[Fanfiction] The Only Man For The Job (2/3), by callieach
Title: The Only Man For the Job: I can't do this (2/3)
Author: callieach
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Character/Pairing: McCoy-centric, with Kirk/McCoy, Spock, Scotty, Sulu, Uruha, Chekov, Keenser, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 2195
Summary: A planetside mission gone wrong.
Warnings: language, injury, other not kid friendly things
Disclaimer: Clearly not mine.
Author's Notes: It says XI but, in my head, Scotty and Spock are both old school here. Do with this tidbit what you will. Comments would be rockin'.
Part 1: Damnit, Jim is here
The doctor readjusts the pillow on the bed before gently putting the patient's head back down on them. Then, he simply looks at the damaged but not yet defeated man beneath him for a moment. Then, as if he'd never been interrupted, he goes back to cleaning and bandaging Jim's arm.
"You've saved me plenty, Bones." He knows how he wants to answer this, but isn't sure he can say it without breaking down. Because there's more than one type of saving, as far as he can tell and James Kirk has saved Leonard McCoy in just about every way possible.
Bones finishes dressing the minor arm wound and moves to the comm system, brushing hair off Jim's forehead in a sort of accidental caress as he moves past.
"Lab, come in. It's McCoy."
There's a sizzle of static. "Mondrey here."
"Progress?"
"We've isolated what seems to be the most violent chemical pattern in this stuff the metal was coated with. We're working on reverse-engineering it as an antidote now, sir. It shouldn't be long."
"Keep it at," Bones snaps before ending the transmission again. He's so fucking sick of not knowing how this is going to end. He crosses his arms and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, adopting a rather vulnerable-looking adaptation of his usually intimidating stance.
"Antidote, huh?" Jim says from the bed.
"Some of the shrapnel we pulled out of you was coated in a potentially lethal substance we know nothing about and therefore do not have a cure for."
Jim acknowledges this information with a small, non-committal noise in the back of his throat and a well, what can you do face.
Bones checks Jim's vitals again - not really any better or worse than before - and turns to examine his sickbay for the first time in a while. Two nurses, three landing party members he doesn't know all that well.
"How's the landing party?"
"Four of them came back with you."
"Who didn't?"
"Sulu."
"Abandoned or dead?"
"I have no clue."
"Where's Scotty?"
Bones moves to the comm. again, transmitting hopefully to the main engine room. "Engineering, this is Doctor McCoy. Is Mr. Scott there?"
There's a bit of a delay, then, "Scotty here." Three simple syllables and Bones can hear the dread in the Scotsman's voice.
"Jim would like to speak with you."
Scotty exhales what must have been a huge, anxiously held breath. "I'll be righ' there." He clicks off.
Bones crosses the room to check on some members of his crew who do not seem likely to cause heartbreak and anguish. One's got some burns on his hand, already expertly bandaged. The second has a mild concussion and a small contusion across the back of his skull where the force of a hand-grenade blast threw him into a wall. The last one had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his leg, thankfully nowhere near any major blood pathways - but unfortunately, his danger is not over until they know more about the poison or have the antidote.
In all, it was nothing his nurses couldn't handle, but he still feels guilty, like a boy who's been shirking responsibility to stay in his room and play it safe.
The bay doors open with a whoosh and Scotty veritably strides in and straight to the captain's side.
"Oh, captain, ye don' know how worried I was," he gushes. Without drawing too much attention to it, Bones moves to the other side of the captain's bed.
"Let's just say repairs are still underway. But enough about me. I need to know what happened down on that planet, Scotty."
Scotty rubs the back of his neck, the way he does when he realizes emotions are getting in the way of his work. "Ye remember we landed, righ'? Broke inta groups of two and scattered to look around. Tha's when they started with the hand grenades, the buggers. Sent us scatterin' even werse. Remember?"
Jim nods slowly. "I remember up to that point. Continue."
"Then, well, I was a ways away, but, from what I could see - " Here, Scotty pauses to give Bones a dirty look, since he's taken the opportunity to run his tricorder over him. "Ahem - Sulu got snatched up in one o' their big cage thingies. You went chargin' for him and didn' look before you leaped and practically ran into one of those bloody hand grenades they'd just tossed." Scotty moves his jaw wordless for a few seconds, his eyes clearly reliving the horror of the expedition. "It was a mess, sir. Mr. Galleen and I carried ye to the best shelter we could, and got ourselves beamed back up."
"And Sulu?"
"Was alive when we left. Best I can figure, the cages had some sort of energy shields, preventing the transport room from getting a lock on him. When McCoy called I'd just gotten back fr' the bridge. Mr. Spock seems ta think he's got a plan for getting our helmsman back." If the look on the engineer's face are anything to go by, the plan's not a very good one.
Jim gives a small nod. "Thanks, Scotty."
"Jus' trying to do my job, cap'n." He flashes what he must think is a reassuring smile, mutters something about taking over the transporter controls and leaves.
"Fuck." Jim makes both hands into fists, balling up bits of the sheets beneath him. Bones is at a loss for words, knowing the way Jim feels about losing crewmen, especially those he works closest with. So he gets him a paper-like cup of water, sticks a straw in it, and holds it in front of Jim's face.
"You're dehydrated," he grunts. Jim gives him a look, takes a sip. "And don't get yourself too worked up. It's not safe."
Jim closes his eyes. "We're in fucking outer space, Bones. Nothing's safe here."
"Finally, someone listens to me."
"I've always listened to you." He takes a deep, rattling breath that Bones doesn't like to hear at all. "I just rarely took anything you said to heart."
Refusing to run the risk of sentimentality, Bones says nothing and runs his tricorder over the patient again. Frowns deeper than he usual does. Pushes up Jim's pant leg with one hand and picks up a scalpel with the other. Watching his face, Bones gently prods the sharp tip into the bare skin.
There's no reaction. Fuck.
Bones tosses the scalpel and steps up to the comm again. "Lab! You better have something for me."
"We're trying, doctor. But - "
"Trying isn't good enough!" Bones hates the way his voice raises with raw emotion. He forces it back down, the low grumble everyone's used to and (mostly) afraid of. "It causes paralysis and right now it's paralysing your captain. Two minutes and I'm coming down there myself." He ends the transmission, checks his watch. He will give them two minutes.
"Huh. I thought my legs felt funny." Though his eyes are still closed, Jim has a shadow of his trademark grin on his face. Bones doesn't know which he wants more - to hit the bastard or crawl in next to him and hold him until he's safe. He opts for half-leaning, half-sitting on the edge of the bed.
Jim moves his hand so it brushes Bones'. The doctor, in return, gently covers the offending hand with his own shaking one.
For the next minute and thirty seconds, the two men are silent. Jim still has his eyes shut. Bones' gaze flicks between his watch, the monitor, and his best friend's face.
Fifteen seconds before he charges down to the laboratory. Fourteen. Thirteen. Jim's vitals are getting more erratic. Ten. He'd call emotionally compromised and step down if he trusted anyone else with the captain. Nine. But he's the only man for the job. Seven.
"Bones, 'member it's - " Jim wheezes " - not your fault."
Another watch check. Two minutes and one second have passed. "Like hell it's not." Bones squeezes Jim's hand, snaps the oxygen mask back into position on his face, and gets up. He crosses the room in a few long steps, not pausing as he growls, "Keep an eye on him," to one of the nurses. The doors open with their annoying whoosh and he's off. Too dignified to flat-out run, too panicked too settle on a brisk walk, he sets a sort of frantic jog.
As he rounds a corner, he almost floors Doctor Mondrey. The short, dark-skinned man waves a vile in Bones' face. "This should work."
"C'mon." Bones demands a report and Mondrey gives him a fifteen-second summary of the poison and what they hope will fight it off. It's a little too rushed to be a hundred percent reliable, but it's all they've got.
Back in the sickbay, Bones loads a dose of the antidote into a hypospray and sticks it in Jim's neck, watching the numbers on his monitor. For an instant, it looks like it worked. All the numbers were exactly where he wanted them to be. But by the time he'd tossed the hypo down a trash shoot, everything had changed again.
"He's crashing," Mondrey warns.
"Defibrillator!" Bones orders, but his second is already handing him the two paddles, all ready to go.
The lines run flat. Fuck, again. Bones lays the paddles in not-exactly-the-best-locations, since most of Jim's midsection has been damaged and bandaged. Still, it's the best he can do. He presses the buttons.
The captain's body jumps on the bed, shocked with too many volts. But it works. The blood pressure, heart, and breathing rates go back to normal - not just the dangerous place they've been, but exactly where they should be.
Just as Bones is about to start relaxing, Jim begins a coughing fit. Each cough more violent than the last, it's not long before the inside of the oxygen mask is red with blood.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, and it's somehow his fault because this means the seal he'd put on the captain's lung didn't survive the shock of the defibrillation.
Mondrey and the nurses are already moving, switching the mask out for a nasal oxygen distributor, imploring the use of the heaviest sedative Jim isn't allergic to, removing the bandage from across his chest.
Bones understands, but he doesn't react. He just stands there, a constant litany of oh, shit's and holy fuck I can't do this running through his brain and maybe just an inkling of why does this bastard keep fucking with me like this?
"Leonard!" Mondrey booms, and the addressee realizes he's still in charge, still got the say on what happens to save the patient, the captain. He snaps back into action.
"We'll cut him open. Chapel, have the laser ready to stop the bleeding. Ramsey, get me the level five sutures." Bones flicks his eyes to Jim's vitals, then to Mondrey. "You do the incision."
The second doctor nods, understanding the unspoken excuse of shaking hands, one he's seen other doctors use, but never this one. Personal history can do a lot to you.
They work as an eight-handed machine, cutting deep through soft tissue and clamping up the lung in such a way that it's smaller than it should be, then suturing their way back out of the captain, trying to leave him good as new.
Bones has got one eye on the monitor the whole time. The heart's stayed mostly stable through the whole ordeal, if nothing else. He takes that as a good sign and decides, again, to take the task of cleaning and dressing Jim's wounds upon himself.
"The ensign over there with the leg wound - " Bones is talking to Mondrey and nods his head across the room. " - needs to be injected with this stuff. Say, a quarter of the dose with gave Captain Kirk. Shouldn't be such a shock to the system, but I'll be right here if something goes wrong." His focus goes back to Jim before his second even moves.
There's something about the way Jim's laying there - bloody and broken and entirely too human - that really affects Bones. Not just in the way where his professional drive kicks in and he needs to fix everybody, but in a different way.
Well, of course it's fucking different, Bones tells himself as he starts with the alcohol, your whole damn world revolves around this guy.
He finishes with the alcohol and picks up the tricorder again. Everything looks right but the grenade wounds. It's almost a relief.
Now he thoroughly treats the area to his tiny, handheld ultrasound machine, knowing that Jim's going to need all the medical help he can get to get himself righted again. He imagines little sonic rays coursing through layers of flesh and tissue and torn apart lung, neatly stitching and moulding the captain back together.
And there's still a little bit of him that wants to sneak off with some whiskey and forget about today - except maybe that bit with the "I love you." He almost liked that bit. Out of context? The best thing he's heard since they left Earth's orbit. In context? Just another heartbreak.
Author: callieach
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Character/Pairing: McCoy-centric, with Kirk/McCoy, Spock, Scotty, Sulu, Uruha, Chekov, Keenser, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 2195
Summary: A planetside mission gone wrong.
Warnings: language, injury, other not kid friendly things
Disclaimer: Clearly not mine.
Author's Notes: It says XI but, in my head, Scotty and Spock are both old school here. Do with this tidbit what you will. Comments would be rockin'.
Part 1: Damnit, Jim is here
The doctor readjusts the pillow on the bed before gently putting the patient's head back down on them. Then, he simply looks at the damaged but not yet defeated man beneath him for a moment. Then, as if he'd never been interrupted, he goes back to cleaning and bandaging Jim's arm.
"You've saved me plenty, Bones." He knows how he wants to answer this, but isn't sure he can say it without breaking down. Because there's more than one type of saving, as far as he can tell and James Kirk has saved Leonard McCoy in just about every way possible.
Bones finishes dressing the minor arm wound and moves to the comm system, brushing hair off Jim's forehead in a sort of accidental caress as he moves past.
"Lab, come in. It's McCoy."
There's a sizzle of static. "Mondrey here."
"Progress?"
"We've isolated what seems to be the most violent chemical pattern in this stuff the metal was coated with. We're working on reverse-engineering it as an antidote now, sir. It shouldn't be long."
"Keep it at," Bones snaps before ending the transmission again. He's so fucking sick of not knowing how this is going to end. He crosses his arms and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, adopting a rather vulnerable-looking adaptation of his usually intimidating stance.
"Antidote, huh?" Jim says from the bed.
"Some of the shrapnel we pulled out of you was coated in a potentially lethal substance we know nothing about and therefore do not have a cure for."
Jim acknowledges this information with a small, non-committal noise in the back of his throat and a well, what can you do face.
Bones checks Jim's vitals again - not really any better or worse than before - and turns to examine his sickbay for the first time in a while. Two nurses, three landing party members he doesn't know all that well.
"How's the landing party?"
"Four of them came back with you."
"Who didn't?"
"Sulu."
"Abandoned or dead?"
"I have no clue."
"Where's Scotty?"
Bones moves to the comm. again, transmitting hopefully to the main engine room. "Engineering, this is Doctor McCoy. Is Mr. Scott there?"
There's a bit of a delay, then, "Scotty here." Three simple syllables and Bones can hear the dread in the Scotsman's voice.
"Jim would like to speak with you."
Scotty exhales what must have been a huge, anxiously held breath. "I'll be righ' there." He clicks off.
Bones crosses the room to check on some members of his crew who do not seem likely to cause heartbreak and anguish. One's got some burns on his hand, already expertly bandaged. The second has a mild concussion and a small contusion across the back of his skull where the force of a hand-grenade blast threw him into a wall. The last one had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his leg, thankfully nowhere near any major blood pathways - but unfortunately, his danger is not over until they know more about the poison or have the antidote.
In all, it was nothing his nurses couldn't handle, but he still feels guilty, like a boy who's been shirking responsibility to stay in his room and play it safe.
The bay doors open with a whoosh and Scotty veritably strides in and straight to the captain's side.
"Oh, captain, ye don' know how worried I was," he gushes. Without drawing too much attention to it, Bones moves to the other side of the captain's bed.
"Let's just say repairs are still underway. But enough about me. I need to know what happened down on that planet, Scotty."
Scotty rubs the back of his neck, the way he does when he realizes emotions are getting in the way of his work. "Ye remember we landed, righ'? Broke inta groups of two and scattered to look around. Tha's when they started with the hand grenades, the buggers. Sent us scatterin' even werse. Remember?"
Jim nods slowly. "I remember up to that point. Continue."
"Then, well, I was a ways away, but, from what I could see - " Here, Scotty pauses to give Bones a dirty look, since he's taken the opportunity to run his tricorder over him. "Ahem - Sulu got snatched up in one o' their big cage thingies. You went chargin' for him and didn' look before you leaped and practically ran into one of those bloody hand grenades they'd just tossed." Scotty moves his jaw wordless for a few seconds, his eyes clearly reliving the horror of the expedition. "It was a mess, sir. Mr. Galleen and I carried ye to the best shelter we could, and got ourselves beamed back up."
"And Sulu?"
"Was alive when we left. Best I can figure, the cages had some sort of energy shields, preventing the transport room from getting a lock on him. When McCoy called I'd just gotten back fr' the bridge. Mr. Spock seems ta think he's got a plan for getting our helmsman back." If the look on the engineer's face are anything to go by, the plan's not a very good one.
Jim gives a small nod. "Thanks, Scotty."
"Jus' trying to do my job, cap'n." He flashes what he must think is a reassuring smile, mutters something about taking over the transporter controls and leaves.
"Fuck." Jim makes both hands into fists, balling up bits of the sheets beneath him. Bones is at a loss for words, knowing the way Jim feels about losing crewmen, especially those he works closest with. So he gets him a paper-like cup of water, sticks a straw in it, and holds it in front of Jim's face.
"You're dehydrated," he grunts. Jim gives him a look, takes a sip. "And don't get yourself too worked up. It's not safe."
Jim closes his eyes. "We're in fucking outer space, Bones. Nothing's safe here."
"Finally, someone listens to me."
"I've always listened to you." He takes a deep, rattling breath that Bones doesn't like to hear at all. "I just rarely took anything you said to heart."
Refusing to run the risk of sentimentality, Bones says nothing and runs his tricorder over the patient again. Frowns deeper than he usual does. Pushes up Jim's pant leg with one hand and picks up a scalpel with the other. Watching his face, Bones gently prods the sharp tip into the bare skin.
There's no reaction. Fuck.
Bones tosses the scalpel and steps up to the comm again. "Lab! You better have something for me."
"We're trying, doctor. But - "
"Trying isn't good enough!" Bones hates the way his voice raises with raw emotion. He forces it back down, the low grumble everyone's used to and (mostly) afraid of. "It causes paralysis and right now it's paralysing your captain. Two minutes and I'm coming down there myself." He ends the transmission, checks his watch. He will give them two minutes.
"Huh. I thought my legs felt funny." Though his eyes are still closed, Jim has a shadow of his trademark grin on his face. Bones doesn't know which he wants more - to hit the bastard or crawl in next to him and hold him until he's safe. He opts for half-leaning, half-sitting on the edge of the bed.
Jim moves his hand so it brushes Bones'. The doctor, in return, gently covers the offending hand with his own shaking one.
For the next minute and thirty seconds, the two men are silent. Jim still has his eyes shut. Bones' gaze flicks between his watch, the monitor, and his best friend's face.
Fifteen seconds before he charges down to the laboratory. Fourteen. Thirteen. Jim's vitals are getting more erratic. Ten. He'd call emotionally compromised and step down if he trusted anyone else with the captain. Nine. But he's the only man for the job. Seven.
"Bones, 'member it's - " Jim wheezes " - not your fault."
Another watch check. Two minutes and one second have passed. "Like hell it's not." Bones squeezes Jim's hand, snaps the oxygen mask back into position on his face, and gets up. He crosses the room in a few long steps, not pausing as he growls, "Keep an eye on him," to one of the nurses. The doors open with their annoying whoosh and he's off. Too dignified to flat-out run, too panicked too settle on a brisk walk, he sets a sort of frantic jog.
As he rounds a corner, he almost floors Doctor Mondrey. The short, dark-skinned man waves a vile in Bones' face. "This should work."
"C'mon." Bones demands a report and Mondrey gives him a fifteen-second summary of the poison and what they hope will fight it off. It's a little too rushed to be a hundred percent reliable, but it's all they've got.
Back in the sickbay, Bones loads a dose of the antidote into a hypospray and sticks it in Jim's neck, watching the numbers on his monitor. For an instant, it looks like it worked. All the numbers were exactly where he wanted them to be. But by the time he'd tossed the hypo down a trash shoot, everything had changed again.
"He's crashing," Mondrey warns.
"Defibrillator!" Bones orders, but his second is already handing him the two paddles, all ready to go.
The lines run flat. Fuck, again. Bones lays the paddles in not-exactly-the-best-locations, since most of Jim's midsection has been damaged and bandaged. Still, it's the best he can do. He presses the buttons.
The captain's body jumps on the bed, shocked with too many volts. But it works. The blood pressure, heart, and breathing rates go back to normal - not just the dangerous place they've been, but exactly where they should be.
Just as Bones is about to start relaxing, Jim begins a coughing fit. Each cough more violent than the last, it's not long before the inside of the oxygen mask is red with blood.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, and it's somehow his fault because this means the seal he'd put on the captain's lung didn't survive the shock of the defibrillation.
Mondrey and the nurses are already moving, switching the mask out for a nasal oxygen distributor, imploring the use of the heaviest sedative Jim isn't allergic to, removing the bandage from across his chest.
Bones understands, but he doesn't react. He just stands there, a constant litany of oh, shit's and holy fuck I can't do this running through his brain and maybe just an inkling of why does this bastard keep fucking with me like this?
"Leonard!" Mondrey booms, and the addressee realizes he's still in charge, still got the say on what happens to save the patient, the captain. He snaps back into action.
"We'll cut him open. Chapel, have the laser ready to stop the bleeding. Ramsey, get me the level five sutures." Bones flicks his eyes to Jim's vitals, then to Mondrey. "You do the incision."
The second doctor nods, understanding the unspoken excuse of shaking hands, one he's seen other doctors use, but never this one. Personal history can do a lot to you.
They work as an eight-handed machine, cutting deep through soft tissue and clamping up the lung in such a way that it's smaller than it should be, then suturing their way back out of the captain, trying to leave him good as new.
Bones has got one eye on the monitor the whole time. The heart's stayed mostly stable through the whole ordeal, if nothing else. He takes that as a good sign and decides, again, to take the task of cleaning and dressing Jim's wounds upon himself.
"The ensign over there with the leg wound - " Bones is talking to Mondrey and nods his head across the room. " - needs to be injected with this stuff. Say, a quarter of the dose with gave Captain Kirk. Shouldn't be such a shock to the system, but I'll be right here if something goes wrong." His focus goes back to Jim before his second even moves.
There's something about the way Jim's laying there - bloody and broken and entirely too human - that really affects Bones. Not just in the way where his professional drive kicks in and he needs to fix everybody, but in a different way.
Well, of course it's fucking different, Bones tells himself as he starts with the alcohol, your whole damn world revolves around this guy.
He finishes with the alcohol and picks up the tricorder again. Everything looks right but the grenade wounds. It's almost a relief.
Now he thoroughly treats the area to his tiny, handheld ultrasound machine, knowing that Jim's going to need all the medical help he can get to get himself righted again. He imagines little sonic rays coursing through layers of flesh and tissue and torn apart lung, neatly stitching and moulding the captain back together.
And there's still a little bit of him that wants to sneak off with some whiskey and forget about today - except maybe that bit with the "I love you." He almost liked that bit. Out of context? The best thing he's heard since they left Earth's orbit. In context? Just another heartbreak.