Chapter Text
Leonard McCoy is not taking any chances.
Okay, that’s wrong. He’s taking one hell of a chance, trying to wring a miracle out of a madman’s blood. If they yank his medical license, then so be it, but Jim is dead—Jesus, he’s dead—and ‘first do no harm’ seems like a matter of semantics in this case.
Where he is not taking any chances is with Khan. Bones triples the standard sedative dose and throws in a muscle relaxant for good measure before withdrawing two full pints of the superhuman bastard’s blood. Bounce back from that, asshole. “Get him out of my sickbay,” he snarls at the two security officers flanking the door, turning to the cryotube as they move to comply.
Prep the sample first, but don’t take too long—the cryofreeze won’t be able to stall the radiation damage entirely. Be ready to inject the instant the cryo-seal is broken, because neurological tissue will deteriorate exponentially faster as it warms, and God only knows how many more brain cells he can afford to lose.
Hypo in hand, Bones steels himself and keys the code into the cryotube’s control pad. As soon as it hisses open, he presses the hypo to his friend’s cold skin and says a silent prayer.
“Okay. Let’s get him hooked up.”
Hands appear, helping him ease Jim’s body out of the tube and onto a diagnostic bed. Monitors are placed, oxygen and IVs readied, all accompanied by a low but insistent alert tone, signaling an utter lack of life signs. Cursing under his breath, Bones slaps at the settings and silences the alert.
And then…there’s nothing, and nothing to be done.
Behind him, Uhura asks, “How long?”
That tears it. “How in blue blazes should I know?” Bones explodes, spinning around. “Does this look like the result of a thoroughly researched medical protocol? It’s one step up from voodoo, for pity’s sake, and I can’t believe I just did it, but he doesn’t have time for me to waffle. His cells are disintegrating, one by one, and right now it’s a horse race to see which works faster, the radiation or that genocidal son of a bitch’s blood. So if you’re looking for a pat on the head and a promise that this is going to work…”
His ire fades when he allows himself to fully see the people before him. Uhura and Spock are two of the coolest customers he knows, and right now both are just barely holding it together. Windblown, sweat-damp, a trickle of jade blood at Spock’s temple, they stand as one motionless unit, as if afraid any movement might destroy the precarious chance they’d fought so hard to give their captain.
“You did good,” Bones manages to say. “If it does work, it’ll be thanks to you two.”
Silence descends again.
Come on, Jim. If you’re still in there, show us.
“Bridge to sickbay.” Sulu’s voice comes over the intercom. “Starfleet has issued an emergency recall for all available medical personnel to assist with triage efforts at Headquarters. Can we spare anyone?”
The Vengeance crash. He’d almost forgotten. “Is it bad down there?” he asks Spock, already knowing the answer.
Spock’s lips are compressed in a thin line. “Very.”
That just does not bear thinking about. Not now. “Okay, yeah,” Bones tells the bridge, snapping his fingers at M’Benga across the bay. “I can send half a dozen.”
“Have them meet in the transporter room.” Sulu hesitates. “Headquarters also requested a brief report from the captain as soon as possible.”
Bones opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Thankfully, Spock steps in. “Convey to Headquarters that Captain Kirk is…unavailable.”
A terrible pause ends only when Sulu forces out a question, his voice weighted by dread. “Sir, there’s a rumor flying all over the ship… about the warp core chamber…”
“His injuries are grave, Mr. Sulu, and his condition is tenuous.” As he speaks, Spock’s gaze rests on Jim’s lifeless form. “If Starfleet is unsatisfied with that response, any additional queries may be directed to me as acting commanding officer.”
“Yes, sir. Bridge out.”
Bones narrows his eyes at the Vulcan. “Don’t you fall on any swords for me, Spock.”
The eyebrow. “I have no desire to fall on anything further today, Doctor.”
“And don’t play coy. As of this moment, Jim Kirk is dead. Not gravely injured, not in a tenuous condition, but dead. Obscuring that fact to the powers that be will only get you in hot water right alongside me if someone decides I played God today.”
Spock, naturally, is unmoved. “I find no fault in the logic of your actions, as is surely clear from my own actions in support. Moreover, I see no benefit to giving Starfleet, or this crew, information that may shortly be invalidated.”
‘Or this crew.’ He doesn’t want to tell them their captain is gone. He wants to spare as many as possible, for as long as possible, from the grief the three of them are facing now.
Stunned, Bones can only mutter, “I’ll be damned,” and return to staring fruitlessly at the heart monitor.
After a moment, he hears Uhura say quietly, “I was wrong.”
“In what sense?” Spock replies.
“I accused you of not caring how you make other people feel. But you do.”
“I am… aware.” Spock’s pause is painful. “Perhaps more so now.”
Bones keeps his eyes trained on the monitor, unable to look down at the man in the bed. He’s dragged Jim home falling-down drunk, sneaked him the good drugs when he was laid flat by Rigellian fever, and cleaned him up after more than one fistfight. He knows all the ways Jim can be stilled. This particular stillness is unnatural in every way, and every second that it persists scrapes a new furrow across Leonard McCoy’s soul.
“You should go to the bridge, both of you. You’re a good chunk of the command crew at the moment. Might as well act like it.”
“I mean this in the best possible way,” says Uhura, “but fuck off.”
“I’m just saying, it could take—”
A single beep brings the room to an immediate halt.
For a measureless time, no one knows what to believe. They’d all heard it, Bones is sure from their reactions, so at least it wasn’t in his head. Was it real, or just a glitch of the machine? He circles his fingers around Jim’s wrist—still so cold—waiting for just one more beat.
“Come on, you colossal nutcase,” he breathes. “Come on back.”
Another tortuous silence.
“Please,” Uhura whispers.
When he thinks he’s lost his mind at last, the monitor beeps again, and he feels a weak beat against his finger. Then, eventually, another.
Christ Almighty, thank you.
As if his own heart had gotten a kickstart, Bones seizes the intubation kit. “Let’s give him some help here, people. Warm him up and start a line. And be gentle, for God’s sake—there’s major tissue damage.”
His hands are steady, activity swirling around him, as he threads the tube down Jim’s throat and hooks up the respirator to aid his ravaged lungs. Brain function is still practically nonexistent, but once blood flow is restored they’ll be able to better assess that. Now the real work—avoiding rejection, and synthesizing a type-matched serum to amplify the curative efforts of the first transfusion—begins.
Somewhere off to the side, Uhura murmurs, “Still convinced there are no such things as miracles?”
Spock’s response is perfectly characteristic, and yet not. “I am, as always, willing to concede that my knowledge of the workings of the universe is not total.”
Bones smothers a hysterical chuckle. “Hear that, kid?” he says to his patient. “You stumped him. Again.”
No longer just a body, but a patient. This he can handle.