Work Text:
McCoy leans on the edge of his chair. He drags a damp blue rag over Jim’s scraped knuckles. Jim doesn’t even flinch as the alcohol rubs over his wounds. Yet his fingers curl and flex as McCoy’s run beneath them. More unsettled by a kind human touch than by pain. McCoy does his best to not let the sad thought sour his expression.
He glances up from beneath a brow. Jim is looking at a wall as if it’s a window. Who knows. Maybe he can see the stars mapped out on it as clearly as McCoy can make out the gradient shades of grey.
Those dull colors might be a galaxy of their own to Jim.
“How does that feel?”
“Like I just punched a bunch of gravel.”
“Well they were a silex. Silex are a hardheaded people, who regularly break off sections of the harden keratin as a way of styling themselves.”
“Must be nice to not have nerves at the end of those points.”
McCoy shakes his head. No one ever said anything about the ends not having nerves. They just have a high pain tolerance and a need to look fashionable. Very similar to several humans he knows.
If Jim notices McCoy staring, he doesn’t react.
Jim starts talking. First about how they had it coming, insulting Spock like that. McCoy points out how even Spock told him to leave it be.
“He always says that.”
“So it might be time to listen to him.” McCoy suggests, with a small smile.
Jim moves on, talking about how that bar sucked anyways. McCoy nods, and promises to take him to his favorite spot next time. That earns him a grin from Jim.
“You holding out on me?”
“Always.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“I’ll stop holding out when you stop picking fights.”
Jim laughs. “That’ll never happen Bones.” And doesn’t he know it.
Bones scoffs and reaches for the bandage roll. It’s a simple white bandage that tears very easily. Best for wrapping hands, because you don’t have to cut it off when it’s time to replace them. Plus knowing Jim he’s going to pick at it, until it falls off. Might as well make it easy to get off cleaning so McCoy can notice it faster, and get it replaced. Hopefully before Jim gets himself an infection.
Jim keeps talking. McCoy nods along, making a slight hum in agreement, or scoff of doubt as he wraps both of Jim’s hands. Most people would stop throwing punches after one hand gets hurt. Not Jim though. The dozens of tiny keratin shards McCoy pulled out of his knuckles and fingers proves the other man’s dedication to finishing what he started.
If only he had the same commitment to taking care of himself.
Spock didn’t help him back to the ship so much as carried him. Between the bruising on his stomach and shards in his hands, Jim was a sorry sight. It wasn’t the worst state McCoy has seen him in.
A shudder wracks through his body.
Nothing could be as bad as Jim laying on the floor in engineering. His body growing colder. No air in his lungs. Hands still, and frozen.
McCoy’s squeezes the tips of Jim’s fingers. He lowers his forehead until it rests just barely on top of Jim’s now bandaged hands.
“Bones?”
“I’m fine Jim. Just, give me a sec.”
No longer able to focus on the task at hand, well in his hands, McCoy’s mind races. What ifs. Next times. Scenario after scenario. Each as bad as the last.
“Bones.” Jim’s hands rise, bringing his head up with them. Then they slip away. Gone, like he had been. “Bones!” Warm hands cup his face. His eyes meet Jim’s. Blue and clear. None of death’s fog clouding them.
Despite everything, McCoy smiles. It’s heavy and difficult to retain, but hold it he does. What else is there to do? No matter his fears, Jim is alive. He’s better than his lowest moment. That’s all a win. The only win that really matters in his book.
“You really should take better care of yourself, Jimmy boy.”
“Real smooth, Bones. Get yourself many girls with that charm?”
“Don’t need to.” McCoy pushes his forehead against Jim’s. “Worked just fine on you and the most logical man around.”
Jim laughs as he pushes McCoy away. The doctor ducks his head. He tucks his nose against Jim’s neck.
“You should apologize to him later.
A huff. No laughter this time.
“We both worry about you.”
“I know,” and even though Jim sighs, it doesn’t undercut the meaning in his words. He does know just how much the two worry over him. Why they fret so much.
Between the two of them, McCoy will be lucky if he sees eighty.
Jim wraps his arms around McCoy’s waist. He pulls the doctor closer, causing them both to fall back onto his bed. McCoy braces a hand on Jim’s right wrist, primed to push it away.
“You aren’t supposed to be using those hands, Jim.”
“If I’m holding you, I can’t pick at them.”
Well, who is he to argue with that? McCoy buries his face in Jim’s shoulder. He pulls his knees up to wrap around Jim’s legs. The captain holds him closer. Fingers trace lines in McCoy’s back. He knows Jim is resisting the urge to scratch his hands. Always trying.
McCoy lets out a slow, steadying breath. Jim’s here. Everything’s okay. A bar fight won’t take him out. Not with Spock there to protect him, and McCoy here to fix him up.