Chapter Text
Jim
It hurts.
Not in a way he can comprehend. He's always been able to deal with physical pain. Either as an encouragement for him to continue to fight, or to help him remember he's not just a distant memory of his father. Survive, breathe, heal, repeat. And it's easy. Simple. Because it's something that's become as straightforward as both living and breathing. Pain is something to remind himself he's still alive, but also to bring him back from the precipice, for when he gets too far into his own head and dives straight into the midst of a crisis.
So while he doesn't actively seek physical pain, he can understand it. And sometimes after an away mission, when he wakes up in Medbay with aching joints and the distant taste of blood and medication in his mouth, it's the only thing that makes him realise maybe he's gone too far. Because while he's in a dangerous situation, the rush of adrenaline seems to blur everything around the edges. The lines between heroism and just-this-side-of-destructive tend to merge together, making it hard to see the bigger picture.
So yes, he understands physical pain. If he gets a cut, it will bleed, it will hurt, it will heal.
But the pain currently manifesting itself through his entire body now isn't so simple . It aches, builds up in his brow in a tight throbbing, makes his breaths come in short shallow wheezes and his heart hammer in his chest.
Because this isn't the sort of pain that can be healed with a dermal-regen or stitches.
This is tearing him apart.
~~~
It's funny, in a cruel sadistic sort of way, how your mind just stops, ceases to function in that momentary all encompassing relief when you find someone you lost, in the same way a mother would react to finding her missing child, he supposes, because all of the god awful scenarios of what could of happened to them race through your mind at 100 miles an hour, and in that moment when you find them again, those thoughts suddenly cease to exist like your brain short circuited with relief.
Of course, a few seconds later in Jim's case, they all come flooding back at him again like the walls of a dam bursting open under the pressure, because the body of his friend is lying crumpled on the floor, leaking blood like sweat that contrasts so morbidly against unusually ashen skin, like red roses blooming and smothering their way through a field of white ones.
He lets out a strangled noise, finally managing to make his feet work to meet his brains demands and hurries over to Bones, fingers fluttering over the pulse point on the older man's neck to find a sign, anything to indicate that he's still breathing and almost chokes when he finds what he's looking for. A beat. Steady, but oh so faint and slow like the thrum of a marching band in the distance.
"Bones?" He asks, but he man wouldn't be able to hear a dryer full of quarters if it were in the room with him, going by the lack of response.
His usually feverish bright eyes are half lidded and glazed looking, and he looks so... Un alive, that Jim would hardly believe he was if he couldn't feel the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest underneath his trembling hand.
With his other hand he reaches for the communicator from his pocket and fumbles for the correct setting, and distantly, he's aware he's giving out orders, pleas into the comm and not completely aware of the response he gets, if any, because his best friends blood is pooled in shallow rivulets between his fingers and he's choking on the heavy tang of iron in the air.
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Christine
The next 30 minutes go by in a blur, his mind has retreated somewhere deep and far away where it can't be hurt any more and his body is working on pure reflex.
She tells him, later, that when they were beamed back to the ship he refused to let anyone pry the still body from his arms, despite stubbornly remaining absolutely silent throughout the process and managed to make the zombie like walk from the transporter room to the medical bay with Bones draped in his grasp without muttering a single word, not a trace of strain from carrying the dead weight of a 34 year old man showing across his face or in fact, showing any sign of emotion whatsoever throughout the whole process.
The blood had been removed from the blonde's skin, and he'd been wrestled into a fresh uniform by the time he finally started to come out of his mental retreat, and one of the nurses watches him sympathetically as all the events leading up to this moment seem to register.
He stares at the doors to the surgery room like they hold the answer to everything, and for him, the nurse supposes, they probably do. She can't help feeling a colossal sense of helplessness at the situation, but all she can really do is wait and hope the CMO can pull through, for the Captain's sake, as well as her own.
"Captain." She says, somewhat tentatively, but he doesn't respond, still staring at those doors like they're the key to life. "Captain." She repeats louder, and it does draw his attention this time, but the movement of his head as he turns to face her is so electronic she can tell he's still not quite with her, like he's running on pure will power alone but the rest of him shut down a long time ago.
"I'm going to give you a light sedative to let you rest for a while. I'll try and find out what's happening when you wake up, ok?"
He gives a barely there nod, and hardly registers the hypo being discharged into his neck as he lowers himself onto the bio bed, eyes still trained on those doors, even as his eyelids flicker shut.
She sighs, watching as he curls into himself like a five year old, and that's not the first time the captains been referred to as a child, he's usually so full of energy, like a supernova shining it's light over the whole crew and it's exhausting to watch but no one can deny he makes even this tin can of a ship feel a lot brighter when he's in the room, because Jim Kirk is a good captain, the best in fact, but looking at him now she wonders just how much of that greatness is resting on his companions.
When she'd first met Kirk he'd been recovering from an extremely bad hangover, had one fractured wrist and a lump on the side of his head that was almost cartoonish in size which had apparently occurred in a fist fight the night before. He's been treated, lectured at and then sent on his way (hopefully never to be seen again.)
Over the span of the academy she' watched him evolve, progress and tear down any and every expectation of him, and no one would be surprised if the near constant presence of Leonard McCoy by his side had anything to do with that.
Because watching him now, it's like his entire life force has been drained out of him, leaving an empty shell of the man she's served under for the best part of two years, and it makes him look more childlike than ever, with his knees folded near to his chest and his hands tucked out of sight under his pillow, and she's imagining that's because he doesn't want to see the hands that up until 5 minutes ago were covered in the tacky blood of his Chief Medical Officer/Best Friend/Lover???
His eyes are shut, but he manages to mutter out a 'thank you, Christine' against the pillow that he's latched on to like a limpet, still stubbornly refusing to succumb to unconsciousness because of god knows what thoughts circling his malfunctioning brain, but she's relieved to see that the sedative has finally taken its toll on the young man as he starts to drift into what looks like is going to be a somewhat restless and uncomfortable sleep.
She sighs again, resigning herself for a long wait, and refuses to let her thoughts stray from the task at hand. She's always been single minded in her focus, she's had to be on a starship that acts like a large rapid response vehicle, collecting injuries like a magpie collects shiny objects, but it doesn't make it any less difficult when the life of someone you know is hanging in the balance. Worse, if it's a friend.
She shakes herself out of her thoughts.
She has a med-bay to run.
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3 hours earlier.
Leonard
The logical part of his brain informs him it's been 3 days. Three days and roughly 7 hours, give or take an hour or two, as they come in every 5 hours, beat him awake if he's sleeping, ask him questions in a language he's fairly certain Uhura wouldn't even be able to translate and torture him until he passes out again.
The illogical, melodramatic and pessimistic side of him tells him that's the longest 3 days and 7 hours of his life he's ever had the displeasure of living and that it feels more like weeks than days.
Of course, that same, wonderfully helpful part of his brain supplies him with the knowledge that he won't be living for that much longer anyway if they keep this up, because he's lost the sensation in his entire left side and he's sure if he could manage to move, the right wouldn't be too much better either. He's also pretty certain he's currently bathing in a puddle of his own blood, which he might of been able to confirm if his eyes weren't swollen shut.
So no, life isn't looking too bright at the moment.
Of course, it looks a whole lot dimmer once the door to his cell opens with a screech as the metal drags along the gravel like fingernails down a chalk board, and the sound reverberates through the ground and into his ears all too painfully. And he'd feel like protesting, or at least making some sort of demurring noise, but he's so damn tired that the sound gets caught in his throat.
The natives of the planet are grey skinned, with bright markings curling over every inch of visible skin and features that are almost bat-like in appearance. Blearily, he can make out one leaning over him and stares into his soul with a pair of those small black beady eyes that can be only described as 'creepy' as it waits to ascertain whether Leonard is in fact conscious or not.
It must of found the answer, because it communicates to its companion in that half shrilling, half clucking noise that Leonard has come to hate so much. That noise means pain.
The creatures shrill at him, waiting. Expecting. Expecting what, he's not sure anymore, he stopped attempting to reply ages ago because apparently the stupid pointy-eared rat men don't seem to understand the words "I DONT KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME, ASSHOLE." Drawn out in the most condescending elongation of vowels ever known to man. And such is his life.
He finds he doesn't really care that much anyway when a pointy sharp clawed foot thing presses down on his already bruised and battered rib cage, and he can feel each one of his ribs groan and strain in protest, like the floorboards on the porch of his mothers house on a windy day.
He's distantly aware he's making some sort of noise, not entirely sure to what extent because everything's gone fuzzy around the edges again, of which he's grateful for as a few of his ribs finally give way under the pressure, cracking and braking like so much of him already has.
He wheezes, and as suddenly as the pressure came it goes again, and he braces himself as much as he can for a blow that never comes. The creatures cluck at each other again, the door screeching its protest as they leave hurriedly, leaving him to bleed out on the cold floor alone.
More footfall. Someone is approaching with a light foot and quick stead. Not those weird aliens, he thinks dazedly, because they have a heavy, uncoordinated tread that makes the whole ground shudder.
One fuzzy, anguish laced cry of "Bones!" Makes him want to fight the lethargy that's twisting itself around his body, but it's too strong, too powerful, too predominant to shake off. Still, he manages to twitch his lips into some sort of echo of a grateful smile, because Jim is here, and he'll never stop feeling grateful for having that man in his life.
He can suddenly think of a million different things he wants to say, all swirling around his head at a thousand miles an hour, but the words get stuck in his throat and caught on his lips, and the darkness which is blurring everything at the edges of his vision is becoming almost suffocating, threatening to destroy that one point of vision he has, which as it happens is the sight of a cobwebbed ceiling painted an unassuming shade of grey.
That is, until it's replaced with the fuzzy outline of Jim's face, those piercing eyes looking so unusually haunted as he frantically searches for his pulse, which in his last thoughts of lucidity he thinks took too much Goddamn time considering he gave Jim all those lectures on basic first aid. Still, the look of relief on the kid's face is enough.
The water is up to his nose, so to speak, and he can't keep himself afloat any more.
That's ok, he thinks as the darkness finally takes hold of him, because Jim will stop him from drowning.