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Of course only Jim Kirk would be stupid enough, brave enough, to sacrifice himself for his crew by venturing into a warp core.
McCoy should’ve been there with him when he died.
But McCoy would be damned if he wasn’t there when he woke up.
* * *
“I’ve never felt this way before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like if I don’t get this right… I’m gonna lose everything. Lose you. Lose myself.”
“Bones… you’ll bring me back. I’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.”
McCoy brought his right hand to his chest, just over his heart, and fisted the fabric of his shirt there. It was beating too hard, but not fast. With each subsequent pulse, a hollow thud travelled through his entire body.
“He has to be,” he whispered to himself. His forehead hit the glass in front of him as his eyes fell closed. “He has to be okay.”
* * *
The beeping of the bio-monitor above the bed was the only sound in the room aside from a ventilator. Jim still couldn’t breathe on his own. Most of the normal functions of his body had to be performed and maintained by machines.
McCoy’s shift had ended hours ago and the nurses tried to usher him home (an unfortunate habit of theirs), but he hadn’t been a doctor (and a CMO) for years without learning a few skills. Such as giving people the slip when he still had work to do.
Even though watching over Jim like some ill-mannered, sleep deprived guardian angel was hardly work to him. It was more like agony, even as it comforted him to see Jim’s chest rising and falling, albeit with the ventilator.
Jim looked so pale in the low light of the hospital room. The blonde of his hair before had reminded McCoy of sunshine or gold, but now it appeared almost a sickly color. He seemed fragile, small, beneath the blankets.
The hospital chair was uncomfortable, but McCoy didn’t care. He’d retrieved another pillow for Jim and one for himself earlier. Jim had always had a pillow collecting problem. McCoy remembered it well from their Academy days. It’d irritated him at first, then confused him, before he’d eventually come to realize that Jim was using them to make himself feel safe enough to sleep. It was as if he always needed something in or on the bed with him.
On several occasions, they’d had to camp out doing field training for their survival classes. The first time, Jim hadn’t been able to sleep a wink three nights in a row, until finally, McCoy had had enough of his tossing and turning. He’d dragged his sleeping bag right next to Jim’s and kept it unzipped as a not-so-subtle invitation. Not five minutes later, Jim scooted closer to him. McCoy had barely counted another thirty seconds before the man’s breathing evened out and he’d begun lightly snoring.
In the morning, Jim’s face was buried in McCoy’s chest, an arm slung over his waist, while McCoy himself had wrapped both of his own around his friend, almost cocooning him.
They never discussed it, but it’d become an unspoken agreement between them that when Jim couldn’t sleep, they shared the bed. Or whatever sleeping arrangements there happened to be, wherever they happened to end up.
But Jim didn’t stop his pillow collecting habit and McCoy never commented on it. He just brought him pillows when he was sick or injured and occasionally gave him one as a gift around holidays or birthdays (at first it’d been a joke, like the one that said “starship captain of the year”, but gradually, McCoy had begun to put more thought into the pillows he chose for Jim).
If Jim were awake, he’d hate the hospital pillows. When… if McCoy could convince himself to leave the hospital, he’d head to Jim’s apartment and retrieve his favorites.
* * *
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
McCoy kept his eyes closed, arms wrapped tight around himself. “What do you want?”
“I want you to look at me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause you’re sick.”
“You’ve seen me sick before.”
“Yeah, and now I see you sick all the damn time.”
“Bones, come on.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“I am asleep.”
“Then stop talking. Normal people don’t talk in their sleep.”
“Bullshit. You used to talk in yours all the time.”
“…Hey, Jim?”
“Yeah, Bones?”
“I thought you were too busy sleeping to know what the hell I was doing.”
A long pause followed. McCoy still refused to open his eyes to see what Jim was thinking.
Then, “Bones, I didn’t always need your help. I kinda just… liked being next to you.”
McCoy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Well, that’s just dandy, Jim. Good to know I gave up precious bed space for a guy who didn’t even need it.”
Jim let out a small laugh. McCoy’s mouth quirked up at the corners despite himself, unable to suppress the relief he felt hearing it.
“Well, when I wake up, you’re back on bed-sharing duty.”
“Can’t wait,” McCoy said sarcastically. But the thought of Jim awake and healthy overrode any true irritation.
* * *
“Doctor? Doctor McCoy.”
The voice came to him as if through water, distorted and hard to make out.
“Doctor McCoy. Your shift starts in less than an hour.”
He groaned. Why was the room so damn bright?
“Leonard, for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t you just go home last night?”
“Go ‘way.”
Someone shook his shoulder, presumably the owner of the voice. He couldn’t find it in himself to give any sort of response this time.
“Okay, fine,” they said quietly, as if to themselves, then louder, “Jim needs you.”
Immediately, McCoy’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright in the chair, blanket pooling at his feet. Chapel stood next to him, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
“Why? What’s happened?” Quickly, he glanced to Jim. The man was still lying there, still looking the same as before, still alive.
McCoy let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Leonard, you should’ve gone home. He was fine the whole night and even if he hadn’t been, other competent doctors exist besides yourself. They’d have taken care of him, too.”
“Yeah, I know,” McCoy said absentmindedly, finding himself unable to look away from his friend, reaching out just for a moment to brush the cold fingers of Jim’s hand with his own. “But I gotta be here.”
“Go back to your apartment. Shower. Maybe eat something while you’re at it. You can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Chris, I can’t—”
“If it helps, I can send proof of life every five minutes,” she deadpanned.
Defeated, McCoy shot her a mild glare and drew his hand back. “Alright. Fine.”
* * *
The hot water did nothing to warm him up inside, but it at least woke him enough to feel like an almost functioning person again. He changed into fresh scrubs and decided a cup of coffee was a good enough breakfast, followed by seven or eight more throughout the day.
Christine cornered him with a salad later, which he actually managed to eat most of.
Jim’s vitals were up a little. The change was small, but it held for the duration of McCoy’s shift. He couldn’t help checking them every twenty minutes or so regardless of whatever task he was involved with.
By the end of the day, McCoy couldn’t escape the glares of the nurses. Even M’Benga was practically shoving him out of the hospital. As soon as he stepped through the doors of the building, he knew he’d sleep worse in his own space, away from Jim, worrying about him all night.
So he took a hover cab to Jim’s place instead.
Jim hadn’t been there in ages. In fact, none of the crew had spent much time planet-side in a while. Luckily, McCoy not only had medical clearance, but Jim had also programmed his security system to recognize him, so he had no issues entering.
The place was dark, cold, and empty. McCoy ordered the lights on and stood in the middle of the entryway for an unreasonable length of time while consciously attempting to control his breathing.
Gradually, he made his way further into Jim’s space. It was bare of any personal effects, furniture provided courtesy of Starfleet along with the apartment itself. The kitchen, living room, and dining room (McCoy was sure Jim had never once used any of these rooms for their intended purposes, if he’d even used them in the first place) were modern and chic. Really not Jim’s style at all.
But the bedroom was completely different. This, at least, felt more like Jim. A guitar on its stand in the corner. Old records, cassette tapes, CDs, all music from his favorite bands. Old-fashioned pictures in actual frames on a shelf, one of Jim and his brother, another of Jim and Pike, a third of Jim with the bridge crew. And finally, a smaller photo without a frame, edges worn, and looking as though it’d been folded and unfolded numerous times. It was of Jim and McCoy, just after Jim had found out he’d been given the Enterprise. They’d gone out for a drink together.
Jim looked happy, bright, as he was caught mid-laugh. One of his arms was slung over McCoy’s shoulder and he was holding a beer in the other hand. McCoy was grinning at his friend, hair standing on end in funny places from when Jim had playfully mussed it up moments before the picture had been taken. He had an arm around Jim, too, and he was flipping Jim off with his other hand, even as he held a nearly empty beer bottle.
McCoy stepped further inside the bedroom, close enough to the shelf to reach out and take the photo gently in his fingers. He was not a particularly sentimental or nostalgic person by nature, but tears sprang to his eyes at the sight of them together, of Jim younger, healthy, delighted at the prospect of the future.
He drew in a shaky breath, wiped away the moisture from his face with the back of his hand, and pocketed the photo. Then he turned his attention to the bed.
It was made (surprisingly), but messy (unsurprisingly), as if Jim had been in a rush when he’d last left there. A blanket, mildly fuzzy and decorated with Starfleet’s logo, had been hastily folded at the end of the mattress. No pillows to be seen, however. McCoy figured he knew exactly where Jim would have put them.
Just as he’d suspected, the bedroom closet was full of them. He couldn’t help cracking a small smile as several fell onto the floor and many more just barely stayed crammed inside the small space. Jim would sometimes hide them away back when they lived together in the dorms. Evidently, he’d collected even more since they’d left the Academy. Some McCoy recognized and others were unfamiliar. He grabbed several he thought Jim would prefer, shoved the rest back into the closet, and hesitated before leaving the room.
Maybe he’d like the blanket, too.
* * *
“When I wake up, we’re going to your place, right?”
This time, McCoy was actually able to look at him. Jim was on his side in the biobed, facing McCoy, arms wrapped protectively around himself. The expression on his face couldn’t have been any more faux-innocent, big blue eyes staring at him earnestly.
McCoy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Jim made his best approximation of a shrug from where he was lying. “You’ve been to my apartment. It’s not home. I’d rather be at your place.”
“Oh, I see how it is. That way I can be your live-in caretaker, huh?”
“Bones, you wouldn’t trust anyone else to live up to your ridiculously high standards.”
McCoy didn’t really have a good comeback for that one. He was right.
“Yeah, kid. Soon as you’re released, you’re stuck with me.”
Jim didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes gave him away.
* * *
The official hearing for McCoy’s decisions during the whole Khan fiasco had been pushed back by several weeks, considering he was still Jim’s primary care physician. Which was a miracle, what with how close they’d been to suspending him and the only reason he wasn’t had been due to a winning margin of exactly one vote (he really needed to thank Doctor Boyce personally for that).
The hearing itself was supposed to be something like a Morbidity and Mortality conference, except instead of investigating some type of neglect or unethical action leading to a patient’s death, the patient in question had actually been brought back to life.
McCoy was absolutely dreading it. He’d broken about a dozen Federation regulations, violated countless more of Starfleet’s Board of Medicine rules, not to mention the fact that he’d used an untested and potentially unsafe treatment he’d come up with on the spot involving two patients (technically, Khan was considered one, too) who’d been “unable to consent”.
He didn’t want special treatment, and, despite the complaints he’d made over the years concerning a number of outdated practices still recommended by the medical authorities, he always maintained that complete accountability and transparency to said medical authorities was important. Within reason, anyway.
Surprisingly, McCoy was allowed to bring one other person who would not be permitted to comment on or participate in the proceedings in any way. The unspoken implication being that this person was allowed as moral support, but only as moral support.
McCoy chose Spock for some reason. Spock had readily agreed and made a big show of adding it to his calendar, which would’ve irritated him to no end earlier on in both their professional and personal relationship, but now, McCoy realized it was just Spock’s way of showing that he cared.
He got the comm that his hearing had been scheduled two weeks away on the very day Jim started showing signs of regaining consciousness.
* * *
It was small, really. A twitch of his fingers here and there, a slight spike in brain activity.
After a little consideration, McCoy took the day off just to sit next to him. Unfortunately, this meant he had no authority to adjust any of the settings on the monitors, administer any painkillers if it looked like Jim was getting uncomfortable, or do much of anything other than call one of the nurses in the event that Jim needed something he couldn’t give as a civilian on a day off.
But he took the calculated risk. It was worth it to him. Jim would wake up soon enough and McCoy would be there.
* * *
Sleeping in the on-call room when he’d first begun working at an actual hospital years earlier had used to be one of his least favorite things as a doctor. Nothing about that room made it easy to sleep, much less get any actual rest.
But with Jim Kirk as a best friend, McCoy had quickly learned the art of the ten minute nap, falling into unconsciousness almost as soon as he lay down and completely wide awake minutes later to address a new problem.
This time at least, it wasn’t a problem he woke up to, but his comm informing him of a change. He’d hooked up all of his devices to Jim’s monitors to get any and all direct updates as soon as they happened (despite Jim’s teasing, McCoy actually was a little bit tech savvy), and thus, he was already out the door of the on-call room and sprinting down the hallway to Jim’s before anyone had needed to contact him.
“Wait, Leonard!”
As he burst into the room, Chapel quickly followed, putting a hand on his arm to stop him from getting too close. M’Benga was removing the oxygen mask from Jim’s face, which they’d given him a few days earlier as a replacement for breathing tubes. It was something kinder to wake up to instead of strange objects shoved down your throat and besides, Jim was notorious for hating any and all things attached to or inside of his body for medical purposes.
McCoy was caught, frozen halfway between the doorway and the biobed, watching intently as M’Benga set aside the oxygen mask and Jim took in his first shaky breath on his own in weeks. His blue eyes fluttered open, then closed. McCoy moved to take a step forward and felt Chapel’s hand tighten around his arm.
“Just wait. Give him a minute,” she whispered.
If it’d been anyone else, this process would’ve been run-of-the-mill for McCoy, normal and expected.
But it was Jim.
It would always be different with Jim.
M’Benga glanced over at him and gave a small nod. Chapel slowly let go and McCoy carefully came to stand on the other side of Jim’s bed.
His respiration sounded more like wheezing than anything else, his eyes still couldn’t quite decide if they wanted to be open or closed, and his hands twitched where they lay. McCoy resisted the urge to reach out for Jim and just let him wake on his own time.
The three of them watched and waited, tense and pensive.
Well, maybe it was only McCoy who was tense and pensive. Chapel and M’Benga seemed very calm in comparison to himself, M’Benga at some point having stepped back so McCoy was closest.
And then all of a sudden, Jim drew in a deep, ragged breath, went completely still, and pinned McCoy where he stood with irises so blue McCoy himself forgot how to breathe for a moment.
“Bones?” He whispered, his voice raspy and barely audible from weeks of misuse.
“Jim,” he heard himself say and felt as his resolve crumbled enough to finally grip Jim’s hand in his own.
Jim’s mouth lifted just a little at the corners, his hand weakly holding onto McCoy’s.
“Take me home.”
All McCoy could do was nod in response, unable even to voice a single sarcastic response.
* * *
Jim passed out again almost right away after that.
It was days more before he could even sit up on his own, and still more before he could get out of bed with the help of only one person.
But every damn time McCoy walked into the room, PADD in hand, those blue eyes were there to greet him, bright and awake, and the owner of them was relentlessly asking yet again when exactly he could get released and how soon he could get started on the physical therapy.
It was as relieving as it was irritating.
And finally, McCoy was able to say, “For fuck’s sake, Jim, yes, I’m working on it. I just need one other doctor to sign off on it and then you’ll be released into my care. Lucky me.”
Jim beamed and then just as quickly, his smile faded away.
“Wait. That means you’ll have to take leave, right? You won’t be able to work if you’re stuck taking care of me.”
“Don’t worry about that, kid. I was already plannin’ on it.”
Jim frowned. “Bones, I don’t want you to put your life entirely on hold for me. That’s not fair.”
“Shut up and let me take care of you.”
Only then did Jim seem mildly reassured, although with some reluctance.
McCoy neglected to mention that he was likely to be suspended anyway, if not stripped of his license entirely.
* * *
“Hey, don’t think I didn’t notice the pillows and the blanket you brought me.”
McCoy had his feet propped up on Jim’s biobed, munching on a salad. Jim was picking half-heartedly at the hospital food in front of him. McCoy had been vaguely considering going out to get the man something he knew he’d actually like before Jim had dropped that little observation on him out of nowhere.
“Oh, yeah? You sleep any better with ‘em or should I take ‘em back to your place?”
“No, no. They help. I like them.”
“Good.”
Jim side-eyed him, an almost wry expression on his face. “Thanks.”
“What are friends for?”
“Saving my life, apparently.”
“What, you resent that?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re welcome, jackass.”
“I know.”
They ate in silence for another few minutes. Well, McCoy ate. Jim stared down at his plate with a look of utter disinterest.
McCoy sighed, set aside his salad, and stood. “Fine.”
Jim glanced over at him fully. “What?”
“I’ll get you something else.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You want a shake with your damn burger and fries?”
Jim’s mouth opened and closed a few times, almost in disbelief, until he said, “No. Just the burger and fries. Thanks.”
“Yep.”
* * *
M’Benga signed off on the release and Jim was finally able to leave the hospital and basically move in with McCoy.
He had a guest bedroom, but with no discussion necessary between them, they’d both somehow agreed Jim would be sharing McCoy’s room. The pillows ended up piled on the bed and the blanket spread on Jim’s side.
Jim had physical therapy appointments scheduled three times a week to start with. McCoy attended the first few with him until Jim said he was “mother-henning”, to which McCoy rolled his eyes and made a snarky response, then later decided it was actually a good thing they had some time apart occasionally.
It wasn’t quite the same as sharing a dorm. For one, Jim needed help getting into the shower. For another, they didn’t really talk about the fact that Jim needed help with things like that. And for a third, they were avoiding an even bigger, more obvious topic.
Which just so happened to be McCoy’s painfully obvious love for his best friend. And it was definitely not platonic.
* * *
“Bones, don’t leave. Just stay.” Jim’s eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep. “Please.”
“Jim, I’m just getting some water. I’ll be right back.” He reached out to give Jim’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Promise.”
Jim looked at him in the semi-darkness a moment longer, then sagged back into the mattress, head hitting the pillow with a mild poof. “Okay. Hurry up. And bring me some, too.”
“I was already goin’ to, kid.”
When he came back with two glasses of water and set one on the bedside table next to Jim, the man had burrowed fully under the comforter. Even muffled, McCoy could hear his breathing, slightly rough like he was snoring, but not quite. He made his way back to his own side to set the second glass of water down and got back into the bed, careful not to disturb its other occupant.
“Jim? You still awake?” McCoy whispered.
His question went unanswered long enough he was reasonably sure Jim had passed out again, until the man turned over in the bed to face him, covers rustling with the movement.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the hearing?”
McCoy looked over at him, surprise undoubtedly making its way onto his face, even if Jim couldn’t fully see it in the dark.
“How’d ya know about that?”
“Spock commed me. He said he went with you when I was at my physical therapy session the other day.”
Damn it, Spock.
“Well, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Bones.” That was Jim’s Captain’s voice. “Are you losing your license because of me?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I just did.”
“Bones.”
“I’m not losin’ anything, Jim.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothin’. They’re makin’ me go through some dumb ethics class for a few weeks and I’m supposed to have a supervisor follow me around while I work for a while, just to evaluate my understandin’ of the rules or some shit. It’s just a slap on the wrist compared to what it could’ve been.” McCoy tried to sound nonchalant about it, but of course, Jim wouldn’t make it that easy for him.
“Yeah, because of me.”
“No. It’s because of what I did, the choices I made, Jim. Not you.”
Jim propped his head up on an elbow, looking down at McCoy with skepticism. Or so McCoy assumed, in the mostly dark room.
“Bones, I need to understand something.”
McCoy returned his gaze to the ceiling, certain Jim was about to ask his next question in a similar fashion to how people used to drop atomic bombs on each other centuries earlier.
“Why’d you do it?” Jim’s voice dropped lower, something openly curious in his tone, but a note of certainty, surety, below that.
Which was what prompted McCoy’s own answer.
“You know damn well why.”
“Say it.”
“You’re an ungrateful bastard.”
“Just fucking admit it.”
“You really wanna get into this?”
Jim sighed then. Not a defeated sigh, but a thoughtful one. McCoy felt him shift again, move onto his back, then closer so their arms were touching.
“When I was out,” Jim began, his warm hand finding McCoy’s under the sheets and tangling their fingers. “I dreamed of you.”
McCoy blinked in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
“We were in the hospital together. I remember having conversations with you. I was trying to help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Not worry about me so much, Bones. You were always so worried in my dreams. I was trying to cheer you up.”
“I don’t really know how to respond to that,” McCoy said truthfully. He didn’t. And yet, vaguely, strangely, he almost felt as though he’d dreamed the same things.
“That’s okay. But, Bones…” Jim squeezed his hand gently. “If you want me, here I am. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. Forever.”
McCoy’s breath hitched.
“Jim…” He swallowed hard, trying to force words past the lump in his throat. “I’m not sure you know what you’re sayin’.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. So just fucking admit it. Tell me you love me.”
McCoy ran his free hand down his face, closing his eyes tight against the onslaught of sudden emotion. “You’re a fucking bastard.”
Jim snorted. “Come on, Bones. You brought me back to life. You can say three little words.”
“Jim…”
Fuck it.
“I’m not sayin’ it till you say thank you.”
“Um. Excuse me?”
“I brought you back to life, like ya just mentioned. I think I deserve a thank you.”
There was total silence for at least fifteen seconds, maybe more.
Then, very quietly, almost like a scolded child, “Thank you, Bones.”
McCoy smiled to himself.
“I love you, Jim.”
“Can I kiss you now?”
“Fine. I guess.”
“I’m a really good kisser. Promise.”
“Oh god. I take it back. Don’t kiss me.”
“Too late.”
Jim rolled over on top of him and pressed their mouths together. McCoy lost track of time.
He was a good kisser.
When Jim broke it, McCoy could feel him smiling against his neck. They simultaneously wrapped their arms around each other as they turned onto their sides to stay as close as possible.
“I love you, too, Bones.”
And McCoy kissed him back.