Fic: Eternity Waits for No One (Star Trek AOS, AU, Kirk/McCoy, PG-13, 3/4)
Title: Eternity Waits for No One
Author: sail_aweigh
Fandom Star Trek AOS
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Kirk/McCoy, Spock, Chapel
Rating: PG-13 for now, cussing, explicit surgery with gore in later chapters, could be some sexyteims in the last (unwritten) chapter. Don't worry, this fic will be finished.
Word count: Third chapter - 6141 (18.8k so far). Anticipate completed between 22-25k.
Summary: Leonard McCoy doesn't like revolving doors, but The Doorman doesn't give him any choice. Or does he?
Author's note: based on following prompt for space_wrapped: McCoy has recently relocated to the Big Apple, and even surrounded by millions of people the breathtaking skyline view from his penthouse apartment leaves him feeling empty and alone. Fortunately the apartment's doorman, Jim Kirk, is a chatty sunovabitch and does his part to make McCoy's first big city Christmas a little more homey. Oh, and I don't own any of the characters, just borrowing them to torture play with them. Unfortunately, with everyone off having fun for Christmas, this chapter has not been through beta.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Jim jerked his head up from where it was smashed into the pillow, a small puddle of drool by the corner of his mouth. The sun was coming in the window much too loudly for the state of his hangover. It was totally unfair that as a semi-immortal being, he was still subject to them. He pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. Fuck, he needed some aspirin.
Rolling off the sofa, he stumbled to his feet and looked around the room with bleary eyes. It wasn't just the sunlight coming in the windows that made his head pound, it was the amplification of all that light reflected off what looked like half the tinsel in the northern hemisphere that had been draped over the Christmas tree in the corner. Despite the pain in his head and his watering eyes (from the hangover?), he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight of a huge stack of presents under the tree.
This was a huge change from the last two times he'd woken up here. Decorations abounded: beribboned garlands hung around the doors, a variety of poinsettias (white, pink, and red) were scattered around the room--on the sideboard (the wet bar had disappeared) and end tables, family pictures adorned the walls, colorful paintings had replaced the stark black and white skylines. The mahogany leather sofa had been replaced with a generous sized sectional positioned in a u-shape, its dark blue microsuede upholstery complemented with pillows in shades of pink, from the palest sunrise to a vibrant shocking pink. A wedding ring quilt in shades of blue and pink on a cream background laid over the back of the sofa, the edging a little frayed from long use.
After a side trip to the bathroom to scavenge the medicine cabinet for a painkiller, Jim shuffled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It looked to him like the doc had finally taken all his second chances to heart. He was glad of that; somebody should get their dearest wishes granted. It didn't look like McCoy would need the services of The Doorman anymore.
The thought made Jim sad. He had enjoyed his little tussles with the cranky doctor. The contact had called to something inside him that had been solitary and aching for the longest time. He couldn't describe exactly what it was, but he had lived this long without it, he would continue to do so; it was better that way, he was sure of it. Jim thought it had something to do with the fact that he instinctively knew that if he sent McCoy on one more trip, it would ruin all his good work and tear something inside Jim that would never recover. He'd taken on the role of Doorman to fix things, not break them; even if it meant Jim stayed broken for eternity. The thought made his chest ache and he rubbed his hand up and down his sternum; the movement both comforting and confusing at the same time.
Jim carried the rest of the glass of water back to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He was pretty sure he didn't need to examine McCoy's dossier to see that all the cracks that had fractured his equilibrium had been mended in one way or the other. Still, he was curious to see how the man was doing now. Was he happily married with children; it looked like it from the family pictures scattered around the penthouse.
Flipping the file open, he scanned the pictures inside quickly. There was the same gorgeous woman from before in many of the pictures, along with a child--a little girl it became evident from the ballet-skirted Halloween photos--who grew quickly from baby to toddler to a freckle-faced urchin (seven or eight-years old, maybe second-grader?) And in every picture that had him, was a smiling, joyous McCoy.
Jim wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well-down, but it just made the ache in his chest worse. What was he missing?
He delved into the narrative of the file. Oh, there it was; the divorce decree for Jocelyn and Leonard McCoy. The sense of relief Jim felt surprised him, because in most cases it meant his job wasn't done. But right this minute, he felt that to meddle in McCoy's life any further might undo all the good he'd done so far. Should he chance it?
The ache in his chest waxed and waned as he vacillated over the decision, before he decided at last that McCoy had reached the pinnacle of redemption as required by Jim's office. Pain in his chest nearly made Jim bend over double, but he didn't back down on his decision; McCoy's path had been set straight. Oblivion had been circumvented, and for that, Jim was fiercely proud, no matter what it meant for him personally. Which it shouldn't; The Doorman must remain aloof and impartial in the performance of his office, feeling for the target shouldn't enter into it.
Despite knowing that, Jim decided he'd risk one more visit. Just to see that McCoy was happy in his new sphere of existence. It couldn't hurt, could it? McCoy's life was headed where it needed to go, and he wasn't going to interfere in any way. The thought made the ache in his chest ease. Yes, it was the right thing to do.
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December 24th
Leonard looked out the window of the cab, eager to see the front driveway of the Enterprise come into view. He'd had the penthouse for a couple of months, now, but hadn't had time to actually come and visit it yet. The decorator he'd hired had sent him pictures of the new residence and he was very pleased. Leonard had asked that everything be child friendly, yet something adults would be comfortable with, too. The color scheme had surprised him, but the blues, pinks, and cream had made a striking impression without looking too one thing or the other. The added touch of his parents' quilt over the back of the sofa made his throat tighten a little. That one remnant of his earlier life had been with him through thick and thin; sometimes he thought it was the only thing that had tied him to this world.
As the cab pulled up to the stairs in front of the tower, Leonard could see a figure standing off to one side in scruffy jeans, a threadbare sweatshirt with holes in the neckline, hightops with the laces hanging loose, and a beat up leather bomber jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, but Leonard couldn't place him. Probably some kid looking for a handout from the well-to-do residents. Leonard was surprised the doorman hadn't run him off yet, but there didn't appear to be one in attendance at the moment. No matter, if he saw the same kid around later, he'd mention it to Mr. Spock; the manager was very efficient. Maybe give it a while, though, the weather was absolutely miserable and the kid looked like he could use a good meal.
Taking his time to pull on his scarf and gloves against the biting wind he could see tossing around the branches of ice covered trees, Leonard was surprised when the door by his passenger seat opened up, since the doorman had appeared to be busy elsewhere. He stepped out of the car and straightened up to look around, absently noting that the panhandler had done a bunk. Relieved that he wouldn't have to make a complaint, he wasn't a cruel man, Leonard was taken aback when he turned to face the figure waiting for him on the other side of the car door. If this was the doorman, he had materialized as if by magic.
Leonard paused a moment to examine the totally outlandish uniform (costume?) the doorman wore: a mismatched plaid patchwork coat and striped pants in varying shades of brown along with an extraordinarily long color-blocked scarf that nearly obscured a large gold pendant in the shape of a question mark. Furthering his observations, he took note of dark blonde hair that shone in the sun, the brightest blue eyes Leonard had ever seen (even Joce's, when he was still completely infatuated with her, had never seemed that blue to him) that seemed to look straight through him, and a somber face that held the saddest smile seen since Rick said good-bye to Ilsa in Casablanca. Something about the costumed character almost made him want to get back in the cab and be driven far, far away.
Leonard had learned the hard way not one to turn tail and run, so instead he stepped away from the door and went to stand in front of the only person who could be the doorman at this moment, even if he did look like a figure from a children's show.
"Would you have someone take my luggage up to my penthouse, please? And tell them to be careful, there are gifts in there that are fragile." Aunt May loved Lladro, and even though each figurine had its own intricately constructed packing box (the boxes were collectibles in their own right) he'd chosen to carry them himself; he wanted no disappointments this Christmas. Leonard reached into his pocket and pulled out his money clip to peel off a couple of five dollar bills when his hand was stayed by the doorman.
"No need, Dr. McCoy. The Doorman doesn't require tipping." Something in the tone of the voice made him catch his breath. It wasn't just a characteristic (sexy, don't go there) rasp of the doorman's voice, it was as if the throat that made the sound was so dry from crying that it was scraped raw.
Leonard shook off the momentary fancy after the words caught up to him. He snorted, "Do you always talk about yourself in the third person? Bit pretentious, isn't it?"
"Comes with the trade," came the reply. "The Doorman doesn't have much choice; it's part of the gig." The doorman's voice was starting to take on a lighter tone, like he had a secret that he was dying to share.
"So, you're saying the moniker is bestowed upon you like a royal title? Should I be calling you Sir Doorman?" Leonard gave a little chuckle at his own joke.
"No, just The Doorman. Like, The Doctor?" The Doorman's voice took on a hopeful note this time.
Leonard snapped his fingers. "That's what your uniform looks like! You're all dressed up like Doctor Who. What, the Sixth Doctor?" he said after cocking his head and giving The Doorman another once over.
The Doorman's mouth stretched out into a wide smile of approval. "Yes, mostly. With a little bit of the Fourth Doctor thrown in for good measure." He smoothed his hand over the long, trailing scarf.
"Of course; now I see. The Fourth Doctor is my daughter's favorite. Mine, too." Leonard nodded his head. Something still set him a little bit on edge, though. He scrunched his face up in concentration as he tried to pinpoint whatever was causing the niggling sense of unease. Leonard put a hand to his mouth, running through his recent memories trying to find the specific trigger.
The Doorman seemed to sense something had set Leonard's early warning system into high alert and he backed away towards the entrance of the tower. It made him study the man even closer, the smile was starting to twitch at the corners, taking on a nervous edge.
"Why don't you let me show you to the lobby, Dr. McCoy. The concierge will get you up and settled in the comfort of your suite in a jiffy." He shuffled his feet a little, bobbing his head toward the front entrance, which, honestly, Leonard was a little surprised to see was something as mundane as a revolving door.
"Sure. But, here, even if you don't want a tip, give this to the kid that was standing out front earlier if you see him again. Looked like he could use it." Leonard pressed the two bills into The Doorman's hand, feeling like it might be a wasted gesture, but not really caring.
The Doorman looked at the bills in his hand, then crumpled them tight. He coughed, "Yeah, Jim would like that." Gesturing towards the door, Leonard's guide continued, "If you'll follow me, Dr. McCoy."
They'd gone about half a dozen paces when Leonard stumbled, feeling a little dizzy. "Wait up," he said to The Doorman's back. He shook his head at the buzzing that had started inside it, his ears ringing with a high-pitched squeal. "Something's wrong. My head is splitting."
The Doorman turned back toward him and Leonard saw that his eyes had widened in alarm. To Leonard's consternation, rather than come forward and lend him assistance, The Doorman started backing away from him. He could hear him muttering, "Wrong, this is all wrong. This isn't me."
Leonard went down on his knees in pain, holding his head between clenched fists. This was all so terribly familiar. He grit his teeth as memories speared their way into his consciousness like a Cro Magnon skewering an aurochs. The recollections started coming thick and fast. Christ, it was that annoying, meddling, crack-brained, devastatingly handsome (what? no!), idiot who called himself The Doorman.
Struggling back up to his feet, Leonard pointed a trembling finger at the jack-ass who'd been fucking with him for the past two days (was it more, how would he know?) "You! I don't know what you've been doing to me, but I want it to stop right now!"
The Doorman held his hands up in front of him with his fingers spread in denial. "I stopped, I stopped! I just wanted to see you one more time. This isn't my fault."
"What do you mean not your fault, it sure as hell was!" Leonard snarled in anger. Yank him around like a child's pull toy, drag him through the dirt, and then say he didn't mean it? Not on.
"Those then, yes, but not this one!" The Doorman pointed at something behind Leonard and Leonard (gullible dumbass that he was) turned to look. His eyes widened in fear at the sight that loomed in front of him.
It was a black and white tunnel, its parallel lines swirled and pulsed in an optical illusion that made it look like they projected into an infinite distance. The maw grew closer and closer; in seconds it would be engulfing Leonard and who knew where this one was going to take him. In fact, it felt like it was sucking him in. He could feel his hair start to tickle his forehead where it was being dragged forward, the flaps of his coat were fluttering toward it, too. The high-pitched squealing had started again, this time in an audible tone that bounced off the glass and metal surfaces around them, a deafening clangor that sent shivers through Leonard's bones. Leonard started to overbalance as the suction grew stronger, his feet actually lifting off the ground. Over the machine's whine, he didn't even notice the sound of feet pounding the pavement behind him before strong arms wrapped around his waist.
"Noooo, not the void!" The Doorman's cry was so desolate that it ripped a sympathetic sob right out of Leonard's chest. He clutched the patchwork coat tight to him; he knew they could not be separated.
They flew…
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...and Leonard jolted awake in his camp bed, heart pounding a mile a minute, sweat pouring off him to make the sheets, already damp from the tropical humidity, even soggier. He shook his head to clear it of the extraordinary dream (nightmare? memory? he couldn't keep track anymore) he'd found himself immersed in. What had woken him up?
He turned his head to see one of the orderlies standing in the door to his hooch. "Commander McCoy, we've got incoming. We need you in the O.R."
Rolling himself up to sitting, Leonard swung his legs around and hunched over the side of the bed, placing his head in his hands. He rested there for a moment, letting the fog of sleep clear out so he could think. The manner of address felt familiar, but not familiar. Commander? When had he joined the Navy?
Leonard cleared his throat. "Yeah, got it. Be there in a tick." The orderly turned, moving along to the next hooch, leaving Leonard to his chaotic thoughts. He stuffed them down for the moment, while he scanned his living area for clues to where he could find clean clothes. At least a clean tee-shirt, the one he was wearing was soaked.
He spotted a steamer trunk sitting at the foot of the bed and hoped it held clothes as he didn't see anything else in the cramped quarters that might. Striding around the bed to where it sat, he lifted the lid and was relieved to see he had guessed correctly. Leonard stripped off his dirty shirt when he spotted some dingy tees sitting on top of other, more formal clothes underneath. There were short sleeved khaki shirts with silver oak leaves pinned to the collars, similarly colored pants and socks. Lots of socks with holes in them; guessed it was pretty hard to get new socks so far from civilization. Which was how far?
Leonard shrugged into the clean tee, put on the black boots he found sitting under the edge of the bed and stepped outside into the smothering heat. More men were coming out of similar hooches to either side of his; all seemed to be moving in the same direction, the O.R. he surmised.
One of the men, dark skinned and a flashing white smile, waved him over. "C'mon McCoy, got wounded to save. Gonna need your talents."
"Yours, too...M'Benga." He almost panicked that he wouldn't know the man's name, but it drifted up out of his subconscious like dandelion fluff on the wind. So tenuous, he wasn't sure he'd know what to do or how to help. More memories came with the surgeons name in a slow trickle of information.
Charlie Company, 3rd Medical Battalion. Danang. Viet Nam.
This wasn't his life or anything he recognized from his past; what the hell was he doing here? If he could find The Doorman. Christ, The Doorman. Where was that bastard? They'd come through that...thing...together. Why wasn't he here, too?
Leonard stepped up his pace along with everyone else as they heard the sound of helicopter rotors beating their way through the thick air. The road he was on led to a flimsy looking structure with ragged canvas sides and a corrugated tin roof. Come to think of it, the same could be said of many of the buildings in the compound; this one was just larger in magnitude. This was obviously the focal point of all the energy surrounding him.
Taking a deep breath, he ducked into the medical tent along with M'Benga and a few of the other officers. He just hoped he acquitted himself well and didn't fuck anybody over with his lack of experience in battlefield trauma surgery. Leonard followed M'Benga and one other surgeon into the wash room to scrub up. It wasn't his first time at the table and he'd taken his share of shifts in the ER during his residency, should be like falling off a log, right?
Six hours and two patients later, wrist deep in the current kid's (so young) guts, calling out orders to the assisting nurse (Chapel, the dandelion fluff offered), Leonard could say the log had still been in the crown of the tree when he stepped off. He'd had to call on body memory to take over for him, and fortunately for these jarheads, it answered. The sheer number of improvisations required to put them back together amazed him. So many techniques he'd never dreamed of, not as a neurologist (or as a plastic surgeon whispered the faint voice that grew louder with every prompt) who only saw shaved heads above sheet-covered bodies.
Thank heavens they hadn't placed him in the triage anti-chamber. The things those doctors did were so far removed from what he would have ever considered in the typical civilian hospital setting as to be something you'd find on Mars. Both groins opened up, saphenous veins cannulated with IV tubing, forget the needles. Some of these kids had had up to twenty pints of blood pumped into them or they would have bled out before they got to his table.
The young man currently residing there had one knee and tibia totally torn apart, but it was the gut wound that was killing him if he couldn't get all the bleeders closed and the intestine resected. He didn't have enough hands for this and there weren't enough surgeons to assist.
"Get me another ten units at table two, dammit!" he hollered out to any of the available orderlies standing around the edge of the room.
"Type?" came the crisp retort.
Leonard glanced at the current bag fastened to one end of the table. "A neg." Knowing that the blood was coming, he bent his entire attention to the minutiae of tying off all the small open blood vessels that were siphoning away the marine's life. As long as the kid was still breathing, he would keep working and then some; the man (this particular man, why?) deserved his full attention more than any of them.
That thought kept niggling at him, ate at him the rest of the time he was working on the marine. Back when he'd dropped his sight from the IV bag and bent over the hemorrhaging abdomen in front of him, his sight had naturally passed over the patient's face. Something about it was familiar. Leonard kept stealing little glances at the features under the anesthesia mask, but they were heavily obscured and indistinct. He forced himself to shake it off; he'd be no good for this kid with his concentration split over something so trivial. Later; he could check up on him later, in the combined ICU/recovery room.
The rest of the day followed the same pattern, until the last of the wounded had been wheeled into recovery. They would remain there until deemed stable enough to be moved to a regular ward tent. If their recovery was anticipated to take longer than 120 days, they'd be shipped back stateside. In most cases, the patient would be go back to the front (as if it was a simple line in the sand, what with an enemy that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere like a jack in the box), in what probably seemed to them, less than no time.
When the last patient had been wheeled away by an orderly, Leonard went into the scrub room to remove his operating gown and clean up. It was probably the most exhausting day he'd ever spent in surgery, but it had also been the most exhilarating. If he didn't love neurology so much, he might consider changing his specialty when he got back, if he got back.
That damn Doorman. He was genuinely starting to worry. This had been the longest amount of time he'd been trapped in one of these alternate realities, or whatever you could call them. It seemed that every time before he'd had to make sort of choice that altered his life. But this wasn't his life. Whatever had happened here, happened before he was even born. Leonard put those thoughts away for later contemplation; he couldn't let them interfere with his current duties.
Despite his earlier mid-morning nap--sleep was catch as catch can--and his current exhaustion, he wasn't ready to turn in. Nor could he yet, even if he wanted. Leonard still needed to make rounds of his patients to make sure they were stable and ready to be moved from recovery to a regular ward. Particularly the kid whose innards he'd put back together. Turned out M'Benga was an orthopedic surgeon and took over for Leonard when it came time to put Humpty Dumpty's leg back together.
That particular marine fascinated him for some reason. Under all the blood and gore that there hadn't been time to clean off before the operation (the higher priority was saving his life, they'd washed only what was needed in order to keep the wounds clean), he could see the smooth lines of long, lithe limbs, heavily muscled shoulders that narrowed down to a slender waist, and a very enviable six pack. The kid was probably twenty pounds underweight, but that was par for the course out here. This instinctive attraction puzzled him and he wouldn't rest until he'd got a better look at the kid and slaked his curiosity.
Leonard put on a new sterile gown and headed over to the recovery room. He could see a couple of the other surgeons making rounds, scanning charts, touching shoulders in comfort, sometimes sitting down with the patient to add extra reassurance. Most of the young men were barely recognizable, now that they'd been cleaned up post-op and dressed in hospital gowns. Starting at one end of the first row, he picked up the chart and started reading. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get out and get some chow and then some sleep, he hoped.
When he picked up the last of his charts, Leonard realized by some stroke of luck this was the one marine he couldn't keep out of his thoughts. He read it over avidly for the personal information that had been irrelevant when he was wrist deep in the kid's abdomen.
His attention was drawn immediately to the name at the top of the record: James T. Kirk; it resonated with him. Probably nick-named Jim. Common name, Jim. Like that kid that was panhandling outside the Enterprise. Leonard shook his head; that was nothing more than coincidence, wasn't it?
Reading on, he saw that Jim (had to be) was a captain, twenty-six years old, Jewish, with his home of record listed as Riverside, Iowa. Emergency contact--Winona Kirk, mother. One allergy--to peanuts. Having gleaned everything he could, Leonard finally turned his scrutiny to the physical features that were available to him while his patient was unconscious. His record listed him as 6'1", 180 pounds (not anymore), blonde hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks. He could verify the hair color, even as short as it was cropped around the ears. The eyes were still hidden in sleep, but Leonard could clearly see them (The Doorman had the most striking eyes) in his imagination. The wait until he could confirm it was going to be agonizing.
Leonard was about to put the chart down when Jim (no other name would do) started to twitch and roll his head from side to side. Looked like he was coming out of the anesthetic about on time. Leonard would have worried if it had been any longer. He waited in anticipation for those gorgeous blue eyes to open.
The patient, Jim, he was going to call him that regardless, groaned and gave a pained cough, making the dry throat left behind by the anesthetic evident. Leonard looked down at the small wooden table by the side of the bed. A pitcher of water sat there, with a stack of paper cups. He picked one up and poured less than a quarter of an inch in the bottom. Sliding his arm under Jim's head, he lifted it up and held the cup to the dry, cracked lips.
"Can you hear me?" Leonard asked quietly.
A few blinks of sleepy eyes indicated understanding, so Leonard starting speaking softly to the patient.
"I've got some water here. Take small sips, just wet your lips. I had to resection your small intestine and it will take a while before you'll be allowed to have any significant amount of fluids. Can you do that?" Leonard gave the instructions slowly, waiting for acknowledgement between each statement.
Jim wet his lips with his tongue. "Yeah, Bones. Please."
Leonard held the cup to his lips and tipped it just enough that Jim could flick out his tongue and dab it in the water, swiping his tongue over his lips. Leonard had the wholly inappropriate thought that he'd like to see that tongue used in a different setting, a much more personal one. He shook off a dizzy feeling as a very explicit picture of the two of them in a luxurious hotel room popped into his head of just that; naked, in bed, limbs twined together, both of them panting with the release of quality sex. Was that the past, the future, when? Had it happened, was it just his imagination?
Shaking his head, he sought to answer Jim's question. "Yeah, we had to piece together quite a few bones, too. Your left knee and tibia were pretty messed up by shrapnel. Lt. Commander M'Benga is an expert at putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, though," Having reined his overactive inner vision back in line with his current duties, he pulled the cup away after a couple more sips.
"Not those bones, you--Bones; I'd know you anywhere," mumbled Jim.
Leonard crumpled his brow in confusion. "No idea what you're talking about, kid."
"Not what, who," came the emphatic retort.
The comment couldn't have lit up his understanding more than a klieg light if it had been pointed straight at his face. Leonard gasped, "It is you! The fucking Doorman."
JIm nodded weakly, his chin barely dipping down towards his chest.
"How do you know me?" Leonard hissed. His voice grew angry with his following demands. "Why do you keep fucking with me? And why are we here? This isn't my life."
A broken laugh turned into a harsh cough. "More water, Bones, please?"
Leonard held the cup to Jim's mouth again, responding automatically to a patient's needs. He saw that Jim's eyelids were starting to droop, and that he was fighting off the fatigue that extreme trauma and surgery placed on the body. His heart ached a little for the young man's pain, his ingrained desire to help overtaking any anger.
"We'll talk about this later, Jim. Your name is Jim, right?" He got a few blinks of the sleepy eyes in return. Leonard took it as acknowledgement. Before he could stop himself, he found himself reaching out to brush the back of his hand lightly against Jim's cheek. "Sleep now. I'll come back when you're able to stay awake a little longer."
Leonard left the recovery tent, stripped off his white lab coat and hung it on a hook in the scrub room. Taking the dirt road back to his hooch, hoped he could find the mess tent. He didn't know if it would still be open (how did he know these things, this jargon, it was so frustrating to only have bits and pieces of the knowledge he needed for this place or time), but he'd see if he could scrounge something up to eat. He'd even beg C-rats off the quartermaster (more of that damned esoteric knowledge) if he had to. The hours spent on his feet and the adrenaline rush of surgery had drained him. He needed food and sleep, preferably in that order, to be able to operate with any competence the next time he was called to duty.
It was late, well past sundown, but when he stepped outside of his hooch he could see a few other's making their way to a tent another hundred yards or so down the road. He figured such a common gathering place must offer something of value. Leonard headed off that way, finding himself joined along the way when Geoffrey M'Benga (another of those unexpected sparks of memory) stepped out of a hooch a little further down from him.
"Missed the dinner bell?" M'Benga asked, his mouth twisted to one side in a rueful grin. "Hazard of the job, as we all know."
Leonard nodded. "Could eat a horse, but I suppose we'll be lucky to get SOS."
His walking companion snorted. "The gourmet food is the best part of being stationed here. The hours are rotten, the roaches have conquered the country and are using my hooch as their headquarters, I've got a fungus on my feet that not even borax can kill, but at least we get three hots a day."
By then they'd reached the mess tent where they got in line behind quite a few others who'd had the same idea. After getting a plate of, totally unidentifiable to Leonard, victuals, they found a table occupied by a few of the other medical personnel and took their seats. Light chatter started immediately, comparing operations, complaining about availability, or lack thereof, of certain medications and other supplies.
Leonard shoveled the food into his mouth, grateful that he had something hot and filling after the exhausting day. He contributed only mildly to the conversation, his background too spotty to offer much, with small details that made him fit in with his compatriots enough to pass as native. Eventually, he excused himself back to his hooch, impatient to see what would happen next. Having been dropped in this reality, not his own, he didn't know what would happen if he went to sleep. Perhaps he'd wake up in his own reality, perhaps he'd be stuck here. It was less than optimal, he didn't know what would happen to Aunt May or Joanna, if his being here had completely changed things and they wouldn't exist in the future of his current 'life'. But staying awake wasn't likely to fix things, either. He was dependent on The Doorman, Jim, to get them out of there. Only Leonard hadn't any idea if he could.
He laid himself down on his cot, atop the thin blanket, the heat still oppressive even in the late night air. Sleep, while not strictly welcome, was the only way to find out what was to come next.
Leonard slept,...
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...waking as his whole body jolted with the full-body flexion that often occurred when coming out of twilight sleep, the mind overwhelmed by the anxious feeling that you had been floating inches above the bed only to come crashing down to reality.
Once again he had awakened in a sweat, this time due to the remnants of a dream (more like a nightmare, the jury was out) of an alien sky above scattered rocks in an otherwise abandoned landscape. Leonard's heart thundered in tandem with his from the dream. His arm was trapped inside some sort of device, a weapon. A woman (Carol, Marcus, the admiral's daughter, the names shouldered their way into his memory), her hands shuffling through wires on the other side of the torpedo (cryotube?) in an attempt to disarm it as it counted down.
Voices yammered at him from thin air, something he accepted without question in the dream.
"I can't beam him up, keptin, without beaming the torpedo with him." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he can't pinpoint. In the dream,the name Chekov is assigned to the accented words.
"Do it, do it," came the frantic words of the captain. Again, without being able to see the speaker, Leonard can only guess at the panicked face that matched the stammered words. He should know it; it whispered words of praise into his ears most nights. Fantastic, filthy words that shouldn't be making him hot with his chest tight with fear, but the memories keep flowing in like a rapids careening down a narrow canyon. All he could do was wait for the fall.
The fall never came, instead he felt an insistent tugging, like every atom of his body was being twisted on their axes and torn apart. He's being disintegrated (transported, says the joker in his head, danger and darkness.)
"I can do it!" the blonde (Carol, nice ass) shouted, insistent, frantic.
It's the last thing he heard before he woke up.
Leonard had to know. The only one who can answer his question, he was positive, was Captain James T. Kirk. He's not even sure if he's still in the same place he was last night. It looked the same, the plywood hooch, the rusty camp bed, the sweaty sheets clinging to his legs and back. But the way he's been skipping back and forth, one place, one time, one life to another, there was no knowing which one was real, which one mattered.
He ran to find the man in (of) his dreams.
Chapter Four
Also at AO3
Author: sail_aweigh
Fandom Star Trek AOS
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Kirk/McCoy, Spock, Chapel
Rating: PG-13 for now, cussing, explicit surgery with gore in later chapters, could be some sexyteims in the last (unwritten) chapter. Don't worry, this fic will be finished.
Word count: Third chapter - 6141 (18.8k so far). Anticipate completed between 22-25k.
Summary: Leonard McCoy doesn't like revolving doors, but The Doorman doesn't give him any choice. Or does he?
Author's note: based on following prompt for space_wrapped: McCoy has recently relocated to the Big Apple, and even surrounded by millions of people the breathtaking skyline view from his penthouse apartment leaves him feeling empty and alone. Fortunately the apartment's doorman, Jim Kirk, is a chatty sunovabitch and does his part to make McCoy's first big city Christmas a little more homey. Oh, and I don't own any of the characters, just borrowing them to torture play with them. Unfortunately, with everyone off having fun for Christmas, this chapter has not been through beta.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Jim jerked his head up from where it was smashed into the pillow, a small puddle of drool by the corner of his mouth. The sun was coming in the window much too loudly for the state of his hangover. It was totally unfair that as a semi-immortal being, he was still subject to them. He pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. Fuck, he needed some aspirin.
Rolling off the sofa, he stumbled to his feet and looked around the room with bleary eyes. It wasn't just the sunlight coming in the windows that made his head pound, it was the amplification of all that light reflected off what looked like half the tinsel in the northern hemisphere that had been draped over the Christmas tree in the corner. Despite the pain in his head and his watering eyes (from the hangover?), he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight of a huge stack of presents under the tree.
This was a huge change from the last two times he'd woken up here. Decorations abounded: beribboned garlands hung around the doors, a variety of poinsettias (white, pink, and red) were scattered around the room--on the sideboard (the wet bar had disappeared) and end tables, family pictures adorned the walls, colorful paintings had replaced the stark black and white skylines. The mahogany leather sofa had been replaced with a generous sized sectional positioned in a u-shape, its dark blue microsuede upholstery complemented with pillows in shades of pink, from the palest sunrise to a vibrant shocking pink. A wedding ring quilt in shades of blue and pink on a cream background laid over the back of the sofa, the edging a little frayed from long use.
After a side trip to the bathroom to scavenge the medicine cabinet for a painkiller, Jim shuffled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It looked to him like the doc had finally taken all his second chances to heart. He was glad of that; somebody should get their dearest wishes granted. It didn't look like McCoy would need the services of The Doorman anymore.
The thought made Jim sad. He had enjoyed his little tussles with the cranky doctor. The contact had called to something inside him that had been solitary and aching for the longest time. He couldn't describe exactly what it was, but he had lived this long without it, he would continue to do so; it was better that way, he was sure of it. Jim thought it had something to do with the fact that he instinctively knew that if he sent McCoy on one more trip, it would ruin all his good work and tear something inside Jim that would never recover. He'd taken on the role of Doorman to fix things, not break them; even if it meant Jim stayed broken for eternity. The thought made his chest ache and he rubbed his hand up and down his sternum; the movement both comforting and confusing at the same time.
Jim carried the rest of the glass of water back to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He was pretty sure he didn't need to examine McCoy's dossier to see that all the cracks that had fractured his equilibrium had been mended in one way or the other. Still, he was curious to see how the man was doing now. Was he happily married with children; it looked like it from the family pictures scattered around the penthouse.
Flipping the file open, he scanned the pictures inside quickly. There was the same gorgeous woman from before in many of the pictures, along with a child--a little girl it became evident from the ballet-skirted Halloween photos--who grew quickly from baby to toddler to a freckle-faced urchin (seven or eight-years old, maybe second-grader?) And in every picture that had him, was a smiling, joyous McCoy.
Jim wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well-down, but it just made the ache in his chest worse. What was he missing?
He delved into the narrative of the file. Oh, there it was; the divorce decree for Jocelyn and Leonard McCoy. The sense of relief Jim felt surprised him, because in most cases it meant his job wasn't done. But right this minute, he felt that to meddle in McCoy's life any further might undo all the good he'd done so far. Should he chance it?
The ache in his chest waxed and waned as he vacillated over the decision, before he decided at last that McCoy had reached the pinnacle of redemption as required by Jim's office. Pain in his chest nearly made Jim bend over double, but he didn't back down on his decision; McCoy's path had been set straight. Oblivion had been circumvented, and for that, Jim was fiercely proud, no matter what it meant for him personally. Which it shouldn't; The Doorman must remain aloof and impartial in the performance of his office, feeling for the target shouldn't enter into it.
Despite knowing that, Jim decided he'd risk one more visit. Just to see that McCoy was happy in his new sphere of existence. It couldn't hurt, could it? McCoy's life was headed where it needed to go, and he wasn't going to interfere in any way. The thought made the ache in his chest ease. Yes, it was the right thing to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 24th
Leonard looked out the window of the cab, eager to see the front driveway of the Enterprise come into view. He'd had the penthouse for a couple of months, now, but hadn't had time to actually come and visit it yet. The decorator he'd hired had sent him pictures of the new residence and he was very pleased. Leonard had asked that everything be child friendly, yet something adults would be comfortable with, too. The color scheme had surprised him, but the blues, pinks, and cream had made a striking impression without looking too one thing or the other. The added touch of his parents' quilt over the back of the sofa made his throat tighten a little. That one remnant of his earlier life had been with him through thick and thin; sometimes he thought it was the only thing that had tied him to this world.
As the cab pulled up to the stairs in front of the tower, Leonard could see a figure standing off to one side in scruffy jeans, a threadbare sweatshirt with holes in the neckline, hightops with the laces hanging loose, and a beat up leather bomber jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, but Leonard couldn't place him. Probably some kid looking for a handout from the well-to-do residents. Leonard was surprised the doorman hadn't run him off yet, but there didn't appear to be one in attendance at the moment. No matter, if he saw the same kid around later, he'd mention it to Mr. Spock; the manager was very efficient. Maybe give it a while, though, the weather was absolutely miserable and the kid looked like he could use a good meal.
Taking his time to pull on his scarf and gloves against the biting wind he could see tossing around the branches of ice covered trees, Leonard was surprised when the door by his passenger seat opened up, since the doorman had appeared to be busy elsewhere. He stepped out of the car and straightened up to look around, absently noting that the panhandler had done a bunk. Relieved that he wouldn't have to make a complaint, he wasn't a cruel man, Leonard was taken aback when he turned to face the figure waiting for him on the other side of the car door. If this was the doorman, he had materialized as if by magic.
Leonard paused a moment to examine the totally outlandish uniform (costume?) the doorman wore: a mismatched plaid patchwork coat and striped pants in varying shades of brown along with an extraordinarily long color-blocked scarf that nearly obscured a large gold pendant in the shape of a question mark. Furthering his observations, he took note of dark blonde hair that shone in the sun, the brightest blue eyes Leonard had ever seen (even Joce's, when he was still completely infatuated with her, had never seemed that blue to him) that seemed to look straight through him, and a somber face that held the saddest smile seen since Rick said good-bye to Ilsa in Casablanca. Something about the costumed character almost made him want to get back in the cab and be driven far, far away.
Leonard had learned the hard way not one to turn tail and run, so instead he stepped away from the door and went to stand in front of the only person who could be the doorman at this moment, even if he did look like a figure from a children's show.
"Would you have someone take my luggage up to my penthouse, please? And tell them to be careful, there are gifts in there that are fragile." Aunt May loved Lladro, and even though each figurine had its own intricately constructed packing box (the boxes were collectibles in their own right) he'd chosen to carry them himself; he wanted no disappointments this Christmas. Leonard reached into his pocket and pulled out his money clip to peel off a couple of five dollar bills when his hand was stayed by the doorman.
"No need, Dr. McCoy. The Doorman doesn't require tipping." Something in the tone of the voice made him catch his breath. It wasn't just a characteristic (sexy, don't go there) rasp of the doorman's voice, it was as if the throat that made the sound was so dry from crying that it was scraped raw.
Leonard shook off the momentary fancy after the words caught up to him. He snorted, "Do you always talk about yourself in the third person? Bit pretentious, isn't it?"
"Comes with the trade," came the reply. "The Doorman doesn't have much choice; it's part of the gig." The doorman's voice was starting to take on a lighter tone, like he had a secret that he was dying to share.
"So, you're saying the moniker is bestowed upon you like a royal title? Should I be calling you Sir Doorman?" Leonard gave a little chuckle at his own joke.
"No, just The Doorman. Like, The Doctor?" The Doorman's voice took on a hopeful note this time.
Leonard snapped his fingers. "That's what your uniform looks like! You're all dressed up like Doctor Who. What, the Sixth Doctor?" he said after cocking his head and giving The Doorman another once over.
The Doorman's mouth stretched out into a wide smile of approval. "Yes, mostly. With a little bit of the Fourth Doctor thrown in for good measure." He smoothed his hand over the long, trailing scarf.
"Of course; now I see. The Fourth Doctor is my daughter's favorite. Mine, too." Leonard nodded his head. Something still set him a little bit on edge, though. He scrunched his face up in concentration as he tried to pinpoint whatever was causing the niggling sense of unease. Leonard put a hand to his mouth, running through his recent memories trying to find the specific trigger.
The Doorman seemed to sense something had set Leonard's early warning system into high alert and he backed away towards the entrance of the tower. It made him study the man even closer, the smile was starting to twitch at the corners, taking on a nervous edge.
"Why don't you let me show you to the lobby, Dr. McCoy. The concierge will get you up and settled in the comfort of your suite in a jiffy." He shuffled his feet a little, bobbing his head toward the front entrance, which, honestly, Leonard was a little surprised to see was something as mundane as a revolving door.
"Sure. But, here, even if you don't want a tip, give this to the kid that was standing out front earlier if you see him again. Looked like he could use it." Leonard pressed the two bills into The Doorman's hand, feeling like it might be a wasted gesture, but not really caring.
The Doorman looked at the bills in his hand, then crumpled them tight. He coughed, "Yeah, Jim would like that." Gesturing towards the door, Leonard's guide continued, "If you'll follow me, Dr. McCoy."
They'd gone about half a dozen paces when Leonard stumbled, feeling a little dizzy. "Wait up," he said to The Doorman's back. He shook his head at the buzzing that had started inside it, his ears ringing with a high-pitched squeal. "Something's wrong. My head is splitting."
The Doorman turned back toward him and Leonard saw that his eyes had widened in alarm. To Leonard's consternation, rather than come forward and lend him assistance, The Doorman started backing away from him. He could hear him muttering, "Wrong, this is all wrong. This isn't me."
Leonard went down on his knees in pain, holding his head between clenched fists. This was all so terribly familiar. He grit his teeth as memories speared their way into his consciousness like a Cro Magnon skewering an aurochs. The recollections started coming thick and fast. Christ, it was that annoying, meddling, crack-brained, devastatingly handsome (what? no!), idiot who called himself The Doorman.
Struggling back up to his feet, Leonard pointed a trembling finger at the jack-ass who'd been fucking with him for the past two days (was it more, how would he know?) "You! I don't know what you've been doing to me, but I want it to stop right now!"
The Doorman held his hands up in front of him with his fingers spread in denial. "I stopped, I stopped! I just wanted to see you one more time. This isn't my fault."
"What do you mean not your fault, it sure as hell was!" Leonard snarled in anger. Yank him around like a child's pull toy, drag him through the dirt, and then say he didn't mean it? Not on.
"Those then, yes, but not this one!" The Doorman pointed at something behind Leonard and Leonard (gullible dumbass that he was) turned to look. His eyes widened in fear at the sight that loomed in front of him.
It was a black and white tunnel, its parallel lines swirled and pulsed in an optical illusion that made it look like they projected into an infinite distance. The maw grew closer and closer; in seconds it would be engulfing Leonard and who knew where this one was going to take him. In fact, it felt like it was sucking him in. He could feel his hair start to tickle his forehead where it was being dragged forward, the flaps of his coat were fluttering toward it, too. The high-pitched squealing had started again, this time in an audible tone that bounced off the glass and metal surfaces around them, a deafening clangor that sent shivers through Leonard's bones. Leonard started to overbalance as the suction grew stronger, his feet actually lifting off the ground. Over the machine's whine, he didn't even notice the sound of feet pounding the pavement behind him before strong arms wrapped around his waist.
"Noooo, not the void!" The Doorman's cry was so desolate that it ripped a sympathetic sob right out of Leonard's chest. He clutched the patchwork coat tight to him; he knew they could not be separated.
They flew…
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...and Leonard jolted awake in his camp bed, heart pounding a mile a minute, sweat pouring off him to make the sheets, already damp from the tropical humidity, even soggier. He shook his head to clear it of the extraordinary dream (nightmare? memory? he couldn't keep track anymore) he'd found himself immersed in. What had woken him up?
He turned his head to see one of the orderlies standing in the door to his hooch. "Commander McCoy, we've got incoming. We need you in the O.R."
Rolling himself up to sitting, Leonard swung his legs around and hunched over the side of the bed, placing his head in his hands. He rested there for a moment, letting the fog of sleep clear out so he could think. The manner of address felt familiar, but not familiar. Commander? When had he joined the Navy?
Leonard cleared his throat. "Yeah, got it. Be there in a tick." The orderly turned, moving along to the next hooch, leaving Leonard to his chaotic thoughts. He stuffed them down for the moment, while he scanned his living area for clues to where he could find clean clothes. At least a clean tee-shirt, the one he was wearing was soaked.
He spotted a steamer trunk sitting at the foot of the bed and hoped it held clothes as he didn't see anything else in the cramped quarters that might. Striding around the bed to where it sat, he lifted the lid and was relieved to see he had guessed correctly. Leonard stripped off his dirty shirt when he spotted some dingy tees sitting on top of other, more formal clothes underneath. There were short sleeved khaki shirts with silver oak leaves pinned to the collars, similarly colored pants and socks. Lots of socks with holes in them; guessed it was pretty hard to get new socks so far from civilization. Which was how far?
Leonard shrugged into the clean tee, put on the black boots he found sitting under the edge of the bed and stepped outside into the smothering heat. More men were coming out of similar hooches to either side of his; all seemed to be moving in the same direction, the O.R. he surmised.
One of the men, dark skinned and a flashing white smile, waved him over. "C'mon McCoy, got wounded to save. Gonna need your talents."
"Yours, too...M'Benga." He almost panicked that he wouldn't know the man's name, but it drifted up out of his subconscious like dandelion fluff on the wind. So tenuous, he wasn't sure he'd know what to do or how to help. More memories came with the surgeons name in a slow trickle of information.
Charlie Company, 3rd Medical Battalion. Danang. Viet Nam.
This wasn't his life or anything he recognized from his past; what the hell was he doing here? If he could find The Doorman. Christ, The Doorman. Where was that bastard? They'd come through that...thing...together. Why wasn't he here, too?
Leonard stepped up his pace along with everyone else as they heard the sound of helicopter rotors beating their way through the thick air. The road he was on led to a flimsy looking structure with ragged canvas sides and a corrugated tin roof. Come to think of it, the same could be said of many of the buildings in the compound; this one was just larger in magnitude. This was obviously the focal point of all the energy surrounding him.
Taking a deep breath, he ducked into the medical tent along with M'Benga and a few of the other officers. He just hoped he acquitted himself well and didn't fuck anybody over with his lack of experience in battlefield trauma surgery. Leonard followed M'Benga and one other surgeon into the wash room to scrub up. It wasn't his first time at the table and he'd taken his share of shifts in the ER during his residency, should be like falling off a log, right?
Six hours and two patients later, wrist deep in the current kid's (so young) guts, calling out orders to the assisting nurse (Chapel, the dandelion fluff offered), Leonard could say the log had still been in the crown of the tree when he stepped off. He'd had to call on body memory to take over for him, and fortunately for these jarheads, it answered. The sheer number of improvisations required to put them back together amazed him. So many techniques he'd never dreamed of, not as a neurologist (or as a plastic surgeon whispered the faint voice that grew louder with every prompt) who only saw shaved heads above sheet-covered bodies.
Thank heavens they hadn't placed him in the triage anti-chamber. The things those doctors did were so far removed from what he would have ever considered in the typical civilian hospital setting as to be something you'd find on Mars. Both groins opened up, saphenous veins cannulated with IV tubing, forget the needles. Some of these kids had had up to twenty pints of blood pumped into them or they would have bled out before they got to his table.
The young man currently residing there had one knee and tibia totally torn apart, but it was the gut wound that was killing him if he couldn't get all the bleeders closed and the intestine resected. He didn't have enough hands for this and there weren't enough surgeons to assist.
"Get me another ten units at table two, dammit!" he hollered out to any of the available orderlies standing around the edge of the room.
"Type?" came the crisp retort.
Leonard glanced at the current bag fastened to one end of the table. "A neg." Knowing that the blood was coming, he bent his entire attention to the minutiae of tying off all the small open blood vessels that were siphoning away the marine's life. As long as the kid was still breathing, he would keep working and then some; the man (this particular man, why?) deserved his full attention more than any of them.
That thought kept niggling at him, ate at him the rest of the time he was working on the marine. Back when he'd dropped his sight from the IV bag and bent over the hemorrhaging abdomen in front of him, his sight had naturally passed over the patient's face. Something about it was familiar. Leonard kept stealing little glances at the features under the anesthesia mask, but they were heavily obscured and indistinct. He forced himself to shake it off; he'd be no good for this kid with his concentration split over something so trivial. Later; he could check up on him later, in the combined ICU/recovery room.
The rest of the day followed the same pattern, until the last of the wounded had been wheeled into recovery. They would remain there until deemed stable enough to be moved to a regular ward tent. If their recovery was anticipated to take longer than 120 days, they'd be shipped back stateside. In most cases, the patient would be go back to the front (as if it was a simple line in the sand, what with an enemy that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere like a jack in the box), in what probably seemed to them, less than no time.
When the last patient had been wheeled away by an orderly, Leonard went into the scrub room to remove his operating gown and clean up. It was probably the most exhausting day he'd ever spent in surgery, but it had also been the most exhilarating. If he didn't love neurology so much, he might consider changing his specialty when he got back, if he got back.
That damn Doorman. He was genuinely starting to worry. This had been the longest amount of time he'd been trapped in one of these alternate realities, or whatever you could call them. It seemed that every time before he'd had to make sort of choice that altered his life. But this wasn't his life. Whatever had happened here, happened before he was even born. Leonard put those thoughts away for later contemplation; he couldn't let them interfere with his current duties.
Despite his earlier mid-morning nap--sleep was catch as catch can--and his current exhaustion, he wasn't ready to turn in. Nor could he yet, even if he wanted. Leonard still needed to make rounds of his patients to make sure they were stable and ready to be moved from recovery to a regular ward. Particularly the kid whose innards he'd put back together. Turned out M'Benga was an orthopedic surgeon and took over for Leonard when it came time to put Humpty Dumpty's leg back together.
That particular marine fascinated him for some reason. Under all the blood and gore that there hadn't been time to clean off before the operation (the higher priority was saving his life, they'd washed only what was needed in order to keep the wounds clean), he could see the smooth lines of long, lithe limbs, heavily muscled shoulders that narrowed down to a slender waist, and a very enviable six pack. The kid was probably twenty pounds underweight, but that was par for the course out here. This instinctive attraction puzzled him and he wouldn't rest until he'd got a better look at the kid and slaked his curiosity.
Leonard put on a new sterile gown and headed over to the recovery room. He could see a couple of the other surgeons making rounds, scanning charts, touching shoulders in comfort, sometimes sitting down with the patient to add extra reassurance. Most of the young men were barely recognizable, now that they'd been cleaned up post-op and dressed in hospital gowns. Starting at one end of the first row, he picked up the chart and started reading. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get out and get some chow and then some sleep, he hoped.
When he picked up the last of his charts, Leonard realized by some stroke of luck this was the one marine he couldn't keep out of his thoughts. He read it over avidly for the personal information that had been irrelevant when he was wrist deep in the kid's abdomen.
His attention was drawn immediately to the name at the top of the record: James T. Kirk; it resonated with him. Probably nick-named Jim. Common name, Jim. Like that kid that was panhandling outside the Enterprise. Leonard shook his head; that was nothing more than coincidence, wasn't it?
Reading on, he saw that Jim (had to be) was a captain, twenty-six years old, Jewish, with his home of record listed as Riverside, Iowa. Emergency contact--Winona Kirk, mother. One allergy--to peanuts. Having gleaned everything he could, Leonard finally turned his scrutiny to the physical features that were available to him while his patient was unconscious. His record listed him as 6'1", 180 pounds (not anymore), blonde hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks. He could verify the hair color, even as short as it was cropped around the ears. The eyes were still hidden in sleep, but Leonard could clearly see them (The Doorman had the most striking eyes) in his imagination. The wait until he could confirm it was going to be agonizing.
Leonard was about to put the chart down when Jim (no other name would do) started to twitch and roll his head from side to side. Looked like he was coming out of the anesthetic about on time. Leonard would have worried if it had been any longer. He waited in anticipation for those gorgeous blue eyes to open.
The patient, Jim, he was going to call him that regardless, groaned and gave a pained cough, making the dry throat left behind by the anesthetic evident. Leonard looked down at the small wooden table by the side of the bed. A pitcher of water sat there, with a stack of paper cups. He picked one up and poured less than a quarter of an inch in the bottom. Sliding his arm under Jim's head, he lifted it up and held the cup to the dry, cracked lips.
"Can you hear me?" Leonard asked quietly.
A few blinks of sleepy eyes indicated understanding, so Leonard starting speaking softly to the patient.
"I've got some water here. Take small sips, just wet your lips. I had to resection your small intestine and it will take a while before you'll be allowed to have any significant amount of fluids. Can you do that?" Leonard gave the instructions slowly, waiting for acknowledgement between each statement.
Jim wet his lips with his tongue. "Yeah, Bones. Please."
Leonard held the cup to his lips and tipped it just enough that Jim could flick out his tongue and dab it in the water, swiping his tongue over his lips. Leonard had the wholly inappropriate thought that he'd like to see that tongue used in a different setting, a much more personal one. He shook off a dizzy feeling as a very explicit picture of the two of them in a luxurious hotel room popped into his head of just that; naked, in bed, limbs twined together, both of them panting with the release of quality sex. Was that the past, the future, when? Had it happened, was it just his imagination?
Shaking his head, he sought to answer Jim's question. "Yeah, we had to piece together quite a few bones, too. Your left knee and tibia were pretty messed up by shrapnel. Lt. Commander M'Benga is an expert at putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, though," Having reined his overactive inner vision back in line with his current duties, he pulled the cup away after a couple more sips.
"Not those bones, you--Bones; I'd know you anywhere," mumbled Jim.
Leonard crumpled his brow in confusion. "No idea what you're talking about, kid."
"Not what, who," came the emphatic retort.
The comment couldn't have lit up his understanding more than a klieg light if it had been pointed straight at his face. Leonard gasped, "It is you! The fucking Doorman."
JIm nodded weakly, his chin barely dipping down towards his chest.
"How do you know me?" Leonard hissed. His voice grew angry with his following demands. "Why do you keep fucking with me? And why are we here? This isn't my life."
A broken laugh turned into a harsh cough. "More water, Bones, please?"
Leonard held the cup to Jim's mouth again, responding automatically to a patient's needs. He saw that Jim's eyelids were starting to droop, and that he was fighting off the fatigue that extreme trauma and surgery placed on the body. His heart ached a little for the young man's pain, his ingrained desire to help overtaking any anger.
"We'll talk about this later, Jim. Your name is Jim, right?" He got a few blinks of the sleepy eyes in return. Leonard took it as acknowledgement. Before he could stop himself, he found himself reaching out to brush the back of his hand lightly against Jim's cheek. "Sleep now. I'll come back when you're able to stay awake a little longer."
Leonard left the recovery tent, stripped off his white lab coat and hung it on a hook in the scrub room. Taking the dirt road back to his hooch, hoped he could find the mess tent. He didn't know if it would still be open (how did he know these things, this jargon, it was so frustrating to only have bits and pieces of the knowledge he needed for this place or time), but he'd see if he could scrounge something up to eat. He'd even beg C-rats off the quartermaster (more of that damned esoteric knowledge) if he had to. The hours spent on his feet and the adrenaline rush of surgery had drained him. He needed food and sleep, preferably in that order, to be able to operate with any competence the next time he was called to duty.
It was late, well past sundown, but when he stepped outside of his hooch he could see a few other's making their way to a tent another hundred yards or so down the road. He figured such a common gathering place must offer something of value. Leonard headed off that way, finding himself joined along the way when Geoffrey M'Benga (another of those unexpected sparks of memory) stepped out of a hooch a little further down from him.
"Missed the dinner bell?" M'Benga asked, his mouth twisted to one side in a rueful grin. "Hazard of the job, as we all know."
Leonard nodded. "Could eat a horse, but I suppose we'll be lucky to get SOS."
His walking companion snorted. "The gourmet food is the best part of being stationed here. The hours are rotten, the roaches have conquered the country and are using my hooch as their headquarters, I've got a fungus on my feet that not even borax can kill, but at least we get three hots a day."
By then they'd reached the mess tent where they got in line behind quite a few others who'd had the same idea. After getting a plate of, totally unidentifiable to Leonard, victuals, they found a table occupied by a few of the other medical personnel and took their seats. Light chatter started immediately, comparing operations, complaining about availability, or lack thereof, of certain medications and other supplies.
Leonard shoveled the food into his mouth, grateful that he had something hot and filling after the exhausting day. He contributed only mildly to the conversation, his background too spotty to offer much, with small details that made him fit in with his compatriots enough to pass as native. Eventually, he excused himself back to his hooch, impatient to see what would happen next. Having been dropped in this reality, not his own, he didn't know what would happen if he went to sleep. Perhaps he'd wake up in his own reality, perhaps he'd be stuck here. It was less than optimal, he didn't know what would happen to Aunt May or Joanna, if his being here had completely changed things and they wouldn't exist in the future of his current 'life'. But staying awake wasn't likely to fix things, either. He was dependent on The Doorman, Jim, to get them out of there. Only Leonard hadn't any idea if he could.
He laid himself down on his cot, atop the thin blanket, the heat still oppressive even in the late night air. Sleep, while not strictly welcome, was the only way to find out what was to come next.
Leonard slept,...
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...waking as his whole body jolted with the full-body flexion that often occurred when coming out of twilight sleep, the mind overwhelmed by the anxious feeling that you had been floating inches above the bed only to come crashing down to reality.
Once again he had awakened in a sweat, this time due to the remnants of a dream (more like a nightmare, the jury was out) of an alien sky above scattered rocks in an otherwise abandoned landscape. Leonard's heart thundered in tandem with his from the dream. His arm was trapped inside some sort of device, a weapon. A woman (Carol, Marcus, the admiral's daughter, the names shouldered their way into his memory), her hands shuffling through wires on the other side of the torpedo (cryotube?) in an attempt to disarm it as it counted down.
Voices yammered at him from thin air, something he accepted without question in the dream.
"I can't beam him up, keptin, without beaming the torpedo with him." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he can't pinpoint. In the dream,the name Chekov is assigned to the accented words.
"Do it, do it," came the frantic words of the captain. Again, without being able to see the speaker, Leonard can only guess at the panicked face that matched the stammered words. He should know it; it whispered words of praise into his ears most nights. Fantastic, filthy words that shouldn't be making him hot with his chest tight with fear, but the memories keep flowing in like a rapids careening down a narrow canyon. All he could do was wait for the fall.
The fall never came, instead he felt an insistent tugging, like every atom of his body was being twisted on their axes and torn apart. He's being disintegrated (transported, says the joker in his head, danger and darkness.)
"I can do it!" the blonde (Carol, nice ass) shouted, insistent, frantic.
It's the last thing he heard before he woke up.
Leonard had to know. The only one who can answer his question, he was positive, was Captain James T. Kirk. He's not even sure if he's still in the same place he was last night. It looked the same, the plywood hooch, the rusty camp bed, the sweaty sheets clinging to his legs and back. But the way he's been skipping back and forth, one place, one time, one life to another, there was no knowing which one was real, which one mattered.
He ran to find the man in (of) his dreams.
Chapter Four
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