A Prophet in His Own Country (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17) 1/3

[lindmere]

This story is a sequel to Cura Te Ipsum and What Was Done in Capernaum, which do not have to be read first to understand this (although they contain both more back story and more smut, if that helps.)

All hail my beloved beta readers:sangueuk , the beautiful and brilliant, whose wonderful writing never fails to stimulate my brain and my heart (and frequently other bits as well), and the lovely and talented zerrah, whose Vulcan discipline allows her to root out an errant comma in any scene, no matter how torrid.

+++++

Open flames are generally prohibited on starships. At the same time, cultural items, like meditation lamps, are permitted. Such contradictions between operational necessity and personal expression comprise dozens of Starfleet regulations, yet it is impossible for such regulations to anticipate, let alone encompass, all such possible conflicts, since the number of planets, individuals, and regulations in Starfleet is constantly increasing.

The proper symbol for such diversity is, of course, the IDIC, but Spock prefers the meditation lamp. Thus the tranquil flame that should represent the taming of the destructive power of emotion serves for Spock instead as a reminder of the inevitability of conflict between that which he is and that which he must live within. It is a not a meditation likely to bring peace.

Meditation is difficult in any case when she who is not yet his wife is stepping noiselessly around his quarters, gathering her clothes. Her graceful movements are never deliberately provocative, but they never fail to provoke. Spock hears the hiss of silk as the robe slides from her shoulders. She is naked now, and it is not the discipline of meditation but a stubborn game between them that prevents him from turning around. He listens to her getting dressed, can identify every article of clothing she puts on by sound.

In all the time they’ve been together, they have never spent a ship’s night in each others’ quarters. He had been surprised to discover that her people’s concepts of marriage are as strict as his own. Whatever else they do, she holds back this one thing to honor tradition. Someday-and it is beyond his discipline not to have this wish-someday soon, they will go to her people together. He visualizes it often, the red soil and hot, dry air; a second home of his choosing where, she tells him, he will be welcomed as a son and a brother. On New Vulcan, his father has already established a household. It is logical that he should remarry, and select a Vulcan bride for his son. Spock anticipates a time when his father will also meditate on the conflict inherent in diversity.

She drops a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. He raises his hand and they brush their fingers together. She moves so easily between languages, between worlds; has been doing so since the day she was born. “Bye bye,” she whispers. “See you in the morning,” and she is gone, leaving behind the after echo of her touch on his flesh and in his mind. He makes no effort to suppress the feeling, or its effect. Instead, he allows his awareness to spread outward on the soft wings of her departing essence to encompass the ship as a whole, a thousand beings, yet no more than a dozen with a psionic presence of any significance. These he shields himself from as a matter of course. The rest form a background vibration of living thought that is, to him, as integral to the Enterprise as the hum of its engines.

Yet there is one mind he searches for and nearly always finds, sometimes bright with activity, other times quiescent in sleep. Psionic patterns are as distinctive as fingerprints in humans, yet like fingerprints are difficult to distinguish without considerable practice. Night after night, Spock has searched for the mind of Jim Kirk until he can make it out like a flame in the darkness. Over time it will clarify, resolve into moods and feelings and finally thoughts, intensifying until he can sense it across any distance, across galaxies if necessary. Spock devotes himself to this practice because Kirk’s mind is his unique responsibility, just as his body is Dr. McCoy’s, or the ship’s engines are Mr. Scott’s. That he has not explicitly mentioned this to the captain is of no consequence. He is sure that the captain knows, or if not, he suspects. And if he does not suspect, has not felt the brush of Spock’s mind in the silences, it is because his attention is well engaged elsewhere. Spock is not the only one who has taken on a new burden for Jim’s sake.

+ + + + +

McCoy poured himself another cup of coffee, one he needed even less than the first. It was a trade-off: caffeine nerves for something to do with his hands instead of fidget while he waited through 50 minutes of an hour-long meeting for the only agenda item he could bring himself to care about. He could use the boost in any case, since Kirk had kept him up until the wee hours doing things that--in light of his also being the bastard who called a staff meeting at 0730-could be construed as sadism. At the time he’d thought of it as no more than Jim saving up for a rainy day, in this case a tough ten-day mission under the scrutiny of a hard-assed higher-up. Looking at him now, almost vibrating with nervous energy, McCoy wondered if he’d been trying to diffuse some type of anxiety. It hardly made sense; Kirk was blithely unconcerned about Starfleet brass, thrived on ridiculous workloads, and had so little to worry about in terms of his bedroom performance that McCoy almost laughed. Instead, he dumped a highly unnecessary third teaspoon of sugar into his cup and sat down.

“-and at 1745 we’ll conclude with a tour of Engineering. After that, she can have the run of the ship until dinner, I suppose.” Kirk looked up from his PADD at his senior staff, seated around the conference table. “Anybody else have any idea what to with an admiral?”

“About that tour of Engineering, captain,” Scotty said. “Are you positive it's not an inspection? Because if she decides to do an inspection, she’s going to see-“

“-the crack in the vertical intermix chamber panel," they finished together. “Dammit,” Kirk said, “you told me we should have gotten that fixed at Starbase 62 and I didn’t listen.”

“Never mind, captain,” Scotty said cheerfully. “I can fabricate something that’ll look almost like the real thing. It should be good enough, unless she gives it a hard kick.”

“Perfect.” The two of them looked at each other with uncomplicated mutual delight. They had almost nothing in common but their fanatical love of the ship, but it was enough that Kirk often came back to bed after his gamma shift perambulations smelling of Scotch and ozone. “OK, so for the protocol stuff-dress uniforms clean, organize your workstation, you know the drill. And don’t try to go drink-for-drink with the admiral; she can really put it away. Now, as for the actual mission-I've got some bad news, kids. Remember how we were going to have ten days to perform a complete planetary inventory of 30 star systems? We received orders from the admiral this morning that we only have six." Sulu and Chekov groaned in unison. "I know, it's nuts. Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

"Sir," Sulu said, appearing upset at having to be anything other than his usual enthusiastic self, "it took Chekov and me two days to work out the optimum flight plan. And I'm sure the sensor analysts are going to have to rip up a bunch of plans and start over, too."

"I will instruct them to commence doing so immediately," Spock said calmly. "I anticipate no trouble with revising the schedule, captain." McCoy rolled his eyes to save Sulu and Chekov the trouble.

"But sir-" Chekov said.

Kirk waved a calming hand at him. "The admiral doesn't arrive until 1600 hours. We won't be at our alpha position until 0600 tomorrow. We have plenty of time to figure it out."

"May I suggest double shifts for key personnel in Navigation, Cartography, and Sensors?" Spock said.

"See, there you go." Kirk jerked a thumb in Spock's direction. "A couple more ideas like that and we'll be all set."

“Captain?” Uhura had not yet broken the habit of raising a finger as if she were in a seminar.

Kirk nodded. “Why is there such urgency to complete this mission?”

“Good question. The Klingons have been making noises about some ancient and probably non-existent territorial claims. Starfleet thinks it’s a prelude to a big land grab. Next week is some big celebration--the Feast of Gore and Matrimony, I think.”

“I believe that is the ‘Feast of Glorious Patrimony,’ captain,” Spock said, deadpan.

“Right. Well, Starfleet Intelligence thinks that's when they'll make their move. Now, it could be that there's nothing valuable in this sector and they're just yanking our chain, waiting to see what we'll do."

“But if there are habitable planets, or thriving civilizations, then it could be a preamble to colonization?" Uhura asked.

“That's the theory.”

She nodded and smiled, satisfied. Of all the achievements of his command, McCoy thought, Kirk winning over Uhura had been among the most impressive. He had courted her as assiduously as he had Spock, not with flattery or charm but with courtesy and professional respect. It had taken almost a year, but Kirk now had a command team that meshed perfectly, in large part on the strength of the individual relationships he had built. McCoy sincerely hoped that wasn’t about to change.

“All right,” Kirk said, placing both hands flat on the table and taking a deep breath. “That leaves just one agenda item.” McCoy’s fingers tightened around his mug, and he preemptively pasted what he hoped was an expression of benign interest on his face.

Kirk tapped his PADD a couple of times and began to read in a hurried monotone. “Pursuant to Starfleet Regulation 367, I wish to inform you that I have initiated an emotional, sexual, biochemical or psychic association, pick all that apply, with another senior officer. I understand that regulations prohibit me or the other officer from using this association for professional advancement including, but not limited to, preferential treatment in the assignment of duties; unwarranted favorability in reviews, recommendations, or promotions; or unequal application of rules and regulations. If you have any questions or concerns you may address them to me, or, if you do not feel comfortable doing so, to the Office of the Chief of Operations at the Admiralty.” He jabbed the PADD a final time and looked up, saying blandly. “Any questions?”

During Kirk’s recitation, McCoy’s eyes had dropped irresistibly to the table. Now he raised them a fraction, enough to see the senior staff looking at each other like guests at a country house where a dead body had just been discovered. For a long moment there was silence, and then McCoy saw Uhura’s manicured finger rise in the air again.

“Uh, captain?”

“Yes, lieutenant?”

“Who is the other officer?”

Kirk fixed her with a cool, blue gaze, lips curving into a smile a few seconds to late. “Guess,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll give you a hint: it isn’t Spock.”

McCoy prayed silently for a moment that Uhura would take it as a joke, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked annoyed and crossed her arms, as if getting ready to become the first person ever to win a staring contest with Jim Kirk. As she did so, her booted foot hit the leg of the conference table, causing McCoy’s coffee to slosh. As he reached to steady it, his shaky hand knocked it over instead, sending a flood of hot coffee across the table. Everyone scrambled, moving their electronics or reaching for napkins, grateful for the distraction. Uhura turned abruptly and glared at him as if Kirk were his dog and had just pissed on her leg.

“Well!” Scotty said brightly, oblivious to the tumult. “’Murder will out,’ as the saying goes. It looks like Dr. McCoy is the lucky man,” he said, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “And the captain luckier still. I’d suggest a party tonight, but seeing as we’re already having one, I’ll just have to drink your healths in private.”

Kirk gave a tight smile and nodded his acknowledgment, gathering his things and muttering “Dismissed” without meeting anyone’s eyes. McCoy was left to mop coffee off the fortunately stain-resistant sleeve of his uniform and make his way out with as much dignity as he had left. His gut clenched a little as he heard the room behind him erupt in furious whispers.

As no one else had left, it was easy to catch up with Kirk without making it look like he was chasing him. McCoy found him waiting for the turbolift and grabbed his bicep when he pretended not to see McCoy, who knew he had both decent peripheral vision and the sense that god gave geese.

“Now wait one damn minute. You are not just going back up on the bridge after that performance.”

Kirk jerked his arm away. “What performance? I did what I had to do. What did you want me to do, get down on one knee? Release a pair of doves?”

“If you’re trying to piss me off, congratulations, it’s working! Just remember I have a lot more experience with this than you do, kid. You want us throwing plates at each other in the halls on Deck G, that’s fine by me.”

Kirk took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “That was not my fault. If Uhura--”

“Don’t you dare blame Uhura, just because she had the guts to ask what everyone else was thinking. You owe her an apology.”

“Why, because she couldn’t mind her own damn business? Do I bring up her personal life at staff meetings? No, I do not, and neither should she.”

“You don’t have to bring it up because it’s not a problem. Whereas you turned this into a problem because you couldn’t -“ He spotted Chekov trying to scurry by unnoticed, eyes pinned to them with avid interest. When McCoy caught his gaze, Chekov lowered his head and hurried on. “Oh, great. You know how kids feel about parents fighting.”

“There is no problem here,” Kirk said with tight, slow emphasis. “I did what was required, and now everyone can get over it, and that includes you.”

“Ah, the magic words every boy wants to hear!” That made a few heads turn, so he continued more softly, “Well, maybe I should get over it. Maybe it was a bad idea in the first place.”

“Maybe it was!” Kirk said in an angry whisper. “I haven’t submitted that notification yet. Shall I erase it? Save everyone the trouble my attempt to have a personal life is apparently causing them?”

McCoy stopped short, remembering belatedly that he couldn’t count on Kirk, of all people, not to call a bluff. The adrenaline shot of a bracing argument was draining away, leaving emptiness and a caffeine headache in its wake. “Use your own judgment,” he said tiredly, “since it’s all you seem to trust.” And with that, he turned and walked away from the captain-technically a minor act of insubordination but well worth it, assuming Kirk, in his current mood, was petty enough to care.

+++++

Fortunately, it was a busy morning. Besides the worst excuse for pork barbecue McCoy had ever tasted, Starbase 62 apparently boasted the longest-incubating norovirus on record. A full five days after leaving spacedock, a couple of ensigns who worked in Provisioning arrived after tossing their oatmeal in the mess. That was the signal for decon procedures, a round of antivirals for the ship, and a series of frustrating subspace messages to Dr. Xaanfar-Wilkinson, the CMO of Starbase 62. In spite of McCoy helpfully pinpointing the exact area of the storage bay where the infection originated-not a bad trick at that distance-the CMO had seemed positively bored, at least until McCoy got Starfleet Medical involved. While M’Benga, Chapel and Galena doled out anti-emetics and rehydrating solution, McCoy arranged a long-distance ass-kicking that he hoped would leave Starbase 62 a more hygienic place.

“And fire the chef, while you’re at it,” McCoy muttered, signing off.

“In addition to the electron resonance scan, I suggest we make some old-fashioned cultures.” M’Benga said, lifting a cup of tea out of the replicator. “If they confirm our suspicions, we could write it up for Annals of Clinical Microbiology."

“Knock yourself out. We’ve only been out here a year, and at this rate, I’m going to be writing journal articles until I’m a hundred. These pitiful excuses for medical officers are giving us plenty of material.” He looked around his desk for something to slam, and settled for a crystal paperweight. “I’ve seen kindergartens with better public health procedures.”

“Yes,” said M’Benga calmly, “I have no doubt. As you’ve had a busy morning, doctor, why don’t you go to lunch? I wouldn’t mind getting started on those cultures.”

“Sure. Thanks.” In truth he didn’t feel like being anywhere else, except maybe his quarters, but he had enough experience with M’Benga’s quasi-Vulcan politeness to know that go grab some lunch likely meant get out before you start to piss people off. Before he did, he took a few minutes to send an updated report the captain, who needed to know he could host the admiral at a formal dinner without also giving her a raging stomach virus. His fingers had typed out a smart-ass addendum for Kirk’s eyes only, something about admirals making people sick, before he remembered that he was mad at him and deleted it. He filed the report and left, purposeful only as far as the doorway.

All morning, in the background, McCoy’s brain had been cycling through sine waves of arrogant bastard, serves him right and he’s new at this, he can’t be a prodigy at everything. The problem was that it was too difficult to be angry at Jim; he hadn’t had enough practice. Brooding, bone-deep anger took years, and although he’d known Jim that long, there was no deep vein of resentment to mine, only a pebbly surface of minor (albeit frequent) annoyances. The neural pathways for his interactions with Jim Kirk were already formed, and to retrain them was going to take considerable effort.

In the three months or since McCoy had impulsively offered both sex and intimacy to Kirk, they had never discussed what it was. It wasn’t so much that it was a delicate flower, prone to wither under scrutiny, as that McCoy was not sure what it could possibly be, while Kirk didn’t seem similarly bothered. It didn’t feel exactly like friendship plus sex, but it lacked the familiar arc of engagement-delicious, anxious uncertainty segueing into hope and finally into bone-deep mutual commitment.

What had happened since that first offer had not been arc and progress, but more an initial moment of clarity followed by random, chaotic insertions into the crazy routine of their lives: waking up in his bed or Jim’s to find Kirk reading or staring at a display panel or gone, having Jim let himself in late at night, full of nervous energy, equally likely to engage in a disquisition on the Klingon Rite of Succession as to push McCoy down on the bed and take him with good-natured ferocity. Sudden, bright glances intercepted at odd moments, shining eyes that stabbed McCoy to the heart, a lancing tenderness that was as likely to end with a hard slap on the shoulder as a sweet nothing in his ear. It might be more than the sum of its parts, and it might be a random collection of unconnected incidents, as meaningless as anything else in this universe.

And then Kirk had casually mentioned forms and registration and consensual relations between officers, a rapid muttering about paperwork and wanting to make sure there were no loose ends before the admiral’s visit, and McCoy didn’t know whether it was a request or a declaration. He had no idea how he could spend so much time with someone-living and working under the same roof, often in the same room-and have so little certainty about what was going through his mind.

While his brain was chewing this over, his feet had been taking him to the Officer’s Mess, so he thought he might as well go in and have lunch. So late in alpha shift, and with the ship in full pre-admiral windup, he hadn’t expected to find anyone else, but there was Sulu shoveling ravioli into his mouth while staring at his PADD, which he’d propped up against a salt shaker.

“Hey, doc,” he said, glancing up briefly.

McCoy punched his usual into the replicator-chicken on wheat with a side of fruit salad-and started to carry it to the opposite end of the table, but Sulu gestured him over, pushing the PADD flat against the table with a sigh.

“It’s hopeless. Unless we replicate the ship, there’s no way we’re going to be able to hit all these planets and get the data we need in six days. I swear it’s a setup.”

“A setup?” McCoy dialed up a coffee, making it a decaf at the last moment.

“Yeah. You know Admiral Subramanya has it in for the captain, right? She wanted Pike to keep the job. Or anybody but Kirk. There are a lot of people at the Admiralty waiting for him to screw up.” Sulu gave a dry chuckle, as if to underscore what a pointless endeavor that was. “So maybe now she’s trying to manufacture something. I mean, that whole back story with the Klingons-that came out of the admiral’s briefing paper, and nowhere else. I’m not sure I buy it. The Klingons don’t stand on ceremony; if they want something, they take it.”

McCoy, nodded, wishing in retrospect he’d read more of the endless background reports that streamed out of Starfleet Intelligence. “Have you shared this theory with the captain?”

Sulu gave a dismissive shrug and swallowed another piece of ravioli. “It’s not my place to interfere. If it’s a decent theory at all, the captain’s already thought of it. I just hate letting the captain down.” He pushed around some congealed cheese with his fork. “You know what’s weird about replicators? Theoretically I can have almost anything I want, but whatever I order, it’s like I’m not in the mood for it.”

“You should do what I do: get the same thing every day. Then there’s no chance of disappointment.”

Sulu dropped his fork and looked up at McCoy. “Well, at least there’s some good news. You and the captain, huh? That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Uh, thanks.” Inexplicably, Sulu was smiling at him as if the whole debacle that morning hadn’t happened.

“I bet it’s tough, right? All that attention. I don’t envy you that part. But it’s great all of the senior staff get along so well. First Uhura and Spock, now you and the captain.” He looked positively happy now, earlier troubles forgotten. “Maybe I should ask Chekov out, huh?” Then, seeing McCoy’s face, he added seriously, “That was a joke. I see enough of that guy as it is.”

+++++

When McCoy arrived back in the Medical Bay there were no new sick crew members and a message from Kirk: Sounds like things are under control. Just no barfing on the Flight Deck, please. Under normal circumstances it would have been a casual, needling joke, but now McCoy had to try to parse out its possible meanings. Was Jim still angry, and if so, angry at him, or at the situation? Was it a sarcastic dig at McCoy's medical ability, or an intimation that he might, on purpose, allow something to happen in the admiral's presence to embarrass him? Long minutes passed and McCoy, still staring at the two short sentences on the screen, mentally kicked himself. He had extracted a promise from Jim, in the early days of their new relationship when he suspected Jim’s interest might prove transient, that whatever happened between them they would never allow it to lapse back into anything less than friendship. Now he was scrutinizing Jim's message the way he used to try to interpret Jocelyn's hairstyle or the way she closed the door, the way the Romans had tried to read omens in lightning and the flight of birds.

It wasn't possible, he hoped, for Jim to think he'd show anything less than a unified front in the face of a hostile admiral. He briefly considered going up to the bridge to tell him so, but rejected the idea, first because Jim was likely to be hellishly busy and second because he wasn't sure what kind of reception he'd get. As embarrassing as a lovers' spat in the hallway had been, one on the bridge would be intolerable. More likely that Jim, who was as unfailingly professional on duty as he was irreverent in his quarters, would simply order him out. The thought of getting a What are you doing here, doctor? was enough of a deterrent.

The afternoon passed quickly in tidying up in case the admiral decided to pay a visit. McCoy was arranging laser scalpels by wavelength when Chapel touched his arm and said, “It’s 15:30. Don’t you need to change?”

“Oh. Oh, right.” He handed her the scalpel he was holding. “Finish up, will you?”

“Of course, doctor," she said, smiling. "Good luck. We're expecting a full report on the admiral." They all beamed at him as he left, pleased and proud as if they were his parents sending him off to a dance. A great staff, so good at their jobs and so damned cheerful, despite his many trials of their patience. This, he hoped, he was in no danger of losing, no matter how far awry things went with Jim. This was where he felt comfortable, where he knew he could do his job, and where, for a few moments, he felt like he could be content spending most of his time here and forgoing trips to the bridge, let alone to captain’s quarters and the surface of unknown planets. Here, Kirk’s presence was felt rather than seen, like the wavy lines of electromagnetism in a physics diagram. This was a safe distance.


Part 2 >>