"Jim... "

Jim turns around, utterly pleased by his craftsmanship. "Look, Spock. It's the bridge crew!"

In a circle stand seven books. Clockwise, they are: a first edition of Dr. Spock's 'Baby and Child Care', a set of communications pamphlets by Shumirai Nyota, '101 things to do in Scotland', 'On the Sulu Sea', and an anthology of Anton Chekhov's short stories. An informative guide on the Sistine Chapel sits behind the circle next to a thick book with 'The Real McCoy' printed on a waxy looking cover.

"See, McCoy and Christine are in Sickbay. But you know they'll be on the bridge at any time-- oops, should move Scotty down a few shelves to engineering. I looked everywhere but I couldn't find anything by or about Rand. I left a Khan all by itself on another display area and you would not believe the look I got when I asked where I could find some 'Gorn'..." 

They're in a bookstore. An actual bookstore, complete with dry air, inoffensive music filtering through the speakers high above their heads, and beige on beige upholstery.

Less enthused, he adds, "Lighten up, it's not like this is going to spoil anything about the future." 

They're in 2007, trapped in the past once more and Spock should be huddled over the scraps of a tricorder right now. Instead, he shakes his head and walks toward a display of shiny picture books.

"Spock. Spock, don't leave. Look, I just thought that getting some fresh air would be good for us, I mean we've been cooped up in the apartment for so long and we've made no progress at all with the-- you know, mission and I..." 

Spock promptly returns with a large, flat book tucked beneath his arm and places it in the center of the circle. 

"'Miss Spider's ABC's' by David Kirk."

"You forgot to include yourself, sir." 

Jim smiled, wider than a man stuck in the past with his half alien friend for the third time should.  "I guess that's why I have you." 

The lights rose to twenty percent and Spock pushed himself up from his sleeping cot. He wasn't so vigilant with the internal time keeping as he'd taken to measuring time in '___ number of abs, bs, and cs without x y or z and after a while, he couldn't bear to calculate the time without down to the second. And after a dream like that, he wasn't in any mood to remind himself how long it had been. 

Two years ago, he entered this universe, watched Vulcan implode, and met James Kirk-- again. He'd met so many different Kirks in his life that a female one was hardly surprising. But this was the first time he met a Kirk and his own was not there to comment on their appearance and mannerisms. 'I don't really talk like that, do I Spock?'  

One and nine tenths of a year ago, Spock-- Selek, that was who he was to anyone anymore-- took up residence on New Vulcan.

Six hours ago, he received a transmission. It was nothing more than a few encrypted words: 'Going to be in your neck of the woods for a few days. Be by soon.' 

Two minutes ago, Selek prepared a pot of tea and pinged the newly built Science Academy. He wasn't going to stop by the dome like structures today. 

YOU WOULD FUCKING CHOOSE THAT ONE FEEL MY WRATH OF FEELS

It wasn’t the same.

Well, it was the same, the same job, the same work load, same people, but, it wasn’t the same. The substance was there, the ingredients all accounted for, but it wasn’t the same outcome, the same product. It was different and as the idea of her past life weighed heavy in her heart, the taste of what she’d lost was bitter on her tongue. It burned more then whiskey, the first time she drank it, and it set just as well as epitaph in her stomach, which was to say she had puked once or twice; no correlation to the change of course, just got sick.

She’d been reassigned to another vessel, another Captain and crew; another life. What she once held close to her, was gone; drinking with Scotty, chiding Sulu and Chekov for their childish games and secret relationship, chatting with Nyota and Chapel over latest trends - even thought McCoy didn’t keep up with those - and even working alongside that damn hobgoblin of a second officer Spock. It all left the doctor a bit empty, a bit cold now, but not as cold as finding herself without that stupid, reckless, quixotic, heroine complex holding captain of hers; finding herself without James Tiberia Kirk. 

She’d never admit it before, or now, but she knew there was a hole in her chest, aching and raw, where that damn kid had cut herself into and made a home there. Jim nested in Leonarda’s chest, and now, it was empty. Not full of pain or sorrow or longing - thought those were very apparent by the increase in off duty drinking and nights spent away in her quarters after work - but just nothing. It was like, she had been there the entire time, and McCoy had never really noticed how long, till one day she walked onto the bridge - the bridge of another constitution-class battle cruiser - and saw that instead of that bouncy blonde mess of hair and a charming smile, was another person; dark haired and muscular. 

It was wrong.

She’d been asked multiple times if she was alright. If she liked the ship, her quarters, her staff, her equipment - which was all find and basically the same - but it wasn’t. She’d drawn attention a few times, finding herself worshiping the porcelain throne more times then ever in the mornings, which was obviously not noted upon her records when on board the Enterprise. This wasn’t her home, wasn’t hers. It was foreign and she was foreign and nothing was matching up as it should. Not till the computer chimed and hummed, “Message from the U.S.S Enterprise, for Doctor Leonarda H. McCoy. Accept?”

She’d accepted faster then she probably had when the divorce papers came through; faster then warp even. It wasn’t a surprise then when that familiar face, those familiar emerald hues, and the same wave of golden hair came on screen, McCoy nearly fell to her knees. It didn’t help even more when that same golden beauty - because after almost three years of being away, McCoy had come to admit to herself, that yes, that damn Kirk charm had worked on her - had simply said one phrase which only left the doctor a near crying mess of girlish laughter.