Chapter Text
"Sometimes, it takes the end of everything to realize what your heart has known all along."
The cell reeks of rust and old blood. Moisture clings to the walls, trickles in the corners. The air is cold and sharp, like breathing through a cracked rib. Leonard McCoy is sitting against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, arms tight around them. His heart won't stop pounding. His shirt is ripped. There's blood dried at his temple. His ribs feel bruised—or broken. Hard to tell.
Across the cell, Jim is slouched with his back to the opposite wall, head in his hands. His lip is busted. There’s blood staining the side of his uniform, pooling too dark beneath his fingers. He hasn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.
Spock is kneeling at the door, one hand flat on the metal, eyes half-closed as he listens. Always alert. Always precise. But McCoy can see it now—the tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch just slightly when he thinks no one’s looking.
They’re all bleeding. They’re all shaking. And there’s no guarantee they’ll survive the night.
McCoy exhales shakily and lets his head fall back against the wall. The cold seeps through the fabric, but his skin is already clammy with sweat. His eyes land on Spock again, and something in his chest twists hard.
There’s nothing logical about the way he feels when he looks at him. Not the flutter in his stomach. Not the ache in his hands. And definitely not the heat that crawls under his skin every time their eyes meet.
Just like there’s nothing simple about the way he feels for Jim. It’s not just love. It’s not even desire. It’s something that cuts straight through the bone—raw, consuming, terrifying.
His gaze drops to Jim’s hands. They’re trembling.
“Hey,” McCoy says, hoarse. “You still with us?”
Jim lifts his head. His pupils are too wide. His mouth pulls into a weak smirk. “Yeah. Still here.”
“Good,” McCoy says. “Because if you die on me, I’m going to find a way to bring you back just to yell at you.”
Jim huffs a laugh. “That’s the plan?”
“Pretty much.”
A beat of silence.
Spock stands and crosses the cell. He crouches in front of McCoy without a word. His hand moves toward McCoy’s side—then hesitates. McCoy tenses. Not from fear, but from the sharp, startling awareness of those fingers so close to his skin.
“You’re injured,” Spock says, voice low. “May I examine the wound?”
McCoy nods. “Just don’t touch too hard. Think something cracked.”
Spock pushes back the torn fabric. His fingers ghost along the bruised flesh. The contact is gentle, but McCoy still flinches. It’s not just the pain. It’s the way Spock’s hand lingers. The heat of it. The way he breathes a little deeper when he touches him.
“Spock…” McCoy says, half a warning, half a whisper.
Spock lifts his gaze. Their eyes lock.
Neither of them moves.
Then Spock speaks. “I do not wish to lose you.”
McCoy’s breath catches.
It would be so easy to lean forward. To kiss him. To fall.
But Spock pulls back—barely—and begins wrapping the injury with a torn strip of his own uniform. His hands are steady, but his ears are flushed, just faintly. McCoy watches him work, biting back every word that wants to spill out.
Jim shifts closer, dragging himself across the floor until he’s beside them.
“I’m pissed,” he mutters. “Not scared. Just… angry. We’ve come too far for it to end like this.”
McCoy watches him settle beside him. His thigh brushes McCoy’s. His shoulder too.
The touch sends a warm ache through McCoy’s gut.
He swallows hard. “I’m not ready either,” he says. “I just started to…”
His voice falters.
Jim turns to him. “Started to what?”
Spock sits back on his heels, watching, saying nothing.
“I started to feel something,” McCoy says. “Something real. And I know I’ve spent years pretending I don’t give a damn. But the truth is... I do. I care about you both more than I’ve ever let myself say.”
Spock’s posture changes. It’s subtle—but McCoy notices. His shoulders soften. His chest rises slowly.
Jim reaches for his hand. Grips it. “Then say it.”
McCoy looks down. Then back at Jim.
“I’ve been in love with both of you for years,” he says. “And I’ve been too much of a coward to admit it.”
The air stills.
Jim stares at him. “Bones…”
Spock moves closer, and when he speaks, it’s softer than McCoy’s ever heard him.
“I have also experienced these feelings. Deeply.”
McCoy blinks. “You’re telling me we’ve all been in love this whole time and didn’t say a damn thing?”
Jim lets out a sharp laugh. “We’re geniuses.”
“I don’t want to die without kissing you again,” Jim says, suddenly, fiercely.
McCoy’s stomach drops. “Again?”
“You were drunk. Shore leave. You kissed me in the rain and passed out. We never forgot it.”
Spock tilts his head. “It was… deeply memorable.”
McCoy groans and covers his face. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Leonard,” Jim says, low. “Look at me.”
He does.
And Jim kisses him.
It’s not gentle. Not this time.
It’s hungry. Fierce. His lips are cracked, and McCoy’s mouth burns from the contact, but he opens to it anyway. Jim’s hand slides behind his neck, gripping tight, pulling him in. McCoy moans into his mouth. His fingers dig into Jim’s shirt. His whole body arches toward him.
When they pull apart, they’re both breathless.
Spock is watching, eyes dark. There’s tension in his jaw. Longing. Restraint.
McCoy turns to him. “Your turn.”
Spock hesitates. Then leans in.
The kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. A touch of reverence in the way Spock holds his face. His lips are soft, careful—but there’s pressure underneath. A storm held in check. McCoy parts his mouth and lets him in, tasting heat and control and the fragile edge of something waiting to break.
Spock makes a low sound against him—one that makes McCoy shiver.
They don’t rush it. They just breathe each other in until there’s nothing left but the feel of skin and mouth and heartbeats.
When they part, McCoy leans his head back against the wall.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispers.
Jim kisses his cheek. “You won’t.”
Spock curls an arm around both of them. McCoy sinks into their warmth, heart pounding, lips swollen.
And for the first time since this nightmare began…
…he feels alive.