that women as tall as her should not wear heels. If she wanted to wear them, she would. It was illogical to do otherwise. McCoy thought she was a very logical-looking woman, all sharp angles and a face that meant business. She wore her gray hair up in a tight bun and her wrinkles were proudly displayed on her austere face. The sight of her made McCoy more anxious than he had been before.
“Dr. McCoy, I presume,” the older woman spoke as she came to a stop where the doctor was seated and he sat up straighter. “I am T’Lara, the director of this hospital. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
He felt his eyes widen at her words; accustomed to Vulcan-speak because of Spock, he knew that she was giving him quite the compliment. He stood up from where he sat and straightened his uniform. Instinctively, he wanted to extend his hand to her but resisted the urge, instead raising his hand in greeting.
“Hassu T’Lara, it is an honor to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“There is no need to call me hassu, Doctor. If you like, you may call me Dr. T’Lara, but that is not necessary.” She turned and began to walk toward the turbolift. “Follow me. We will continue this conversation in my office.”
The director’s office was not as big as McCoy was expecting. It was fairly modest, all things considered—more like the faculty offices at the Starfleet Academy campus. T’Lara sat in the chair behind her desk and McCoy took a seat in one of the chairs in front of it. The chair, the doctor noted, was significantly more comfortable than the ones in the waiting area.
“It says here you were Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise and her successor, the Enterprise-A?” T’Lara asked, reading off a PADD.
“Yes, ma’am. Five years straight and two before that.”
“What kind of work did you do on the Enterprise?”
“Bit of everything,” McCoy shrugged. “Physicals, vaccinations, surgeries.”
“Do you have a specialization?”
“I was trained as a trauma surgeon before Starfleet. Studied pathology at the Academy,” McCoy said, shifting in his seat under her intense gaze. “I can handle anything you throw at me.”
“We could use another trauma surgeon,” she replied. “Dr. Sopek has mentioned more than once that he is the only one on his team.”
McCoy nodded. “I could certainly do that, ma’am. No problem at all.”
“Just one question,” T’Lara said, cautiously. “Why do you wish to work on New Vulcan?”
The doctor had expected this question. Vulcans weren’t the most welcoming people, especially since so few of them were left. And honestly, he could have taken a position at Starfleet Medical, teaching fledgling medical officers. Or worked as attending physician at any random hospital in San Francisco. But New Shi’Kahr General Hospital was the only large hospital on New Vulcan, built and opened just five years prior, and there was something about that that stuck out to McCoy. They needed doctors. Doctors with experience treating Vulcans. And that was him, wasn’t it? He felt a sort of moral obligation, but he wasn’t about to say that to the logical, unemotional woman seated across from him.
“Well, I, uh, have experience treating Vulcans. As you know. Commander Spock, first officer of the Enterprise, is, uh, Vulcan.”
T’Lara nodded. “Yes, of course. We regard your expertise and knowledge in this area highly. You will be a valuable asset to our trauma center.”
The austere Vulcan woman, easily five inches taller than himself, stood up from her seat and raised her hand in a ta’al. McCoy took the hint and stood out of his seat, working to keep his knees from buckling by holding onto the back of the chair for dear life.
Apparently unaware of her affect on him, T’Lara continued, “You will meet your team lead, Dr. Sopek tomorrow at 0800 local Standard time. Your Starfleet uniform is unnecessary as we will provide scrubs for you. Do you have any questions, Dr. McCoy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Very well. I will send the details to your comm. Live long and prosper.”
McCoy nodded and replied, not for the last time, “Peace and long life.”
Leaving the building was just as bad as the first time he stepped outside that day. The heat hit him immediately and it made him nauseous. He had skipped breakfast, replaced it with coffee, and now that coffee sat heavy in his stomach. He groaned and reluctantly made his way through the crowded street, filled with Vulcan locals and tourists of every species, to find some place he could grab a bite to eat.
He passed by a kiosk selling sunglasses, stopping to buy a pair before continuing down the street, and read the signs on shops as he walked by them. His ability to read Vulcan was no good, but he knew a few conversational phrases from the material he studied in preparation of his stay. Tourist phrases. Medical phrases. That was about it. But he thought that maybe he could recognize “restaurant” or “cafe” when he saw it.
The streets of New Shi’Kahr were not all that different from most Terran cities, aside from the fact that the material of the buildings were a reddish-orange instead of the stone brick and steel that McCoy was accustomed to. The windows of the buildings were tinted, likely to filter out the harsh sunlight of their new star, and McCoy wondered just how similar it all was to old Shi’Kahr. The place where Spock was born and raised.
McCoy wondered about Spock. It was hard not to, considering he was surrounded by men and women who looked just like him. And acted just like him. While on Altamid, Spock had told him that he planned on going to New Vulcan to take up the work the old Ambassador had been doing before he died. Spock didn’t end up going; instead, he stayed on the Enterprise-A with him and Jim for the last two years of the mission.
When the mission ended, he lost track of Spock, and he didn’t ask Jim where he went off to. Wasn’t any of his business. For all he knew, Spock was somewhere on New Vulcan, too, just waiting for McCoy to bump into him. The thought of bumping into Spock in New Shi’Kahr caused a chuckle to escape his throat and a few Vulcans passing by him stared as he laughed at seemingly nothing at all.
Around the corner, McCoy spotted a restaurant with an outdoor seating area and sighed in relief. Damn, the air was thin here. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and crossed the street over to the restaurant, practically falling into one of the chairs located under a parasol and thanking his lucky stars for the shade.
The waitress was a small woman, young and Vulcan, possibly adolescent or young adult. It was impossible to tell, honestly. Vulcans lived a long-ass time and didn’t show their age for much of it. She handed McCoy a PADD with the menu and he picked something from the “intergalactic” section, knowing full well how much of a tourist he looked when he did.
He sighed and placed his brand new wayfarer sunglasses on top of his head, pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, and looked around at the other patrons of the outdoor seating area. His gaze fell on a couple of women feeding what looked like cookies to their infant child and he felt a pang in his chest. He quickly looked away, his gaze falling on a male Vulcan wearing a robe and reading something on a PADD, when he realized that this particular Vulcan seemed familiar.
“Spock?”
The male Vulcan looked up from his PADD and stared at McCoy, and—yup, that was Spock, alright. The sunlight hit Spock’s brown eyes in a way that made them seem golden, and in the natural light of day, his dark hair seemed more brown than black. Having been around Vulcans for the better part of the last two days, McCoy could see now just how human Spock looked by comparison.
“Dr. McCoy,” Spock replied, standing up from his seat and moving to the one across from McCoy at his table. “Is this acceptable?”
“Of course,” McCoy said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The question was lighthearted, spoken with the lopsided grin that the doctor was known for, and Spock took a moment to study him. He must’ve been quite the sight—uniform stained dark blue under his arms and in the folds of his pecs and abdomen. Sunglasses pushing back sweaty, brown hair, sticking to his temples. Drops of sweat beading down his jaw and into his five-o-clock shadow.
Spock returned his gaze to the PADD in his hands. “I am reading an article in New Science and Technology, a journal that publishes studies by various scientific organizations. This one about the history of room-temperature superconductors is particularly fascinating.”
McCoy’s eyebrows raised as he listened. “I meant, what are you doing in New Shi’Kahr?”
“Ah. Visiting my father.”
The doctor nodded. The waitress brought his food, a cheeseburger and fries, and the smell of grease and salt made his mouth water. “You mind if I…?”
“Not at all, Doctor.”
McCoy ate like he’d been starving a week while Spock sat across from him and continued to read on his PADD. The silence between them was comfortable and McCoy appreciated the company. After a few minutes, between mouthfuls of fries smothered in ketchup, he asked, “You’re not gonna ask what brings me to New Shi’Kahr?”
“I assumed you were working at the hospital.”
“You assumed?” McCoy asked, playfully.
“Am I incorrect in assuming?”
McCoy grinned. “Nope. I start tomorrow.”
Spock’s mouth twitched, as if it threatened to turn up into a smile. It happened so fast, McCoy could have blinked and missed it. “I am certain your expertise will be put to good use, Doctor.”
“Well, mark the date. You admit I have expertise.”
“The hospital is currently understaffed. They are required to take all the assistance they can get.”
McCoy laughed heartily, a deep rumbling from his chest, and briefly attracted the attention of Vulcans at other tables. He shook his head as his laughter ceased and said, “Damn, Spock. That’s brutal.”
He was certain Spock was smiling now. Not in the way a human would, with the corners of their lips lifting up, but with his eyes. Brown eyes that were like copper in the sunlight, gleaming and bronze. McCoy’s heart stopped in his chest and he forced himself to look away, clearing his throat. Was Spock always this expressive? Was the lighting on the ship so awful that it made Spock seem less human than he really was?
McCoy wiped his hands on a napkin, then threw it onto his nearly empty plate. “Anyway, I gotta be headin’ out, now. Early start tomorrow.”
“I understand,” Spock said. “Shall I accompany you to your residence?”
McCoy waved over the waitress and paid for his food, then stood up out of his chair. “That’s really not necessary, Spock. I walked here, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you do seem capable of moving from one location to the next.”
McCoy chuckled. “I’m just stayin’ at T’Khut Place, across from the embassy, if you ever wanna visit.”
“Which apartment is yours?”
“Number three.”
Spock nodded, standing up out of his chair as the waitress cleared the table, and tucked his PADD under his arm. “I shall endeavor to do so.”
McCoy gave him a half-wave-half-salute as he crossed the street back to where he came from, pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes, and cursing the heat under his breath.
So, Spock was in New Shi’Kahr after all. Talking to him had been somewhat of a relief. A nice change of pace from the conversations he’d been having with his new landlord and the medical director just hours before. It was easy, talking to Spock. There was no anxiety of saying the wrong thing and causing a diplomatic incident. Spock didn’t judge him for being an emotional, illogical human. He just accepted it as a fact of life, like the chemical composition of water.
McCoy didn’t realize before just how on edge he was from his interactions with Vulcans the last two days until the tension rolled off of him while speaking to Spock. And he wasn’t a mind reader, but he could swear the half-Vulcan also felt a sort of relief speaking with him. The food and conversation improved McCoy’s mood so much that he found himself smiling all the way home, much to the confusion and concern of the local population.