There are a few blanket reasons why Jim’s not allowed to go on anywhere without Bones.
Everyone knows this. No, seriously everyone. From the Bridge Crew to the Ensigns, to the diplomats on every rock from Terra and back, to every damn being at Starfleet Headquarters.
Somehow. And Jim cannot be blamed for this.
He ends up in Medbay. Without Bones. Without anyone who really knows that Jim should not be that too far from Bones.
He’s unconscious, for what it’s worth. Of course he is.
And some worried Doctor with more anxiety than sense, starts administering hyposprays like it’s his fucking job. I mean it is his job. But it’s also his job to check to make sure her unconscious patient isn’t allergic, am I right?
So, the reaction is instant. And he starts seizing and it’s very bad. Because this is a Federation Hero. This is THE Jim Kirk. And he’s probably dying in front of him.
And then he remembers, like a fucking lighting bolt to his crotch socket he remembers the Starfleet delivered TOP PRIORITY message that was sent out across the black. Jim Kirk is NOT, EVER--DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE--to be treated on without the express knowledge of one Dr. Leonard H. McCoy (CMO and Husband of Jim Kirk).
Who just so happens to have barged into the Medbay with a look on his face that makes this doctor, poor asshole that he is, want to pass out or shat his pants.
He’s pushed aside by another menacing looking face--a woman who barely spares him a glance before she’s taking a part his Medbay and tossing them TOSSING them at McCoy.
McCoy works quickly, more efficiently than this poor sack of a Doctor has ever seen. He’s not even sure what’s going on half the time and he’s been at this post for three years, knows every inch of this Medbay like he knows his own person. But McCoy works at this like he’s done it time and time again. And this Idiot Doctor has heard the story--McCoy is a legend, especially now. Especially where Kirk is concerned.
He slumps against the wall, hands shaking like they haven’t since his intern days. He fucked up. He’s done. If Kirk doesn’t make it--and by the way he’s choking and the way McCoy is all, “Shh, it’s okay, baby. You’ll be fine, just breathe for me okay.” Hypo administered. Barking at Angry Nurse for another hypo, it’s might be a near thing--he knows the whole of Starfleet and one scary CMO are coming after him.
He imagines a small cell where not even the light of day reaches him. If he makes it. He’s heard Kirk’s got a Vulcan in his pocket who’s a bit...protective.
Nurse comes over when there’s nothing more for her to do. She’s got the kind of lines around her face that come from laughing to hard or worrying too hard. Idiot Doctor (as he know refers to himself) has no idea.
“You better start telling me what you gave him and then you better pray.”
Idiot Doctor lists for her and she’s nodding because it’s so fucking common. It’s harmless, helpful even, unless you’re allergic to a host of helpful drugs like Kirk.
“Can you even read?” Nurse snaps at him. She brings a PADD--it’s the incoming patients PADD. A notice about Kirk is always at the top--highlighted in red because he’s in the area. It’s that much of a deal.
At this point, Idiot Doctor is kind of hoping for a rebuke. A shout. Something from McCoy, anything. Because besides that initial shove, there’s been nothing. The Nurse has handled everything. And Idiot Doctor knows that it’s because he’s nothing. Less than nothing. He doesn’t matter one iota.
Twenty three minutes later and everything is so still. So fucking still that Idiot Doctor cannot even hear his own breath, thought he’s breathing like Kirk came in doing. Fuck.
And then Kirk opens his eyes and McCoy falls in on himself, just sags down into the med bay. Idiot Doctor looks away but he hears McCoy’s rough, “Don’t you ever.” And Nurse’s snort and even Idiot Doctor is wiping his eyes.
Twenty minutes more and Idiot Doctor has thrown up everything he ever ate and is standing just outside of the Medbay, in view of the Nurse but hopefully not in view of McCoy or Kirk. It’s still quiet. Kirk is sleeping--no labored breathing, no choking sounds, no chaos but McCoy is compulsively checking his tricorder. Every few seconds he moves it over another part of Kirk and Idiot Doctor holds his breath until McCoy just nods to himself and moves it another inch.
And then:
“Hey, Bones?” Kirk’s rasp is the greatest fucking thing the doctor has ever heard. It’s what draws the line between a life scraping shit and garbage off of Starfleet Headquarter floors. “I just wanted to let you know that you saved me like no one has ever saved me before.”
A sigh from cranky woman. “Khan. Section 31. Mud. Lenore Karidian, should I go on?”
McCoy rolls his eyes, checks the tricorder.
“But Bones, seriously.” Kirk’s limp hand grabs at the other man’s forearm, just as he’s doing best not to slur too much, his hands are splotchy but the color is evening out. McCoy’s fighting a smile--if Doctor Idiot didn’t know any better he’d say it was an exasperated smile. Could smiles be exasperated? Idiot Doctor is too nervous to give it much thought.
Kirk tries to sit up, McCoy keeps a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing into the skin not covered by torn Command tunic. “You’ve saved me in every way a person can be saved.”
“You too, kid.” McCoy says.
Angry Nurse Chapel glares at Idiot Doctor while he’s thanking every power that be that Kirk made it, that McCoy burst in when he did. She mouths. “Lucky bastard,” at him and he knows. He fucking knows.
I’m so excited to share this with you, anonymous requester! After you sent in your prompt, I had another anonymous reader get in touch with me to let me know they’d already written a story that matched your wishes exactly.
The author of this story is French, not a native English speaker, and they’ve written a beautifully touching story that expands on the TOS episode, City on the Edge of Forever. I am posting it here on my blog, with their permission, because they do not wish to have an account nor have their identity attached to the story. This writer has already become dear to me and I’m honored that they trusted me with their writing. I hope you enjoy it!
It’s a long story, nearly 3,000 words, so RIP to your dash if you’re on mobile. I didn’t want to post it on AO3 or anywhere else except my blog, which feels safer.
Trigger warning for panic attack and trigger warning for some mild emeto, if you’re sensitive to that. It’s not very graphic.
“James Kirk, I demand an explanation!”
Scotty, Uhura, the teleportation technicians, and the security guards were completely dumbfounded by the doctor's explosion. They watched the captain stagger off, livid, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He disappeared without a word, with long stiff steps, from the room.
Spock squeezed McCoy’s arm firmly and Scott was sure to read in his black eyes a burst of fury. McCoy noticed it too, because despite the storm of his own eyes, he remained silent.
“Everyone, at your posts,” declared the Vulcan. “Scott, you are in charge for now.”
“Yes, sir.” Scotty nodded, refraining from asking any questions.
As soon as they had come through the Time Gate, seconds after they left, it seemed, but many weeks later for them, he had seen that they were not fine at all. The captain was pale, deaf to their questions, obviously struggling with the tears that filled his eyes. The doctor was just as white, his face contracted with a terrible anger. As for Spock, he kept his eyes fixed on Jim, his usual indifference altered by deep and obvious concern.
What the hell had happened?
This is precisely the question McCoy yelled at Spock, pulling himself brutally out of his grip as they entered his office, safe from prying ears:
“Damn it, Spock!”
“If you calm down, doctor, maybe I could explain.”
“Calm down? CALM DOWN? Shit, Spock! How do you want me to calm down?”
“Breathing. Deep, and slowly. Start by sitting down.”
“Don't fuck with me!”
“The Vulcans don't fuck with people. Now, please calm down.”
Jim killed someone without thought. There's no way I can calm down. Shit!”
Spock gritted his teeth and an aura of icy disappointment emanated from him:
“Jim killed someone without thought...do you get along, doctor? You've been aboard this ship for over a year. You even pretend to be the captain's friend. How can you accuse him of this without thinking for two seconds?”
“I saw it ! He prevented me from—"
“--and your poor little mind preferred to give in to this abject emotion rather than try to find a logical explanation. Jim, the most compassionate man we know…would he have acted like this for no reason?”
These words had the effect of a cold shower on McCoy. He shook his head, gradually coming to himself. He hadn't actually thought for a single moment, mired in a nauseating fury that he hadn't even tried to control. Shame replaced anger and he sagged in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.
The past few weeks had been a total blur. He had woken up in a room with antique furniture, with an adorable woman at his bedside: Edith Keeler. It had taken him some time to realize that she was neither a hallucination nor a very good actress, but that he was indeed in a different era. Back in the 1930s. And he had barely had time to figure it out and come out of the bedroom to find answers before Jim and Spock, overjoyed, fell on him.
The next second Edith was dead. And it was Kirk's fault., He had kept him from coming to her aid. It had been too much emotion, too quickly and too soon. He had not managed to digest it, even less to understand anything other than what he had seen:
Jim had killed Edith.
But now that Spock had brought him back to reality, it all seemed absurd. And he noticed certain details: His friend's trembling when he held him; the tears in his green eyes when he leaned against the wall; Spock's unusually soft words when he had defended Jim, "he knows doctor, he knows."
How could he have seen nothing? Holding back a moan, he confronted Spock's stern face again:
“Explain it to me.”
“I'll do it quickly. In the timeline of our current story, Edith Keeler dies in 1930. In the one you walked through, paranoid after the cordrazine syringe accident, her ideals of peace and openness reach Roosevelt's ears and America becomes a peaceful country. That prevents its involvement in the second world war. Germany wins and dominates the world. Our time, therefore, does not exist.”
“Oh.”
“By the time you got there, after roughly locating your destination, we got to know Edith. A very charming woman, particularly intelligent.”
“And, Jim—"
“Was deeply in love with her. But for the good of a whole world and not solely himself, he let her die and prevented you from committing irreparable damage.”
“My god.”
McCoy put his head in his hands, overcome with excruciating guilt. Spock watched him, suppressing the harsh words that itched on his lips. The man had realized his mistake. It was useless to add more in the current state. He sighed for a long time, feeling unpleasantly empathetic towards Jim. He admired the way the man had managed to silence all of his instincts to save everyone:
“You should go see him, doctor. I think leaving him alone right now is not the best solution. Especially since he slept and ate very little while we were on earth, and even less after he realized that Edith had to die. He was ill several times during the night. He needs help.”
“Perhaps it is better ... Chapel—”
“No, Leonard,” Spock said, as kindly as he could. “He needs you.”
McCoy let out a deep sigh. He felt silly, and unforgivable. But for the sake of his friend, and indirectly, the sake of the crew, he knew Spock was right. Grabbing his medical equipment, he left in the direction of the captain's quarters.
*****
Jim rested his forehead against the cool edge of the toilet. The doctor's words were circling in his mind, adding further weight to his overwhelming grief. He felt sick, his stomach as tight as his chest. A discomfort that had become familiar over the past few days. The intense nausea that rolled and rolled, threatening at every moment to overflow was a most unpleasant physical manifestation of his stress.
Despite his efforts to conserve food that was already scarce in their daily life in 1930, there were times when he couldn't do anything about it. Nightmares woke him in an agonizing sweat, on the verge of ruining the atrocious coarse cover of their flop.
He managed each time to sneak into the bathroom before returning the meager pittance with spasms he tried to silence. He also appreciated the discretion of Spock, who had the delicacy of pretending to sleep when Jim returned to his bed several minutes later, breathless and exhausted. But now that he was alone, aboard the Enterprise, he had no reason to contain himself, and did not fight the gagging that came out violently, like revenge for being held back so long. His stomach, however empty, kept revolting, replacing his sobs with endless contractions.
He had barely activated the door to his quarters when they had started, and he had yielded to the spasms with some relief. As unpleasant as vomiting was, his whole body tense and sore as he curled up over the toilet, at least it kept him from thinking about it. Being sick kept his mind on constant alert, focusing his attention on the spasms, gasps, bile, burning and kept the fear away. Unbearable, interminable, but ... secondary.
He coughed cautiously, catching his breath, feeling even sicker from the pungent smell that hung around him…the smell as horrible as the way he felt. This place of suffering and abandonment suited him.
He leaned over awkwardly when the bile passed his throat for the umpteenth time and spilled out in a long convulsion. He grabbed his stomach and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the mess coloring the water again. The dizziness began to build, the light becoming unbearable as a migraine took hold of his temples, seeping through to his sinuses. He shivered, trying to reach for the chase to vent some of his weakness, when a hand rested on his forehead. Incredibly cool, it brought such comfort that he could not suppress a fragile sigh.
Tenderly the hand placed a damp cloth on the back of his neck and then finally came to cover his eyes. There was the terribly aggressive sound of the toilet flushing, then a voice whispering for the light to drop to 20%.
That voice ...
His comfort immediately ceased, replaced by anguish. He coughed sharply, spitting out more bile in an effort to shake off the impending grief. He could do nothing against the intense tremors that made him gasp, nor the panicked sob that burst through the vomiting.
“Shhh, Jim.” The voice was a broken whisper. “Shhh, everything is fine.”
Kirk wanted to yell at him to go away, to leave him, not to hurt him anymore. Irrationally afraid of the anger that had rained over him earlier at the prospect of having to face reality. Instead he could only moan, shaken by a horrible, nauseating cough.
Feeling Jim shake and panic under his fingers, McCoy was crushed by an intense wave of guilt. He had seen Jim gripped with grief, stress, drunkenness, anger... but never so completely. It was the first time he seemed ... broken ... and it was largely his fault.
The abnormal heat radiating from his skin indicated a high fever and explained his lack of self control. McCoy took a syringe out of his bag and spoke in a very soft voice so as not to hurt his friend's headaches.
“Jim, I'm going to inject you with a painkiller, it'll help you relax.”
He had no other answer than a small hiccup and a burst of bile.
Nervous vomiting, McCoy noticed. It was serious. He was going to have to play it safe to get the captain to calm down enough to free himself from his sadness and he hoped the hypo would act quickly. He thrust the syringe into his biceps and took advantage of the slight respite that followed to quickly run the medical tricorder over Jim’s upper body.
The latter told him what he already knew: extreme stress, high fever, deficiencies in iron and magnesium, low blood pressure...nothing to indicate a gastric bug apart from weakness due to deficiencies, which reinforced his theory of psychogenic nausea.
McCoy was relieved to find that the sedative had done its work: Jim was shaking less and seemed more lucid.
“Bones...what--?”
Bones. So he didn't blame him. This man's empathy would kill him eventually, the doctor thought. He put a protective arm around the Jim’s shoulders and another under his chest to support him. He could feel the angry stomach muscles that continued to struggle and tighten. He gave a sad little smile.
“We are going to talk about all this. But first, we are going to get out of this horrible room. You need to lie down.”
“Um, that's not safe,” Jim grimaced with a little hiccup.
“I'll take a bucket, but I want you to lie down. Doctor's orders.”
“If it's an o-order,” he stammered, in a slight attempt at humor.
Jim allowed himself to be helped without opening his eyes, too ill to protest, and too weak to fend for himself. Bones almost carried him to his bed.
Once lying down, McCoy carefully removed Jim’s boots and socks, pulled up a wonderfully warm blanket and put a cloth on his forehead. Then Jim heard the familiar whirr of the tricorder passing once more over his body and finally the sound of several mixes. Careful fingers rested on his right temple.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“Urgh, Bones, I'll throw up if I open them.”
“There is a bucket, don't hold back. I need you to look at me.”
Jim groaned but obeyed. The light, even though very dim, made him moan in pain. It penetrated his head like a blade and triggered, as announced, a violent nausea.
McCoy held him very gently as he threw up a thin trickle of bilious saliva. He fell completely exhausted on the pillow once the attack was over. The doctor muttered something unintelligible and wiped his face.
“I should send you to the infirmary, Jim. You have serious deficiencies and that added to the stress...this is a perfect combination for a migraine in due form. I'll put you on an IV to regulate your sugar levels and give you a strong pain reliever. It should help you feel better.”
Once everything was in place, a tactical, hesitant silence settled between them. Jim could feel his presence, sitting on the edge of the bed rather than a chair, and the warm, warm hand pressed to his shoulder. The exhaustion and sadness rose in power now that the disease could no longer build its walls around his mind. He saw Edith again. Edith and her sweetness, her love, her joy, her magnificent ideas.
"She's fair ... but not at the right time," Spock had said, trying to make her listen to reason when he...he told her that she had to...die. He had desperately looked for another way but...but—
He clenched his teeth, overtaken by the intensity of the pain. By the gesture. He had even been unable to look at her body. He had not turned around, refusing to see what he had just done, struck head-on by the horror and disgust emanating from the doctor.
He swallowed, feeling the tremors start again, the despair skyrocketing. McCoy, hearing the gasps in his friend's tight breath, tightened his grip on his shoulder.
“I ... I loved her...Bones—"
A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and he sniffled, trying to pull himself together:
“Jim,” McCoy whispered, his own emotions rising. “I ... I don't even know how to apologize.”
“You have nothing to excuse. You are right. I ... killed her.”
“No. You saved our world. You did what you had to.”
“Oh, you spoke to Spock,” Jim whispered with a bitter smile.
“Yes.”
Despite the darkness, McCoy could see the paleness growing and the captain's face tightening with the effort to hold back the sobs. He searched for a moment for words he could say to alleviate the pain. Not finding them, he shook his head.
Jim tried to speak, with difficulty. “I shouldn't—”
“You have the right to be sad. You just lost the one you love in an act of unimaginable courage. Jim, I'm an overly impulsive old fool, I can't even imagine what you've been through and I sincerely ask forgiveness for this unjustified anger.”
“Please, Bones—"
“No, let me finish. Thank you for your understanding, but you don't have to. I acted like an idiot.”
“You couldn't have known.”
“That's no excuse. I know you and should have taken a step back.”
“What is done is done.”
“Jim, what I'm trying to say is that you must not let my emotionally spoken words get to you. You didn't deserve it.”
“I...I searched and searched...and searched again. I couldn't get away from her even when I knew that—”
“You were in love.”
“No, Bones. I'm in love. A selfish person who regrets choices that he shouldn't regret.”
“You are human, and you are suffering. Let it go.”
Another tear rolled down, then another, and finally it was a torrent that poured into the pillow. The captain put a hand over his mouth to silence the gasps of despair and the overwhelming agony of loss. Bones gripped his shoulder, patting it in a comforting gesture. He watched Jim sob like a child, breathing laboriously through exhaustion and mourning. Then he gradually calmed down until he fell into a deep sleep.
The doctor sighed and wiped away his own tears that had started at the same time as his friend's, and that he had not tried to stop. He readjusted the IVs and scanned Jim’s body for the third time. His fever was still high from a mild viral infection after several weeks in the cold and fatigue undernourishment. Jim would be off for a few days and stay in bed.
When he left the room, the doctor was not surprised to find Spock standing and waiting with arched eyebrows.
“How is he?”
“Exhausted and cold, but fine.”
“Has he been able to express his sorrow?”
“I guess, yes.” McCoy smiled, thinking of his friend's relaxed face as he left the room.
“And were you able to express yours?”
The doctor jumped slightly, not at all prepared for this question, much less for Spock to say it. He was sometimes pleasantly surprised by the well-hidden sensitivity of his Vulcan friend. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it.
“You are about to cry.”
“Damned be your insight, Mister Spock,” the doctor growled, a little annoyed.
“Humans all must cry at one time or another to get better, doctor. I do not understand why you put a manly bulwark in front of this natural mechanism.”
Bones laughed. “Wouldn't you find it embarrassing for me to break down in tears right now in your arms?”
He expected Spock to answer him, "Vulcans don't know the gene, doctor." Instead he replied, in his usual relaxed and serene tone, “If that makes you feel better, no.”
Such compassion was so strange that it almost seemed out of place. Leonard burst out into a frank laugh that turned without realizing it into a flood of tears. Tears of his own sadness this time, not empathy or guilt. Sadness he didn't think he had. Maybe he was also a little in love with Edith after all. And that the Vulcan understood it well before him.
Spock, moreover, did not pretend to leave, contenting himself to stay by his side until McCoy’s tears turned back into laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” the first officer asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, Mister Spock, because I’m thinking of the absurd spectacle we would have made if someone had been there. The ship's doctor weeping like a baby in front of a motionless Vulcan and their captain's closed door.”
Spock coughed and McCoy would swear to anyone who wanted to hear it that he was blushing.
“Well, you're not a hopeless case,” he said with a smirk, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Spock.”
Then he turned on his heel towards the infirmary without hearing the relieved sigh of his alien friend.
Tbh this has sat unfinished in my drafts folder for quite some time. It’s not a requested piece but I thought Jim Kirk would make a perfect whumpee for the prompt “complaining about being too hot or too cold” so here we are. I hope you enjoy!
BINGO card provided by @taylortut, who is also a fantastic writer herself.
“How in the devil’s hell are you wearing a sweater right now?” Bones asked his drawl heavy on the vowels.
Jim shrugged, not an unusual maneuver from him, but it was usually a lot suaver, a lot more cheeky, a lot more charming. But then again, Jim was usually a lot more charming than this. “It’s cold,” he snuffed and rubbed the tip of his nose with a tissue that looked like it had been shredded, taped back together, and then dunked in a vat of liquid.
Bones shook his head but didn’t comment further. He needed some vodka before he started in on his roommate's insane habits and inability to admit when he was feeling less than one hundred percent. Bones’ bed, for the most part, was as he left it. Thank god for that, he thought. He didn’t want to think about Jim bedding some chick and using all the space in their dorm for the activity. He liked his side untouched, thank you very much.
He unshouldered his duffle bag and took off his coat, laying his scarf and mittens on the bed to dry. Despite what Jim claimed, it was boiling in here. Bones would be surprised if Jim had turned the radiator off at all during winter break, or if he’d left it pumping in a sealed-off room for weeks.
Jim snuffed and flopped down on the chair in the corner of the room, facing the TV. He looked miserable. His hair was dark and unwashed, his eyes dropping under oily eyelids and crusty eyelashes, and his face? Bones had never seen it so pale, with bright red blooms on his cheeks. There was no doubt in his mind that Jim was sick. What Bones was going to be able to do about it was another story.
“I’m turning the radiator off,” Bones said. Jim nodded his head, listless in the chair. He looked thin too, Bones thought. He wondered if Jim had been eating.
He opened the windows too once the heat had been turned off and eyed Jim warily, seeing the glassiness to the blue rings around blown-out pupils. Jim shivered and curled further into himself.
Bones sighed and draped a blanket over him. He pulled out a couple of take-out menus and put his feet up on the ottoman, just a few spaces away from Jim. He didn’t say anything when Jim scooted closer, pulling the blanket taught across his chest, or when Jim finally pressed himself against Bones’ side.
“Anything particular you’d like for dinner?” Bones shot out casually, wincing at the heat he could feel plastered against his side.
“Not hungry,” Jim whined and let his head fall down on Bones’ shoulder.
“If you’re not going to eat then you have to let me look you over.”
Pleading eyes met his and Bones sighed, hating that this was his job, that he had to make Jim sit there while Bones prodded and poked him. But he was training to be a medic for christ’s sake and Jim not liking doctors wasn’t going to change that. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re sick, Jim.”
He ducked his head under the blanket, only the tips of his blonde hair sticking out. Bones heard him mumble something but couldn’t make it out.
“Open,” he commanded once he came back with an old thermometer. The medic program he was in insisted they learned ancient methods of medicine in case they were ever stranded without access to technology.
“Don’t wan-” He shoved the thermometer in mid-whine and Jim clamped his mouth shut, glaring daggers at him.
When Bones pulled it out Jim coughed into his elbow, the sound wet and harsh and hacking. Bones just sighed, read the temperature (way too high) and pulled a hypo out from his bag.
“No, absolutely not! I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Bones snapped, at the end of his rope. “You’re burning up in a room hotter than Georgia in the middle of July, your nose is raw, your lips are torn to shreds and you’re shivering like a chihuahua stuck in a snow storm.”
Jim shivered, pulling his arms across his chest like it would protect him from Bones’ cruelty.
Bones stepped forward, raising his arm with the hypo in his hand.
“Leonard,” Jim whined and pinned him down with his wide, bloodshot eyes.
“Oh no, that may have worked on me fifteen minutes ago but I am through. It will only take a second.”
“I hate hypos. I’m not even sick.”
That stalled Bones and he sat down next to Jim on the couch. “Look, I’m...worried about you.”
Jim’s eyes grew round, emotion swimming in their blue, bottomless depths.
“I know I don’t say it a lot, and don’t expect it either. I’m gruff, that ain’t gonna change. But I do care about you. Let me give you this hypo and if your fever comes down enough I won’t give you another one. I just need to know that you’re going to be okay.”
“Well Bonesy, if I had known you cared this much!” Jim’s voice was syrupy and he threw his arms around Bones, only drawing back when Bones took the chance to plunge the hypo in the side of Jim’s neck.
