Fic: "No Man's Land" (8A/?)
Title: “No Man’s Land”
Authors: gone_ashore and mijan
Rating: R
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 11,500 for part 8, 78,100 total
Warnings: Triggery. References to alien experimentation, graphic descriptions, mpreg.
Summary: A mission gone wrong puts Jim at the wrong end of alien observation, captive to a species that uses him as a lab rat. Helpless and defenseless for nearly a week, the Antosians break him down physically and mentally. After his rescue, he slowly starts to recover, until one unrealized part of the Antosians' handiwork turns his life upside down and threatens to destroy him.
This is cross-posted between my journal and gone_ashore’s journal. Feel free to read either here, or on gone_ashore’s journal, here.
To Part 1
To Part 2
To Part 3
To Part 4A
To Part 4B
To Part 5
To Part 6
To Part 7
Part 8
Being the CMO on a Federation exploration vessel means Leonard has seen a lot.
He’s seen disease and danger, silence and darkness, and a whole lot of surprises. He’s watched plagues devastate entire planets. He’s witnessed humanoid species with the ability to automatically regenerate life and limb. He’s seen the triumph of survival. He’s seen bodies strewn about like broken dolls after battles.
He’s seen a lot of death. It never gets easier.
Loss of life is expected in the vast blackness of space: inhospitable, unknown, vacuous. He’s filled out too many death certificates for members of the Enterprise crew, and each one hurts. For all the self-punishment it causes, he hopes it never gets easier. That would mean he’d lost his own humanity. But when death is so close to him, it has to rip a little piece of his soul out.
At least a fetus doesn’t require a death certificate.
The fetus -- and it was a fetus, just starting its eighth week after conception, no longer an embryo -- had already been dead for a few hours before the DIC started. Despite Jim’s demands, there was nothing to save, even if he’d wanted to. He could only guess as to what had initially caused it. A tiny clot within the placenta, or in the abnormal blood vessels leading to the uterine sac? A hemorrhage that had disrupted blood flow to the fetus? Hormone imbalance, developmental anomaly, immunological reaction, poor oxygenation, metabolic waste accrual... all he can do is guess. Something went wrong, and the fetus died. From there, everything had crashed like a set of dominoes.
The uterine sac had rapidly become necrotic as the abnormal connective tissue holding it together broke down, and the decaying tissue triggered the disseminated intravascular coagulation event -- the DIC. Tiny clots began to form throughout Jim’s body, making blood flow sluggish, decreasing oxygen and nutrient delivery to the brain, the heart... everything. And the sick irony was that a DIC uses up all the clotting factors, leaving the remaining blood so deficient in platelets and clotting proteins that the patient begins to bleed... everywhere. Despite all the incredible advances of medicine, it’s still one of the deadliest emergencies a doctor can face.
At that point, even with the risk of a bleed-out, he’d had no choice but to operate to remove the dead tissue and hope the microcellular surgical technique would work, even in the worst possible scenario.
Leonard pulls his shaking hands down from his face and looks numbly at the formal medical report on the surgery, staring at the last line of dictation:
Surgery successful.
Barely, but Jim had pulled through.
Leonard lets out an unsteady breath and leans back so that he can see Jim lying on the biobed, still unconscious, but breathing on his own. He’ll be asleep for a while longer, which is just as well. At least now, his body can rest and recover peacefully for a little while. He’s still in the process of receiving his fourth unit of blood and additional platelets. Even with pain meds, he’ll be sore as hell when he wakes up.
When he wakes up. At least he will wake up, but when he does, Leonard has no idea what mental state the poor kid will be in. He’d been frantic until they’d sedated him.
It’s haunting him, Leonard realizes -- the look on Jim’s face as he begged, deliriously, for him to save the fetus. After everything they’d discussed, why, goddammit? What the hell had Jim been thinking?
It would be nice to brush it off as the ravings of a man who was experiencing a transient ischemic attack from the miniscule clots throughout his brain, reducing blood flow and leaving him foggy-headed and unable to understand what was happening around him. Or perhaps he could chalk it up to Jim’s medical phobia leaving him desperate for any reason not to be dragged into surgery so suddenly. But those answers are just too easy, and he has a gnawing feeling that it was more complicated than that.
Who knew where Jim’s mind had wandered as he’d roamed the ship, unable to sleep? He’s creative, brilliant, and prone to intuitive leaps of logic… especially in times of stress. It was precisely that ability that had saved them during the Narada crisis. Something made Jim come to the conclusion that in spite of everything, he wanted the baby with a fierce intensity bordering on desperation.
Whatever the reason, now that Leonard has finished the surgery and has a minute to think, Jim’s desperate plea has left him feeling gutted.
“Promise to save the baby first!”
No, even though he could blame it on delirium, drowsiness, or pure terror, Jim did decide to keep it. For some unfathomable reason, he wanted the baby. Their baby.
Goddammit.
Leonard leans his forehead into his hands and stares at the PADD on his desk. The words of his report blur before his eyes. He’s got to report it to Starfleet now, in full, but he can barely focus on it. It’s all too much for him to really wrap his head around. He’d slept for barely three hours before jumping into emergency surgery. Alpha shift has already begun, though, and his natural circadian rhythm will keep him awake for a while. But his mind is ready to shut down.
“Are you going to get some rest, Doctor?”
Leonard looks up at Nurse Chapel’s sympathetic face, but can only shake his head in reply. “I know I look like hell, Christine, but you know I can’t sleep right now.”
“He’s okay, Leonard,” she says, walking into his office and leaning against the doorframe. She folds her arms low across her chest. “We caught him in time. His blood chemistry should be back to normal within two more hours, the surgery itself was textbook perfect, and he’s resting. You should, too.” A faint smile, slightly broken, bends her lips. “You saved him.”
“I’m not sure I did.” Leonard doesn’t even know what he means by that, and he shakes his head and brushes her off with a wave of his hand before she can ask. “Go take yourself off duty. I woke you up in the middle of your normal sleep cycle, too, and we’ve got two other nurses here during alpha shift.”
“Okay, but you know M’Benga will either chase you out of sickbay or sedate you himself if you don’t get some sleep soon.”
“That man’s been up all night, too,” Leonard grumbles lightly, but at the pointed look from Nurse Chapel, he sighs and tosses her a mock salute. “Aye aye.”
She nods in satisfaction, turns, and walks out the door. Leonard watches her go, but his eyes fix on Jim’s biobed as she walks past.
Clenching his jaw, he saves and closes the surgical report, pushes himself heavily out of his chair, and plods out of his office. A moment later, he drops into the chair he’d placed next to Jim’s biobed earlier. The position feels too disturbingly familiar, like he’s returning to a place that he’d simply rather not visit again.
“Hey, kid.”
Jim doesn’t move. Not that Leonard expects him to.
“I’m so sorry, Jim. I really am.” He leans back, taking in Jim’s pale complexion and slack features. He’s got more color in his face than he had even an hour ago. When Leonard closed and stepped back for the first time since surgery had begun, Jim was so pasty and gray that Leonard almost couldn’t believe the biosensors telling him that he was still alive.
He’s begun cycling toward consciousness as the anesthesia loosens its grip on him, so Leonard keeps talking. Jim won’t understand what he’s saying, but he’s hoping that something in his voice will soothe Jim as he comes back to awareness. And there are some things that are a lot easier to say when Jim can only listen and not respond.
“I should have checked on you more carefully last night. I wanted you to relax, so I didn’t. And now, I’ll never know if the anticoagulants caused the... the miscarriage... or if taking you off the meds caused it. I’ll never know what time it began. Dammit, it could have started...” His voice cracks a tiny bit, and he’s grateful that nobody else is within earshot. “For all I know, it could have started while we were sittin’ on the couch, drinkin’ tea. You could have been leaning against my shoulder at the moment you started to die on me, and I didn’t even know.”
The thought that this had all happened right under his nose is leaving him feeling unbalanced. Incompetent and useless. Jim is the most important person on the ship to him. He’s spent the last several weeks focusing on Jim’s health in every possible detail, monitoring his biostats day and night... and the minute he let his guard slip, everything went wrong. Like the runner who slows down because the finish line is in sight, only to be beaten at the wire.
He came through it, Leonard reminds himself. He didn’t fail. Jim’s not paralyzed. His digestive system’s intact, and his organs weren’t damaged. But shit, that was too damned close. Jim had lost so much blood, a rarity with modern medicine. It had been touch and go...
“You’re one hell of a fighter, Jim. You should know that. And you’ll bounce back from this, eventually. I know it.” He reaches out and wraps his hand around Jim’s slack fingers. “I just hope you can forgive me for... everything.”
He gives Jim’s hand a squeeze, but doesn’t receive one in return.
********
The first time Jim climbs into awareness, someone’s talking to him. The words don’t penetrate, but he’s comforted by the voice. It’s good to know that he’s not alone. He drifts, at peace and unconcerned. He can feel vague sensations: a heaviness in his limbs, a strange numbness in his torso. He’s dizzy.
He knows there’s something he should remember, but he doesn’t really want to leave this serene limbo. So he floats off again.
********
The next time he wakes, he’s still in the same peaceful, dreamlike state.
But a second later it all comes back to him in a rush: who and where he is, what was happening just - minutes? - ago, the fear and the baby and they’re going to cut into him, and-
“Captain, can you hear me?” someone is saying. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.” Nurse Chapel, his mind supplies sluggishly.
“Don’t do it,” he mumbles. His throat is dry and his mouth feels clumsy and stiff.
“It’s all over.” Chapel’s voice is soft and soothing. “You’re out of surgery. How do you feel? Nauseous at all?”
There are too many things for him to process all at once. He’s still stuck on It’s all over, and her other questions don’t make sense. A minute ago there was a crowd of people around him, and Bones was looking down at him telling him to relax and not to fight it, and now everyone’s gone. “What happened?” His throat is so parched that the words sound scratchy and weak.
“I’ll give you an ice chip to suck on. It’ll help your throat.” Something smooth and cold is pushed between his lips, and he runs his tongue over its deliciously cool surface. It feels so good that it distracts him, and he can’t remember what he wanted to say other than the fact that he wants another ice chip.
“Do you know where you are, Captain?”
That’s a simple enough question, and he even knows the answer. “Sickbay.” Focus, he tells himself. Something important happened, something bad. What was it?
“That’s right. You’ve just come out of surgery,” she says again patiently.
He feels disoriented. Surgery… how long was he out, then? “Where’s Bones?”
“I’ll call Doctor McCoy in a moment.”
That’s not what he wants. He needs Bones here, now. He has to talk to him, tell him… what?
Before he can get his thoughts together to argue with her, she’s there again, relentlessly. “Does anything hurt?”
He lets go of his thoughts about Bones to focus on his body. He’s groggy and it’s so hard to concentrate. His limbs still feel heavy and a little tingly, as if the drugs haven’t quite worked their way out of his system. Maybe that’s a good thing, because nothing hurts, really.
“’m fine.”
“Any nausea?” She’s got so many questions, but dammit, she’s not giving him any answers. He takes a deep breath, but his stomach doesn’t seem to be on the edge of revolt, so he shakes his head.
She smiles. “All right. You just rest here for a bit. I’ll call Doctor McCoy.” He frowns at her retreating back, confused, because Bones was just here a minute ago. Why would he leave? How much time has gone by? The last thing he remembers was Bones standing over him with a medical team, telling him that he couldn’t save the embryo and he might not be able to save Jim. It’ll be okay, I promise.
But it’s not okay. Something went terribly wrong, he knows that.
He twists a little on the bed, moving cautiously, trying to see what works and what doesn’t. He curls his fingers and toes, stretches his legs. There’s an IV catheter sticking out of the back of his hand, and he stares at it. He’s not sure what that means.
He tries to roll onto his side, and that’s when he realizes that fuck, he’s sore as hell. Just the simple act of twisting himself slightly on the bed is enough to set off an unpleasant chain reaction: a sharp tug in his abdomen, followed by a deeper ache that settles uncomfortably into his belly and a throbbing pain in his skull. Something seems to pull at the skin over his stomach, taut and unnaturally stiff -- a bandage, he realizes as his fingers connect with the slick, siligel surface.
It’s truly over, then. He feels more than a little bewildered. One minute he was being rushed into sickbay, staring into that bright overhead light and struggling, pleading for Bones to slow down and listen, and now… there’s a block of time missing from his awareness, a gaping hole which has left him stranded back in a reality which has clearly changed. He’s had the surgery, obviously, but it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all.
A minute later, his emotions start catching up with his sluggish thought processes. It’s all coming back now: the blood and the godawful cramping in his gut, his frantic pleading to save the baby, the panic in Bones’ eyes as he was rushed to sickbay, the terror that ripped through him as he was held down and--
“Jim.” Bones is striding toward him, wearing his habitual scowl of concern, and he looks terrible: eyes bloodshot, face drawn and pale. He looks like he’s been up all night, and Jim can’t help but feel a pang of guilt, because it’s not hard to guess why. It reminds him that he hadn’t wanted to call Bones when the trouble first started because he wanted him to get a good night’s sleep.
As his mind sharpens, the sequence of what happened is becoming clearer: he remembers locking himself off in the observation lounge, gazing down at the beautiful planet below, the sudden resolution that he was going to try to see this through, keep the baby if he could, be a parent… and then the flash of dread when he’d seen all the blood. He couldn’t stop bleeding and he was hurting and dizzy, and then, only then, did he think to alert the doctor.
Shit. Why the hell did he have to wait so long? Whatever happened, it’s his fault.
Bracing himself, Jim waits for Bones’ standard diatribe of you-oughta-be-glad-you’re-injured-because-otherwise-I’d-deck-you, but Bones just gives him a small, fleeting smile. For once, his eyes don’t raise automatically to the readouts over Jim’s head, but stay focused on him, searching his face as if he’s looking for something.
It’s really bad, then.
“About time you’re awake, kid. How’re you feeling?”
“What happened?” He remembers Bones saying something about an emergency, some weird acronym and a catastrophic failure of something.
“You’re all right, Jim. It was touch and go there for a while, and thank God I did so much practice with the microcellular techniques. But you’re going to be fine.”
Jim nods warily. There’s something Bones isn’t telling him, and his behavior is vaguely off in a way that scares him. He should be angrier, ranting about how irresponsible Jim was, telling him how he’d gotten a hundred more grey hairs and it was all Jim’s fault. Jim wants to hear it, because Lord knows it’s true. But Bones is just looking at him sadly, and it’s making Jim really fucking nervous. Either there’s something medically wrong that Bones has to tell him, or…
Or maybe Jim’s just screwed this up so badly that it’s changed everything between them.
He doesn’t want to be flat on his back for this conversation. It’s too vulnerable a position. He starts to push up on his left elbow, ignoring the twinge that shoots out from his belly, but Bones is quicker, pushing down lightly on his chest. “Lie back, kid. You’ve just had major abdominal surgery, and you’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“Bones, what the hell happened?”
“You had a DIC, Jim. A disseminated intravascular coagulation. Your blood started clotting... tiny clots, not like the large one you had in your leg. Different things can trigger it, but once it’s started, it’s... well, it’s a cascade effect. The clots were clogging tiny blood vessels, impeding blood flow.”
Jim frowns. “Isn’t clotting the opposite of bleeding? My nose was bleeding, and it wouldn’t stop.”
“The tiny clots used up all your clotting factors. The blood left over couldn’t clot well enough, so you kept bleeding. The only way to stop it was to remove the cause of the DIC. If I hadn’t done that, it would have killed you. That’s why we had to rush you into surgery and couldn’t wait, kid.” His expression is bleak, wounded in a way Jim has seldom seen on Bones.
Jim tries to follow everything Bones is saying, but it’s hard. “Remove the cause? I don’t get it... “
“You lost a lot of blood. We almost couldn’t stop the bleeding, and your brain wasn’t getting enough blood flow for a while during the DIC anyway. Your blood chemistry is almost normalized again, but it took four units of blood to bring you back. You’ll feel sluggish for a while, maybe a little confused. But you’ll be fine, Jim.” His gaze is far away for a moment. “You’ll be fine,” he says again.
Jim can’t stand that look on Bones’ face, and his brain just doesn’t want to process this. His head hurts. He raises his left hand to his throbbing forehead, but the IV tugs at his skin uncomfortably. Lowering his hand, he stares at it in defeat. He can’t quite summon the energy to object, but God, he hates seeing the tiny tube piercing his skin, attached to his vein. It’s a constant reminder that there are fluids and medications flowing into his body that he can’t control, but after all he’s been through lately, it seems almost ludicrous to make a fuss about it.
“Do you want me to take that out?”
Jim blinks up at Bones in surprise. “Really?” he blurts. That’s the last question he expected. “I mean, of course I do. Now?”
“You’ve got about another twenty minutes to finish this drip of saline, but after that, I’ll remove it if it’s bothering you. But that’ll mean I’ll have to administer the meds by hypo every three hours. Is that what you want?”
“I have a choice?” he asks, just to make sure. As a doctor, Bones usually favors the unchallenged-dictator mode of interaction. Jim’s used to Bones simply taking away his choices and ignoring his preferences, accompanied by his no-nonsense, deal-with-it-dammit attitude. His sudden change of heart is only reinforcing Jim’s certainty that there’s something Bones isn’t telling him. Maybe he’s dying, and Bones is trying to be subtle about granting his last wish. Or maybe it’s a sort of pre-emptive strike; Bones knows that Jim is going to start whining about it any minute, and he just doesn’t have the energy for it. He’s giving in without a fight, and that just seems wrong.
Even so, Jim’s not going to argue. “Take it out, then.” The hypos hurt but they’re not as bad as looking at a tube stuck in his body.
“How’s your pain level?”
The burning in his abdomen is more insistent now, but old habits die hard. “It’s fine. Bones, what about the embryo? The baby...”
Bones’ eyes flick up to the monitor, then back down to him. “Jim, answer me first. If you’re starting to hurt, it’ll be easier to deal with now rather than later when the pain’s really bad. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
Jim’s relationship with pain is complicated, as Bones well knows. It’s a tangled mess of associations that have been with him since childhood: anger, guilt, shame, and, sometimes, self-flagellation. It’s not easy to quantify. He’s hurting now, but he deserves it, even craves it. “It’s okay, Bones. You always say a little suffering is good for the soul.”
“Jim, you’re not coming off a bender, you’re coming out of anesthesia. Just tell me how you’re feeling, for God’s sake.” He sounds impatient, or maybe just tired.
“It’s a three. A three or a four. I don’t need anything.”
But Bones is already reaching for something in the cabinet, plucking out a vial filled with amber liquid. “It won’t stay a four for much longer, kid.” Jim’s quiet as Bones injects the drug through the IV. He’d rather hold onto the pain, but there’s something comforting and familiar about Bones running over his objections. That feels normal.
It’s the guarded look in Bones’ eyes that is anything but.
“Tell me what happened.” He pitches his voice low, with just a hint of his command authority in it. “All of it. What caused the DIC? Why... why did you say you couldn’t save the baby?”
Bones sighs. “The fetus had already died, Jim.”
Dead. He knew it, but even so, it’s hard to grasp.
“How?"
“I’m not entirely sure. Even women, who are equipped for carrying a fetus to term, sometimes spontaneously abort, and there are so many reasons why it happens. Hormone fluctuation. Problems with the placenta. Anything. In your case, I think the artificial uterine sac was simply unstable, and blood flow to the fetus was disrupted.” His mouth pinches. “It was probably dead before you went to bed. Maybe even before I met you in your quarters.”
“Oh.” That doesn’t make sense, though. He was feeling fine then, just a little unsettled because of the surgery. It was later... when he couldn’t sleep. That was when the uncomfortable cramping had started. It was just a minor discomfort at first… which he ignored, of course.
“I’m so sorry, Jim. I should have been checking. But I wanted you to relax before the surgery...” Bones’ eyes are almost pleading. “I’m sorry.”
Jim isn’t even sure what to say to an apology like that. He sure as hell doesn’t feel like Bones is the one who should be apologizing. It’s his own damn fault, ignoring the pain in his gut even though he knew he was supposed to report a symptom like that. Lying right next to the doctor, letting him sleep on obliviously, not waking him up out of some misplaced sense of consideration. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
Bones frowns, then just shakes his head. “I guess there’s no reason to keep that from you now. It was a boy.”
Jim nods. His son. Their son. Gone.
He gives a harsh laugh. “Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a mom.” Or a dad, he thinks. But he can’t say that because his throat is too constricted and he’ll choke on the words.
Bones’ expression tightens a bit. “It was a medical impossibility from the start. I told you that. Your body’s not built to sustain a pregnancy, and this was an alien implant. You could have died and you almost did. I got it out cleanly, and you’ll heal up just fine.” Bones eyes are reddened and bloodshot, and God, so sad. “There was no way to save the fetus, Jim. There never really was.”
It’s not Bones’ fault, but he looks honestly regretful, and that’s not right. Jim’s responsible for the way things ended.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. He’s sorry for all of it: the stress and the worry of the past weeks, the stupid stunt in the gym, the way he’s been avoiding Bones since Antos, the desperate plea at the end that must have made Bones feel worse than he already did. It’s a weak, vague apology, and Jim feels like a coward for saying it like that. But he’s always been better with excuses than with requests for forgiveness, and he doesn’t know how to say any of it without making things worse.
“I’m sorry too, kid. I wish…” Jim waits, but whatever it is, Bones doesn’t seem to be able to put it into words any better than Jim can. “It doesn’t matter. You need to put it behind you now. Get some rest.”
Jim watches him walk away. The pain is gone, and with nothing to anchor him and no one to talk to, he can only close his eyes and drift.
********
An hour later, Bones steps into his room again. Jim hopes that this time they’ll be able to talk, and he’ll somehow find the courage to say what he needs to say - It’s my fault and I didn’t mean to and I need you -- but instead, Bones just checks his bandage and asks if he’s thirsty. Jim nods. He sips through a straw, cooperates with the exam, and waits for the right time to speak, but it doesn’t come. Bones seems subdued and careful around him, so unlike his usual blustery self.
When he asks Jim whether he wants to stay in a private recovery room or move out to the main Bay, Jim looks up at him, startled. He doesn’t know this CMO who considers his preferences and gives him choices. There’s a warning bell ringing in the back of his mind that says that Bones shouldn’t be asking him what he wants, he should be telling him what’s going to happen in no uncertain terms. He can’t understand what Bones is trying to do. It’s like he’s trying to put together a puzzle, but some of the key pieces are missing and he can’t see the whole picture.
But at any rate, he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts anymore, even if it means that his crew will be able to see him lounging in a biobed wearing sickbay scrubs.
Being in the main Bay is a relief, in some ways. It’s distracting. He can observe the medical staff as they interact with each other and treat the occasional crewman who drops by with a minor complaint. He can flirt with the nurses as they help him relieve himself or check his bandages. He doesn’t object to any of the procedures, not in front of the nurses or orderlies, because, well, he’s the Captain and he has to save face. But his stomach is tying itself into its usual knot of anxiety every time one of them approaches him. They won’t let him up off the bed, and he hates lying there, feeling so dependent and weak.
Bones isn’t avoiding him, exactly. From Jim’s vantage point in the corner bed, he can easily keep an eye on the doctor, and Bones is busy. Jim’s used to hearing Bones answer him on the comm with short-tempered impatience (“What the hell do you need, Captain? I’ve got a sickbay to run!”), but it’s the first time he’s really had the opportunity to watch him go through a regular shift. Treating patients for minor injuries and problems. Checking reports. Wandering into the lab where he conducts research on some virus or medical miracle he’s working on this week. He’s brisk and authoritative with his staff, annoyed with anything less than top efficiency. And as Jim has come to expect, he doesn’t coddle the patients.
Except for Jim. As promised, Bones comes by every three hours with a hypo. Jim is almost looking forward to the sharp stinging pain, but Bones administers it so gently that he barely feels it. Bones pats his shoulder, asks if he needs anything, and tells him he’s looking good. Then he walks away again before Jim can even protest.
By the afternoon, Jim’s irritable and depressed, exhausted by the effort of maintaining a show of good humor in front of the med staff. And he’s worried. There’s nothing wrong with the way Bones is treating him, but it’s just a little too kind, a little too solicitous. If Bones thinks he’s so fragile that he’ll break if Bones isn’t nice to him, then he doesn’t know Jim very well and that worries him. And if Bones needs the space because he can’t handle being close to Jim right now, because he’s angry and devastated by what happened, then that worries him too. They need to talk and there’s no privacy here.
Spock comes by mid-beta shift. He doesn’t come directly to Jim, but turns first to the CMO’s office at the opposite end of sickbay. It’s a good thing, because it gives Jim time to comb his fingers hastily through his hair, straighten his rumpled scrubs, and rearrange himself on the bed. He can’t move much, but he shifts himself slowly so that he’s lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, rather than flat on his back. It’s embarrassing to be in this position again, stuck on a biobed while his First Officer comes for a visit, immaculate in his uniform and looking down on his calmly.
He remembers his last conversation with Spock, when he told him how scared he was about the surgery. Spock said something about Jim’s strength of character and the definition of courage. Watching Spock now, Jim cringes a little inside, thinking about how when the time came, he was terrified, pleading with Bones to slow down and not to cut him. Thank God Spock didn’t see that part.
Spock exits Bones’ office after a moment, and he’s at Jim’s side seconds later. “Captain,” he says, looking Jim over calmly, “I am relieved to hear that the surgery was successful. Doctor McCoy has informed me that there were last-minute complications.”
“I was lucky, Spock. And Bones is a great surgeon.”
“Indeed. I am told that your recovery is proceeding on schedule and that you are being surprisingly cooperative.”
Jim scowls reflexively. “Why is that surprising?”
Spock’s eyebrow rises. “Is the anesthesia still affecting your cognitive processes? Do you not recall your abortive escape attempt from sickbay after your injuries on Starbase Twelve, or the time you insisted on feeding yourself while recovering from Rigellian Pox yet succeeded only in-“
“Never mind, Spock,” he says quickly. No need to be reminded of all the times he’s lost his dignity here. “My memory’s fine. I’m just seeing what compliance feels like, for a change of pace.”
“Most admirable.”
“Is that all Bones had to say? I’m on the mend, a model patient?” He’s curious; maybe Bones has let something slip to Spock that could clue him in on what’s going on, since he’s not telling Jim.
“For the most part. Although he did mention that you seemed… preoccupied.” Spock lowers himself gracefully into the chair by the bed, and Jim notices, for the first time, that he’s carrying something, a boxy leather case. Something inside it makes a clinking noise when he sets it on his lap.
“He won’t let me have a PADD or even sit up yet. There’s a lot of time to think.”
“And you do not appreciate the opportunity to contemplate recent events without distraction?”
Jim laughs. “No. We’re different that way, I guess. I don’t do very well with so much enforced time to, uh… contemplate. I do my best thinking when I’m running. Or moving around, anyway. I get bored quickly.”
“So I have noticed.”
“I can’t stand to lie around doing nothing, that’s all. And sickbay’s not exactly conducive to meditation anyway.”
“Then it is fortunate that I have brought something that may help you occupy your mind, if you are so inclined.” He pops open the case, turning it around so that Jim can see the contents: several small, square boards, checked in lacquered polish, and two sets of intricately molded pieces in black and white.
“This is a 3D chess set,” Jim says, nonplussed.
“Obviously, Captain.” Spock is rapidly assembling the base and stand, twisting them together and attaching the boards at various heights.
“I’m not much of a player, Spock.” Despite himself, he’s intrigued by the shiny pieces, by the way the boards fan out, overlapping slightly. The set is obviously expensive and well cared for. “I probably wouldn’t be any kind of challenge for you.”
Spock doesn’t even hesitate in his rapid placement of the pieces. “If you are unfamiliar with this version of the game, I will instruct you.”
“I really don’t think…” Spock is looking at him expectantly, and he sighs. “Look, I can’t even sit up.”
“I will place your pieces for you. You can see the board easily even from a reclining position. And you are, as you complained, unoccupied and bored.”
“I’ve never even played the game on a real board,” he admits. “Just on the nets.”
“Then you are familiar with the rules?” Spock asks, waiting for Jim to nod in confirmation. “That will make this considerably easier.”
Jim’s never mentioned it to Spock, but chess was a passion of his when he was a kid, before he began his great rebellion. He would spend hours practicing openings and studying endgames, learning basic attacks and defenses, inventing new maneuvers. He’d tried 3D chess a few times on his PADD, but at the time, it seemed too complicated. He preferred to hone his skills on the standard version of the game. He began playing in virtual tournaments and did relatively well, but as his home situation worsened, he’d lost his focus, and eventually stopped playing altogether.
“It’s been a long time. I haven’t played chess in years, not since I was a kid. I wasn’t very good at the 3D version.”
“You may find that some of the more complex strategic reasoning comes to you more quickly now than it did in your youth. From what I have observed, you’re quite suited to this game.”
“Pool’s really more my style, Spock. Or poker.”
Spock ignores him. “You have an intuitive grasp of your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and a capacity to calculate several moves in advance in order to evaluate the success of tactical maneuvers. Your move, Captain,” he says gesturing toward the orderly line of white pieces on the bottom level.
What the hell, he thinks. Can’t be any worse than lying here worrying.
It turns out to be a distraction, all right. At first Jim’s hesitant, and his moves are inconsistent and disorganized. Spock points out his blunders, generously offering to let him “reconsider” the moves which would have finished the game in minutes. He improves quickly, although he’s still not very sharp. The pain meds Bones has him on make it hard for him to concentrate. Spock doesn’t seem disappointed, though. He keeps up a running commentary on the advantages and disadvantages of various moves and positions, and draws Jim’s focus back when his attention wanders too obviously (“Captain, would you like me to repeat what I explained earlier about using your knight for simultaneous attacks?”).
Jim never had Spock as an instructor back at the Academy, but he can see that he’s a born teacher. Actually, it’s just as well that Jim was never in one of his classes, because Spock’s teaching style doesn’t make much allowance for Jim’s typical student behaviors. Like trying to distract the teacher from the subject matter, which Jim considers a legitimate chess tactic.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I won the Iowa City Poker Championship? It was ten years ago exactly. I wasn’t really supposed to be able to enter, legally, but I hacked the entry site and-“
“At the age of seventeen? I was under the impression that gambling was illegal at that age.”
“Well, technically that’s true, but that’s not the point, Spock, because once I got in, they recognized my outstanding skills, and--”
“Chess has many advantages over poker. There are no age restrictions, no element of chance, and,” Spock replies icily, “no incentive to lie.”
“Bluff,” Jim corrects. “It’s called bluffing. It’s a time-honored tradition in poker.”
“There is no place for bluffing in chess. It requires only skill and concentration. Please focus on the game.”
“Right,” Jim replies, moving his bishop up a level. “See what you think of that.”
“That is not a wise move.”
Jim smiles as confidently as he can, while surreptitiously scanning the boards for something he’s missed.
“Perhaps you should reconsider. You are placing your rook in jeopardy.”
“Now you’re bluffing. I’m not gonna let you psych me out, Spock. Check in two moves.”
“Not this time.” Spock’s knight seems to swoop down out of nowhere. “Checkmate in three.”
“Shit.” Jim stares glumly at the boards, then tips over his king, symbolically ceding the game. “Sorry, didn’t see that coming.”
“Clearly.”
“Guess I need a little more practice, or a little less pain medication, or something.”
“On the contrary, you did quite well for a novice. If you like, we can play again tomorrow.” Spock begins dismantling the boards, packing the pieces carefully into their padded slots in the case.
Jim grins. “Maybe by then Bones will let me sit up.” And maybe he can get his hands on a PADD and study some basic 3D tactics.
“If I might make a suggestion, Jim. You seem to be overly concerned with defending and holding onto all your pieces.”
Jim squints up at him in confusion. “I’m just trying to keep all my options. Those pieces might be valuable in the long run.”
“Of course that may be the case, depending on the dynamic that develops on the board.” Spock’s eyes bore into him, and Jim is suddenly aware that there is more going on in this conversation than a friendly tip about chess. “But as the game progresses, one must be prepared to sacrifice certain pieces as part of an overall strategy.”
Oh, fuck. So that’s what this was about. Chess as a metaphor for life. He should have known.
“I’ll try to remember that,” he says neutrally, but he feels a gut-level resistance to Spock’s advice. He doesn’t like the idea of sacrificing anything or anybody -- even a chess piece -- to save his ass, strategy be damned. Bones is always telling him to stop taking chances with his own safety, but as far as he’s concerned, if there’s going to be any sacrificing, he’s going to be the one doing it.
“When you are attacked,” Spock continues as if they’re really discussing game tactics, “you must decide whether the piece is worth defending. It may be preferable to allow your piece to be captured, rather than waste valuable resources defending it.”
“I know that,” Jim says tightly. He doesn’t want to hear this.
“I have not finished.” There’s a touch of impatience in Spock’s tone, and Jim knows that he’s not going to drop it until he makes his point, whatever it is. “You should also remember that a pawn often needs to be sacrificed in order to exchange it for a piece of higher value.” Jim’s heart has started beating faster. Spock doesn’t look up at the monitor above the bed, but obviously he can hear the soft, accelerating beeps
“I get it, Spock.” Jim rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. But he doesn’t, not really. Spock’s implying something about his loss, but he doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s gained from all this. If Spock knows, he should say so, instead of speaking in riddles.
“Jim… the loss of the material value of the pawn is often compensated for in the long term by the gain of a better strategic position.”
There’s a long pause between them. A better strategic position? Fuck that. Spock may think he’s gained something important, but Jim sure as hell doesn’t know what it could be. All that he seems to have accomplished in the last seven weeks is losing his dignity and his sense of control, ruining his relationship with Bones, and destroying a fanciful dream that he didn’t even know he had.
“Thanks for the game,” Jim says stiffly.
“I only ask that you consider this. Rest and recover, Captain.” He rises to his feet, grasping the chess case firmly in his hand, and walks out.
To Part 8B.
Authors: gone_ashore and mijan
Rating: R
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 11,500 for part 8, 78,100 total
Warnings: Triggery. References to alien experimentation, graphic descriptions, mpreg.
Summary: A mission gone wrong puts Jim at the wrong end of alien observation, captive to a species that uses him as a lab rat. Helpless and defenseless for nearly a week, the Antosians break him down physically and mentally. After his rescue, he slowly starts to recover, until one unrealized part of the Antosians' handiwork turns his life upside down and threatens to destroy him.
This is cross-posted between my journal and gone_ashore’s journal. Feel free to read either here, or on gone_ashore’s journal, here.
To Part 1
To Part 2
To Part 3
To Part 4A
To Part 4B
To Part 5
To Part 6
To Part 7
Part 8
Being the CMO on a Federation exploration vessel means Leonard has seen a lot.
He’s seen disease and danger, silence and darkness, and a whole lot of surprises. He’s watched plagues devastate entire planets. He’s witnessed humanoid species with the ability to automatically regenerate life and limb. He’s seen the triumph of survival. He’s seen bodies strewn about like broken dolls after battles.
He’s seen a lot of death. It never gets easier.
Loss of life is expected in the vast blackness of space: inhospitable, unknown, vacuous. He’s filled out too many death certificates for members of the Enterprise crew, and each one hurts. For all the self-punishment it causes, he hopes it never gets easier. That would mean he’d lost his own humanity. But when death is so close to him, it has to rip a little piece of his soul out.
At least a fetus doesn’t require a death certificate.
The fetus -- and it was a fetus, just starting its eighth week after conception, no longer an embryo -- had already been dead for a few hours before the DIC started. Despite Jim’s demands, there was nothing to save, even if he’d wanted to. He could only guess as to what had initially caused it. A tiny clot within the placenta, or in the abnormal blood vessels leading to the uterine sac? A hemorrhage that had disrupted blood flow to the fetus? Hormone imbalance, developmental anomaly, immunological reaction, poor oxygenation, metabolic waste accrual... all he can do is guess. Something went wrong, and the fetus died. From there, everything had crashed like a set of dominoes.
The uterine sac had rapidly become necrotic as the abnormal connective tissue holding it together broke down, and the decaying tissue triggered the disseminated intravascular coagulation event -- the DIC. Tiny clots began to form throughout Jim’s body, making blood flow sluggish, decreasing oxygen and nutrient delivery to the brain, the heart... everything. And the sick irony was that a DIC uses up all the clotting factors, leaving the remaining blood so deficient in platelets and clotting proteins that the patient begins to bleed... everywhere. Despite all the incredible advances of medicine, it’s still one of the deadliest emergencies a doctor can face.
At that point, even with the risk of a bleed-out, he’d had no choice but to operate to remove the dead tissue and hope the microcellular surgical technique would work, even in the worst possible scenario.
Leonard pulls his shaking hands down from his face and looks numbly at the formal medical report on the surgery, staring at the last line of dictation:
Surgery successful.
Barely, but Jim had pulled through.
Leonard lets out an unsteady breath and leans back so that he can see Jim lying on the biobed, still unconscious, but breathing on his own. He’ll be asleep for a while longer, which is just as well. At least now, his body can rest and recover peacefully for a little while. He’s still in the process of receiving his fourth unit of blood and additional platelets. Even with pain meds, he’ll be sore as hell when he wakes up.
When he wakes up. At least he will wake up, but when he does, Leonard has no idea what mental state the poor kid will be in. He’d been frantic until they’d sedated him.
It’s haunting him, Leonard realizes -- the look on Jim’s face as he begged, deliriously, for him to save the fetus. After everything they’d discussed, why, goddammit? What the hell had Jim been thinking?
It would be nice to brush it off as the ravings of a man who was experiencing a transient ischemic attack from the miniscule clots throughout his brain, reducing blood flow and leaving him foggy-headed and unable to understand what was happening around him. Or perhaps he could chalk it up to Jim’s medical phobia leaving him desperate for any reason not to be dragged into surgery so suddenly. But those answers are just too easy, and he has a gnawing feeling that it was more complicated than that.
Who knew where Jim’s mind had wandered as he’d roamed the ship, unable to sleep? He’s creative, brilliant, and prone to intuitive leaps of logic… especially in times of stress. It was precisely that ability that had saved them during the Narada crisis. Something made Jim come to the conclusion that in spite of everything, he wanted the baby with a fierce intensity bordering on desperation.
Whatever the reason, now that Leonard has finished the surgery and has a minute to think, Jim’s desperate plea has left him feeling gutted.
“Promise to save the baby first!”
No, even though he could blame it on delirium, drowsiness, or pure terror, Jim did decide to keep it. For some unfathomable reason, he wanted the baby. Their baby.
Goddammit.
Leonard leans his forehead into his hands and stares at the PADD on his desk. The words of his report blur before his eyes. He’s got to report it to Starfleet now, in full, but he can barely focus on it. It’s all too much for him to really wrap his head around. He’d slept for barely three hours before jumping into emergency surgery. Alpha shift has already begun, though, and his natural circadian rhythm will keep him awake for a while. But his mind is ready to shut down.
“Are you going to get some rest, Doctor?”
Leonard looks up at Nurse Chapel’s sympathetic face, but can only shake his head in reply. “I know I look like hell, Christine, but you know I can’t sleep right now.”
“He’s okay, Leonard,” she says, walking into his office and leaning against the doorframe. She folds her arms low across her chest. “We caught him in time. His blood chemistry should be back to normal within two more hours, the surgery itself was textbook perfect, and he’s resting. You should, too.” A faint smile, slightly broken, bends her lips. “You saved him.”
“I’m not sure I did.” Leonard doesn’t even know what he means by that, and he shakes his head and brushes her off with a wave of his hand before she can ask. “Go take yourself off duty. I woke you up in the middle of your normal sleep cycle, too, and we’ve got two other nurses here during alpha shift.”
“Okay, but you know M’Benga will either chase you out of sickbay or sedate you himself if you don’t get some sleep soon.”
“That man’s been up all night, too,” Leonard grumbles lightly, but at the pointed look from Nurse Chapel, he sighs and tosses her a mock salute. “Aye aye.”
She nods in satisfaction, turns, and walks out the door. Leonard watches her go, but his eyes fix on Jim’s biobed as she walks past.
Clenching his jaw, he saves and closes the surgical report, pushes himself heavily out of his chair, and plods out of his office. A moment later, he drops into the chair he’d placed next to Jim’s biobed earlier. The position feels too disturbingly familiar, like he’s returning to a place that he’d simply rather not visit again.
“Hey, kid.”
Jim doesn’t move. Not that Leonard expects him to.
“I’m so sorry, Jim. I really am.” He leans back, taking in Jim’s pale complexion and slack features. He’s got more color in his face than he had even an hour ago. When Leonard closed and stepped back for the first time since surgery had begun, Jim was so pasty and gray that Leonard almost couldn’t believe the biosensors telling him that he was still alive.
He’s begun cycling toward consciousness as the anesthesia loosens its grip on him, so Leonard keeps talking. Jim won’t understand what he’s saying, but he’s hoping that something in his voice will soothe Jim as he comes back to awareness. And there are some things that are a lot easier to say when Jim can only listen and not respond.
“I should have checked on you more carefully last night. I wanted you to relax, so I didn’t. And now, I’ll never know if the anticoagulants caused the... the miscarriage... or if taking you off the meds caused it. I’ll never know what time it began. Dammit, it could have started...” His voice cracks a tiny bit, and he’s grateful that nobody else is within earshot. “For all I know, it could have started while we were sittin’ on the couch, drinkin’ tea. You could have been leaning against my shoulder at the moment you started to die on me, and I didn’t even know.”
The thought that this had all happened right under his nose is leaving him feeling unbalanced. Incompetent and useless. Jim is the most important person on the ship to him. He’s spent the last several weeks focusing on Jim’s health in every possible detail, monitoring his biostats day and night... and the minute he let his guard slip, everything went wrong. Like the runner who slows down because the finish line is in sight, only to be beaten at the wire.
He came through it, Leonard reminds himself. He didn’t fail. Jim’s not paralyzed. His digestive system’s intact, and his organs weren’t damaged. But shit, that was too damned close. Jim had lost so much blood, a rarity with modern medicine. It had been touch and go...
“You’re one hell of a fighter, Jim. You should know that. And you’ll bounce back from this, eventually. I know it.” He reaches out and wraps his hand around Jim’s slack fingers. “I just hope you can forgive me for... everything.”
He gives Jim’s hand a squeeze, but doesn’t receive one in return.
********
The first time Jim climbs into awareness, someone’s talking to him. The words don’t penetrate, but he’s comforted by the voice. It’s good to know that he’s not alone. He drifts, at peace and unconcerned. He can feel vague sensations: a heaviness in his limbs, a strange numbness in his torso. He’s dizzy.
He knows there’s something he should remember, but he doesn’t really want to leave this serene limbo. So he floats off again.
********
The next time he wakes, he’s still in the same peaceful, dreamlike state.
But a second later it all comes back to him in a rush: who and where he is, what was happening just - minutes? - ago, the fear and the baby and they’re going to cut into him, and-
“Captain, can you hear me?” someone is saying. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.” Nurse Chapel, his mind supplies sluggishly.
“Don’t do it,” he mumbles. His throat is dry and his mouth feels clumsy and stiff.
“It’s all over.” Chapel’s voice is soft and soothing. “You’re out of surgery. How do you feel? Nauseous at all?”
There are too many things for him to process all at once. He’s still stuck on It’s all over, and her other questions don’t make sense. A minute ago there was a crowd of people around him, and Bones was looking down at him telling him to relax and not to fight it, and now everyone’s gone. “What happened?” His throat is so parched that the words sound scratchy and weak.
“I’ll give you an ice chip to suck on. It’ll help your throat.” Something smooth and cold is pushed between his lips, and he runs his tongue over its deliciously cool surface. It feels so good that it distracts him, and he can’t remember what he wanted to say other than the fact that he wants another ice chip.
“Do you know where you are, Captain?”
That’s a simple enough question, and he even knows the answer. “Sickbay.” Focus, he tells himself. Something important happened, something bad. What was it?
“That’s right. You’ve just come out of surgery,” she says again patiently.
He feels disoriented. Surgery… how long was he out, then? “Where’s Bones?”
“I’ll call Doctor McCoy in a moment.”
That’s not what he wants. He needs Bones here, now. He has to talk to him, tell him… what?
Before he can get his thoughts together to argue with her, she’s there again, relentlessly. “Does anything hurt?”
He lets go of his thoughts about Bones to focus on his body. He’s groggy and it’s so hard to concentrate. His limbs still feel heavy and a little tingly, as if the drugs haven’t quite worked their way out of his system. Maybe that’s a good thing, because nothing hurts, really.
“’m fine.”
“Any nausea?” She’s got so many questions, but dammit, she’s not giving him any answers. He takes a deep breath, but his stomach doesn’t seem to be on the edge of revolt, so he shakes his head.
She smiles. “All right. You just rest here for a bit. I’ll call Doctor McCoy.” He frowns at her retreating back, confused, because Bones was just here a minute ago. Why would he leave? How much time has gone by? The last thing he remembers was Bones standing over him with a medical team, telling him that he couldn’t save the embryo and he might not be able to save Jim. It’ll be okay, I promise.
But it’s not okay. Something went terribly wrong, he knows that.
He twists a little on the bed, moving cautiously, trying to see what works and what doesn’t. He curls his fingers and toes, stretches his legs. There’s an IV catheter sticking out of the back of his hand, and he stares at it. He’s not sure what that means.
He tries to roll onto his side, and that’s when he realizes that fuck, he’s sore as hell. Just the simple act of twisting himself slightly on the bed is enough to set off an unpleasant chain reaction: a sharp tug in his abdomen, followed by a deeper ache that settles uncomfortably into his belly and a throbbing pain in his skull. Something seems to pull at the skin over his stomach, taut and unnaturally stiff -- a bandage, he realizes as his fingers connect with the slick, siligel surface.
It’s truly over, then. He feels more than a little bewildered. One minute he was being rushed into sickbay, staring into that bright overhead light and struggling, pleading for Bones to slow down and listen, and now… there’s a block of time missing from his awareness, a gaping hole which has left him stranded back in a reality which has clearly changed. He’s had the surgery, obviously, but it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all.
A minute later, his emotions start catching up with his sluggish thought processes. It’s all coming back now: the blood and the godawful cramping in his gut, his frantic pleading to save the baby, the panic in Bones’ eyes as he was rushed to sickbay, the terror that ripped through him as he was held down and--
“Jim.” Bones is striding toward him, wearing his habitual scowl of concern, and he looks terrible: eyes bloodshot, face drawn and pale. He looks like he’s been up all night, and Jim can’t help but feel a pang of guilt, because it’s not hard to guess why. It reminds him that he hadn’t wanted to call Bones when the trouble first started because he wanted him to get a good night’s sleep.
As his mind sharpens, the sequence of what happened is becoming clearer: he remembers locking himself off in the observation lounge, gazing down at the beautiful planet below, the sudden resolution that he was going to try to see this through, keep the baby if he could, be a parent… and then the flash of dread when he’d seen all the blood. He couldn’t stop bleeding and he was hurting and dizzy, and then, only then, did he think to alert the doctor.
Shit. Why the hell did he have to wait so long? Whatever happened, it’s his fault.
Bracing himself, Jim waits for Bones’ standard diatribe of you-oughta-be-glad-you’re-injured-because-otherwise-I’d-deck-you, but Bones just gives him a small, fleeting smile. For once, his eyes don’t raise automatically to the readouts over Jim’s head, but stay focused on him, searching his face as if he’s looking for something.
It’s really bad, then.
“About time you’re awake, kid. How’re you feeling?”
“What happened?” He remembers Bones saying something about an emergency, some weird acronym and a catastrophic failure of something.
“You’re all right, Jim. It was touch and go there for a while, and thank God I did so much practice with the microcellular techniques. But you’re going to be fine.”
Jim nods warily. There’s something Bones isn’t telling him, and his behavior is vaguely off in a way that scares him. He should be angrier, ranting about how irresponsible Jim was, telling him how he’d gotten a hundred more grey hairs and it was all Jim’s fault. Jim wants to hear it, because Lord knows it’s true. But Bones is just looking at him sadly, and it’s making Jim really fucking nervous. Either there’s something medically wrong that Bones has to tell him, or…
Or maybe Jim’s just screwed this up so badly that it’s changed everything between them.
He doesn’t want to be flat on his back for this conversation. It’s too vulnerable a position. He starts to push up on his left elbow, ignoring the twinge that shoots out from his belly, but Bones is quicker, pushing down lightly on his chest. “Lie back, kid. You’ve just had major abdominal surgery, and you’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“Bones, what the hell happened?”
“You had a DIC, Jim. A disseminated intravascular coagulation. Your blood started clotting... tiny clots, not like the large one you had in your leg. Different things can trigger it, but once it’s started, it’s... well, it’s a cascade effect. The clots were clogging tiny blood vessels, impeding blood flow.”
Jim frowns. “Isn’t clotting the opposite of bleeding? My nose was bleeding, and it wouldn’t stop.”
“The tiny clots used up all your clotting factors. The blood left over couldn’t clot well enough, so you kept bleeding. The only way to stop it was to remove the cause of the DIC. If I hadn’t done that, it would have killed you. That’s why we had to rush you into surgery and couldn’t wait, kid.” His expression is bleak, wounded in a way Jim has seldom seen on Bones.
Jim tries to follow everything Bones is saying, but it’s hard. “Remove the cause? I don’t get it... “
“You lost a lot of blood. We almost couldn’t stop the bleeding, and your brain wasn’t getting enough blood flow for a while during the DIC anyway. Your blood chemistry is almost normalized again, but it took four units of blood to bring you back. You’ll feel sluggish for a while, maybe a little confused. But you’ll be fine, Jim.” His gaze is far away for a moment. “You’ll be fine,” he says again.
Jim can’t stand that look on Bones’ face, and his brain just doesn’t want to process this. His head hurts. He raises his left hand to his throbbing forehead, but the IV tugs at his skin uncomfortably. Lowering his hand, he stares at it in defeat. He can’t quite summon the energy to object, but God, he hates seeing the tiny tube piercing his skin, attached to his vein. It’s a constant reminder that there are fluids and medications flowing into his body that he can’t control, but after all he’s been through lately, it seems almost ludicrous to make a fuss about it.
“Do you want me to take that out?”
Jim blinks up at Bones in surprise. “Really?” he blurts. That’s the last question he expected. “I mean, of course I do. Now?”
“You’ve got about another twenty minutes to finish this drip of saline, but after that, I’ll remove it if it’s bothering you. But that’ll mean I’ll have to administer the meds by hypo every three hours. Is that what you want?”
“I have a choice?” he asks, just to make sure. As a doctor, Bones usually favors the unchallenged-dictator mode of interaction. Jim’s used to Bones simply taking away his choices and ignoring his preferences, accompanied by his no-nonsense, deal-with-it-dammit attitude. His sudden change of heart is only reinforcing Jim’s certainty that there’s something Bones isn’t telling him. Maybe he’s dying, and Bones is trying to be subtle about granting his last wish. Or maybe it’s a sort of pre-emptive strike; Bones knows that Jim is going to start whining about it any minute, and he just doesn’t have the energy for it. He’s giving in without a fight, and that just seems wrong.
Even so, Jim’s not going to argue. “Take it out, then.” The hypos hurt but they’re not as bad as looking at a tube stuck in his body.
“How’s your pain level?”
The burning in his abdomen is more insistent now, but old habits die hard. “It’s fine. Bones, what about the embryo? The baby...”
Bones’ eyes flick up to the monitor, then back down to him. “Jim, answer me first. If you’re starting to hurt, it’ll be easier to deal with now rather than later when the pain’s really bad. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
Jim’s relationship with pain is complicated, as Bones well knows. It’s a tangled mess of associations that have been with him since childhood: anger, guilt, shame, and, sometimes, self-flagellation. It’s not easy to quantify. He’s hurting now, but he deserves it, even craves it. “It’s okay, Bones. You always say a little suffering is good for the soul.”
“Jim, you’re not coming off a bender, you’re coming out of anesthesia. Just tell me how you’re feeling, for God’s sake.” He sounds impatient, or maybe just tired.
“It’s a three. A three or a four. I don’t need anything.”
But Bones is already reaching for something in the cabinet, plucking out a vial filled with amber liquid. “It won’t stay a four for much longer, kid.” Jim’s quiet as Bones injects the drug through the IV. He’d rather hold onto the pain, but there’s something comforting and familiar about Bones running over his objections. That feels normal.
It’s the guarded look in Bones’ eyes that is anything but.
“Tell me what happened.” He pitches his voice low, with just a hint of his command authority in it. “All of it. What caused the DIC? Why... why did you say you couldn’t save the baby?”
Bones sighs. “The fetus had already died, Jim.”
Dead. He knew it, but even so, it’s hard to grasp.
“How?"
“I’m not entirely sure. Even women, who are equipped for carrying a fetus to term, sometimes spontaneously abort, and there are so many reasons why it happens. Hormone fluctuation. Problems with the placenta. Anything. In your case, I think the artificial uterine sac was simply unstable, and blood flow to the fetus was disrupted.” His mouth pinches. “It was probably dead before you went to bed. Maybe even before I met you in your quarters.”
“Oh.” That doesn’t make sense, though. He was feeling fine then, just a little unsettled because of the surgery. It was later... when he couldn’t sleep. That was when the uncomfortable cramping had started. It was just a minor discomfort at first… which he ignored, of course.
“I’m so sorry, Jim. I should have been checking. But I wanted you to relax before the surgery...” Bones’ eyes are almost pleading. “I’m sorry.”
Jim isn’t even sure what to say to an apology like that. He sure as hell doesn’t feel like Bones is the one who should be apologizing. It’s his own damn fault, ignoring the pain in his gut even though he knew he was supposed to report a symptom like that. Lying right next to the doctor, letting him sleep on obliviously, not waking him up out of some misplaced sense of consideration. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
Bones frowns, then just shakes his head. “I guess there’s no reason to keep that from you now. It was a boy.”
Jim nods. His son. Their son. Gone.
He gives a harsh laugh. “Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a mom.” Or a dad, he thinks. But he can’t say that because his throat is too constricted and he’ll choke on the words.
Bones’ expression tightens a bit. “It was a medical impossibility from the start. I told you that. Your body’s not built to sustain a pregnancy, and this was an alien implant. You could have died and you almost did. I got it out cleanly, and you’ll heal up just fine.” Bones eyes are reddened and bloodshot, and God, so sad. “There was no way to save the fetus, Jim. There never really was.”
It’s not Bones’ fault, but he looks honestly regretful, and that’s not right. Jim’s responsible for the way things ended.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. He’s sorry for all of it: the stress and the worry of the past weeks, the stupid stunt in the gym, the way he’s been avoiding Bones since Antos, the desperate plea at the end that must have made Bones feel worse than he already did. It’s a weak, vague apology, and Jim feels like a coward for saying it like that. But he’s always been better with excuses than with requests for forgiveness, and he doesn’t know how to say any of it without making things worse.
“I’m sorry too, kid. I wish…” Jim waits, but whatever it is, Bones doesn’t seem to be able to put it into words any better than Jim can. “It doesn’t matter. You need to put it behind you now. Get some rest.”
Jim watches him walk away. The pain is gone, and with nothing to anchor him and no one to talk to, he can only close his eyes and drift.
********
An hour later, Bones steps into his room again. Jim hopes that this time they’ll be able to talk, and he’ll somehow find the courage to say what he needs to say - It’s my fault and I didn’t mean to and I need you -- but instead, Bones just checks his bandage and asks if he’s thirsty. Jim nods. He sips through a straw, cooperates with the exam, and waits for the right time to speak, but it doesn’t come. Bones seems subdued and careful around him, so unlike his usual blustery self.
When he asks Jim whether he wants to stay in a private recovery room or move out to the main Bay, Jim looks up at him, startled. He doesn’t know this CMO who considers his preferences and gives him choices. There’s a warning bell ringing in the back of his mind that says that Bones shouldn’t be asking him what he wants, he should be telling him what’s going to happen in no uncertain terms. He can’t understand what Bones is trying to do. It’s like he’s trying to put together a puzzle, but some of the key pieces are missing and he can’t see the whole picture.
But at any rate, he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts anymore, even if it means that his crew will be able to see him lounging in a biobed wearing sickbay scrubs.
Being in the main Bay is a relief, in some ways. It’s distracting. He can observe the medical staff as they interact with each other and treat the occasional crewman who drops by with a minor complaint. He can flirt with the nurses as they help him relieve himself or check his bandages. He doesn’t object to any of the procedures, not in front of the nurses or orderlies, because, well, he’s the Captain and he has to save face. But his stomach is tying itself into its usual knot of anxiety every time one of them approaches him. They won’t let him up off the bed, and he hates lying there, feeling so dependent and weak.
Bones isn’t avoiding him, exactly. From Jim’s vantage point in the corner bed, he can easily keep an eye on the doctor, and Bones is busy. Jim’s used to hearing Bones answer him on the comm with short-tempered impatience (“What the hell do you need, Captain? I’ve got a sickbay to run!”), but it’s the first time he’s really had the opportunity to watch him go through a regular shift. Treating patients for minor injuries and problems. Checking reports. Wandering into the lab where he conducts research on some virus or medical miracle he’s working on this week. He’s brisk and authoritative with his staff, annoyed with anything less than top efficiency. And as Jim has come to expect, he doesn’t coddle the patients.
Except for Jim. As promised, Bones comes by every three hours with a hypo. Jim is almost looking forward to the sharp stinging pain, but Bones administers it so gently that he barely feels it. Bones pats his shoulder, asks if he needs anything, and tells him he’s looking good. Then he walks away again before Jim can even protest.
By the afternoon, Jim’s irritable and depressed, exhausted by the effort of maintaining a show of good humor in front of the med staff. And he’s worried. There’s nothing wrong with the way Bones is treating him, but it’s just a little too kind, a little too solicitous. If Bones thinks he’s so fragile that he’ll break if Bones isn’t nice to him, then he doesn’t know Jim very well and that worries him. And if Bones needs the space because he can’t handle being close to Jim right now, because he’s angry and devastated by what happened, then that worries him too. They need to talk and there’s no privacy here.
Spock comes by mid-beta shift. He doesn’t come directly to Jim, but turns first to the CMO’s office at the opposite end of sickbay. It’s a good thing, because it gives Jim time to comb his fingers hastily through his hair, straighten his rumpled scrubs, and rearrange himself on the bed. He can’t move much, but he shifts himself slowly so that he’s lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, rather than flat on his back. It’s embarrassing to be in this position again, stuck on a biobed while his First Officer comes for a visit, immaculate in his uniform and looking down on his calmly.
He remembers his last conversation with Spock, when he told him how scared he was about the surgery. Spock said something about Jim’s strength of character and the definition of courage. Watching Spock now, Jim cringes a little inside, thinking about how when the time came, he was terrified, pleading with Bones to slow down and not to cut him. Thank God Spock didn’t see that part.
Spock exits Bones’ office after a moment, and he’s at Jim’s side seconds later. “Captain,” he says, looking Jim over calmly, “I am relieved to hear that the surgery was successful. Doctor McCoy has informed me that there were last-minute complications.”
“I was lucky, Spock. And Bones is a great surgeon.”
“Indeed. I am told that your recovery is proceeding on schedule and that you are being surprisingly cooperative.”
Jim scowls reflexively. “Why is that surprising?”
Spock’s eyebrow rises. “Is the anesthesia still affecting your cognitive processes? Do you not recall your abortive escape attempt from sickbay after your injuries on Starbase Twelve, or the time you insisted on feeding yourself while recovering from Rigellian Pox yet succeeded only in-“
“Never mind, Spock,” he says quickly. No need to be reminded of all the times he’s lost his dignity here. “My memory’s fine. I’m just seeing what compliance feels like, for a change of pace.”
“Most admirable.”
“Is that all Bones had to say? I’m on the mend, a model patient?” He’s curious; maybe Bones has let something slip to Spock that could clue him in on what’s going on, since he’s not telling Jim.
“For the most part. Although he did mention that you seemed… preoccupied.” Spock lowers himself gracefully into the chair by the bed, and Jim notices, for the first time, that he’s carrying something, a boxy leather case. Something inside it makes a clinking noise when he sets it on his lap.
“He won’t let me have a PADD or even sit up yet. There’s a lot of time to think.”
“And you do not appreciate the opportunity to contemplate recent events without distraction?”
Jim laughs. “No. We’re different that way, I guess. I don’t do very well with so much enforced time to, uh… contemplate. I do my best thinking when I’m running. Or moving around, anyway. I get bored quickly.”
“So I have noticed.”
“I can’t stand to lie around doing nothing, that’s all. And sickbay’s not exactly conducive to meditation anyway.”
“Then it is fortunate that I have brought something that may help you occupy your mind, if you are so inclined.” He pops open the case, turning it around so that Jim can see the contents: several small, square boards, checked in lacquered polish, and two sets of intricately molded pieces in black and white.
“This is a 3D chess set,” Jim says, nonplussed.
“Obviously, Captain.” Spock is rapidly assembling the base and stand, twisting them together and attaching the boards at various heights.
“I’m not much of a player, Spock.” Despite himself, he’s intrigued by the shiny pieces, by the way the boards fan out, overlapping slightly. The set is obviously expensive and well cared for. “I probably wouldn’t be any kind of challenge for you.”
Spock doesn’t even hesitate in his rapid placement of the pieces. “If you are unfamiliar with this version of the game, I will instruct you.”
“I really don’t think…” Spock is looking at him expectantly, and he sighs. “Look, I can’t even sit up.”
“I will place your pieces for you. You can see the board easily even from a reclining position. And you are, as you complained, unoccupied and bored.”
“I’ve never even played the game on a real board,” he admits. “Just on the nets.”
“Then you are familiar with the rules?” Spock asks, waiting for Jim to nod in confirmation. “That will make this considerably easier.”
Jim’s never mentioned it to Spock, but chess was a passion of his when he was a kid, before he began his great rebellion. He would spend hours practicing openings and studying endgames, learning basic attacks and defenses, inventing new maneuvers. He’d tried 3D chess a few times on his PADD, but at the time, it seemed too complicated. He preferred to hone his skills on the standard version of the game. He began playing in virtual tournaments and did relatively well, but as his home situation worsened, he’d lost his focus, and eventually stopped playing altogether.
“It’s been a long time. I haven’t played chess in years, not since I was a kid. I wasn’t very good at the 3D version.”
“You may find that some of the more complex strategic reasoning comes to you more quickly now than it did in your youth. From what I have observed, you’re quite suited to this game.”
“Pool’s really more my style, Spock. Or poker.”
Spock ignores him. “You have an intuitive grasp of your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and a capacity to calculate several moves in advance in order to evaluate the success of tactical maneuvers. Your move, Captain,” he says gesturing toward the orderly line of white pieces on the bottom level.
What the hell, he thinks. Can’t be any worse than lying here worrying.
It turns out to be a distraction, all right. At first Jim’s hesitant, and his moves are inconsistent and disorganized. Spock points out his blunders, generously offering to let him “reconsider” the moves which would have finished the game in minutes. He improves quickly, although he’s still not very sharp. The pain meds Bones has him on make it hard for him to concentrate. Spock doesn’t seem disappointed, though. He keeps up a running commentary on the advantages and disadvantages of various moves and positions, and draws Jim’s focus back when his attention wanders too obviously (“Captain, would you like me to repeat what I explained earlier about using your knight for simultaneous attacks?”).
Jim never had Spock as an instructor back at the Academy, but he can see that he’s a born teacher. Actually, it’s just as well that Jim was never in one of his classes, because Spock’s teaching style doesn’t make much allowance for Jim’s typical student behaviors. Like trying to distract the teacher from the subject matter, which Jim considers a legitimate chess tactic.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I won the Iowa City Poker Championship? It was ten years ago exactly. I wasn’t really supposed to be able to enter, legally, but I hacked the entry site and-“
“At the age of seventeen? I was under the impression that gambling was illegal at that age.”
“Well, technically that’s true, but that’s not the point, Spock, because once I got in, they recognized my outstanding skills, and--”
“Chess has many advantages over poker. There are no age restrictions, no element of chance, and,” Spock replies icily, “no incentive to lie.”
“Bluff,” Jim corrects. “It’s called bluffing. It’s a time-honored tradition in poker.”
“There is no place for bluffing in chess. It requires only skill and concentration. Please focus on the game.”
“Right,” Jim replies, moving his bishop up a level. “See what you think of that.”
“That is not a wise move.”
Jim smiles as confidently as he can, while surreptitiously scanning the boards for something he’s missed.
“Perhaps you should reconsider. You are placing your rook in jeopardy.”
“Now you’re bluffing. I’m not gonna let you psych me out, Spock. Check in two moves.”
“Not this time.” Spock’s knight seems to swoop down out of nowhere. “Checkmate in three.”
“Shit.” Jim stares glumly at the boards, then tips over his king, symbolically ceding the game. “Sorry, didn’t see that coming.”
“Clearly.”
“Guess I need a little more practice, or a little less pain medication, or something.”
“On the contrary, you did quite well for a novice. If you like, we can play again tomorrow.” Spock begins dismantling the boards, packing the pieces carefully into their padded slots in the case.
Jim grins. “Maybe by then Bones will let me sit up.” And maybe he can get his hands on a PADD and study some basic 3D tactics.
“If I might make a suggestion, Jim. You seem to be overly concerned with defending and holding onto all your pieces.”
Jim squints up at him in confusion. “I’m just trying to keep all my options. Those pieces might be valuable in the long run.”
“Of course that may be the case, depending on the dynamic that develops on the board.” Spock’s eyes bore into him, and Jim is suddenly aware that there is more going on in this conversation than a friendly tip about chess. “But as the game progresses, one must be prepared to sacrifice certain pieces as part of an overall strategy.”
Oh, fuck. So that’s what this was about. Chess as a metaphor for life. He should have known.
“I’ll try to remember that,” he says neutrally, but he feels a gut-level resistance to Spock’s advice. He doesn’t like the idea of sacrificing anything or anybody -- even a chess piece -- to save his ass, strategy be damned. Bones is always telling him to stop taking chances with his own safety, but as far as he’s concerned, if there’s going to be any sacrificing, he’s going to be the one doing it.
“When you are attacked,” Spock continues as if they’re really discussing game tactics, “you must decide whether the piece is worth defending. It may be preferable to allow your piece to be captured, rather than waste valuable resources defending it.”
“I know that,” Jim says tightly. He doesn’t want to hear this.
“I have not finished.” There’s a touch of impatience in Spock’s tone, and Jim knows that he’s not going to drop it until he makes his point, whatever it is. “You should also remember that a pawn often needs to be sacrificed in order to exchange it for a piece of higher value.” Jim’s heart has started beating faster. Spock doesn’t look up at the monitor above the bed, but obviously he can hear the soft, accelerating beeps
“I get it, Spock.” Jim rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. But he doesn’t, not really. Spock’s implying something about his loss, but he doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s gained from all this. If Spock knows, he should say so, instead of speaking in riddles.
“Jim… the loss of the material value of the pawn is often compensated for in the long term by the gain of a better strategic position.”
There’s a long pause between them. A better strategic position? Fuck that. Spock may think he’s gained something important, but Jim sure as hell doesn’t know what it could be. All that he seems to have accomplished in the last seven weeks is losing his dignity and his sense of control, ruining his relationship with Bones, and destroying a fanciful dream that he didn’t even know he had.
“Thanks for the game,” Jim says stiffly.
“I only ask that you consider this. Rest and recover, Captain.” He rises to his feet, grasping the chess case firmly in his hand, and walks out.
To Part 8B.