Chapter Text
Leonard McCoy
As a doctor, he'll never be able to get over the sound of bones breaking. As a Starfleet officer he's heard it more times than anyone should. He's fixed more than he can count, could probably make them all in alphabetical order and then from head to toe. He knows the human and pretty much every other humanoid species' skeletons like the back of his hand.
His hand which now bears crooked and deformed fingers. The latest in a long line of attempts to get information from him.
The irony of living up to his nickname isn't lost.
Something clucks at him adamantly above him. He hadn't understood the sound until recently. His translator had been broken in the initial scuffle of being captured, after all. They're no longer even trying to communicate, they're laughing at him. How fragile and meek the human race must seem if this is how easily they're rendered useless.
This isn't a strategy any more. It's a game. A game he's steadily losing, though heavily disadvantaged in the face of these two...monsters. If this was chess he'd be two moves away from his king being captured. His legs kick out in a last ditch attempt to gain some ground against them, his foot hitting an unprotected knee out of pure luck and earning screech of pain in response.Their retaliating move is for the uninjured captor to jump on his awkwardly bent left femur. Checkmate.
The scream that tears itself out of his throat is silent and gasping; half of his face pressed into the pool of blood beneath him. Teeth tear into his lip, a red stream sprinting to his chin and adding to the mess on the floor. It's almost poetic to see his life force drain from his body, but with it hope spills too, the chances of survival diminishing with each rhythmic drip. He can't communicate, can't move and can't fight back. He's pinned like a rare species of butterfly, so proudly put on display for his murderers, no longer destined to spread his wings.
They cluck at each other again, like small children pointing and laughing at a dying bird. A sharply clawed foot drags against his chest like a lovers caress before pressing over his heart, wheezing the life out of his lungs and through his mouth.
"Bones."
The word is strained and anguished, and in his weak grasp on consciousness the desperate thought that no, Jim can't be here. They can't have him.
He startles awake almost violently, but it takes a disturbing amount of time for the black cloud to dissipate before his eyes as he heaves in breaths like a drowning man. A hand reaches out to steady himself against the nearest available surface as his back protests under the strain of holding himself in a sitting position, redoubled with the incessant throbbing in his head. His fingers clutch the shoulder it somehow managed to blindly locate in the effort of conveying the fact that he needs to lie-the-fuck-back-down now because his thighs and stomach are trembling with the effort of keeping himself sat up. The world sways in protest of the movement of being lowered to the bed with enough conviction for him to immediately regret his decision though, and narrowly avoids throwing up over himself. Asphyxiation makes for an unattractive corpse, after all.
"Shh, Bones, you're doing great. Deep breaths, it's ok, I've got you."
As a pep talk it falls a little below average, but Jim's large palm is splayed across his chest in an effort to support him as he remembers how to breathe and he decides that it's good enough. Some sort of demurring noise comes out of his throat without his permission and he hears Jim's snort in reply, patting his hand with a strange air of finality, like he's about to walk away and leave him here alone with his drug addled head, and it's not a nice place to be.
What may very well be seconds later a large, warm masculine hand clutches his again, which is somewhat contrasted with the image of a definitely-probably-not-a-man's face staring down at him in a sort of muted blur of colour. Definitely Probably Not a Man shines a light in his eyes and there's only one person evil enough to do that when his head feels like it's splitting open.
"Christine, get that damn thing outta my face." ...Is what he means to say, though it comes out half gurgled and probably unintelligible, despite it being a surprisingly coherent sentence.
Definitely not a man, though evil enough to be the worst kind of super villain none the less, laughs in his face. "It's good to have you back, boss." and promptly pats him on the head like a 5 year old. He swears to all that's holy she'll be taking over his shifts for the next month. That is, until she presses the monitor a few times and it beeps as it acknowledges her request to up his morphine. So maybe not a month... a few weeks perhaps.
The tearing sensation in his brain lifts a little and he manages to peel his eyelids back enough to look Christine in her very evil eyes as he grunts out his gratitude. Which she responds to with a sort of surprised/appreciative/respectful and entirely graceful way, sticks her middle finger up at him with an innocent smile and then leaves with what he could swear was a skip in her step.
"My med bay has fallen to chaos. Chaos, Jim." He mourns, and even makes the effort of turning his head towards said man just to show him how sad he is about this. Jim looks even sadder about it though, but the distant, hazy part of him which has a Doctorate in psychology informs him that he's probably not sad about his staff's insolence, they've always been that way. He should be though. It's very upsetting. "You ok?"
Jim looks at him then, a huff of breath through his nose that's a dull imitation of laughter and leans forward in his chair like he always does on the bridge when he's either being cocky or angry. He doesn't look cocky though, unless he's reached a new level of cockiness. So cocky he looks angry. That's an achievement, surely. "You're the one in the biobed, Bones. Worry about yourself for once."
He's on a biobed. Right. That really should've been his first priority, shouldn't it?
"M'alright."
As soon as the words leave his mouth and sort of float unbearably slowly towards Jim he regrets it. Well. Not really. It's when Jim's eyes go all narrow and cartoonish (If he was a cartoon he's fairly sure his hair would be rising as if it had a life of it's own right now. Jim's hair does have a life of it's own, but it doesn't possess feelings... Yet.) then he regrets it. Any other time he'd probably find that rage directed at him fairly terrifying, but his drug addled ass is finding it hard to hold back the laughter.
"You are not fucking ok, Bones." There's a low, calm sort of rage in his voice as Jim speaks, his spare hand white knuckling the rail of the biobed while the other is still clutching his in a weird juxtaposition of the need for comfort and a need to be angry at something. He understands, he's been there himself. "Do you know how many times you died on that fucking table?! Three. Three times your heart stopped. I had to deal with the fact you might never come back. Do you have any idea what that did to me?! Knowing it'd be my fault if you died?!"
Medbay, usually bustling in it's constant flare of activity has gone unbearably silent, and with it comes a startling bubble of lucidity that makes him instantly regret everything he's said and done since he woke up, which is a surprising amount since it's been roughly only 3 minutes. That pain is back between his eyes, one that never really left but is now all the more noticeable, the price of a few hard bought seconds of sobriety that now he's not so sure is worth the price. "Yes, Jim. I know what that's like."
Jim's face is one of shock, maybe a little of hesitation, which as it happens is not a good look on him. The Kirks are formidable: diamonds hidden behind a veil of bravado and confidence in their invincibility, just waiting to be cut and polished into something extraordinary. Diamonds don't need self doubt, no matter how sharp their edges have been made.... What the fuck is he talking about now?
"That's... not the same."
"No." He agrees. And it isn't. He may be prone to nagging, picking the occasional fight (mainly with the pointy eared hobgoblin of a first officer, who's identity will remain undisclosed) and generally being argumentative, but he makes a point of being rational in his arguments. He knows what it's like when Jim gets himself into trouble. The clamp that grapples around his heart and squeezes it dry until his body threatens to just give up, but his mind is working overtime. He knows what it's like to fix him up. To have his hands buried in his torso, to fix broken bones and organs and skin and hope to god he has the skill to put him back together again. He knows what it's like because maybe he'll get a month with Jim before he does it all over again. He's had practise, and still the feeling never goes away. That's why it's different.
Morphine, he has discovered, whilst a blessing to every aching bone his body (and now thankfully working in full force), is not particularly helpful for winning arguments, or keeping thoughts safely inside of his head, because Jim's staring back it him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, and it's at that point when he realises he said his little rant of a monologue out loud.
Above him, Jim has the decency to look regretful as he sits back down in his chair, or maybe that's because Christine is glaring at him from across the room. Either way he's glad because he'd really rather not have an argument when his heads all fuzzy and right now he has the urge to either punch Jim or tell him how pretty his eyes are under the med bay lights. Well, they're always pretty. But now even more so. Jesus Horatio Christ, what's he on? Morphine. Right. Besides, he's not sure quite how to coordinate his fist to Jim's face yet.
Jim deflates and sort of melts back into his chair like a beach ball that's been punctured and rubs a hand over his thick brow as if to try and erase the past 2 minutes out of his head. Going by the surprisingly distraught expression on his face, it hasn't worked and there's a following bout of silence where neither of them speaks that he distantly thinks their friendship has never suffered before. That is, until Jim seems to come out of his own head and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm sorry, God I'm sorry. I didn't- M'not angry at you. I just really want to go down to that planet and smash their stupid skulls in for nearly taking you away from me. I don't know what I'd of done if you'd- if we hadn't got there in time."
It's as close of an acknowledgment of their feelings towards each other that's happened so far, something that's been left unnamed and dark and sprawling, lurking on the precipice that neither of them have dealt with yet, but since he's on morphine right now he can't really do anything about it in case he does something he might later regret.
"S'okay." He shuts his eyes against the view of the spinning ceiling. Why is the ceiling spinning? It shouldn't spin. Are we crashing? Can't be. Jim's here, means he hasn't had the opportunity to piss off any aliens recently. "It's diff'rent bein' the one shouted at in Medbay. You're not as scary though. You need 'n angrier eyebrow... Thing."
The twitch of lips he gets in response is much more genuine than the last and just like that the tension seems to disspiate... Dissitate? Desecrate? "We're definitely not crashing. You should get some sleep, Bones. You woke up briefly earlier talking about the merits of wearing slippers. Though interesting to hear how much you've thought about it, I wouldn't like a sequel."
He groans, or tries to, and Jim laughs silently again. "You sure? I've got some pretty int'resting stories 'bout bacteria an' starship floorin' you might wanna hear." He peers incredulously out of one eye at Jim, promptly closes it against the sight of his spinning face and tries to make the most disgruntled sound he can without moving his lips. Difficult, but apparently possible. "Maybe some other time."
"I look forward to it Bonesy. At least you're better than me on morphine. You haven't even
spilled all your secrets. It's not fair. "
He'll blame it on being mostly asleep at this point and somehow his brain has given permission to go ahead and start saying everything he might possibly regret when he wakes up. "I do have a secret." He mutters into the pillow and somehow Jim's still able to hear it. Wait. He's not meant to tell Jim this is he? Or maybe he was... No. Jim can't know. "You have to promise you won't tell Jim though." There.
"...I promise I won't. Bones?"
"Hmm?"
"You said you have a secret you needed to tell me?"
He tries to make a sort of 'come closer' gesture with his hand but fails and nearly ends up hitting his own face. Whoops. Jim understands though as he does shift closer conspiratorially. He has a secret. Right. What was it again? He lowers his voice, it's not something the others can know and opens his eyes to meet expectant blue ones. "Bruce Wayne is Batman. Shhh! Don't tell anyone."
Blaming it on the medication seems like a good idea. Besides, he's had too much time to think about humanoid aliens who look like bats. 'Course his brain does the sensible thing and choses that moment to go to sleep before he can divulge anymore. Hopefully Jim wont tell.
Jim Kirk
4 days later
The number three is said to have an individual significance to the majority of people, whether they have three siblings or children or it's the number of the house they grew up in. In Christianity, Jesus is said to have risen three days after his death. It also pays particular significance in Celtic and Chinese cultures. The Roman numeral III stands for "giant star" in the Yerkes spectral classification scheme, and is the number of Pi when rounded down to the nearest whole decimal.
For Jim, it represents the three worst days of his life.
Worse than being ignored by his mother, being sent to tarsus, or living in the shadow of a hero he never knew. He had had hope then; A comforting and absolute knowledge that he'd either die or keep fighting. He'd had neither in the three days Bones had been ripped so violently out of his life.
A light floods the room and he debates for a second whether it's a lack-of-sleep induced hallucination or a message from God. It's not, it's a message from Bones on the padd that he'd somehow wedged under his pillow, giving an eerie glow to the room.
LHM: 22:57
You awake?
He stares up into the darkness of his room and blearily asks himself the same thing. He knows the answer because he hadn't slept properly in days, a whole week, in fact. That might be because he's been, well, not avoiding his CMO, per se. Just... Not encountering him, which hasn't been difficult, considering he's been cooped up in Medbay for the last few days. So he types out a reply and goes to splash water on his face, which doesn't do much to relive the lethargy that's clinging on to him on what seems like a permanent basis.
JTK: 22:57
I'll meet you there.
When he finally reaches Bones' quarters he has to stop and think about it for a second. It's not that he doesn't want to see Bones, it's just doesn't want to see the man like this, thin and broken because of him, which might be selfish on his part, but it's true none the less. He thought he just needed time to deal with it, but in reality the distance he's forced between them has made it worse. He taps in Bones' code anyway and swallows nervously when it opens with a pneumatic hiss.
There's a light emitting from the bed area, and he's glad to see Bones has stuck to doctors orders and not gotten out of bed, but there's a tray of food next to him left untouched and dark circles under his eyes, one leg exposed from under the covers where dermal regens hum under the pressure of mending heavily broken bone and tissue.
He'd been released to his quarters a couple of hours ago on the strict proviso that he gets rest and eats. It looks like he's done neither.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like 8 foot bat-lizards used me as a trampoline." Bones slurs, not reasonably, but it still hits like a punch to the stomach and he tries to suppress the subsequent flinch that always comes with the startling realisation that he caused his best friend this pain just by being near him.
"I'm surprised M'Benga let you out this early." It's his sly way of asking how Bones is, of how much damage he's caused without outright asking him, the man hates any hint of being mollycoddled. He swallows around the tightness at his throat that threatens to consume him and make him run away from the truth he doesn't want to face.
Shrugging with his slightly-better-than-the-other arm, Bones hums and sinks back into his cocoon of pillows. "M'not a good patient. We agreed it'd be better for everyone if I rested here." That's Bonesian for 'I bullied my doctors into letting me go with southern insults and made up curse words until they gave in' and he doesn't know whether to be concerned or relieved because it just sounds so Bones it makes him want to cry. The fact he nearly lost this.
"You don't look like you've rested much." It comes out a little desperate and pathetic, but it's a fact. A fact that adds on to the seemingly ever expanding list of things he's worried about right now, of which the overwhelming majority is about one Leonard McCoy.
"You don't either." Bones says pointedly staring at him and what must be his very bloodshot eyes. "Talk to me, Jim. You're never like this." The fact he's been avoiding an invalid comes to mind and his cheeks flush with an efficiency that's bordering on rude.
Bones is right though, of course. He is never like this. Lost. Never been this unsure of himself. Bones has often accused him of leaping without looking but right now he feels like doing the exact opposite, wants to come up with lists and strategies, maybe an instruction book: 'How to Keep Your CMO Out of Danger, a novel by James T. Kirk', because damn if he is going to ever be put in this situation again, divine retribution be damned.
Bones must've noticed his difficulty answering the question because he shifts like he's about to reach out for him and then drops his arm against the bed with a wince like even the effort was too much to handle.
A moment of despair passes through Jim and he can't stop himself from backing away from the bed, one hand seeming to have a life of its own or a particular affinity with Bones as it gesticulates wildly in his general direction. "That is what's wrong with me." He declares exasperatedly. "You can barely move without being in pain. Jesus, Bones. Every time I close my eyes I can see you in that cell barely breathing. If we'd been a minute later I'd of lost you. I can't-." He scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself to just breathe for a second, eyes welling up with tears that threaten to stream down his face and he's surprised it took him this long to break down like this.
An unattractive hiccuping sound emerges from his throat and he can't stop the words coming out from his mouth, the same way he can't retract the tear from sprinting down his cheek. "You died, Bones. Three times and I couldn't do anything about it."
On the bed Bones outstretches his left arm to the side and mumbles a "Jimmy, c'mere." And he can't resist climbing on the bed and curling into Bones' half embrace like a small child incapable of keeping themselves together. It's stupid. Bones is the one that's hurt, and he should be doing everything he can to look after him, and he will. Just as soon as he's able to form a coherent sentence.
"I can't believe you avoided me, you dick." The arm around his shoulders feebly squeezes, and he responds with a hitching breath and buries his face further into the juncture of Bones' neck, his palm resting on bare skin above the man's heart, steady and strong despite everything he's been through. "I'm ok. I'm a little sore, but I'm healing. You saved me again, Darlin'."
He wants to protest, to scream that he shouldn't need saving in the first place, but there's a sincerity to his voice, a tenderness in his expression that makes him pause, crumbles his resolve and makes him question the very nature of why they've been dancing around themselves all this time, something deep and scary and all encompassing that he's never allowed himself to feel before. "I-" He whispers into the hollow of the man's neck, and Bones is clinging to him just as fiercely, as if he needs this just as much as Jim does.
"I know, Jim, I do too." Bones replies, running a thumb over his cheekbone and settling back into the embrace of his pillows more comfortably, eyes drooping at the promise of sleep in the near future. He moves to get up, though it nearly kills him to do so, to allow Bones the sleep he so desperately needs and go back to his quarters to try and get some rest himself. A hand clutches at his bicep gently, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay? Please."
The notion that maybe in order for Bones to heal he needs something to fix strikes him. From the moment Bones sat next to him on the shuttle he'd been itching to patch up the cuts on his brow and knuckles, and he had let him. Throughout their time at the academy Bones began to change from a man broken by events of his past to a man who was strong and independent, every person he saved from their own idiocy seemed to save himself a little too. Bones needs to fix things, Jim needs to be fixed. It's a messed up codependency but it works.
The sheets are warm and smooth under his skin when he lies back down, but Bones is warmer, burning like a furnace and oh so alive next to him. "Bones?" He whispers into the dark chasm of silence in the room, his head not allowing the sleep he so desperately needs in face of bigger, scarier and more daunting prospects.
"Tomorrow. We can work this out tomorrow." Comes the mumbled reply, sounding half asleep and unburdened, and so, Jim takes a step back, away from the pending edge, wraps his arms carefully around the man he's standing there with and waits.
***
The artificial lighting of the Enterprise is designed to replicate the rising and setting of the sun and though it doesn't measure up to the real thing, doesn't have birds singing in the garden outside, or the gentle knocking of wind against the windows, doesn't smell like fresh air or cooking breakfast, he blinks awake to the sight of a man staring back at him, the artificial golden light cast across his eyes setting off the myriad of swirling colours in them, like a thousand stars in a thousand galaxies in an infinite amount of possibility, sees the gentle upturn of plush lips that hold so much promise, and feels his own answering smirk play across his mouth.
This is a man that trusts him implicitly, and has from the start. A man that's taken all Jim's flaws and moulded them into the shape of a better person, never denied they don't exist, but loves him anyway and he distantly wonders how he could've been so scared of this.
He breathes it all in for a moment, the feeling of loving someone, and to be loved in return. Takes in the sight of them pressed together so unerringly close, even in sleep and grins, blindingly and without restraint, presses their bodies closer and their foreheads together and basks it all in. He takes a breath. Gives himself a running start to the edge and jumps.
He lept before he looked and got caught by a man who lives in the future, who plans his destiny like the Earth revolves around the sun. He hasn't looked back since.