Hi, Anon! Sorry for the taking so long, but what was supposed to be a headcanon evolved into a fic and it took me some time to find the right tone. Hope you enjoy, and, please, don’t pay attention to grammar or spelling (not my forte).
The first time they cuddle, they aren’t even seeing each other. It had been a couple of weeks until McCoy was ready to wake up Kirk, longs days of what seemed to be an endless battery of exams, some of which Carol was vaguely aware existed, perfecting a serum made from a murder’s blood and a doctor’s brilliance and what could be only described as indomitable will. The man was utterly exhausted, hooked on one stim shot after another, and she herself felt like keeping her eyes open was the hardest task ever, because between debriefings, she and Mr. Spock had helped McCoy as much as they could. Kirk being alive was mostly on McCoy – or all on him, depending on how one looked at it –, but Carol had grabbed the chance to be part of the process, anything to keep her mind out of the things Admiral Marcus had done, maybe mitigate some of his damage.
When the final test on Kirk is done and redone, when there are no doubts that the captain is on the road to complete recovery, when they can try to breathe again, she finds herself sitting on the couch in McCoy’s office at Starfleet Medical Headquarters.
She has no real reason to be there, except that she wants to. Her father’s funeral is in a few days – a mock funeral, part of Starfleet’s plans to save face and cover its failure with Section 31 and Khan. She has no strength to deal with that and she honestly doesn’t want to. The media coverage is relentless, as expected; Starfleet screwed up badly and people want justice in any shape or form they can get. Carol is in no position to be against it, either morally or intellectually. In practical terms, though, she wishes she could disappear and not face a single reporter camping outside her apartment building, not answer another admiral’s question about her father’s actions, not be the subject of any of that attention ever again.
Carol Marcus just wants to vanish.
Leonard McCoy’s office is the closest thing to that at the moment.
“Your couch is nice”, she notices, tapping the soft leather under her fingers.
He raises an eyebrow at her, leaning against the edge of his desk, a PADD in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. For a moment she thinks she sees a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You say that because you have never slept on it”.
“Have you?” Carol asks. It is a stupid question, really, one she knows the answer to, and of course she gets one of McCoy’s epic eyerolls. Before all that, before he offered his life for her, before she saved his, before traitors and madmen and dead heroes, it would have annoyed her to be dismissed in such way, but now it is almost endearing, in a comforting way, because now she knows McCoy cares. Carol has learned to appreciate that. She has learned to appreciate the man, too, but that is another story.
He doesn’t answer her, instead he smirks, a real good-natured smirk. McCoy is far less grumpy or ill-tempered than his reputation makes people to believe and he always treats her as an equal, which is nothing more than expected, but still, after everything, it is nice to not be looked down because of who she is – or rather, because of who her father was. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
She crosses her ankles over the small table in front of the couch and sighs looking around. “I like your office.”
“It is not my office, and you know that”, McCoy offers kindly. Carol winces; the place was Fatima Ali’s, head of Xenobiology at Starfleet Medical, killed when the sky crashed on her home in the form an uncontrolled spaceship. It had been given to McCoy when he had just camped in the hospital during Kirk’s treatment. “And it is not your fault”, he adds, his voice firmer, antecipating where her mind is going to. “So, drop it”.
“I’m not…” Carol tries to protest, but that raised eyebrow stops her. “Fine”, she huffs. “And you should drop those stims”, she says, waving towards a couple of hyposprays on his table. “You are getting hooked up on that stuff, you know that, right?”
“Carol, I’m a doctor. I’ve been hooked on those things since my second week as intern working in a hospital”, he explains, rubbing his eyes and taking a sip from the water bottle. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. Stims are not my poison”.
She cocks her head to the side, eyeing him intensely. McCoy is blunt and straight forward, and she has to wonder. “And that would be…”
“That was alcohol”, he says, unfazed, looking straight at her.
“Was?” Carol asks, and his face is like an open book - a children’s book with big letters and lots of pictures, easy, so easy to read at times like this, she thinks.
“Some days are good. Some are bad”, McCoy shrugs, dropping the PADD next to her feet and crossing his arms.
“Jim is doing good. It is a good day”, he replies.
Something about McCoy’s answer, how he puts someone else first, annoys her in a way she cannot really place. “Are you doing good?” Carol presses, fighting the urge to get up, grab his chin and… and she doesn’t really know. Maybe, force all the hidden truths out of him.
“Yeah”, he says dropping next to her, his weight making a slightly wave on the cushions.
It is an almost comfortable silence between them. This is one of the things she likes about McCoy, he doesn’t pry or make a fuss when he doesn’t have to. Until he does.
“They are burying my father next week”, Carol says, playing with an imaginary fabric thread on her trousers. “Not that there is anything to bury, but you know the drill. A fake funeral for a fake admiral”, she tells him, a sound escaping her throat that is half bitter laugh, half strained sob.
McCoy turns to look at her, studies her face with eyes that look more green than brown in the afternoon light coming through the large window on the opposite wall – a window that should be facing another building, but now offers a clear view of the destruction outside. Carol waits until he says something, her irritation raising fast, part because she feels like there is something he fully grasps but she was yet to begin to comprehend.
When he finally speaks, it is not what she wants to hear. “He was your father”, he says, and she wants to scream at him that he is wrong, he was not. Her father gave her a small rocket when she was five and used to call her his princess. Admiral Marcus killed people, children included.
She opens her mouth to protest, but he interrupts her. “Look, this is none of business. I know that, ok?” McCoy sighs. “But he was your father, and denial won’t get you anywhere.”
There is a deep hiss stuck in her throat, and she feels like punching something - or someone -, badly. Instead she clenches her jaw, one hand pushing down the seat, while the other balls into a fist resting on her thigh.
“Hey”, he says, taking her hand in his and unclenching her fingers carefully. His skin is warm and he is gentle, she notes. “I mean well. All this rage and self-blame? Taking responsibility for things that you weren’t remotely part of? This crap is going to eat you alive, either you want it or not.”
“Fuck, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Carol quips, a little harder than she intended to. She cringes at the sound of her own voice unleashing at him, but he doesn’t even bat an eye or let go of her hand, his thumb massaging her palm while the other fingers do the same on the back. It bothers her that he doesn’t sugarcoat his words yet tries to soothe her - these past two weeks, she has learned a lot of things about the man, and when it is about taking care of people, there is only way for him, the Leonard McCoy’s way. It is comforting, but also very infuriating. “I knew he was into something, and I could have done something. I should have done something and you know that”, she blurts out, a bit exasperated.
“What I know is that your father was a Starfleet admiral, a high skilled military man who came up from the ranks since Academy because he was brilliant at what he did”, he points. “He was on the top of the chain food, deep into Section 31, began a conspiracy right under half the Admiralty’s nose and fooled people like Barnet, Bella Juma and Pike. He almost made it, Carol, and that says a lot about what you could have done. Stop blaming yourself”, McCoy insists, squeezing her hand and letting it go.
She feels something twist in her chest at the obvious truth and it hurts - she also misses the comfort of his touch, but chooses to not deal with that. McCoy isn’t telling her any news, she is clever enough to realize her father outsmarted her in many, many ways, cunning or not. It is hard, though, to accept there wasn’t more she couldn’t have done.
“What should I do then? Pretend he didn’t do the things he did?” Carol asks, the barest trace of defiance still lingering on her voice.
“Mourn the man he was. Not the man he became”, McCoy states, as if things are that simple.
Carol groans; he can’t possible get it. “I bet your father never disappointed you”, she remarks, regretting her words the moment the pain cross his face and eyes, lips tighten in a thin line.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I …” she starts, but he just shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about that”, McCoy brushes off – for her sake’s or his she isn’t sure. There is a beat and then he speaks again. “No, my father didn’t disappoint me. But, just like you, albeit in a very different way, I was disappointed with myself, and it absolutely crushed me”, he explains, drawl thickening, and it is crystal clear that the little he is sharing is extremely personal, even though he doesn’t elaborate. He composes himself and nods at her. “Give me some credit here, because I have been there. Go talk to someone before you are deep down in a hole without a rope or a set of stairs or even a magic carpet to take you out of there”.
“A magic carpet?” she repeats, raising a brow.
“Oh, shut up, will you? Just talk to someone”, he says without any hint of malice, sounding drained, nonetheless. He is clean-shaved, probably for the first time since Kirk died, looks good in those Starfleet Medical scrubs, but could use a few nights of real sleep in a real bed.
“I’m talking to you”, Carol challenges, but McCoy just roll his eyes again. “Don’t you have a Ph.D in Psychology?”, she insists and when he gives her a look she smirks. “Christine told me”.
He groans, rubbing his neck. “I’m an aviophobic who works in an oversized can in outer space, what that says about my Ph.D?”
“That you conquered your fears?” she deadpans and that almost elicits a smile from the man, the corners of his mouth turning up slowly. “Really, did you talk to someone when you were in that hole without that magic carpet?”
“Yeah, I had daily chats to my old friends Jack and Macallan”, McCoy lists, “And let’s not forget good old’ P’omal.”
“Little unknown Accorian brandy, best thing in this galaxy and the next two.”
Of course, she thinks. “And when that didn’t help…”
“I enlisted”, McCoy declares, solemnly, and he is so serious, yet the teasing is evident in the gleam in his eyes. “Yeah, that was stupid. Told ya’. That Ph.D? Waste of time”, he grimaces in self-depreciation, but there is a smile already on his face.
The next thing Carol knows, they are both laughing so hard that it racks their bodies and make her sides hurt. It is a revelation, the way McCoy’s face lights up, the contagious nature of his laugh, vibrant and whole, and how come she had never noticed these dimples before? Christ, he is attractive, she thinks. She feels her cheeks warm at the thought, bets she is flushing pink, but one look at his face, all red from laughing, and she knows she is safe.
They chuckle for some time and fall comfortably quiet, heads resting on the back of the couch. Carol takes a deep breath, and turns to McCoy, watches his profile for a few seconds and the more she looks at the man at her side the more she itches for an answer she didn’t know she needed.
“Why what?” he blinks at her, confused.
Carol bits her lower lip, but he gaze doesn’t stray from his face. “Why do you care?”
“Why do I…?” McCoy says incredulous, and she can pinpoint the exact instant perplexed turns into insulted, a scowl taking over his features as if she had badmouthed his favorite aunt, then kicked his dog and finally trashed his Medbay at the Enterprise. “Are you kidding me? You are in pain and I’m a doctor. Do you really expect me to sit and watch while you suffer? Let me tell you something, darlin’, it will be a very cold day in hell when I allow you or anyone else for the matter to drown in misery”.
McCoy’s accent flares up at warp speed and Carol almost recoil – from the vehemence and fire behind his glare or the shame of thinking he could be anything less than a doctor how can she be sure? Almost, being the key word there.
“That is why you care?” she pushes through narrowed eyes, certain that his patients don’t get to learn so much about McCoy as part of the healing process.
“Yes. But you saved my life, too, if it makes you feel better”, he says, and there is so much honesty showing on his face that she cannot be mad at him – if not, because his first concern back then had been her safety, not his. There is something else she cannot quite pick up in his expression and not being able to classify that annoys her a lot.
McCoy doesn’t say more and just look at the window framing the sunset outside. Carol follows his gaze, wishing she could have one of those epiphany induced moments people talk about. Instead, she just sighs. “Give me some time, ok?”
It takes an awful long time until McCoy speaks again, so softly she can barely hear it. “Just… let it go. Your father and Khan have done enough harm. Don’t let they do more”.
“And what have we done, Leonard?” Carol whispers, laying her head on his shoulder, not caring if they are not close friends, if they barely know each other, if the man has a crapload of more important stuff to do than babysit a grownup scientist who should be able to get it together.
“We survived”, he answers, and she closes her eyes, too tired to think about it any longer.
When Carol wakes up, it is night outside. She isn’t sure how much time has passed or how it happened, but they had moved on the couch and she is snuggled firmly against McCoy, legs folded on the seat, head laying somewhere between his chest and the crook of his neck. This close she can see every freckle and mole on his skin, notices the thin lines around his eyes and the tiny scar on his chin. McCoy smells good, but even asleep he looks so weary, faint dark circles under his eyes. The arm around her is solid, though, and he is warm, and she feels safe for the first time in weeks. For now that is all she needs and she closes her eyes again.
