I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues
“What are you drinking, Doctor?”
McCoy lifted his head a few inches off his folded arms and examined the three-quarters empty bottle next to his elbow.
“’S…” He squinted at Spock standing in the doorway of his private quarters, then squinted at the glass still clutched in his right hand. “’S… blue.”
“Yes,” said Spock. “I had observed as much myself.” He picked the bottle up from McCoy’s table and held it under his nose. “It’s not Romulan ale.”
“Nah,” agreed McCoy, draining about half the remaining contents of his glass. “Goes down too easy for that.”
Spock capped the bottle and returned it to the cupboard near the table.
“Hey!” McCoy protested. “You can’t just… just… waltz on into a man’s private quarters and… and just confishcate his… his blue stuff.” Another thought occurred to McCoy. He sat up straight in his chair. “There isn’t an emergency, is there?! There’s anti-in… anit-intok… sobering-up medicine in my kit.”
“There’s no emergency, Doctor. Although, if you like, I can administer the anti-intoxicant.”
“No. God no.” McCoy slumped back into his chair. “Worsht hangover of my life – taking that stuff after the fact.” He rubbed his face. “Prob’ly in for a doozy anyway.”
Spock was inclined to agree.
McCoy held up his glass and peered at Spock through it. “Color’s too light to be that stuff Jim likes.”
“Antarean brandy.”
“Thass the one. This one’s the same color as your shirt. Or my shirt. ‘S a good color on you. Very… fetching.” He set the glass back on the table. “Why are you here, Spock?”
Spock chose to ignore the comment about the relative attractiveness of his uniform. “You missed our appointment. We were to play chess in the Officer’s Lounge.”
“Oh,” said McCoy. “Sorry. Musta slipped my mind.”
“You were, perhaps, preoccupied,” said Spock. “You received a communication from Natira of Yonada today.”
“Got it on the firsht try,” said McCoy, holding up his glass and pretending to toast Spock before finishing its contents. “Did you come to help me drown my sorrows?”
“I was unaware that you had a reason to grieve. Is Natira unwell?”
“Nah. Fid as a fittle. Gonna get married.”
“And this pains you?” asked Spock. “I was under the impression that your… attachment... to her was not a permanent one.”
McCoy shrugged. “’S not that. I’m glad she’s happy. Couldn’t happen to a nicer gal. I just...”
Spock waited.
“’S just… I kinda wish I was happy too.”
“Leonard...”
“Pfffft. I’m getting maudlin. Better get to bed.” McCoy stood, weaving precariously as he tried to navigate his way from behind the table. Spock reached out a hand to steady him.
McCoy looked at the hand on his upper arm as if wondering how it got there.
“Awww… You’re always so sweet when you think I’m hurting,” said McCoy.
“My apologies,” said Spock, standing up straighter and withdrawing his hand from McCoy’s person.
“No,” said McCoy, grabbing Spock’s hand. “Don’t be sorry. ‘S nice. ‘S...” Suddenly Spock felt a wash of emotions – affection, gratitude, sadness, comfort – emanating from McCoy. The emotions stopped abruptly, and Spock understood that McCoy had purposely shown him this. Spock hadn’t even been aware that McCoy possessed the skill to do so.
“B’sides,” McCoy went on, “I don’t think I can make it to the bed myself.”
“How did you learn to do that?” asked Spock.
“Book,” replied McCoy, lurching toward the door. Spock put an arm around his waist and guided him toward the sleeping section of the room. “Mast’ring the Craft of Vulcan Tel’pathy,” McCoy announced. “It wasn’t bad. Very suc… sussy… sussint… not wordy for something a Vulcan wrote. Wanted to learn how to block, mostly.”
Spock eased McCoy onto the bed and proceeded to pull his boots off. “You believed I would invade your privacy?”
McCoy laughed. “Nah. Knew I was gonna be your doctor. Jim told me. Knew I’d have to touch you. Didn’t want it to be weird for you.” McCoy frowned. “I probably just made it weird for you.”
“Not at all, Doctor,” said Spock as he pulled the thin cover over McCoy. “You should rest now,” he advised.
“Essellent idea,” said McCoy, rolling over onto his side. “Get th’ lights, willya?”
Spock went to the panel by the door and turned the lights to their dimmest setting.
“Thanks,” called McCoy. “I meant it, you know. Blue’s your color.”
“Goodnight, Doctor. Sleep well,” said Spock, though some irrational part of him was thinking, “It suits you more.”