De-Anon: Star Trek Fic "Surviving" Part 1/4
Ok, so I also wrote something for this prompt, which can be found here:
Bones is part of an away team that gets captured/tortured and he's the only one to survive. Cue the PTSD and surviors guilt and all sorts of emotional baggage, with McCoy insisting he's fine. When he does finally break, Kirk is there. Kirk/Bones, established or new relationship.
Standard warnings apply: Unbeta'd, adult themes (yeah, ok, but it's the best I could do, ok?), completely disclaimed because if it wasn't obvious by now I like to play in sandboxes not my own, the entire ST XI movie is spoiled and some of TOS is somewhat spoiled as well, possibly. Also, many thanks to whoever wrote up the prompt--I liked it lots, tons of potential. This was just my take.
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It had been sheer luck. The daughter of the chief had taken a fancy to him, and so. So he’d survived. She’d made him her pet, after a fashion. Made him her pet, her favoured one, and allowed him to watch their entertainments. Allowed him to watch while they killed the others. Allowed …
He should have died. He’d wanted to die. He didn’t understand why Kirk was so happy he’d …
“Bones!” Kirk bounces into Sickbay, a thousand megawatt grin on his face. “They say you’ll be cleared tomorrow!”
“Yeah.” He smiles, tries to smile, because it wasn’t Jim’s fault that he hadn’t died with the others, wasn’t Jim’s fault that he had only been able to watch. Tries to smile, because Jim loves him anyway, doesn't blame him when he really should and who made a 26 year old kid a captain anyway, because Jim …
Kirk’s voice breaks into his train of thought. “You’re frowning again. Stop it. You’re here. You’re safe. Everything is ok now.”
But no, it isn’t. It really, really isn’t, but he knows he can’t say that aloud. He isn’t allowed to say that aloud.
“I know,” he says instead. “I know.”
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It’s over a week later, and McCoy has been released from medical days ago. He’d been underweight, had had some bruises and a cough that seemed to have no obvious pathological cause, a minor broken bone or two and he’d been a bit disoriented from a bump on the head-concussion, he was told, he guessed, he didn’t really remember, but it was in his chart when he’d checked later-but otherwise, he was fine. He’d gotten a couple days medical leave-’No arguments, Doctor,’ Spock had told him, ‘It would be logical to take advantage of a few days’ rest’-but otherwise, he has been cleared to go back on duty.
He’d talked his way out of a psych exam, growled and glowered and made enough snappy remarks that the treating physician--Caldwell, nice guy, newly graduated from med school-had simply laughed and let it go.
So he was back in his office, and has assigned himself exclusively to the lab for his next three weeks of shift. He’d always liked the mindless rhythm of research, the quiet and the blessed lack of any other person to mess up his thoughts.
So he’d left the treatment rotations to the others. They could handle it. They wouldn’t mind, and he’s neglected his research far too often while on the Enterprise, what with patching Jim and his idiot First Officer up every other day. Yeah, things were pretty much back to normal.
But he’d moved all his stuff back to his quarters, and hasn’t let Jim touch him since.
He knew Jim wasn’t fooled. A headache had never stopped them for long before, and certainly not for days. Besides, technically McCoy is all healed up, and if he isn’t, he’s supposed to go back to Sickbay and report it. It’s his duty, both as CMO and as an officer of the Enterprise.
He does neither, merely staying in his room and staring at the walls when he’s not sleeping, and working when he can’t stand the sight of his empty quarters any longer.
So he’s both startled and unsurprised when Kirk barges into his sterile secure-access lab, two weeks after they’d pulled him from that hellhole, with Ensign Richards’ corpse still warm and bloody at his feet, and Mr. Avery bleeding quietly beside him.
Avery had died in Sickbay, less than a day later. Only hours, actually. Chapel wouldn’t tell him at first, not until they had decided he was out of danger, because they hadn’t been convinced, at first, that all his injuries were really as minor as all that.
But that had been stupid. They Sagarians had mostly left him alone, as he’d explained. It was the others that had suffered. McCoy, on the other hand, had been more than fine.
“Bones.”
“You’re not supposed to be here. This is a sterile environment, Jim. You know that. Get out.”
“I checked with Chapel. You’re working on nothing lethal, contagious, or reactive.” Jim paused, a beat. “Bones.”
“What do you want, Captain? Some of us have work to do.”
“Len. You’ve been working for over twelve hours. You arrived early, and were off shift four hours ago.” Jim’s voice has gone soft, and gentle, and McCoy knows he has to make Jim stop that, stop that … because it pisses him off to be treated like that when he so fucking does not deserve it, has done nothing to earn sympathy, when all those who do are dead, and because McCoy has no defence against that kind of attack, and he needs his defences, he knows, he needs them to keep going, needs them because …
“I have months of research to catch up on, and I blame you. It’s a blessing that this time, you managed to avoid the landing party mess. It always takes days off my life to stitch you up afterwards.” And it is a blessing. He sees Jim wince, but he means it. The only thing-the only thing that has kept him sane is the knowledge that Jim was up here, and safe, and whole, and all right. Jim’s all right.
“Bones, if you think for one second I ordered you all down there …”
“No, Jim!” McCoy’s denial is vehement and immediate, cutting off the words, forestalling any doubt. The tone of Kirk’s voice had been pained, and McCoy could hear in it the hours of self-recrimination. “No. I know you had no idea. How could you? Don’t. Not for one second. None of us thought that. And we all knew that you’d tear heaven apart to rescue us as soon as you could. Don’t.”
Because this-reassuring a Captain too young to run a popsicle stand, much less a starship, much less the Federation flagship-is easy. Grounding Jim Kirk--who acts before he thinks and speaks without a filter, who cares too deeply and feels the crushing weight of the responsibility he’s been handed before he’s quite ready--this McCoy knows. He puts down his instruments, walks over and lays a hand on Jim’s sleeve, letting him know he means it, reinforcing words with touch because that is the way Jim responds best.
“Then what, Bones?” A pause, and Jim is staring at the lab instruments like they are fascinating in some kind of intensely absorbing way, even while McCoy knows Jim couldn’t care about his research in any way except to understand how long it might take and when it might be over for the day.
The silence stretches so long McCoy wonders if they’re both going to grow roots, and wonders if he might not just turn back to his instruments while Jim figures out what he wants to say, when Jim says, softly, “I miss you.”
And how does he want McCoy to respond to that? “I’m right here, Jim,” he says finally, after a pause that went on a half second too long. “I’m back, and I’m right here. It’s ok. Everything’s ok.”
And if it struck either of them as odd that he was the one reassuring Jim, they didn’t mention it. Because somehow, for them, this was the way it had to be. The way it always was.
After a moment, McCoy raises an eyebrow. “I’ve got work to do, Jim. I’m almost done though, I promise. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jim says slowly. “I’m off shift now, though. Do you want to …”
“Not tonight,” says McCoy, hating himself, and unsure of why. “I’ve got a really bad headache; I think I’m just going to get Chapel to give me something and head to bed.”
He wishes he could come up with a better excuse than a headache, but its all he has right now. He hates the look in Jim’s eyes as he recognizes the lie, but says nothing as Jim turns around and leaves.
After a moment, McCoy turns back to his slides, secure in the silence of his lab once again.
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“Doctor,” Spock says formally, as he always does.
“Yes, Spock?” McCoy raises an eyebrow, but does not look up. Spock is efficient, and does not waste unnecessary effort. Unencouraged, he will leave. McCoy relies on this knowledge, hiding his nervousness at the fact that Spock has obviously sought him out.
“You have not visited the Bridge since your return. It was something you were in the habit of doing, before.” There is more than idle curiosity in that voice, McCoy knows, if one chose to listen.
McCoy did not so choose. “I had no real business on the Bridge, Spock. You should be glad I’m not there in your way nowadays.”
“I found the routine reassuring. And … I believe the Captain is disrupted by the change.” Spock’s voice is nervous now, and defensive. A small, cruel part of McCoy’s mind rejoices in that hesitant note in his opponent’s demeanor, knowing that Spock has never been confident in these types of interactions.
“Oh, Jim’s a big boy. He’ll cope.” McCoy makes his voice breezy, careless. Spock is on the retreat now, and McCoy is pressing his advantage. McCoy hates himself a little more, but not enough to back down.
But Spock has put a hand on his, forcing McCoy to look up; and now Spock’s dark eyes on him are too intense, too sympathetic, too knowing. McCoy pulls his hand away and escapes, almost running out of his own lab before Spock can say anything further.
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He manages, for the next few days, to keep to himself and not draw attention unduly. Reports are filed on time, debriefings completed as required, and he even manages a meal or two with Jim, ignoring the assessing look in Jim’s blue eyes when he thinks McCoy isn’t looking. He has started visiting the Bridge again, as well, because Spock had all but told him he should.
He hates how everyone watches him. “I’m fine,” he keeps telling them, over and over, grinning and scowling and snapping as required. “I was fed, and housed, and they didn’t hurt me.”
Except once I tried to fight them, and once when I tried to escape. Every now again, he can’t control his stray thoughts. But he doesn’t voice them, because it doesn’t really matter, and even then, what was done to him was minor and unintentional. What you would do to an animal you owned, one that was trying to slip its confinement and hadn’t yet learned its place. No more, no less.
Not at all like how they treated the others.
McCoy is getting tired, though, and it is less easy to control reactions when he is exhausted and tense all the damn time. He’s started feeling a sense of foreboding, a sense of waiting for the penny to drop.
It happens, of course, on the Bridge, where there is the largest possible audience he could have of anywhere on the ship. Of course. Because that is just his luck.
And it is stupid. Downright dumb. Chekov was just pulling something out of his pocket to show to Sulu and it flashed and …
He is halfway across the room before anything really registers. He's not sure if he made any sound, but ... there is … oh, God, Spock, looking blankly concerned as only a Vulcan can, and Uhura, with tears of pity in her eyes, and Kirk, goddammit, Kirk …
The silence in the next minute is profound.
“I’m fine”, he says, into that void. “I’m sorry.” He’s not sure which of the two things he was supposed to say, not sure which of those two things was what they were looking to hear. He hasn’t done anything wrong, even. But they're all still looking at him. The bridge is silent, and he hasn’t touched anything he shouldn’t. Hasn’t hurt anyone. All he’s done (all their eyes on him, wants to tell them, stop looking, wants to scream) is move.
He turns and leaves, then, as quickly as he can manage without sprinting, not looking back, and knowing he’s left his PADD behind. If anyone tries to stop him, he doesn’t see, and it’s only when he reaches the sanctuary of the turbolift, alone with with the doors closed before him and solid metal behind him that he feels safe.
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Part 2
Bones is part of an away team that gets captured/tortured and he's the only one to survive. Cue the PTSD and surviors guilt and all sorts of emotional baggage, with McCoy insisting he's fine. When he does finally break, Kirk is there. Kirk/Bones, established or new relationship.
Standard warnings apply: Unbeta'd, adult themes (yeah, ok, but it's the best I could do, ok?), completely disclaimed because if it wasn't obvious by now I like to play in sandboxes not my own, the entire ST XI movie is spoiled and some of TOS is somewhat spoiled as well, possibly. Also, many thanks to whoever wrote up the prompt--I liked it lots, tons of potential. This was just my take.
**************************************
**************************************
It had been sheer luck. The daughter of the chief had taken a fancy to him, and so. So he’d survived. She’d made him her pet, after a fashion. Made him her pet, her favoured one, and allowed him to watch their entertainments. Allowed him to watch while they killed the others. Allowed …
He should have died. He’d wanted to die. He didn’t understand why Kirk was so happy he’d …
“Bones!” Kirk bounces into Sickbay, a thousand megawatt grin on his face. “They say you’ll be cleared tomorrow!”
“Yeah.” He smiles, tries to smile, because it wasn’t Jim’s fault that he hadn’t died with the others, wasn’t Jim’s fault that he had only been able to watch. Tries to smile, because Jim loves him anyway, doesn't blame him when he really should and who made a 26 year old kid a captain anyway, because Jim …
Kirk’s voice breaks into his train of thought. “You’re frowning again. Stop it. You’re here. You’re safe. Everything is ok now.”
But no, it isn’t. It really, really isn’t, but he knows he can’t say that aloud. He isn’t allowed to say that aloud.
“I know,” he says instead. “I know.”
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It’s over a week later, and McCoy has been released from medical days ago. He’d been underweight, had had some bruises and a cough that seemed to have no obvious pathological cause, a minor broken bone or two and he’d been a bit disoriented from a bump on the head-concussion, he was told, he guessed, he didn’t really remember, but it was in his chart when he’d checked later-but otherwise, he was fine. He’d gotten a couple days medical leave-’No arguments, Doctor,’ Spock had told him, ‘It would be logical to take advantage of a few days’ rest’-but otherwise, he has been cleared to go back on duty.
He’d talked his way out of a psych exam, growled and glowered and made enough snappy remarks that the treating physician--Caldwell, nice guy, newly graduated from med school-had simply laughed and let it go.
So he was back in his office, and has assigned himself exclusively to the lab for his next three weeks of shift. He’d always liked the mindless rhythm of research, the quiet and the blessed lack of any other person to mess up his thoughts.
So he’d left the treatment rotations to the others. They could handle it. They wouldn’t mind, and he’s neglected his research far too often while on the Enterprise, what with patching Jim and his idiot First Officer up every other day. Yeah, things were pretty much back to normal.
But he’d moved all his stuff back to his quarters, and hasn’t let Jim touch him since.
He knew Jim wasn’t fooled. A headache had never stopped them for long before, and certainly not for days. Besides, technically McCoy is all healed up, and if he isn’t, he’s supposed to go back to Sickbay and report it. It’s his duty, both as CMO and as an officer of the Enterprise.
He does neither, merely staying in his room and staring at the walls when he’s not sleeping, and working when he can’t stand the sight of his empty quarters any longer.
So he’s both startled and unsurprised when Kirk barges into his sterile secure-access lab, two weeks after they’d pulled him from that hellhole, with Ensign Richards’ corpse still warm and bloody at his feet, and Mr. Avery bleeding quietly beside him.
Avery had died in Sickbay, less than a day later. Only hours, actually. Chapel wouldn’t tell him at first, not until they had decided he was out of danger, because they hadn’t been convinced, at first, that all his injuries were really as minor as all that.
But that had been stupid. They Sagarians had mostly left him alone, as he’d explained. It was the others that had suffered. McCoy, on the other hand, had been more than fine.
“Bones.”
“You’re not supposed to be here. This is a sterile environment, Jim. You know that. Get out.”
“I checked with Chapel. You’re working on nothing lethal, contagious, or reactive.” Jim paused, a beat. “Bones.”
“What do you want, Captain? Some of us have work to do.”
“Len. You’ve been working for over twelve hours. You arrived early, and were off shift four hours ago.” Jim’s voice has gone soft, and gentle, and McCoy knows he has to make Jim stop that, stop that … because it pisses him off to be treated like that when he so fucking does not deserve it, has done nothing to earn sympathy, when all those who do are dead, and because McCoy has no defence against that kind of attack, and he needs his defences, he knows, he needs them to keep going, needs them because …
“I have months of research to catch up on, and I blame you. It’s a blessing that this time, you managed to avoid the landing party mess. It always takes days off my life to stitch you up afterwards.” And it is a blessing. He sees Jim wince, but he means it. The only thing-the only thing that has kept him sane is the knowledge that Jim was up here, and safe, and whole, and all right. Jim’s all right.
“Bones, if you think for one second I ordered you all down there …”
“No, Jim!” McCoy’s denial is vehement and immediate, cutting off the words, forestalling any doubt. The tone of Kirk’s voice had been pained, and McCoy could hear in it the hours of self-recrimination. “No. I know you had no idea. How could you? Don’t. Not for one second. None of us thought that. And we all knew that you’d tear heaven apart to rescue us as soon as you could. Don’t.”
Because this-reassuring a Captain too young to run a popsicle stand, much less a starship, much less the Federation flagship-is easy. Grounding Jim Kirk--who acts before he thinks and speaks without a filter, who cares too deeply and feels the crushing weight of the responsibility he’s been handed before he’s quite ready--this McCoy knows. He puts down his instruments, walks over and lays a hand on Jim’s sleeve, letting him know he means it, reinforcing words with touch because that is the way Jim responds best.
“Then what, Bones?” A pause, and Jim is staring at the lab instruments like they are fascinating in some kind of intensely absorbing way, even while McCoy knows Jim couldn’t care about his research in any way except to understand how long it might take and when it might be over for the day.
The silence stretches so long McCoy wonders if they’re both going to grow roots, and wonders if he might not just turn back to his instruments while Jim figures out what he wants to say, when Jim says, softly, “I miss you.”
And how does he want McCoy to respond to that? “I’m right here, Jim,” he says finally, after a pause that went on a half second too long. “I’m back, and I’m right here. It’s ok. Everything’s ok.”
And if it struck either of them as odd that he was the one reassuring Jim, they didn’t mention it. Because somehow, for them, this was the way it had to be. The way it always was.
After a moment, McCoy raises an eyebrow. “I’ve got work to do, Jim. I’m almost done though, I promise. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jim says slowly. “I’m off shift now, though. Do you want to …”
“Not tonight,” says McCoy, hating himself, and unsure of why. “I’ve got a really bad headache; I think I’m just going to get Chapel to give me something and head to bed.”
He wishes he could come up with a better excuse than a headache, but its all he has right now. He hates the look in Jim’s eyes as he recognizes the lie, but says nothing as Jim turns around and leaves.
After a moment, McCoy turns back to his slides, secure in the silence of his lab once again.
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“Doctor,” Spock says formally, as he always does.
“Yes, Spock?” McCoy raises an eyebrow, but does not look up. Spock is efficient, and does not waste unnecessary effort. Unencouraged, he will leave. McCoy relies on this knowledge, hiding his nervousness at the fact that Spock has obviously sought him out.
“You have not visited the Bridge since your return. It was something you were in the habit of doing, before.” There is more than idle curiosity in that voice, McCoy knows, if one chose to listen.
McCoy did not so choose. “I had no real business on the Bridge, Spock. You should be glad I’m not there in your way nowadays.”
“I found the routine reassuring. And … I believe the Captain is disrupted by the change.” Spock’s voice is nervous now, and defensive. A small, cruel part of McCoy’s mind rejoices in that hesitant note in his opponent’s demeanor, knowing that Spock has never been confident in these types of interactions.
“Oh, Jim’s a big boy. He’ll cope.” McCoy makes his voice breezy, careless. Spock is on the retreat now, and McCoy is pressing his advantage. McCoy hates himself a little more, but not enough to back down.
But Spock has put a hand on his, forcing McCoy to look up; and now Spock’s dark eyes on him are too intense, too sympathetic, too knowing. McCoy pulls his hand away and escapes, almost running out of his own lab before Spock can say anything further.
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He manages, for the next few days, to keep to himself and not draw attention unduly. Reports are filed on time, debriefings completed as required, and he even manages a meal or two with Jim, ignoring the assessing look in Jim’s blue eyes when he thinks McCoy isn’t looking. He has started visiting the Bridge again, as well, because Spock had all but told him he should.
He hates how everyone watches him. “I’m fine,” he keeps telling them, over and over, grinning and scowling and snapping as required. “I was fed, and housed, and they didn’t hurt me.”
Except once I tried to fight them, and once when I tried to escape. Every now again, he can’t control his stray thoughts. But he doesn’t voice them, because it doesn’t really matter, and even then, what was done to him was minor and unintentional. What you would do to an animal you owned, one that was trying to slip its confinement and hadn’t yet learned its place. No more, no less.
Not at all like how they treated the others.
McCoy is getting tired, though, and it is less easy to control reactions when he is exhausted and tense all the damn time. He’s started feeling a sense of foreboding, a sense of waiting for the penny to drop.
It happens, of course, on the Bridge, where there is the largest possible audience he could have of anywhere on the ship. Of course. Because that is just his luck.
And it is stupid. Downright dumb. Chekov was just pulling something out of his pocket to show to Sulu and it flashed and …
He is halfway across the room before anything really registers. He's not sure if he made any sound, but ... there is … oh, God, Spock, looking blankly concerned as only a Vulcan can, and Uhura, with tears of pity in her eyes, and Kirk, goddammit, Kirk …
The silence in the next minute is profound.
“I’m fine”, he says, into that void. “I’m sorry.” He’s not sure which of the two things he was supposed to say, not sure which of those two things was what they were looking to hear. He hasn’t done anything wrong, even. But they're all still looking at him. The bridge is silent, and he hasn’t touched anything he shouldn’t. Hasn’t hurt anyone. All he’s done (all their eyes on him, wants to tell them, stop looking, wants to scream) is move.
He turns and leaves, then, as quickly as he can manage without sprinting, not looking back, and knowing he’s left his PADD behind. If anyone tries to stop him, he doesn’t see, and it’s only when he reaches the sanctuary of the turbolift, alone with with the doors closed before him and solid metal behind him that he feels safe.
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Part 2