During the Five Year Mission Bones had to put up with a lot of shit. But
I’m pretty sure the mutual pining that permeated the air whenever his captain
and his favourite frenemy were even in the same quadrant of the galaxy is among
his personal top three.
Witnessing Jim’s desperation when Spock is in danger is something that
happens actually quite frequently, all things considered. And it probably cost
Bones a few years of his life whenever the Vulcan considered himself expandable
and put himself in harm’s way. But it was to be expected. Jim always liked Spock, however one wishes to interpret this, the “affection” was definitely there.
BUT to witness Spock going bat-shit crazy when Jim is in peril is something
else altogether. Bones probably enjoyed it the first time it happened, just to
see Spock showing an emotion at all. And this, too, happened more than once over the course of the mission.
So yeah, Bones was DEFINITELY in the known on this one! While his best friends were still pining for each other from afar. HE KNEW. And he had to listen to them for the the entirety of the mission. (And the second mission, too, if we count TAS here.)
But there is one thing that always puzzles me. It’s the well known scene from “Requiem for Methuselah”.
MCCOY: Well, I guess that’s all. I can tell Jim later or you can. Considering his opponent’s longevity, truly an eternal triangle. You wouldn’t understand that, would you, Spock? You see, I feel sorrier for you than I do for him because you’ll never know the things that love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures, the glorious victories. All of these things you’ll never know simply because the word love isn’t written into your book. Goodnight, Spock. SPOCK: Goodnight, Doctor. MCCOY: I do wish he could forget her. (McCoy leaves. Spock goes over to Kirk and initiates a mind meld) SPOCK: Forget.
Sometimes I am almost convinced that Bones was trying to needle Spock into admitting something, ANYTHING at this point. Maybe because the mission was almost ending and no one knew where they would be stationed next. Or maybe because Jim’s loneliness drove him slowly but surely mad. I don’t know. I have no explanation for this scene other than calling it “the one scene where McCoy’s observation skills failed him”.
I also keep thinking about the permanent raincloud over his head during the
Motion Picture Movie. He seems really pissed at the beginning. And I don’t think it’s because Jim “drafted”
him just as he sat down with a mint julep on his porch in Georgia or beamed him right out of his work on Fabrini medicine.
I think it’s at least partly because
he had a front row seat for the big “whatever-happened-between-Jim-and-Spock”
at the end of the five year mission. He had to watch everything fall apart. No matter what he tried, the crew still drifted apart without their center. And he didn’t forgive Spock for running
away to Vulcan. And he certainly didn’t forgive Jim for just accepting the promotion
and letting Spock go.
One of the BEST PARTS of the TMP Novel may just be the bit where we, the audience, witness
the confrontation scene (the one before the Sickbay SceneTM) between
Kirk and Spock from Bones’ point of view. He watches Jim despair over Spock’s
apparent lack of emotion. And his not-so-lowkey frustration about this entire situation shows it’s ugly head in the most entertaining way possible: biting sarcasm. (It’s peppered throughout the book, and a few scenes are shown in the movie as well.)
And the neat little tidbits of information we get by courtesy of Bones’ medical knowledge are fucking priceless! Because even IF Roddenberry didn’t tell us how
madly in love those two idiots were, you can bet your last cookie that Leonard
McCoy had to suffer through it all and he will shout it from the rooftops.
in the 60′s when it came out and the 70′s and 80′s when it was on reruns every night. she’s seen every episode, every movie, isn’t a rabid fan but knows her stuff.
so one day i make a comment in passing about william shatner being the heartthrob of the show and she’s just like
‘what’
and i say again something like, ‘shatner being the sex appeal’ and she’s like
‘you’re joking. wait. are you serious?’
and i said something like, ‘blah blah unflappable captain kirk, charming, womanizer’ and she was really confused?? so i asked her who she thought was supposed to be the show’s sex appeal and she says, i shit you not
‘well, in the 60′s, the big things was cowboy movies. that’s what everyone watched. and deforest kelley was a movie star by then because of the cowboy stuff. and he was older and mature and sort of strong looking and pretty handsome.’
you mean to tell me. that lil de kelley was the one everyone had a crush on?? that dad, lollipop of a mint julep southern belle alcoholic grump was the show’s big sexy role??
and i said, ‘but mom, shatner was shirtless in every show. he kissed every moderately attractive person in each episode. he had that look that he gave everyone when he was being charming. but lil ol skinny ass, blue eyed, cursing, southern de kelley was who you had a crush on??’
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
I can’t explain how much I want a 21st century Star Trek au where Kirk still lives in Iowa and it’s like “holy shit aliens just literally landed in my cornfield I can’t believe my life became a bad episode of x-files”
ok but. hear me out like…
kirk as just this genius 21yr old in Iowa building hi-tech shit in his basement; like radios and shit that manage to pick up sub-space frequencies that he helps code w/ the help of Uhura
kirk thinking it’d be a funny prank to make some crop circles in his family’s cornfield
kirk making intricate crop circles that read as some rudimentary script of Vulcan
spock responding to the images that seem to be an SOS from his father; beams down to earth only to find out some humans managed to accidentally learn the vulcan language
“oh so you’re an alien” “indeed” “And…you’re looking for your dad.” “affirmative” “well, you know what this means?” “….” “…roadtrip.”
spock learns the meaning of friendship as he roadtrips across america with a pack of humans that kirk picks up along the way in search of his father: mccoy, the doctor they met in georgia that let them sleep in his basement; scotty the auto repair guy they meet in some backwater town; sulu in new york that is much better at driving than kirk is; nobody really knows how chekov ended up with them, but it’s probably illegal
these are the voyages of the 1970 Volkswagen bus Enterprise
I May or May Not be Steve Rogers 