Chapter Text
HOW TO REMEMBER
[AUTHOR’S NOTE: I started this story three years ago and only recently uncovered it while purging some old files. I think it has some potential to be a great story, even if it appears to be just another amnesia fic at first glance. Let me know what you think, and I might pick this back up and run with it.]
Opening your eyes takes far too much effort. Thankfully, the light isn’t harsh - just strangely colored and blurry. Your eyes adjust after a few seconds and the scene before you starts to come into focus. There are people in front of you dressed in red, blue, and gold. You realize they are talking, both among themselves and supposedly to you. Only then do you translate the subdued, muffling sounds you have been ignoring up until now as speech.
But none of what you hear makes any sense.
These people might as well be speaking a foreign language, you realize. What they are trying to say is utterly unclear. Their faces seem concerned and their voices desperate. Sadly, you cannot respond. Your mind is still too fuzzy – and you couldn't come up with proper words of your own to belay their increasingly frantic calls, even if they could somehow understand you in return.
Instead, you slowly take in more of your surroundings.
You are laying down on a bed of some kind – a rather uncomfortable one, you realize. You try to sit up, but your hands feel like heavy clubs. They are also raw – moving them at all stretches the skin in ways that should be natural, but somehow isn’t. You bring your hands up to your face to examine them. They look far too young and smooth, slightly pink and without blemish.
Almost like they had been in a dermal regenerator until very recently.
Ah, you must have been in an accident of some kind. No wonder these people were so keen on communicating with you.
You try to smile to belay their fears, hoping they understand that at least. Some of them smile in return, but only slightly – their concern still evident.
A man with severe eyebrows, one of those that didn’t smile, hands you an electronic pad of some kind. It has a strange pattern scrawled across it, mostly black with spidery lines of blueish white that run in a line. You haven’t the faintest idea what it means.
The man with the strange eyebrows takes the pad away once it is obvious you can’t understand it. Instead he snaps his fingers near your left ear, making you jump. You want to explain that you aren’t deaf – you just can’t seem to speak. Half-formed words linger in your mind just out of reach, somehow growing less distinct the harder you try to focus on them.
You doubt that these people would be able to understand you anyway. They finally retreat and begin talking in a group a few steps away from your bed – giving up on including you in their conversation. You wonder what they will decide to do with you.
Having nothing else to worry about until they make up their minds, you look around the room again.
There are other beds – most of them empty, but some which are not. A hospital ward of some kind, your mind supplies the reference if not the correct words, although how it does this you aren’t sure. You feel a headache coming on.
There is a young woman lying in a bed close by that seems to be asleep or unconscious. Her skin is pink all over, with modesty screens obscuring her nakedness. Somehow the sight of her slow and even breathing brings you comfort – relieving a worry you can’t identify.
You wonder how you got to this strange place. You realize you can’t seem to remember anything past waking up just a few moments ago. Surely you weren’t just born – unless you are some kind of android, not flesh and blood. The newly grown skin on your hands refutes that hypothesis, as does your presence in a hospital setting rather than a lab. That must mean your memory has either been erased or made inaccessible due to some kind of disease or trauma.
This thought makes you panic slightly.
What kind of person are you then? A criminal? A saint? What if you don’t like the answer? What if you want to be something different? Who are these people standing around you? Their concern seems genuine. Friends perhaps? Or just Good Samaritans? Who is the girl in the other bed? Did you know her? Her face is unfamiliar, just like the others, but you still feel relieved by her continued breathing. But what could that mean?
A beautiful lady wearing a smart red uniform seems to notice your distress. She disengages from the rest of the group and comes to your side. She holds your hand and seems to be trying to calm you down. While you still can’t make any sense of her words, you are grateful for her presence.
Just then, a man wearing gold rushes into the room and immediately goes to your other side. His eyes are blue and kind. He takes your other hand and starts babbling incoherently at you. He is obviously distressed at your current condition. Friends then. These are your friends.
Whoever you are, it must not be too bad then. These seem to be good people.
You smile at the new arrival, trying to convey that you are okay. But the man becomes agitated instead when you don’t respond in kind - his words growing more frantic. The others are chiming in now, trying to help him understand. You feel helpless as his face turns ashen, his bright eyes dimming slightly with understanding at whatever they have revealed to him.
Somehow this man’s distress tugs at your heart worse than the others had. You hold onto his hand tighter, trying to communicate this. He looks back to your face and repeats what you assume to be your name.
“Bones.”
You disengage your other hand from the beautiful lady in red and point to your chest. You try to repeat the strange word, even though it feels clumsy on your lips.
“Bo…nz?”
At this, the man gives you a watery smile.
Bones. Your name is Bones.
***---***---***
Your headache grows worse and you don’t remember what happens for a while. The man with the severe eyebrows returns and appears to run several tests. You sleep off and on. Obviously, your body has been through some trauma, as you can only barely summon the strength to leave the uncomfortable bed and take a few steps at a time.
A lady with short blond hair and a kind smile comes and goes – you assume she is the doctor. The man in gold with the blue eyes doesn’t appear again. You are saddened by this.
The young woman in the other bed has been clothed in a simple tunic now, but she has yet to regain consciousness.
Your hands are feeling much better, and you exercise them when the blond doctor asks you to. Simple really – just flexing your fingers or making a fist – all actions that she mimes for you to repeat. You get the idea that your hands must have been burned somehow. How you know this, you aren’t quite sure. Not deep burns, otherwise there would be damage to the underlying tissue. Chemical burns perhaps?
You wonder if that whatever happened to your hands happened to the female patient’s body as well. Although how this injury would have any relation to your memory loss is beyond you. Skin can absorb some substances – whatever warranted dermal regeneration might have leeched into your blood stream.
This likely meant irreversible brain damage your mind supplies after further consideration. This should make you upset, but it doesn’t really.
There aren’t enough memories left in your mind to be saddened by whatever might have been lost.
You feel concern for your friends, of course. You might have survived physically, but if your memories don’t return you might as well be dead to them. Not knowing their names or how you even met. What kind of friendship you had was impossible to guess. Although the smart uniforms everyone wore did hint at some kind of formal relationship.
When the doctor comes by again she brings someone new with her. A young man wearing blue that you don’t remember seeing before. She politely introduces him, it seems, but you can’t make heads or tails of what either of them are saying. The doctor leaves the two of you alone.
The man pulls out an electronic pad and shows you a bunch of pictures. Some of them you recognize to be your friends, but most of them don’t mean anything to you. The young man puts the pad away after a few minutes, obviously disheartened by your lack of response. But he doesn’t give up.
He mimes a hand gesture, which you mimic as per usual – a fist and a raised thumb. The man smiles comically at this. He then flips the gesture downwards and frowns – all equally exaggerated. It takes only a second for you to realize his intent. Thumbs-up means good. Thumbs-down means bad. With this you can communicate. You break into a genuine smile and give the thumbs-up.
He smiles in return and brings out the pad again. He shows you a picture that you reacted to before. It is a group of people, among them is the beautiful lady in red, the dark-haired man with the severe eyebrows, and the man in gold with the kind, blue eyes. These are your friends. You give a thumbs-up for good. The man returns the gesture.
The man then shows you a picture you don’t recognize. There are no people in this image, only a strange shape surrounded by a field of stars. You give a thumbs-down. The man nods.
He shows you another picture, this time of a little girl. Your heart hurts at seeing her, but you aren’t sure why. You don’t give a thumbs-up or down. The man waits patiently for your reply, but you don’t have a sign for something in between. Your hesitation to answer, however, seems to be enough.
The man puts the pad away and tries something else. He points to himself and says quite clearly “Geoffrey.” You struggle to make the right sounds. After a few tries you manage something that sounds like “Jeff… ree.” This is close enough for the other man who smiles and gives you the thumbs-up. Your tongue gets in the way when you try and vocalize. Speaking is incredibly difficult.
Geoffrey gets the pad out again and brings up the image of your friends immediately. He points to the man with the severe eyebrows. “Spock.” The word is obviously a name, even if it sounds ridiculous.
You try to repeat it, but it doesn’t come out right. This frustrates you. You give a thumbs down. The man seems to understand. He points to the man with the kind, blue eyes instead. “Kirk.” The name doesn’t seem right to you, though. You give a thumbs-down without even trying. Verbalizing these names is too hard anyway.
Geoffrey sighs. He is obviously discouraged by your lack of progress.
The blond doctor returns with a tray of food. You are very hungry by now and any further consideration of names is forgotten. Your hands are still a bit clumsy, but they are healing fast thanks to the exercises to loosen up the new skin. You dive right in without really thinking. Only after you’ve grabbed the utensils do you consider that you must remember instinctively how to use them. They maneuver easily, scooping, cutting, and stabbing away at the food until it is gone. All the while the doctor and Geoffrey watch silently.
Fine motor control hasn’t been affected too much, you realize. This seems to be a good thing, as both the doctor and Geoffrey are smiling. You give a thumbs-up once you’ve finished. Geoffrey and the doctor have a short conversation, excluding you from their deliberations since you don’t understand what they are saying anyway. Geoffrey, at least, seems a bit more cheerful as the doctor takes the tray away.
…
Only afterwards when you wake up from what feels like a very long sleep do you realize there must have been some kind of sedative in the food. The doctor and Geoffrey quickly tumble out of the friend category and into one of suspicion. No matter what tragic accident you had endured, you aren’t so dim as to not realize this subterfuge – as the symptoms of grogginess and slight nausea you are experiencing are not consistent with natural sleep.
Again, your mind supplies this fact without any real context. You don’t wonder how you know it, sure that it is true.
The room is empty and dark when you are finally able to sit up and look around properly. You are not in the hospital anymore, that much is certain. As you rise off the substantially more comfortable bed the lights brighten automatically.
You are in a place that looks very different from the previous room. No one else is present.
Sparsely furnished, with only the necessities and a few simple pieces of what might be art – you assume you have been moved to personal living quarters of some kind. You wonder if the room is supposed to be familiar or if you have just been moved out of the hospital to make more room for real emergencies now that your hands are healed.
Whatever might still be wrong with you isn’t life threatening – just inconvenient.
There is a polite chime at the door before the blonde doctor lets herself in. You have no way of knowing if this is a routine check-up or if you are somehow being monitored. You give her a scowl and an adamant thumbs down. She just laughs and proceeds with an examination.
It is only then that you realize there is a window. It must be nighttime, as there are only stars to be seen.
But… wait a minute.
The stars seem to be moving. You brush the doctor off of you so you can rush to the window and take a proper look. It is an endless ocean of black dotted with stars. Space. You are in space!
The shock must be evident on your face, as the doctor attempts a reassuring tone with her voice even if you can’t understand the words. The strange picture Geoffrey had shown you before must have been a spaceship – this ship. The cold, soul-crushing emptiness of space is only a few feet away from you, with only a fine metal shell protecting you from death. You register that your breathing has become erratic as you back away in a panic. The doctor is still trying to calm you down, but you push past her.
There is a closet on the far side of the room, furthest from the window. You squeeze inside and curl up on the floor, attempting to get your breathing even again instead of coming in ragged gasps. The fear response was unexpected, perhaps even illogical, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stamp out.
The doctor has a hypo ready, probably laced with more sedatives. You bat her away angrily. It is only then that you realize how utterly alone you feel. These people are trying to help, but without you being able to really communicate with them they might as well not be there at all. This just makes you angrier still. Fuzzy dark spots dance before your eyes as you struggle to gulp down enough air.
Another person quickly comes into the room who you recognize as the man in the gold shirt with the kind, blue eyes. He doesn’t seem to need to be told what has happened as he brushes past the doctor as well and takes his place at your side.
He gives you a sad smile as he bends down to where you are cowering on the floor of the closet. You realize this man understands your fear. He knows.
Your fury melts away, but in its place you find tears welling up. Hot, angry tears threaten to fall down your cheeks. The man offers his hand, which you take gladly. He has a soothing voice, even if you can’t quite understand the words.
He is saying your name. Bones. Bones. You hadn’t realized until then that no one else seems to have used your name since you first woke up.
After your breathing is finally under control you attempt to say your own name again. It comes out better this time. You point to yourself and say it again. The other man smiles carefully. You point to his chest as a question, but it takes a few tries before he understands you want to know his name.
“Jim.” He says.
This feels right – much better than whatever Geoffrey had called the man. And you find it easy to pronounce. “Jim.” You repeat it, over and over again. This time the other man gives you a genuine smile.
You love his smile. It is bright, confident, and warm. The fear you had about being trapped on a starship surrounded by an endless void slowly fades away.
***---***---***
The next few days are trying.
Geoffrey invades your room and shows you all kinds of pictures. You use your thumbs-up and thumbs-down to communicate most of the time although you slowly begin to learn more words too. The young man laboriously explains that you are part of the ship's crew and that you had some kind of accident – which you had already surmised.
Other people visit you, but not Jim. You miss him.
Your food is deemed safe after you refuse to eat until your server takes a bite first. The doctor rolls her eyes at you every time, but you still haven’t forgiven her for drugging you - so you keep it up anyway.
Geoffrey explains that you are back in your own quarters, but nothing about it triggers any useful recollections or speeds up your recovery. In fact, you begin to lose hope that you will ever recover, which has put you in a black mood. Soon these people, for as nice as they are, will realize you are useless. Surely their kindness can only be stretched so far.
You begin to wonder when and how you will be abandoned.
But then there is the dream. It happens on the third full night back in your room.
People are talking and their words make sense for a change. The man with the kind, blue eyes is there telling you some story with animated hand gestures, beaming smiles, and laughter. The beautiful lady in the red dress is mocking him in a playful way. The man with the severe eyebrows, Spock, doesn’t smile, but you can somehow tell he is amused as well – even if he won’t show it.
It is a good dream.
But you can’t remember all of it upon waking. Just enough for it to feel like a memory – for your connection to these people to feel sound. If there was even a small chance to gain back what you had lost, you feel compelled to try.
If your own quarters aren’t helping, then perhaps you can find somewhere else that will.
Or perhaps someone else.