deep down, mccoy secretly loves space
because, like it or not, space is perspective and distance—all the troubles a down-on-his-luck fool left behind on a docking pad with earth shrinking out of sight. in time, it’s not even a far-off glimmer over his shoulder. not even a quiet glimmer in his eye.
because, like it or not, space is james t. kirk, stars scattered without forethought—and the meaning they make out of ‘em anyway, calling those patterns constellations. mapping the wild and senseless, the almosts and the maybes, to light up the night.
because, like it or not, space is spock—green-blooded and cool, distant without any hint of perspective, a pain in the ass like every other beacon of honor and light. (and somebody’s gotta make sure he doesn’t snap from being so uptight.)
because, like it or not, space is an open wound, and he’s a doctor so long as he’s alive.
because, like it or not, space has no structure, no skeleton. no bones. he loves when he’s needed, all right?