Star Trek fic: The World Keeps Spinning On
Title: The World Keeps Spinning On
Author: philote_auctor
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters/Pairing: Kirk, McCoy (gen)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Star Trek do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don’t sue. Title is from Switchfoot’s “Gone;” please consider that disclaimed as well.
Warnings: Um...movie spoilers? Also, while I’m calling it gen, it depicts close friendship that could easily be considered pre-slash.
Author’s Notes: First Trek XI fic! (Shiny new fandom :) This is just a short little missing scene of sorts as I try to get a handle on the characters. New fandoms are always a bit intimidating, but one that sprung from such a huge universe is even more so. Feedback is welcome.
Summary: The ship has calmed down, but it isn’t so easy for her officers. Jim finally makes it down to Medical after the battle. (Missing scene fic)
oOo
He isn’t surprised when he finally makes it to the main medical bay to find McCoy still there. Jim pauses just inside the door and looks around. There are a lot of occupied beds-hardly any unoccupied, in fact-but things seem fairly calm now.
McCoy turns, eying him critically. Jim makes a conscious effort to stand up straighter, to smile and move without indication of pain as he steps towards his friend. Unfortunately the effort is wasted on Bones, who promptly narrows his gaze and puts down the PADD he’d been reading, replacing it with a tricorder.
“I’m okay, Bones,” he offers.
“Experience tells me your definition of ‘okay’ differs from mine,” comes the gruff reply as McCoy gestures meaningfully to an empty exam table.
Jim gives a resigned sigh, but he complies. This is why he wrapped up everything he could manage before coming down here; he’d known long before he walked through those doors that it would take Bones less than a minute to have him under a scanner.
He tries to pull himself up onto the table but pauses with a wince as his wrist protests. He doesn’t specifically remember injuring it, but he’s not that surprised. There are very few spots on his body that don’t hurt at the moment. Before he can shrug it aside McCoy reaches out and grabs him under the arms, giving him a boost. Jim sputters a little at the manhandling, mumbles something about not being ten years old, but he kind of envies his friend the strength and steadiness. Jim finds those qualities have been seeping from him rather quickly in the last few hours.
Bones waves the scanner over him in what Jim recognizes as a general, overall assessment. He must not find anything life-threatening because his scowl lessens from deep concern to irked worry. He starts complaining about injuries adding up and how Jim should have come sooner, that he has to move his health up the priority list, and it’s all so familiar that Jim smiles. It’s a genuine grin and it makes his face hurt, but he does it anyway.
Of course, his apparent lack of respect for the lecture irks McCoy further. “Strip,” he orders tersely.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the pretty patients.”
“Hate to break it to you kid, but somebody messed up your pretty.”
“’S okay,” Jim says as he winces and wrestles with his shirt. “I’ve got you to make me beautiful again.”
It earns him an amused snort and “I’m a doctor, not a cosmetologist.” But when he finally gets the shirt clear of his head he finds Bones watching his struggle carefully. When he steps forward again he’s still got the scanner in one hand but he starts using the other to physically poke, prod and palpate, more than Jim thinks is absolutely necessary.
He doesn’t complain. He suspects it has something to do with the human connection offered by the physical contact. It’s certainly having an effect on him. He catches himself leaning into the touch unconsciously, even the painful prods at his obvious bruising.
He’s had to appear self-assured and in control since he first stepped onto the Enterprise’s bridge. Sometimes he had the emotions to back it up, sometimes not so much. Either way, he hasn’t let his guard down. If he lets himself think about it, the enormity of everything that’s happened starts to drag him down like a wicked undercurrent. As the tension starts to seep away, he can feel his body reacting to the exhaustion and lack of adrenaline. It bothers him more that his emotions are reacting, too.
He can count on one hand the number of people who’ve seen him cry. Ironically, unless one counts the typical infant behavior, his mother is not one of them. Bones is. Apparently Jim has some deep-seated, powerful sense that he’s safe with Bones. Now it’s warring with his Captain façade, telling him to let go the carefully held control. And it’s winning. He can feel the slight tremors running under his skin, making his fingers tremble.
When McCoy breaks out a penlight and tries to check his pupils, Jim’s gaze skitters away from the eye contact. Bones grabs his chin to force it back but Jim resists, eyes seeking the wall past his friend’s ear.
But McCoy’s had a long day as well, and he’s apparently past his patience limit with uncooperative patients. “Damn it, Jim. If you don’t focus then I’m going to assume that you can’t, and then there’s gonna be a whole lot more scanning and testing and time off duty.”
Jim bites back the retort that springs to mind and just swallows hard as he forces his eyes to meet Bones’.
They share a long silent moment, Jim watching as righteous determination fades into pained understanding. McCoy swears softly and a hand comes to rest at the juncture of Jim’s neck and shoulder, heavy and warm and grounding. Jim drops his gaze again as he takes a deep breath. Bones squeezes his shoulder once before letting go. “Tell me what happened.”
It’s a good distraction. He just starts to talk, telling everything with added commentary, perhaps not focusing on physical injuries as much as he should. But Bones doesn’t comment, just keeps scanning and prodding as he listens. Then Jim’s relating Delta Vega and indigenous monsters chasing him, and he gets distracted by the little muscle ticking on the side of Bones’ clenched jaw. And suddenly he’s back in that cave, flashing to a scene he knows instinctively is an older version of McCoy. It doesn’t play out like a dream; it’s barely even a flash. But the facial expression is pure Bones, a more lined version of his barely-contained-panic face, annoyance mixed with fear and the beginnings of that set jaw that means he’s shouldering the crisis. What gets to Jim is the deluge of emotion that comes with the image; horror and pain that are all the more overwhelming for their lack of context. It’s not unlike being suddenly shoved off a cliff.
It’s gone as soon as it came, but it’s not the first such experience he’s had. Jim knows it’s a memory as well as he knows it isn’t his. He can’t stop the shiver that goes through him.
Bones freezes with the scanner somewhere midway down his torso and watches him carefully. “Jim?”
He hesitates. “What do you know about Vulcan mind melds?”
McCoy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been mind melding with the pointy-eared bastard who tried to kill you?”
“No, not Spock. Well, not our Spock anyway.”
“Our Spock,” Bones drawls incredulously, tone suggesting he’ll be examining Jim’s head more closely.
Jim launches into as best an explanation as he can give, realizing as he does that he’s wanted to talk about it since the moment the old Vulcan first called him by name. He tries to describe the meld, though he’s not sure he has the words. He has to settle for a lot of ‘falling’ and ‘intense’ and synonyms of the like. “It threw me for a loop,” he finally confesses. “I keep having what I suppose are flashbacks.”
“Flashbacks,” Bones says flatly.
He wants to joke about Bones parroting everything he says, but the severe look on his friend’s face makes him try to clarify instead. “Brief flashes. A couple of times.”
“And you consented to a meld?”
Jim blinks in confusion. “I didn’t say no, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you didn’t know what was happening.”
“So…that’s not informed consent?” Jim’s lips quirk a little at what he recognizes as protectiveness. It’s unnecessary; he doesn’t feel violated or anything. But he’s had the requisite psychology courses; he knows all the issues that crop up with telepathy. And the experience was certainly jarring, definitely more intimate than he might have expected. If circumstances were different, if the Vulcan in question hadn’t had a deep affection and respect for Jim, he could see where it could have veered towards unpleasantness. He says as much to Bones.
It earns him an almost comical look of absolute disbelief. “Affection? Respect?”
“Again, not our Spock.” He pauses, then adds softly, “And not his Jim.” He doesn’t look at Bones as he gives a humorless little smirk. “Apparently, James Kirk was a great man. You know, in that world.”
There’s another long moment peppered with a couple of barely murmured curses. Jim thinks he catches something fairly derogatory about Spock’s heritage and Romulans in general before McCoy finally says matter-of-factly, “Why would you expect otherwise?”
Jim looks up in surprise and meets his gaze. Bones is gazing at him intently. He knows that look; it means that while they may not go into it now, they’ll be revisiting this later. He shrugs a little and then tries to laugh it all off. “So…my brain’s not going to come leaking out of my ears or anything, right?”
Bones rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you a more advanced brain scan.”
“Oh, good. Just what I always wanted.”
The glare leveled his way makes him shut up. “Physically you should be fine. Of course, I don’t have experience with cases where transfer of intense emotion was an issue. You have someone on board who’s closer to an expert than me.”
Jim snorts. “Yeah, right. Can you imagine that conversation? ‘Hey Spock, buddy, can we talk about the function of emotion in Vulcan-to-human mind melds? Oh, no reason, just trying to relate to you on a more personal level.’”
“Leave out the ‘buddy’ part and you’ll be fine.” Bones backs out of his personal space a bit and gestures to his legs. “Pants, now.”
“What, you’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?” Jim fires back, mostly out of reflex and because Bones would probably worry more if he didn’t. He undoes the pants and slips out of them, well-practiced skills allowing him to stay on the table and accomplish it without too much pain. His legs are a mass of contusions and scrapes, much like the rest of him.
McCoy descends with the tricorder again. Jim ignores the state of his own body in favor of watching Bones. His friend has faint dark circles beginning beneath tired eyes. Though his movements are as sure as ever, they’re noticeably slower. “You should get some sleep, Doctor.”
McCoy snorts. “Pots and kettles, Captain.”
It’s true enough, so Jim doesn’t respond. He lies back and lets Bones work, more compliant than he usually is when being treated. Bones keeps glancing up as if to make sure he’s still conscious; Jim keeps giving him tired grins in response. There’s an amusement factor there since it just seems to make Bones more suspicious.
When Jim’s finally as well-mended as he can be (which is only after Bones has proven that he does not joke about brain scans), McCoy finally sets aside the machines and pronounces that he’ll live. “All right, Jim. Go get some rest.”
“I don’t have a bed.”
Jim watches as that computes, sees the ‘oh’ moment. Being Bones, he blusters on. “Well, you should be monitored anyway.” He starts glancing around the crowded bay. “I’m sure we can find-“
“Bones,” he states, and he was going for authoritative so he’s a little dismayed when it comes out like a plea. His voice practically cracks.
Bones falters, studying him for a long moment before he gives in. “I suppose I can stand you as a roommate for a little longer. I’ve barely seen my quarters, but I’m sure I can find you some small patch of floor.”
Jim just grins. They both know full well that Bones won’t make him sleep on the floor, not while he’s injured.
Bones just shakes his head. “Go on, then. At least leave me a little of the mattress.”
“You’re not coming.” The grin fades quickly into a frown. “You’re off-duty too, you know, even if I have to make it an order.”
Bones just waves a hand dismissively, which tells Jim how far orders will go in the medical bay and somehow doesn’t surprise him in the least. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up; I’ll be there soon enough. I’ll give you directions, I’m sure you can find your way.”
“I already know where it is.”
Bones doesn’t bother to look surprised. “Of course you do.”
“Hey, I am the Captain.”
oOo
McCoy’s quarters are significantly smaller than their dorm room. Jim blinks a few times and double checks the room numbering before he remembers that these quarters were assigned to a cadet on his first assignment rather than an acting CMO.
No matter; it’s got a bed and a little bathroom, and that’s all that matters to Jim at the moment. He drags his still aching body into the shower. Though it at least makes him feel cleaner, he longs for the hot pressure of actual water.
Finally, dressed in a too large shirt and boxers he had to solicit from the replicator, he crawls into bed. He stretches out on the left side of a mattress he expects is going to be a little small for comfort. He doesn’t dwell on it; he and Bones have shared a bed before, they’re close enough that he doesn’t worry about awkwardness. Besides, he’s too tired to feel awkward.
He’s past tired actually, well into exhausted, lying there and feeling a strange disconnection from his body. He tries to close his eyes and let himself drift off. But something makes him restless, makes him jerk back into awareness every few minutes.
He chose the left side of the bed because he knows Bones prefers the right; knows it took the man years to stop hugging the right side even in the small dorm beds he slept in alone. But by the time Jim’s tossed and turned a few times he’s on the right side, flopped carefully on his stomach with his head turned towards the viewport. It takes a while to register that he’s staring at the stars zipping past.
At some point he gives up, climbs out of bed despite his body’s protests and goes to lean against the wall beside the window, eyes still fixed on the stars.
He doesn’t bother to turn when he hears the door open some indeterminate amount of time later, though his lips quirk a little at Bones’ long-suffering sigh.
“Computer, lights at twenty percent.” Jim winces a bit as the lights come up, but he still doesn’t turn. “I believe I prescribed rest, not stargazing.”
Jim’s almost always up for a few rounds of banter with Bones, but his brain is failing him a little at the moment. “Tried,” he states simply.
There’s a beat of silence before Bones sighs again, this one more resigned concern. “You want a sedative?”
“Not particularly.” He will if he has to, because he’s no good to anyone in his current state. But he knows from experience that a sedative will take him completely out for an amount of time he can’t control. The still-unfamiliar weight of responsibility makes him balk at that.
The room is silent for a long moment before he hears Bones start to move around. Soon there’s a warm presence at his back, familiar enough that he has a strange urge to just lean back. He feels a hand on his back briefly before a thumb rubs over the taut muscles in the back of his neck. “C’mere, kid.”
“There should be some rule about referring to starship captains as ‘kid,’” Jim grouses, but he goes willingly as Bones tugs him back over to the bed and sits him down, pushing until he gives in and lies back down on his stomach.
“The title’s gone to your head awfully fast.” Jim opens his mouth to respond but lets out a choked gasp instead as McCoy uses the distraction to dig his fingers into the middle of Jim’s back. “Gone straight to your spine, too. Your knots have knots.”
“To be fair, those had started long before I took command,” Jim grinds out through clenched teeth. He gathers fistfuls of the sheet and squeezes, trying to keep himself from pushing Bones away. He knows it will feel better in a minute if he can tolerate the kneading that long. “You don’t have to coddle me, Bones. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.”
“But less injured,” Bones says pointedly.
“Sure, but I’ve got youthful energy on my side.”
“Watch it, kid.” He punctuates it with a poke to the side that makes Jim squirm. “I guarantee I could kick your ass right now.”
“Fighting words,” Jim says half-heartedly, but the pain is receding to a more tolerable level so he just lays still. He knows that despite all the bluster Bones takes comfort in the act of caretaking. If his part in that is to just lie still and be there, he’s happy to do it. He can’t deny that it helps to have the tension he can’t seem to let go physically worked out of him, leaving him relaxed and boneless.
He doesn’t notice until Bones lets up with the kneading, gentling the touch until it’s just a hand lying lightly on his shoulder. He probably thinks Jim is at least half-asleep. But Jim is actually becoming more alert again as it becomes obvious that McCoy’s fingers are trembling against him.
Human contact, Jim thinks again, and he reaches up to catch the hand before he can pull away. “I have doubts about the ass-kicking,” he states simply.
McCoy huffs. Someone who didn’t know him well might miss the shakiness in it. “Yeah, well. I guess you’d better behave then.”
Jim won’t let him brush it off, instead tightening his fingers around Bones’ as he asks softly, “How many?”
He feels McCoy tense, hears it reflected in the stiffening of his tone. “Are you asking for the official casualty report or the number who actually died under my hands?”
Jim shuts his eyes briefly. He already knows the casualty report. He shifts, rolling onto his back so he can face Bones. “How many did you save?”
Bones blinks at him, thrown by the twist in the question. “I…don’t know. Not an exact count.”
“Try to remember.”
“It’s kind of subjective, whether wounds would have become life-threatening or just debilitating and when…”
“Bones. I wasn’t going for technical.” He keeps the words light but his stare is much heavier as he tries to hold eye contact. He wants his friend thinking about the ones he could save rather than dwelling on the ones he couldn’t.
“I know,” McCoy admits. He dodges Jim’s gaze though, shifting to lie down beside him instead and staring at the ceiling.
It’s not that easy, of course. Even Jim can’t help thinking of their full sickbay and the number now occupying the morgue instead, and he hasn’t spent a good chunk of the day up to his elbows in blood and broken bodies. For him the more haunting image is all those broken ships around Vulcan coupled with the memory of everyone rushing to get their assignments earlier. All the people he used to see every day, a campus full of cadets…how many are still alive right now?
He imagines what would have happened if he’d been left behind, helpless on the ground, and he shudders. “Did I thank you for bringing me aboard?”
McCoy humphs noncommittally. “Did I thank you for not getting us all killed? ‘Cause that would have made me feel pretty stupid for bringing you aboard.”
Jim laughs. More than it probably deserves, but he can’t help it. It feels good. Well, good for his on-edge emotions, not so good for his ribs. Soon he’s gasping a pitiful “ow” between giggles as he wraps an arm around his middle.
Bones reaches over and gentles his grip. “Hey, be careful with the handiwork. I don’t want to have to explain why the Captain punctured a lung in my bed.”
That’s worthy of more giggles, but Jim quiets instead. He knows his eyes are shining as he looks over at Bones, who just used the title without sarcasm or teasing inflection. “Thanks,” he finally says softly, and trusts that Bones will know everything he’s grateful for.
“Somebody’s gotta look after you,” comes the affectionate grumble.
Jim stares over at him for a bit longer before training his own eyes on the ceiling as well. He yawns and settles further into the pillow. “Much as I’m enjoying this bonding, you should go shower.”
“Exactly what are you insinuating?”
“Who’s insinuating? You stink.” Bones lets out a snort of surprised laughter. Jim closes his eyes as his lips curl upwards. “What? I think we’re close enough to be honest.”
“That we are, kid,” he says, voice curiously tender and so soft it’s barely audible. Jim doesn’t open his eyes, letting the moment wash over them as he feels the mattress shift as Bones heads to the shower. He lets himself drift to the sounds of his friend puttering around, getting ready for bed.
He’s asleep enough by the time Bones climbs back in that instinct takes over and he unabashedly curls closer to the warmth before falling into a deep, restful sleep.
oOo
Author: philote_auctor
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters/Pairing: Kirk, McCoy (gen)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Star Trek do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don’t sue. Title is from Switchfoot’s “Gone;” please consider that disclaimed as well.
Warnings: Um...movie spoilers? Also, while I’m calling it gen, it depicts close friendship that could easily be considered pre-slash.
Author’s Notes: First Trek XI fic! (Shiny new fandom :) This is just a short little missing scene of sorts as I try to get a handle on the characters. New fandoms are always a bit intimidating, but one that sprung from such a huge universe is even more so. Feedback is welcome.
Summary: The ship has calmed down, but it isn’t so easy for her officers. Jim finally makes it down to Medical after the battle. (Missing scene fic)
oOo
He isn’t surprised when he finally makes it to the main medical bay to find McCoy still there. Jim pauses just inside the door and looks around. There are a lot of occupied beds-hardly any unoccupied, in fact-but things seem fairly calm now.
McCoy turns, eying him critically. Jim makes a conscious effort to stand up straighter, to smile and move without indication of pain as he steps towards his friend. Unfortunately the effort is wasted on Bones, who promptly narrows his gaze and puts down the PADD he’d been reading, replacing it with a tricorder.
“I’m okay, Bones,” he offers.
“Experience tells me your definition of ‘okay’ differs from mine,” comes the gruff reply as McCoy gestures meaningfully to an empty exam table.
Jim gives a resigned sigh, but he complies. This is why he wrapped up everything he could manage before coming down here; he’d known long before he walked through those doors that it would take Bones less than a minute to have him under a scanner.
He tries to pull himself up onto the table but pauses with a wince as his wrist protests. He doesn’t specifically remember injuring it, but he’s not that surprised. There are very few spots on his body that don’t hurt at the moment. Before he can shrug it aside McCoy reaches out and grabs him under the arms, giving him a boost. Jim sputters a little at the manhandling, mumbles something about not being ten years old, but he kind of envies his friend the strength and steadiness. Jim finds those qualities have been seeping from him rather quickly in the last few hours.
Bones waves the scanner over him in what Jim recognizes as a general, overall assessment. He must not find anything life-threatening because his scowl lessens from deep concern to irked worry. He starts complaining about injuries adding up and how Jim should have come sooner, that he has to move his health up the priority list, and it’s all so familiar that Jim smiles. It’s a genuine grin and it makes his face hurt, but he does it anyway.
Of course, his apparent lack of respect for the lecture irks McCoy further. “Strip,” he orders tersely.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the pretty patients.”
“Hate to break it to you kid, but somebody messed up your pretty.”
“’S okay,” Jim says as he winces and wrestles with his shirt. “I’ve got you to make me beautiful again.”
It earns him an amused snort and “I’m a doctor, not a cosmetologist.” But when he finally gets the shirt clear of his head he finds Bones watching his struggle carefully. When he steps forward again he’s still got the scanner in one hand but he starts using the other to physically poke, prod and palpate, more than Jim thinks is absolutely necessary.
He doesn’t complain. He suspects it has something to do with the human connection offered by the physical contact. It’s certainly having an effect on him. He catches himself leaning into the touch unconsciously, even the painful prods at his obvious bruising.
He’s had to appear self-assured and in control since he first stepped onto the Enterprise’s bridge. Sometimes he had the emotions to back it up, sometimes not so much. Either way, he hasn’t let his guard down. If he lets himself think about it, the enormity of everything that’s happened starts to drag him down like a wicked undercurrent. As the tension starts to seep away, he can feel his body reacting to the exhaustion and lack of adrenaline. It bothers him more that his emotions are reacting, too.
He can count on one hand the number of people who’ve seen him cry. Ironically, unless one counts the typical infant behavior, his mother is not one of them. Bones is. Apparently Jim has some deep-seated, powerful sense that he’s safe with Bones. Now it’s warring with his Captain façade, telling him to let go the carefully held control. And it’s winning. He can feel the slight tremors running under his skin, making his fingers tremble.
When McCoy breaks out a penlight and tries to check his pupils, Jim’s gaze skitters away from the eye contact. Bones grabs his chin to force it back but Jim resists, eyes seeking the wall past his friend’s ear.
But McCoy’s had a long day as well, and he’s apparently past his patience limit with uncooperative patients. “Damn it, Jim. If you don’t focus then I’m going to assume that you can’t, and then there’s gonna be a whole lot more scanning and testing and time off duty.”
Jim bites back the retort that springs to mind and just swallows hard as he forces his eyes to meet Bones’.
They share a long silent moment, Jim watching as righteous determination fades into pained understanding. McCoy swears softly and a hand comes to rest at the juncture of Jim’s neck and shoulder, heavy and warm and grounding. Jim drops his gaze again as he takes a deep breath. Bones squeezes his shoulder once before letting go. “Tell me what happened.”
It’s a good distraction. He just starts to talk, telling everything with added commentary, perhaps not focusing on physical injuries as much as he should. But Bones doesn’t comment, just keeps scanning and prodding as he listens. Then Jim’s relating Delta Vega and indigenous monsters chasing him, and he gets distracted by the little muscle ticking on the side of Bones’ clenched jaw. And suddenly he’s back in that cave, flashing to a scene he knows instinctively is an older version of McCoy. It doesn’t play out like a dream; it’s barely even a flash. But the facial expression is pure Bones, a more lined version of his barely-contained-panic face, annoyance mixed with fear and the beginnings of that set jaw that means he’s shouldering the crisis. What gets to Jim is the deluge of emotion that comes with the image; horror and pain that are all the more overwhelming for their lack of context. It’s not unlike being suddenly shoved off a cliff.
It’s gone as soon as it came, but it’s not the first such experience he’s had. Jim knows it’s a memory as well as he knows it isn’t his. He can’t stop the shiver that goes through him.
Bones freezes with the scanner somewhere midway down his torso and watches him carefully. “Jim?”
He hesitates. “What do you know about Vulcan mind melds?”
McCoy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been mind melding with the pointy-eared bastard who tried to kill you?”
“No, not Spock. Well, not our Spock anyway.”
“Our Spock,” Bones drawls incredulously, tone suggesting he’ll be examining Jim’s head more closely.
Jim launches into as best an explanation as he can give, realizing as he does that he’s wanted to talk about it since the moment the old Vulcan first called him by name. He tries to describe the meld, though he’s not sure he has the words. He has to settle for a lot of ‘falling’ and ‘intense’ and synonyms of the like. “It threw me for a loop,” he finally confesses. “I keep having what I suppose are flashbacks.”
“Flashbacks,” Bones says flatly.
He wants to joke about Bones parroting everything he says, but the severe look on his friend’s face makes him try to clarify instead. “Brief flashes. A couple of times.”
“And you consented to a meld?”
Jim blinks in confusion. “I didn’t say no, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you didn’t know what was happening.”
“So…that’s not informed consent?” Jim’s lips quirk a little at what he recognizes as protectiveness. It’s unnecessary; he doesn’t feel violated or anything. But he’s had the requisite psychology courses; he knows all the issues that crop up with telepathy. And the experience was certainly jarring, definitely more intimate than he might have expected. If circumstances were different, if the Vulcan in question hadn’t had a deep affection and respect for Jim, he could see where it could have veered towards unpleasantness. He says as much to Bones.
It earns him an almost comical look of absolute disbelief. “Affection? Respect?”
“Again, not our Spock.” He pauses, then adds softly, “And not his Jim.” He doesn’t look at Bones as he gives a humorless little smirk. “Apparently, James Kirk was a great man. You know, in that world.”
There’s another long moment peppered with a couple of barely murmured curses. Jim thinks he catches something fairly derogatory about Spock’s heritage and Romulans in general before McCoy finally says matter-of-factly, “Why would you expect otherwise?”
Jim looks up in surprise and meets his gaze. Bones is gazing at him intently. He knows that look; it means that while they may not go into it now, they’ll be revisiting this later. He shrugs a little and then tries to laugh it all off. “So…my brain’s not going to come leaking out of my ears or anything, right?”
Bones rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you a more advanced brain scan.”
“Oh, good. Just what I always wanted.”
The glare leveled his way makes him shut up. “Physically you should be fine. Of course, I don’t have experience with cases where transfer of intense emotion was an issue. You have someone on board who’s closer to an expert than me.”
Jim snorts. “Yeah, right. Can you imagine that conversation? ‘Hey Spock, buddy, can we talk about the function of emotion in Vulcan-to-human mind melds? Oh, no reason, just trying to relate to you on a more personal level.’”
“Leave out the ‘buddy’ part and you’ll be fine.” Bones backs out of his personal space a bit and gestures to his legs. “Pants, now.”
“What, you’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?” Jim fires back, mostly out of reflex and because Bones would probably worry more if he didn’t. He undoes the pants and slips out of them, well-practiced skills allowing him to stay on the table and accomplish it without too much pain. His legs are a mass of contusions and scrapes, much like the rest of him.
McCoy descends with the tricorder again. Jim ignores the state of his own body in favor of watching Bones. His friend has faint dark circles beginning beneath tired eyes. Though his movements are as sure as ever, they’re noticeably slower. “You should get some sleep, Doctor.”
McCoy snorts. “Pots and kettles, Captain.”
It’s true enough, so Jim doesn’t respond. He lies back and lets Bones work, more compliant than he usually is when being treated. Bones keeps glancing up as if to make sure he’s still conscious; Jim keeps giving him tired grins in response. There’s an amusement factor there since it just seems to make Bones more suspicious.
When Jim’s finally as well-mended as he can be (which is only after Bones has proven that he does not joke about brain scans), McCoy finally sets aside the machines and pronounces that he’ll live. “All right, Jim. Go get some rest.”
“I don’t have a bed.”
Jim watches as that computes, sees the ‘oh’ moment. Being Bones, he blusters on. “Well, you should be monitored anyway.” He starts glancing around the crowded bay. “I’m sure we can find-“
“Bones,” he states, and he was going for authoritative so he’s a little dismayed when it comes out like a plea. His voice practically cracks.
Bones falters, studying him for a long moment before he gives in. “I suppose I can stand you as a roommate for a little longer. I’ve barely seen my quarters, but I’m sure I can find you some small patch of floor.”
Jim just grins. They both know full well that Bones won’t make him sleep on the floor, not while he’s injured.
Bones just shakes his head. “Go on, then. At least leave me a little of the mattress.”
“You’re not coming.” The grin fades quickly into a frown. “You’re off-duty too, you know, even if I have to make it an order.”
Bones just waves a hand dismissively, which tells Jim how far orders will go in the medical bay and somehow doesn’t surprise him in the least. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up; I’ll be there soon enough. I’ll give you directions, I’m sure you can find your way.”
“I already know where it is.”
Bones doesn’t bother to look surprised. “Of course you do.”
“Hey, I am the Captain.”
oOo
McCoy’s quarters are significantly smaller than their dorm room. Jim blinks a few times and double checks the room numbering before he remembers that these quarters were assigned to a cadet on his first assignment rather than an acting CMO.
No matter; it’s got a bed and a little bathroom, and that’s all that matters to Jim at the moment. He drags his still aching body into the shower. Though it at least makes him feel cleaner, he longs for the hot pressure of actual water.
Finally, dressed in a too large shirt and boxers he had to solicit from the replicator, he crawls into bed. He stretches out on the left side of a mattress he expects is going to be a little small for comfort. He doesn’t dwell on it; he and Bones have shared a bed before, they’re close enough that he doesn’t worry about awkwardness. Besides, he’s too tired to feel awkward.
He’s past tired actually, well into exhausted, lying there and feeling a strange disconnection from his body. He tries to close his eyes and let himself drift off. But something makes him restless, makes him jerk back into awareness every few minutes.
He chose the left side of the bed because he knows Bones prefers the right; knows it took the man years to stop hugging the right side even in the small dorm beds he slept in alone. But by the time Jim’s tossed and turned a few times he’s on the right side, flopped carefully on his stomach with his head turned towards the viewport. It takes a while to register that he’s staring at the stars zipping past.
At some point he gives up, climbs out of bed despite his body’s protests and goes to lean against the wall beside the window, eyes still fixed on the stars.
He doesn’t bother to turn when he hears the door open some indeterminate amount of time later, though his lips quirk a little at Bones’ long-suffering sigh.
“Computer, lights at twenty percent.” Jim winces a bit as the lights come up, but he still doesn’t turn. “I believe I prescribed rest, not stargazing.”
Jim’s almost always up for a few rounds of banter with Bones, but his brain is failing him a little at the moment. “Tried,” he states simply.
There’s a beat of silence before Bones sighs again, this one more resigned concern. “You want a sedative?”
“Not particularly.” He will if he has to, because he’s no good to anyone in his current state. But he knows from experience that a sedative will take him completely out for an amount of time he can’t control. The still-unfamiliar weight of responsibility makes him balk at that.
The room is silent for a long moment before he hears Bones start to move around. Soon there’s a warm presence at his back, familiar enough that he has a strange urge to just lean back. He feels a hand on his back briefly before a thumb rubs over the taut muscles in the back of his neck. “C’mere, kid.”
“There should be some rule about referring to starship captains as ‘kid,’” Jim grouses, but he goes willingly as Bones tugs him back over to the bed and sits him down, pushing until he gives in and lies back down on his stomach.
“The title’s gone to your head awfully fast.” Jim opens his mouth to respond but lets out a choked gasp instead as McCoy uses the distraction to dig his fingers into the middle of Jim’s back. “Gone straight to your spine, too. Your knots have knots.”
“To be fair, those had started long before I took command,” Jim grinds out through clenched teeth. He gathers fistfuls of the sheet and squeezes, trying to keep himself from pushing Bones away. He knows it will feel better in a minute if he can tolerate the kneading that long. “You don’t have to coddle me, Bones. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.”
“But less injured,” Bones says pointedly.
“Sure, but I’ve got youthful energy on my side.”
“Watch it, kid.” He punctuates it with a poke to the side that makes Jim squirm. “I guarantee I could kick your ass right now.”
“Fighting words,” Jim says half-heartedly, but the pain is receding to a more tolerable level so he just lays still. He knows that despite all the bluster Bones takes comfort in the act of caretaking. If his part in that is to just lie still and be there, he’s happy to do it. He can’t deny that it helps to have the tension he can’t seem to let go physically worked out of him, leaving him relaxed and boneless.
He doesn’t notice until Bones lets up with the kneading, gentling the touch until it’s just a hand lying lightly on his shoulder. He probably thinks Jim is at least half-asleep. But Jim is actually becoming more alert again as it becomes obvious that McCoy’s fingers are trembling against him.
Human contact, Jim thinks again, and he reaches up to catch the hand before he can pull away. “I have doubts about the ass-kicking,” he states simply.
McCoy huffs. Someone who didn’t know him well might miss the shakiness in it. “Yeah, well. I guess you’d better behave then.”
Jim won’t let him brush it off, instead tightening his fingers around Bones’ as he asks softly, “How many?”
He feels McCoy tense, hears it reflected in the stiffening of his tone. “Are you asking for the official casualty report or the number who actually died under my hands?”
Jim shuts his eyes briefly. He already knows the casualty report. He shifts, rolling onto his back so he can face Bones. “How many did you save?”
Bones blinks at him, thrown by the twist in the question. “I…don’t know. Not an exact count.”
“Try to remember.”
“It’s kind of subjective, whether wounds would have become life-threatening or just debilitating and when…”
“Bones. I wasn’t going for technical.” He keeps the words light but his stare is much heavier as he tries to hold eye contact. He wants his friend thinking about the ones he could save rather than dwelling on the ones he couldn’t.
“I know,” McCoy admits. He dodges Jim’s gaze though, shifting to lie down beside him instead and staring at the ceiling.
It’s not that easy, of course. Even Jim can’t help thinking of their full sickbay and the number now occupying the morgue instead, and he hasn’t spent a good chunk of the day up to his elbows in blood and broken bodies. For him the more haunting image is all those broken ships around Vulcan coupled with the memory of everyone rushing to get their assignments earlier. All the people he used to see every day, a campus full of cadets…how many are still alive right now?
He imagines what would have happened if he’d been left behind, helpless on the ground, and he shudders. “Did I thank you for bringing me aboard?”
McCoy humphs noncommittally. “Did I thank you for not getting us all killed? ‘Cause that would have made me feel pretty stupid for bringing you aboard.”
Jim laughs. More than it probably deserves, but he can’t help it. It feels good. Well, good for his on-edge emotions, not so good for his ribs. Soon he’s gasping a pitiful “ow” between giggles as he wraps an arm around his middle.
Bones reaches over and gentles his grip. “Hey, be careful with the handiwork. I don’t want to have to explain why the Captain punctured a lung in my bed.”
That’s worthy of more giggles, but Jim quiets instead. He knows his eyes are shining as he looks over at Bones, who just used the title without sarcasm or teasing inflection. “Thanks,” he finally says softly, and trusts that Bones will know everything he’s grateful for.
“Somebody’s gotta look after you,” comes the affectionate grumble.
Jim stares over at him for a bit longer before training his own eyes on the ceiling as well. He yawns and settles further into the pillow. “Much as I’m enjoying this bonding, you should go shower.”
“Exactly what are you insinuating?”
“Who’s insinuating? You stink.” Bones lets out a snort of surprised laughter. Jim closes his eyes as his lips curl upwards. “What? I think we’re close enough to be honest.”
“That we are, kid,” he says, voice curiously tender and so soft it’s barely audible. Jim doesn’t open his eyes, letting the moment wash over them as he feels the mattress shift as Bones heads to the shower. He lets himself drift to the sounds of his friend puttering around, getting ready for bed.
He’s asleep enough by the time Bones climbs back in that instinct takes over and he unabashedly curls closer to the warmth before falling into a deep, restful sleep.
oOo