Chapter Text
The fever hit him like a shuttle dropped from the sky.
Here lies Leonard H. McCoy, it would say on his memorial, feet protruding from under an engine housing.
One minute, Leonard was at the long lunch table at SFM, talking and eating and laughing with the other trauma surgeons on-call like a normal person. The next, there was a sudden prickle at the base of his spine followed by a flash of pain behind his eyes and the last thing he heard of the conversation was Bartok’s increasingly urgent, “Doctor McCoy? McCoy? Leonard?”
He didn’t even manage a self-diagnosis before it all went dark.
**********
He did manage a self-diagnosis when he clawed his way back to consciousness an undetermined amount of time later. It was right there in the look on Nurse Gardner’s face when it blurrily swam into focus over his own, pinched and fearful behind a bio shield: Rigellian meningitis.
Abrupt fever, purpura fulminans, hemorrhage, sepsis, amputation, death.
It was the kind of line in a medical textbook that settled heavily over junior doctors and never left them, particularly when followed by the dispassionate, Highly infectious. Case fatality rate for humans: 87.6%.
If Leonard was this sick, someone else must have died. Gardner noticed his eyes were open and said something that didn’t quite register to his rushing ears beyond a garbled mess of sound. He didn’t even manage to shake his head in reply before the darkness crowded out his vision.
**********
It was almost a surprise to wake up again.
Blinding white doesn’t fade as he blinks: it’s the stark walls of the high security quarantine section, with a fishbowl like geometry, airlocks, and viewing window for visitors. Clinical. Claustrophobic.
It takes Leonard a moment to realize that the horrible, wet, raspy noise is his own breathing. Another moment and his nervous system kicks in and everything hurts, fuck, even his hair hurts. All he can do is whimper into the ventilator mask and wait to pass out again.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
**********
The next time he senses himself surfacing, Leonard tries to force himself towards consciousness. The agony is present, but muted to a dull roar by what can only be a tremendous volume of narcotic painkillers. Fuck, he thinks, fuck, fuck, fuck. Of all the fucking ways to die, this has to be one of the worst. It hurts to move his eyes but he does it all the same and spots the livid, blotchy rash that has settled over his arms and hands.
Glancing towards the observation window makes Leonard’s breath hitch.
Jim.
The kid's shortly cropped hair is standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it; a nervous gesture that usually only appears during exam season. Leonard tries to make his mouth form the name, Jim, but it doesn’t obey him at all and the only result is a hitch in his breathing.
Jim has practically got his nose pressed to the glass even as the rest of his posture is tense and closed off, arms more hugging himself than crossed. It’s as if he’s bracing himself.
He knows.
Leonard feels himself sinking back at the knowledge.
It’s quiet and dark.
**********
Jim’s there.
This time in casual clothes.
His hair is still a mess.
There’s at least three days of stubble on his face.
Leonard’s brain can only dimly process one detail at a time. It flits from Jim to the fact that he can’t see his arms anymore. Instead, his biceps vanish into a vascular regeneration suit.
If he loses more than two fingers and a thumb on one hand he won’t be fit for starship duty, at least not as a frontline medic. Certainly not as a CMO. He could be a surgeon dirtside with adapted equipment or a prosthetic, but deep space postings require the ability to seamlessly manipulate sensitive equipment, fire phasers, wield standard hyposprays, and have the dexterity to perform miracles with little more than whatever can be salvaged from crashed shuttles or alien dungeons.
There’s a crackle of the intercom and then what was probably a soft, “Bones?” sends a spike of pain though his head. Leonard moans involuntarily which only sends another wave of pain and he can’t help but moan again. Monitors above his head start to chime and an IV pump whirs to life, something snaking down the line connected to the port in his chest.
The stricken expression on Jim’s face lingers behind his closed eyelids.
**********
Blue eyes.
But not Jim.
Leonard blinks and muzzily manages to turn his head ever so slightly towards the observation window. Captain Pike?
The older man is standing with his arms crossed, watching Leonard and the monitors over his bed intently.
He can’t feel his body; can’t see much with the bulky vascular regen suit still in place. He’s so very tired keeping his eyelids open is like fighting a palpable weight. Pike glances down and directly meets his eyes; the intensity of the captain’s gaze makes Leonard shiver.
He wants to ask after Jim.
Pike would know.
Leonard’s fairly sure his mouth moves, but the words don’t come.
Instead of speaking, Pike nods.
Somehow, Leonard understands the gesture means that Pike is keeping an eye on Jim.
He lets his eyes slip closed in relief.
**********
It’s somehow even worse the next time he wakes.
Leonard can hear the difference in the ventilator— it’s switched to high flow, with an acrid taste of medicine apparent in the air. The IV is administering something as well; the fluid is coming in cooler than his body temperature and he can feel it moving through his system.
Abrupt fever, purpura fulminans, hemorrhage, sepsis, amputation, death.
He has no proprioceptive sense of his body at all, beyond a viscous ache deep in his joints and a sensation of tremendous pressure on his chest. His limbs are everywhere and nowhere at once. Leonard wonders if they are even still there.
There’s something huddled against the window and it takes a moment for Leonard to realize that it’s Jim, asleep.
Jim, he thinks. As if the kid could be telepathic in his dreams. I’m sorry.
**********
Awareness comes with the realization that there’s someone actually in the room with him, for the first time since Gardner.
Leonard peers up through the bulky protective gear and after a moment recognizes that it’s Philip Boyce, an absolute legend of SFM at his, Leonard’s, bedside. Last he’d heard the man was curing the Veradian Plague, beaming down directly into the capital city and saving millions of lives in the process.
It could be very bad news, the doctor’s presence, but he musters up energy he doesn’t really have to ask, Am I going to die? except it comes out slurred and garbled, “‘Migonnadie?”
Boyce doesn’t startle. If anything, he looks like he was waiting for Leonard to ask. The older man sets down a padd to give Leonard his full attention as he softly says, “It’s a vicious strain, McCoy. One surgical nurse, three doctors from the break room, a receptionist, and two orderlies are dead. Another orderly is in an induced coma on full life support. You’re doing better by far out of everyone.”
So many questions swirl around, but what does come out is a barely coherent, “Why're-you?”
A soft smile settles on Boyce’s lips, despite the clear lines of stress and worry on his forehead, “Chris called me.”
Pike?
Sensing Leonard’s confusion, he continues, “Kirk got thrown out three times demanding to see you before Chris showed up and forced them to let him in. The kid was almost hysterical when they let him get a glimpse of you and I think you scared the shit out of Chris as well. It was bad McCoy. You’d hemorrhaged everywhere and they couldn’t get it to stop.”
‘S’not—”
“No, it’s not much better now,” Boyce agrees, “But you’re still here and we’re working on it.” The frank words are enough to make Leonard like the other man already. Sensing Leonard’s gaze making an attempt towards the viewing window, he continues, “You’ve got all your limbs intact right now— I brought on a xeno-consultant from Rigel who specializes in vascular disorders and we’ve modified the standard treatment regimen. It’s experimental, but under the circumstances your next of kin agreed. Chris took Jim home to make him get some sleep.”
Leonard can picture Jim in their shared dorm, a rare concession to the usual separation of medical track from other cadet housing. There’s no way the kid would be sleeping there on his own, no matter how many hours he’d been awake. The dorm rooms could be damned claustrophobic at the best of times. Alone with dark thoughts, they were intolerable. Pike might have ordered him to get some rest, but Jim would just be a tense figure on his single bed. He probably hadn’t even turned the lights off.”
Leonard must be frowning because Boyce clarifies, “He took him home, McCoy. Our house.”
There’s a ring on Boyce’s finger that Leonard hadn’t noticed before.
Who would take Jim home with them? Captain Pike?
Boyce’s expression turns fond, as if he can’t help but smile a little no matter the circumstances. “It’s not common knowledge but we’ve been together since I was his CMO; friends before that. Chris’ll force some food into him and make sure he actually gets to sleep for a while.”
Captain Christopher Pike has a conflicting reputation for being a damned maverick who probably slept in his uniform. This side of him, married to Philip Boyce, isn’t something any cadet had an inkling of.
Whatever expressions have been crossing Leonard’s face are enough to make Boyce gently ask, “He doesn’t know, does he?”
He is ambiguous but even in his addled state Leonard perceives they’re not talking about Pike and Boyce anymore.
That ghost of a smile is back on the older man’s lips as he asserts, “He will, someday.” It’s reassuring, despite Leonard still feeling distinctly confused. Boyce’s hand is a comforting weight on his shoulder as he gently adds, “Get some rest, McCoy.”