Title: Sunday Morning Coming Down

Characters: McCoy

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 802
Warnings/Spoilers: Basic TOS spoilers and speculation. Also, disinclination to follow a dysfunctional fandom chronology.
Summary: If fate had ever given Leonard McCoy a second chance, he swore that he would take it with both hands. Or the reason why he had to be drafted, come V'Ger, and how he wound up happy. McCoy/OC.

A/N: TOS was my first fandom. And it always bothered me that McCoy pops in and out of the show and movies as needed, because of the Trio, he was my favorite. Spock grew more interesting to me as he grew into his gravitas, and Kirk more interesting as he grew out of his pomposity, but McCoy was always fascinating, at any age. It is, I think, the combination of world-weary gruffiness and a heart incapable of not giving. Bones, it seems to me, deserved better than what he got. So really, the reason for this fic is the memory of DeForest Kelley, a truly wonderful man; and because Love goes both ways.

(This remains unbeta-ed and barely edited. I welcome any and all feedback.)

There's Nothing Short A'Dying

He forgets his umbrella. No, it's the haste that pounds through his blood and demands he go, sans umbrella, hat, reason, sanity. But no matter his haste, his desperation, Jim won't listen.

It's been five years, and too much. When he leaves Jim's—no, Admiral Kirk's apartment—he's got nothing left. He had thought that once before, that the only thing he had left was his bones. But now he's certain: there is nothing left.

Tomorrow, he thinks wearily, he'll resign his commission. And then, he'll go home and rest. The rain outside the transporter station drips down the roof and onto the toes of his boots as he looks once more down the street towards Jim's apartment.

After all they went through, this is good-bye. There is no moving Jim now that Spock is off on Vulcan at Gol, and all the rest of the crew—Scotty, Uhura, Chapel, Sulu, Chekhov—have scattered to the four winds.

Tomorrow, he'll face up to what he has to do. Tonight, he'll drink himself into oblivion.

He takes a deep breath, all the way down to his spine, and lets it out slow. He can feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on, the ache up the back of his neck and the pounding behind his eyes. They've been coming more recently lately, brought on by stress and heartache. That is, ever since every alien in outer space has started mucking around in his head. He knows he should worry about this. He knows he doesn't.

The pain, burgeoning, makes him blink. He only has a few moments before it will grow intolerable. So he risks one more look down the street and turns swiftly on his heel, ready to head for the transporter. He knows where he isn't wanted.

But he stops. Puzzled. And then he looks down. The cold wet that he feels pressing through his pant leg isn't from the rain.

"Hello there, little fellow." He drawls, as he slowly crouches. The black nose and enormous dark blue eyes of the puppy back half a foot away from him. He's a roly-poly little fellow, a muddy brown, with long ears and a stubby muzzle. The blue eyes watch, warily.

McCoy reaches out with an extended hand. "Why, I'm not going to hurt you, boy." He says, keeping his voice low and mellow. The dog sniffs at his hand—once, twice, three times—and then, whuffs politely. McCoy looks around the station, seeing no one.

"Haven't you got people?" He says to the dog, wonderingly. Had the puppy wandered in off the street? It's almost midnight, the weather is foul, and the transporter station is deserted. Or had someone left him here? The puppy has no collar, or tags of any kind.

"I'm all on my lonesome here, too." McCoy starts, just a little. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. And then starts again as a small, warm, furry body has bowled into his palm and fallen on his hand. He looks down to meet the trusting blue eyes of the puppy, lying on his forearm.

No, he thinks to himself, grinding his teeth. No, he doesn't need anything else to worry about.

But when he beams up, one silky ear lies like a blazon on the collar of his corduroy jacket, and the other is tucked under his chin.

Spock would say he was being illogical, McCoy thinks. The floor of his hotel room is freezing, and his joints are beginning to ache, even as the migraine which threatened him previously has begun to jackknife through his skull. The best way to meet a puppy, however, is to let him get his full measure, so he sits on the floor and lets the puppy clamber all over him.

Ten minutes later, he gives up his plans on getting completely drunk, and goes to the bathroom. When he gets back to get in bed, he greets the small body cuddling in his hotel bed with a raised eyebrow.

But he's too tired to fight anymore. Even a dog.

"Only for tonight." He says. "Until we get you sorted out tomorrow." And then he orders the computer to dim the lights, and lays in bed with a half-sigh, half-groan. Lying there, in the dark, the images of the last five years rush forward from his memories. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat, and he clenches his fist tightly in the sheets.

Breathe in. Count to ten. Breath out. Count to ten. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

If he remembered it in the morning, McCoy certainly wouldn't admit that the light head nuzzling his chest makes his heart ease, for the first time in days, and that the soft breathing next to his ribs soothes him to sleep.