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“No one ever told me that pain was so much like fear.”
– C. S. Lewis
Jim can still taste the dust scraping his tongue, like it’s wormed its way into his gums and refuses to leave. It tastes like dry earth and something rottener: guilt that won’t dissolve with water or time.
The mission was supposed to be routine bullshit: kick around some ruins, log a few old artifacts, get back to the Enterprise before the sun dropped and left them in the dark. McCoy tripped over a treacherous ledge—one of those the planet hides like it enjoys screwing them over. He crumpled against the stone without a scream, without a goddamn sound. One second he was bitching about the pollen itching his nose; the next he was a crumpled heap of blue shirt stained red, head twisted at an angle that shouldn’t be possible.
Jim keeps seeing that tilt. That absolute silence drilling into his skull.
Now Medbay’s too bright, reeks of antiseptic that burns the nostrils. The machines hum like calm insects. McCoy lies there, bandage on his temple, a bruise spreading under his eye like a bad shadow. His chest rises and falls, slow, stubborn. Alive. It should be enough.
But Jim’s hands are shaking like they’ve got their own chill.
Spock’s right beside him, rigid—a presence he didn’t ask for but now needs like air. “Doctor Jones has confirmed the diagnosis,” he says quietly. “Concussion, three cracked ribs, superficial cuts. He’ll recover.”
“Great!” Jim mutters, throat full of sand. “I’ll send him flowers and a card that says ‘sorry for almost getting you killed.’”
Spock looks at him. No blinking. No judgment. Just there, pinned on him. Jim feels that stare like a soft punch to the sternum. His throat burns. He rubs the back of his neck until it really hurts. Doesn’t help.
“Say it,” he growls. “Just say it. I fucked up the perimeter. I should’ve kept him between me and the drop. That I’m a…”
“I won’t,” Spock cuts in.
“Coward!”
“Accusations won’t change what already happened, Jim.”
He hates that Spock only uses his first name when he’s already torn him apart inside and decided which pieces are worth saving. Hates that it works. He sucks in air and it shakes anyway. McCoy doesn’t move. A dark strand of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and dried blood. Jim wants to brush it away and doesn’t dare.
“I’m pulling him off missions,” he blurts. “Ship duties only. Or I transfer him to a starbase. Let him lecture, yell at interns, whatever—as long as it doesn’t involve crashing in front of me because some rock decided to fuck him over.”
Spock’s eyebrow lifts a fraction. “You intend to remove the chief medical officer from field duty because of uneven terrain.”
“Don’t make it sound insane!”
“It is.”
Jim’s fists clench until his nails bite in. “He almost died.”
“Leonard almost dies frequently,” Spock says, so calm it borders on cruel—until Jim catches the edge beneath it. Not coldness. Fear, chained and smothered. “He also frequently keeps others from doing the same.”
“I know,” Jim says, too loud, hoarse. “Damn it, I know!”
Silence drops heavy. Machines. Breathing. Nothing else.
Spock takes half a step closer. They don’t touch, but heat jumps the gap. “Tell me the real thought,” he says. “Not the order.”
Jim closes his blue eyes. The thought’s ugly, selfish, raw. “I can’t stomach watching him fall again.”
Spock’s quiet so long Jim opens his eyes. The Vulcan’s gaze holds him like a cable. “You can’t keep him,” he says. “You can only help him back up.”
Something cracks inside Jim, a wet snap. He laughs once, dry and broken. “You practicing for a philosophy chair somewhere?”
“I’m speaking to my captain,” Spock says. “And to my friend.”
Only a friend? Jim is probably something more that the Vulcan doesn't dare to name.
That word lands soft and hurts. Jim drops his gaze to McCoy’s hand, open on the sheet. Fingers nicked, stained with desert dust. He thinks about all the times that hand steadied him: a shoulder after a shitty landing, a wrist after a brawl, his chest in the dim glow of Medkbay when he pretended he was fine. Thinks about how McCoy looks at him when he lies badly.
“Spock,” he whispers, barely audible. “What if I lose him?”
“You will,” Spock says, so blunt Jim’s head snaps up. The Vulcan’s face doesn’t shift. His voice softens just a touch. “One day. Or he’ll lose you. It’s statistically inevitable. Your response can’t be to lock him up and call it safety.”
Jim’s mouth goes dry. “You think I’d do that?”
“I think,” Spock says, “you’re trying to do it right now with a transfer.”
He wants to snap back. Wants to deny it. Wants to lie on the floor and let the ship roll over him. He does none of it. He watches the small pulse in McCoy’s throat and feels his own settle into the same rhythm.
“I’m tired,” he admits, voice raw. “I’m so goddamn tired of pretending this doesn’t scare the shit out of me.”
Spock’s hand moves. Slow, almost ceremonial—and still it feels like courage. Two fingers touch Jim’s wrist, light as a breath. Not a bond. Nowhere near. Just a point that says: I’m here. Jim’s pulse thumps against them without asking.
“You’re allowed to be afraid,” Spock says. “You’re not allowed to abandon the man he is to protect the one you wish he was.”
Jim swallows. It hurts to admit it’s right. “He’s gonna yell at me for hovering like a mother hen.”
“He will,” Spock says. “He’ll also take the tea you bring, the pillows you stack, and you sitting too close.”
McCoy stirs. A grimace, eyes opening slow. He blinks, focuses, sees them. Confusion, irritation, then something softer when he figures out where he is and who’s here.
Jim leans in before he can overthink it. “Hey.”
McCoy’s voice is like sandpaper. “Hey yourself.” His eyes scan Jim’s face, Spock’s, the ceiling. “How bad?”
“Bad enough for you to bitch nonstop,” Spock says. “Therefore, you’re recovering.”
McCoy snorts; it turns into a wince. Jim’s hand is already there, steadying him. “Easy.”
McCoy sinks back and stares at that hand for one long second. “You hovering?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, daring him to fight it. “Get used to it.”
A faint flush creeps up McCoy’s cheeks, stubborn as hell. “Idiot.”
“Live idiot,” Jim shoots back.
Spock steps back a bit, gives them room but keeps his fingers on Jim’s wrist. The slightest pressure lingers—a quiet promise. Jim feels it, knows what he almost did and what he won’t do now.
“Tea,” Spock says. “I’ll get some.”
McCoy closes his eyes, surrender disguised as a blink. “With honey.”
“Honey,” Spock repeats, and leaves as silent as a promise kept.
Jim stays. He watches McCoy breathe, counts to ten, breathes with him. The fear’s still there, sharp, but it’s not a bottomless pit anymore. He can hold it. He can hold them all up. The rest can wait.