idk where this is going
Day One
“We have to go back,” Jim demands, a fraction away from grabbing Spock by the shoulders and shaking the white knuckled life out of him.
“Captain, we cannot afford any more-“
“He’s my CMO, goddamnit, we do not leave him behind!”
Spock’s gaze flickers with knowing.
“While I understand your personal attachment to the doctor, sir, there is something you-“ Jim’s fist connects with slick white metal. Spock blinks, serene, infuriating. Heaving a sigh and squeezing his eyes shut, Jim stills, ignoring the dull ache in his hand.
“How much time can we afford?” he utters, like there’s any answer besides none. He hates Spock in that moment, for his hesitation and his fucking logic and everything else that makes Jim feel irrational in comparison.
“Three hours, sir. Four at the most.”
Jim says Go like Spock needs to hear it, and the man simply nods and turns sharply on his heel, because Jim’s tone is too close to pleading for his own comfort.
--
Four turns into five and five turns into day two, because everything hits the fan the moment Jim doubts. He chokes down his fear and keeps looking, anyway.
When they beam back down to the planet in hazmat suits, Spock and Sulu walk with uneasy disbelief, and Jim sprints with his heartbeat in his ears.
--
“It must be malfunctioning.”
“Captain, the readings clearly show no-“
“I said, it must be malfunctioning.”
--
Day Five
Jim hasn’t left the helm in roughly forty-seven hours, hasn’t eaten in more and hasn’t slept since forever. They contact every village, every nearby starbase, asking if they’ve seen the man with the blue uniform and permanent frown. No one has.
His consciousness bleeds days seven and eight together, and he can’t remember the last time he’s blinked when Uhura of all people is touching his shoulder and threatening ship-wide mutiny if Jim doesn’t go to sleep right the fuck now. His head snaps up and he’s about to get mean, when Spock pinches him into fitful darkness.
Jim wakes up like a gunshot. His eyes slam open and he pitches forward to catch his breath, blinking sweat from his eyelashes and rubbing his chest to stop his heart from pounding.
Nightmare, he thinks, just a nightmare. He’s right beside me, about to wake up and grumble and tell me to go back to sleep. For a moment, Jim grins at his own silliness, shuts his eyes and hears steady, even breathing. He turns to place his hand on Bones’ arm.
His fingers sink through empty air and all at once, the memory of one vacant transporter target and gut-clenching panic rips through his vision. The space in bed next to him is blindingly unoccupied. There is, however, an empty and unwashed shot glass sitting on the nightstand, lip prints still visible.
Jim throws up bile until there’s nothing left but a raw throat and burning eyes.
--
keep? continue? toss into a fiery pit of "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING"?