James Tiberius Kirk Loves Dylan Marlais Thomas (1/2)
Title: "James Tiberius Kirk Loves Dylan Marlais Thomas"
Series: "Dead Poets Society" (1/3)
Author: Taverl
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 3,376
Summary: Death certainly has a way of putting life in perspective. (STiD spoilers)
Notes: This is the sequel to James Tiberius Kirk Hates Alfred Lord Tennyson. You don't have to have read the first part to understand this one, though it might be helpful.
Acknowledgements: Look, bug, I fixed it! (Kinda.) :D Huge thanks to all the lovely Word Warriors at jim-and-bones for encouragement and support. Even more thanks and wine (lots and lots of wine) to ken-ichijouji and beta. Any and all mistakes are mine.
"And death shall have no dominion."
Too bad Thomas never met Leonard McCoy.
It takes Jim months to sort it all out, to separate the end from the middle from the beginning, figure out the what, when and where.
And while it would be wrong to say Jim no longer fears death, he no longer fears being dead.
Been there, done that.
While there were no happy reunions with his father, his grandparents or Pike - at least that he can remember - there wasn't oblivion, either. In retrospect, he would compare it to those warm afternoons when he and Sam would take a couple of old inner tubes down to the river and float along on its gentle current without a care in the world.
Death was dark and filled with every color in every spectrum, silent and a riot of sound, without feeling and full of sensation. It was floating down an infinitely long, infinitely lazy river with "nowhere to go and all day to get there," as Grandpa Ti used to say. And while has no recollection of anybody else being there with him, he was never lonely, as if everyone he ever loved was just outside the range of his vision and all he had to do was turn his head to speak with them.
It was blissful peace, pure contentment, and Jim thinks a part of him will always miss it.
No, being dead was nothing to fear.
Dying, however, sucked ass.
It's not the pain, though it was excruciating and he never needs to feel his lungs collapsing as they fill with blood ever again. It's the knowledge of the imminent separation and that he was leaving so many people he loved behind that tore at his soul.
Even worse was the regret for things done and undone, words said and unsaid.
Bones, Mom, Sam, Bones, Pike, Spock, Bones, Uhura, Bones, Scotty, Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones...
Always Bones.
The small part of his brain that wasn't occupied with dealing with the pain and the fear was gibbering at him that he wanted Bones with him, but when heard Scotty's muffled voice talking frantically about calling Sickbay, Jim mustered what little strength he had left and told him to call Spock instead.
Bones was probably up to his elbows in some poor crewmember whose life depended on those talented hands. Jim knew he was a dead man, and as much as he wanted to see Bones's face one last time, he also wanted to spare him. The door to the warp chamber was deadlocked - hah, punny - and not even a captain's override could open it until the decontamination cycle had completed. All Bones would have been able to do was sit on the other side of the glass and helplessly watch Jim die.
Instead, he focused on Spock, who, despite everything, had become a great friend. Of all the adjectives he'd ever use to describe the half-Vulcan, "comforting" was not one of them. But even as he raged against the dying of the light, Spock's presence proved soothing. And when he took that last, agonized breath, he was satisfied he'd done the right thing.
So, dying is horrific and he recommends putting it off for as long as possible.
Being dead is blissful and while he's in no hurry to repeat the experience any time soon, he knows nobody can avoid it forever. So he gives it an excellent grade: A+, would be dead again.
But resurrection?
He's still on the fence about that one.
Not about being alive again, because there's still far too much to be done in his second shot at life to regret a single moment spent living it. But the actual process of being pulled from the realm of the dead into the land of the living makes you reevaluate the life you had before. Because apparently you don't get a greatest-hits version of your life when you're dying, only when you're coming back to life, and during that highlight reel, Jim found himself questioning everything.
And he does mean everything. Every action, every decision, every thought, every emotion, every damned he'd ever done.
Or not done, as the case may be.
Did he tell his mother he loved her as often as he should have? Could he have done more to repair his relationship with Sam? Did Pike ever know just how important his support meant to Jim? Why didn't he take the time to apologize to Gaila and let her know he never meant to take advantage of her? Did Spock understand how much Jim had come to rely on him, both as a friend and a brother-in-arms? Aside from his last, desperate act, had he always put his crew's best interests before his own?
Was Bones really better off for them never taken a chance at something more?
A whirlwind of voices accompanied those and so many other questions, a continuous stream of self-doubt that lasted seconds or days or millennia, he couldn't tell. Eventually, one voice rose above the others, harsh and broken and always saying the same thing.
"I should've been with you."
Another endless stretch passed and the familiar voices began to fade as other sounds emerged: footsteps, rustling fabric, mechanical noises.
"I should've been with you."
Sensation. Soft cloth brushing his knees and his feet. Vibrations under his back and hands.
"I should've been with you."
Pain, muted and distant.
"I should've been with you."
Pressure on his shoulder, faint but noticeable.
"I should've been with you."
Dampness on his shoulder where the pressure had been earlier. The moisture cooling as the air hits it.
"I should've been with you."
Bones.
Why is Bones here? Is he dead, too?
The thought panics Jim for reasons he can't understand. Jim was happy in death and knows Bones would be, too. So why does the idea of Bones being dead frighten him so much now?
Maybe it's because, apparently, wherever he was before, he's not there now and all that fear he'd felt as his body gave out on him comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him.
Terror, doubt, pain...there were none of those things in the other place, and he wants to go back to it so badly he feels like he may start crying.
He doesn't want to be here and, most importantly, he doesn't want Bones stuck here with him.
He tries to reach out and reassure himself that it's just some kind of aural hallucination, that Bones isn't here in this nightmare, but his limbs won't obey his mind's command. He tries to call out, but his voice is choked off by something blocking his lips. He realizes the same thing is also in his mouth, down his throat and he tries to raise his arms to remove it, but he still can't move. Opening his eyes proves impossible as they're covered by something wrapped around his head. He needs to know that Bones is safe, away from here, but he's so very, very weak.
He pauses for a moment and tries to muster his strength before making another effort to speak, move, anything. He tries to take a deep breath, suddenly confused as to why he'd need to do such a thing. He'd stopped breathing ages ago, hadn't he? Struggling against whatever is blocking his airway, he once more tries to call out. If he could just know Bones was OK...
"Jim! Jim, you're all right. You need to just calm down."
No, Nononononono... As much as his chest aches at hearing that beloved voice again, he's terrified. Maybe it's an illusion, a hallucination making him think Bones is trapped in this hell with him.
Maybe he's actually in hell and this is one of the torments he has to suffer: knowing that he'd dragged Bones down with him. Gathering his meager strength, he tries to roll his head and remove the bandage over his eyes.
"You're in Starfleet Medical. You're going to be fine, but you have to relax, dammit." That's the Bones he knows and loves and the urge to weep is almost overwhelming. "Your eyes are still healing and we need to keep them covered. Try to just calm down. Please, Jim."
He ignores Bones's comment about healing - how do you heal the dead? - and continues to struggle to move his arms, to speak, to do anything to figure out where he is and what is happening. He hears a noise by his ear, senses something near him, but doesn't register what's going on until Bones speaks again.
"I've given you a sedative. Please try to relax, Jim. You're doing so well, but you still have a long way to go, and..." The barely-there touch of fingers across his forehead registers just as he starts to feel his body relax, his mind slow. "Please, Jim. I need you to get better."
His last thought before he surrenders to the darkness is that only Leonard McCoy would manage to bring his hyposprays with him into the afterlife.
Part Two
Series: "Dead Poets Society" (1/3)
Author: Taverl
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 3,376
Summary: Death certainly has a way of putting life in perspective. (STiD spoilers)
Notes: This is the sequel to James Tiberius Kirk Hates Alfred Lord Tennyson. You don't have to have read the first part to understand this one, though it might be helpful.
Acknowledgements: Look, bug, I fixed it! (Kinda.) :D Huge thanks to all the lovely Word Warriors at jim-and-bones for encouragement and support. Even more thanks and wine (lots and lots of wine) to ken-ichijouji and beta. Any and all mistakes are mine.
"And death shall have no dominion."
Too bad Thomas never met Leonard McCoy.
It takes Jim months to sort it all out, to separate the end from the middle from the beginning, figure out the what, when and where.
And while it would be wrong to say Jim no longer fears death, he no longer fears being dead.
Been there, done that.
While there were no happy reunions with his father, his grandparents or Pike - at least that he can remember - there wasn't oblivion, either. In retrospect, he would compare it to those warm afternoons when he and Sam would take a couple of old inner tubes down to the river and float along on its gentle current without a care in the world.
Death was dark and filled with every color in every spectrum, silent and a riot of sound, without feeling and full of sensation. It was floating down an infinitely long, infinitely lazy river with "nowhere to go and all day to get there," as Grandpa Ti used to say. And while has no recollection of anybody else being there with him, he was never lonely, as if everyone he ever loved was just outside the range of his vision and all he had to do was turn his head to speak with them.
It was blissful peace, pure contentment, and Jim thinks a part of him will always miss it.
No, being dead was nothing to fear.
Dying, however, sucked ass.
It's not the pain, though it was excruciating and he never needs to feel his lungs collapsing as they fill with blood ever again. It's the knowledge of the imminent separation and that he was leaving so many people he loved behind that tore at his soul.
Even worse was the regret for things done and undone, words said and unsaid.
Bones, Mom, Sam, Bones, Pike, Spock, Bones, Uhura, Bones, Scotty, Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones...
Always Bones.
The small part of his brain that wasn't occupied with dealing with the pain and the fear was gibbering at him that he wanted Bones with him, but when heard Scotty's muffled voice talking frantically about calling Sickbay, Jim mustered what little strength he had left and told him to call Spock instead.
Bones was probably up to his elbows in some poor crewmember whose life depended on those talented hands. Jim knew he was a dead man, and as much as he wanted to see Bones's face one last time, he also wanted to spare him. The door to the warp chamber was deadlocked - hah, punny - and not even a captain's override could open it until the decontamination cycle had completed. All Bones would have been able to do was sit on the other side of the glass and helplessly watch Jim die.
Instead, he focused on Spock, who, despite everything, had become a great friend. Of all the adjectives he'd ever use to describe the half-Vulcan, "comforting" was not one of them. But even as he raged against the dying of the light, Spock's presence proved soothing. And when he took that last, agonized breath, he was satisfied he'd done the right thing.
So, dying is horrific and he recommends putting it off for as long as possible.
Being dead is blissful and while he's in no hurry to repeat the experience any time soon, he knows nobody can avoid it forever. So he gives it an excellent grade: A+, would be dead again.
But resurrection?
He's still on the fence about that one.
Not about being alive again, because there's still far too much to be done in his second shot at life to regret a single moment spent living it. But the actual process of being pulled from the realm of the dead into the land of the living makes you reevaluate the life you had before. Because apparently you don't get a greatest-hits version of your life when you're dying, only when you're coming back to life, and during that highlight reel, Jim found himself questioning everything.
And he does mean everything. Every action, every decision, every thought, every emotion, every damned he'd ever done.
Or not done, as the case may be.
Did he tell his mother he loved her as often as he should have? Could he have done more to repair his relationship with Sam? Did Pike ever know just how important his support meant to Jim? Why didn't he take the time to apologize to Gaila and let her know he never meant to take advantage of her? Did Spock understand how much Jim had come to rely on him, both as a friend and a brother-in-arms? Aside from his last, desperate act, had he always put his crew's best interests before his own?
Was Bones really better off for them never taken a chance at something more?
A whirlwind of voices accompanied those and so many other questions, a continuous stream of self-doubt that lasted seconds or days or millennia, he couldn't tell. Eventually, one voice rose above the others, harsh and broken and always saying the same thing.
"I should've been with you."
Another endless stretch passed and the familiar voices began to fade as other sounds emerged: footsteps, rustling fabric, mechanical noises.
"I should've been with you."
Sensation. Soft cloth brushing his knees and his feet. Vibrations under his back and hands.
"I should've been with you."
Pain, muted and distant.
"I should've been with you."
Pressure on his shoulder, faint but noticeable.
"I should've been with you."
Dampness on his shoulder where the pressure had been earlier. The moisture cooling as the air hits it.
"I should've been with you."
Bones.
Why is Bones here? Is he dead, too?
The thought panics Jim for reasons he can't understand. Jim was happy in death and knows Bones would be, too. So why does the idea of Bones being dead frighten him so much now?
Maybe it's because, apparently, wherever he was before, he's not there now and all that fear he'd felt as his body gave out on him comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him.
Terror, doubt, pain...there were none of those things in the other place, and he wants to go back to it so badly he feels like he may start crying.
He doesn't want to be here and, most importantly, he doesn't want Bones stuck here with him.
He tries to reach out and reassure himself that it's just some kind of aural hallucination, that Bones isn't here in this nightmare, but his limbs won't obey his mind's command. He tries to call out, but his voice is choked off by something blocking his lips. He realizes the same thing is also in his mouth, down his throat and he tries to raise his arms to remove it, but he still can't move. Opening his eyes proves impossible as they're covered by something wrapped around his head. He needs to know that Bones is safe, away from here, but he's so very, very weak.
He pauses for a moment and tries to muster his strength before making another effort to speak, move, anything. He tries to take a deep breath, suddenly confused as to why he'd need to do such a thing. He'd stopped breathing ages ago, hadn't he? Struggling against whatever is blocking his airway, he once more tries to call out. If he could just know Bones was OK...
"Jim! Jim, you're all right. You need to just calm down."
No, Nononononono... As much as his chest aches at hearing that beloved voice again, he's terrified. Maybe it's an illusion, a hallucination making him think Bones is trapped in this hell with him.
Maybe he's actually in hell and this is one of the torments he has to suffer: knowing that he'd dragged Bones down with him. Gathering his meager strength, he tries to roll his head and remove the bandage over his eyes.
"You're in Starfleet Medical. You're going to be fine, but you have to relax, dammit." That's the Bones he knows and loves and the urge to weep is almost overwhelming. "Your eyes are still healing and we need to keep them covered. Try to just calm down. Please, Jim."
He ignores Bones's comment about healing - how do you heal the dead? - and continues to struggle to move his arms, to speak, to do anything to figure out where he is and what is happening. He hears a noise by his ear, senses something near him, but doesn't register what's going on until Bones speaks again.
"I've given you a sedative. Please try to relax, Jim. You're doing so well, but you still have a long way to go, and..." The barely-there touch of fingers across his forehead registers just as he starts to feel his body relax, his mind slow. "Please, Jim. I need you to get better."
His last thought before he surrenders to the darkness is that only Leonard McCoy would manage to bring his hyposprays with him into the afterlife.
Part Two