Chapter Text
"I remember when
I remember, I remember when I lost my mind…
Yeah, I was out of touch,
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough,
I just knew too much.
Does that make me crazy?
Possibly…”
~ “Crazy,” Gnarls Barkley
Captain's Log, Stardate: 3889.5
We are coming upon three weeks since Enterprise parted ways with the Cursioans. Due to unforeseen circumstances that have been related in countless reports, Starfleet failed to find a middle ground with the elusive species. Maybe one day, someone will find the key to unlocking the terrifying mysteries of Cursioa, and maybe one day, Starfleet will find a new ally in Cursioa. Maybe one day... But that person will not be me.
My first officer assures me that our decision to leave the planet was logical, considering we had come to such a stalemate with the High Council that none of us could see any sort of next step. Leaving was the only possible course of action to take.
After stopping briefly at Starbase 47, Enterprise plotted a course for the Beta Quadrant to answer a distress call. We are set to arrive in three standard hours.
Captain's Personal Log, Stardate: 3889.5.
It shouldn't affect me like it does. A Starfleet captain—a good one—should be able to step back from a situation and view it objectively, taking into account everyone's point of view and what they need.
Right now, Bones is making it very clear he needs space. But not space from Spock or anyone else, really, just from me.
For some reason.
Okay, fine, I know the reason. Sort of. But that knowledge doesn't make it any easier to come to terms with what’s happened.
He doesn't come on the bridge anymore, though I suppose he hasn't done that for a while now, anyway. Yet another mystery I haven't been able to solve.
I bet Spock's solved it. And no, I'm not bitter. Just confused and more than a little concerned.
Bones likes to pretend everything is back to normal, but that's just his way of coping, I guess. What happened on Cursioa… I can't even imagine… If I'm still having a hard time coming to terms with it all, I don't even want to think about how Bones is doing.
Spock was right. Why is he always right? I should've let Bones beam back to the ship instead of making him stay on that damn planet. But it was the first time Starfleet was going to set foot on Cursioan soil. The first time any outsiders were welcome… There were so many unknowns… And Bones has always been sort of like an older brother to me—the kind Sam can't be anymore...
I needed him with me.
Now, I lie awake at night making a tally of all the things I've ruined with my selfishness.
Ever since leaving Cursioa, Bones has appointed Doctor M'Benga as the designated physician for all landing parties. He didn't even beam down to Starbase 47 to enjoy a brief shore leave. Though he hasn't said it outright, I've theorized that he won't leave the ship unless it's via shuttlecraft.
Bones has since written off transporters. That's yet another piece of the puzzle I can't figure out, and I have a feeling it has something to do with whatever he and Spock aren't telling me.
I know they have some sort of shared secret between them, and while I'm not jealous—I got past that days ago—I can't deny my own worry and curiosity. It killed the cat and it's slowly killing me, too.
If Bones would only talk to me... But he made it clear he doesn't feel like there's anything much to say. Things between us aren't cold, per se, however, they aren't the way they used to be.
I can tell it's still affecting him, what happened with the Cursioans. Even if I knew how to help, I'm not sure he'd let me. Maybe I'm reading the situation all wrong; maybe I'm making something out of nothing, but it sure seems like he's holding some sort of grudge against me. Our exchange directly after the earthquake, before he'd beamed back to the ship, still replays in my mind sometimes, though not as often as the image of Theon's fingers pressing against Bones' temples.
It makes me shiver just thinking about it.
I'm not sure how long I should leave it alone, or how long I should let things play out on their own. Three weeks already and nothing seems to be getting better.
Is it wrong to pray for something drastic?
Leonard whisked about the medbay, working double-time to keep his mind as occupied as his hands. After all, a busy mind meant there wouldn't be enough time to dwell on last night.
The nightmare that had yanked him from sleep had been suffocating. One of the worst in days. Thankfully, he had routine check-ups and annual physicals to keep his thoughts from drifting too far into the thick tendrils of darkness, which beckoned him like an old friend with honey-sweet whispers.
Because he had learned long ago that sitting and wallowing in pain could be all-too satisfying—addicting almost.
His meditation session with Spock that morning hadn't helped much, not like it usually did.
Not like it was supposed to.
"I believe it's time to tell Jim."
"Spock, we've been through this a million times. It's over now. It's done with, so there's no sense in bringing up what's already been fixed."
"The fact that we're sitting here, Leonard, is proof that nothing has been truly 'fixed.' Quite the contrary, the issue appears to be in a state of stagnation."
That hadn't been what Leonard needed to hear, so he'd cut the session short and started his work day early.
Jim didn't need to know about the Mirror Universe. There's no point.
It would only add to the burden of guilt that Leonard knew weighed heavily on his captain's back, no matter how hard the man tried to hide it.
It goes away eventually. Leonard mentally flicked away the problem like it was merely an irritating little fly. It gets better.
Eventually.
And if a problem never really got better, well... The pain always dulled at some point.
Eventually...
Between scanning vitals and checking in on the overall health of each and every crew member that day, Leonard also made time to focus on purposely ignoring their upcoming destination.
Distress calls never ended well and there were hundreds of different ways this mission in the Beta Quadrant could end—the majority of them failing to produce any particularly good outcomes...
At least M'Benga had already agreed to take point on this one.
Just like the last one. And the one before that. And the one before that...
He might be the Chief Medical Officer, but he was far from the only medical professional on board. Besides, he was letting M'Benga have a little bit of fun for a change, exploring strange new worlds with Spock and the captain instead of being stuck in medbay all the time.
That's what Leonard liked to tell himself. It made the days easier, somewhat. Made the lies easier to swallow. The sheer number of excuses he'd come up with for why M’Benga was the better choice rivaled the crowds at the Kentucky Derby, all existing for one reason and one reason only.
To hide the fact that you can't get on a damn transporter pad anymore.
Shut up. Beaming down to a new planet results in pain and chaos seventy percent of the time anyway. It's perfectly within my rights as the CMO to stay and handle things shipside.
Keep telling yourself that, McCoy.
Shut. Up—
"Doctor McCoy." Christine's voice brought him back to reality, and only when he was staring at the concern pooling in her eyes did he realize he'd done the very thing he'd been wearing himself out trying to do all day.
He had gotten lost in his own mind.
It didn't hurt anymore. The intense agony that had pummeled his head three weeks ago had disappeared the moment he woke up. Somewhere between beaming down to Cursioa that final time and waking up in medbay, Leonard had lost track of all time and events.
That was fine with him. From what he had gathered, Theon had been involved and that knowledge would've been enough for Leonard to knock himself out, anyway.
"Doctor M'Benga's test results are back." She held out her PADD for him to take.
Something in her expression told him he wouldn't like what he saw.
Phantom pain still lingered, a cruel trick of his frayed mind. Though Spock assured him everything in his psyche had been put back together, it didn't feel one hundred percent yet. It didn't feel put together.
He didn't feel put together...
He wasn't crazy, but looking back, he was pretty sure he had been. At one point or another during the whole Cursioan ordeal, Leonard was positive now that he'd lost his mind. Or, lost full control of it, at the very least.
Locking his jaw against an oncoming sigh, Leonard accepted the PADD, flicking through the report on the screen and wishing for the briefest of moments that doctors didn't have to be included in ship-wide annual physicals.
It would've been discovered sooner or later, he told himself the second his gaze landed on the words.
"Doctor Joseph M'Benga: acute influenza."
But maybe that sooner wouldn't have been until after they’d answered the distress call.
And if that isn't the most selfish thing I've ever heard come out of you, Leonard McCoy, I don't know what is.
Shut up!
Schooling his expression, he handed the PADD back to Christine. "Prescribe the usual medications and tell M'Benga he's on bedrest until further notice. Doctor's orders."
He'd tried to slip a bit of humor into his voice to color the growing pit of dread in his stomach, but Christine's tight smile told him it hadn't come off well.
Of course, it didn't. Because why not, right?
"Doctor..." Her hesitance bled through, making it clear she was doing nothing to hide her concern. "I can stand in for M'Benga when the landing party beams down."
"I appreciate the thought, truly, but we don't even know what kind of team Jim'll need. Medical might not be on the list."
"But... it's a distress call."
Right. Usually, that automatically meant a doctor would be included in the landing team.
It usually meant he would be on that team...
Don't think about that right now. Don't think—
"It might not even be legitimate." He shrugged, flashing a smile that felt as weak as it probably looked. "I can think of a number of distress calls that turned out to be false alarms. Why don't we just play it by ear—see how it goes before making any decisions."
She nodded. Now didn't seem like the time to remind her that she wasn't exactly qualified for high priority distress missions. Not like he and M'Benga were.
Next patient, next patient, next—
Leonard flashed one last grin that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes before pressing forward. On to the next patient in line and praying to whoever was listening that it wasn't Jim.
Are you kidding? You practically have to drag him from the bridge by his ear to get him to come to his physical.
Scotty's face was a breath of fresh air after such a suffocating conversation.
"All right, Scotty," he began, grabbing his scanner, "let's see how badly all those fumes down in engineering have messed with your system."
Scotty's grin was genuine and Leonard found himself envying it. It looked so damn easy... "Laddie, I seem t’remember my last physical results were counted among the best o’ the bunch."
"Well," Leonard said, realizing his chuckle didn't sound as forced as it could have been, "I guess they were, at that."
The engineer didn't ask how he was doing—he didn't need to. That's what happens when you share a bathroom with someone, Leonard had surmised. They end up coming in for a bottle of scotch from the secret liquor cabinet and see you splashing water into your bloodshot eyes because you forgot to lock the door.
Typical.
Leonard hadn't even tried to put up pretenses, his pale face had said it all. They had shared the scotch after that, Leonard filling Scotty in on the particulars he could bear to share and leaving the more vivid, nightmarish details locked tightly away in the back of his mind.
It had been… refreshing to tell someone who hadn't been directly involved in the Cursioan debacle. To hear someone else give an objective opinion... and to simply be there, acting as a comfort and not another source of guilt.
After all, Scotty didn't have anything to feel guilty about, and he didn't even try to take the blame. He just poured another round of drinks and listened quietly, giving comfort when needed and cracking a joke or two to alleviate some of the tension when he noticed Leonard struggling to breathe.
"How's th’meditation bin going?" Scotty broached the casual question halfway through the examination. It felt natural conversing like this and he found himself remembering when he used to do the same with Jim.
But that was a whole spider web of issues and misunderstandings that he didn't even know how to begin to unpack.
So, he just shrugged. "It's helpful more often than not. Never saw myself as the mediating kind, but Spock can be a good teacher when he sets his mind to it. Don't tell him I said that."
Scotty mimed sealing his lips. "I’ll breathe nary a word. Do ye… Do ye think it'll help in th’ long run?"
Pursing his lips was the best Leonard could do without accidentally releasing one of the sarcastic comebacks stuck in his throat. Scotty didn't deserve any of that.
"I mean," Scotty went on, "do ye think it'll help ye with th’ transporter?"
"I don't need help with the transporter," Leonard said softly, finishing his scan.
That's when Scotty gave him the look, the one that was meant to pry out some sort of confession about how he knew he had a problem but I'm going to work on it and get better, just you wait, Scotty…
He blew out a sigh. "I never liked those things, anyway."
"I still cannae understand how everything that happened on that planet turned ye off the transporters."
Another shrug. "Maybe I was always turned off by them and never decided to do anything about it till now."
A stupid excuse if there ever was one.
Or maybe, it's about damn time you told someone other than Spock about the Mirror Universe.
Yeah. Maybe.
“Doctor M’Benga.” An ensign’s voice sounded over the comm system. “Report to the conference room for mission briefing. Repeat: Doctor Joseph M’Benga, report to the conference room for the upcoming mission briefing.”
Damn.
“All right, Scotty,” Leonard said, fighting to keep the tremor out of his tone, “you’re all set. I’ll get those results back to you as soon as possible.”
They bantered a bit more about the Scotsman’s stellar health, but if he was being truly honest with himself, Leonard didn’t remember most of what was said. He couldn’t concentrate, not with his mind focused on the imminent briefing.
Shut up. You’re fine. Isn’t that what you just told Scotty?
He caught up with Christine just as she was prepping another patient, fully aware of Scotty’s eyes on him from where the engineer had stopped by the doorway.
“I’m gonna need you to take over here for a while.”
A look of understanding flashed across her face. “The briefing?”
“Well, someone has to go.”
“Let me do it, Leonard. I can do this mission.”
And oh, how he wanted to say yes. Yes! Do it. Be my guest! But instead, he felt his head shake. “No, Chris, something tells me I’ll need you up here for this one.”
Something deep down in his gut told him this mission was going to be an absolute mess, though he wouldn’t stop praying he was wrong.
She nodded. “If you’re sure…”
“I’m not,” he said through a dry chuckle, “but I can't see any other option. Let me know about Scotty’s results.” Switching topics was as good a distraction as any. “He’s practically chomping at the bit to hear them.”
Her smile was gentle, reassuring. “Of course. And you let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure, Chris.”
“Promise?”
The corners of his eyes softened. “Promise.”
Only as he was making his way into the hall did Leonard remember Scotty was still standing there. Waiting for him, it looked like…
“And before you ask,” he began just as Scotty opened his mouth, “M’Benga’s sick, so I’ll be filling in for him on this one.”
A flash crossed his mind of when M’Benga used to be the one who would fill in for him.
Scotty didn’t say anything at first, he simply took a moment to study Leonard as they walked.
“Well, say something or don’t, but don’t just keep staring at me like that.” Leonard rolled his eyes in a vain effort to hide his growing discomfort.
“There might be transporters involved,” Scotty said at last.
“Or, we might take a shuttle. You never know.”
The denial weighed just as heavily on his shoulders as the fear.
Fear that he might beam off that pad and never come back. Fear that he might be lost to some horrific world where medbays were torture chambers and people did whatever they felt like if they knew it would get them what they wanted. Where pain and suffering served as currency and being cutthroat was the only key to success. Where—
“Leonard?” A hand on his shoulder detailed his train of thought, which had been picking up speed faster than Leonard could keep up with it. “I lost ye there for a second. Are ye sure ye’re going ta be all right?”
When he opened his mouth to reassure Scotty with a well-crafted lie, nothing came out. No sound, no false encouragement. Nothing.
Maybe that was just as well because they had arrived at the conference room.
Leonard couldn’t hold back his shiver, forcing himself not to look at the worry twisting Scotty’s face.
Jim would be in there. And no, he hadn’t been avoiding the captain, but he hadn’t exactly been seeking him out either…
Jim would be in there. And Jim wouldn’t be expecting Leonard to be in there, so that would turn into a whole big thing…
Jim would be in there…
And Leonard didn’t know if he could handle the guilt. He had enough of his own to battle without adding Jim’s on top of it.
He sucked in a breath, willing it not to shake.
Well, here goes nothing.