The Immeasurable In-Between (Kirk/McCoy, R) part 4

[lindmere]

<< Part 4

Day 11

McCoy half-sleeps through another restless night--he’s turned into as much of a pig as Jim but a lot less fun, leaving a trail of takeout containers and tangled sheets behind him--but he manages to stumble into the Neurology ward at 0800 looking reasonably well groomed and not like a man on the verge of losing his medical license or his sanity.

Spock is already there, an aggravation, but something he’s getting used to, like the cheap holoprint of the Crab Nebula above Jim’s bed. Spock is irritating, McCoy is irritated, Jim is as silent as ever, and it seems like the whole cycle may go on forever. The only prospect more frightening is the alternative.

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock says after giving him a few moments to make his rounds of the monitors. “I trust your testimony before the Commission went well?”

“Oh, sure, just dandy--thanks for reminding me. There’s a slim possibility I won’t be cashiered and have my medical license revoked, so I guess you could say it went alright.”

Spock draws his eyebrows together, the closest he can come to a frown. “I thought Nyota had--” he pauses. “Doctor,” he begins again, a little louder. “The forecast predicts that the pleasant weather we’ve been enjoying for the past two days will be ending this afternoon. Perhaps you would care to accompany me for a walk? I suggest Muir Woods.”

“You want me to go for a walk in the forest with you? Now I’ve heard--” But he catches Spock’s eye, looking pointedly at the bank of monitoring equipment. “Oh.” He scratches his arm and glances at Jim. “Well, I suppose a walk would be nice.”

After a half hour and an airbus across the Golden Gate Bridge, they’re walking down a broad dirt path between the giant redwoods, morning light filtering between feathery branches. It’s cool and lush, and the oxygen clears some of the fog from McCoy’s brain. It’s pleasant, even if Spock isn’t the most agreeable of companions. He keeps a steady, almost metronomic pace, barely looking around, while McCoy’s gaze wanders to the joggers and day hikers and the giant trees themselves, most of them older than human spaceflight. Spock finally pauses when they reach a cul de sac and gestures toward a bench.

“For pete’s sake,” McCoys says. “I get the need for secrecy, but Uhura only took me across the bay. And she bought me lunch.”

Spock gives him an unreadable look. “Nyota is an astute observer of Starfleet politics, but she isn’t privy to the same information I am. I am the acting captain of the Enterprise.”

“That’s news to me. That poor ship’s barely got two tritanium sticks to rub together. Anyhow, she’s already got a captain.”

“Acting captain,” Spock repeats. He waits, stubbornly, for McCoy to sit down before he continues. “We expect to hear any day now whether the Enterprise will be rebuilt or decommissioned. If it is the latter, I will lose that title, but in the meantime--”

“You get invited to all the fancy parties. I get it. So tell me what gossip you’ve been hearing. Just don’t talk too loud, that squirrel over there might be a spy.”

Spock’s look of annoyance makes McCoy feel like he’s accomplished something this morning after all.

“Did the panel for your testimony for the committee include anyone who wasn’t identified? A human male, perhaps?”

“Who, that angry son-of-a-bitch with the beard? Yes. Who the hell is he?”

The squirrel is advancing on Spock, apparently looking for a handout. McCoy is tempted to tell it not to waste its time.

“He introduces himself as Elliot Targ, a private security consultant, but I believe him to be the new head of Section 31.”

“I thought that nonsense got blown up in London.”

“The London facility was one of many. It’s unlikely that Section 31 was incapacitated, and I am afraid to say, even less likely that Starfleet will shut it down. The effort to root out more corruption and secret programs is--regrettably, to my mind--proving to be a justification to keep Section 31 in operation.”

“A fancy way of saying that Starfleet is eating its own.” McCoy feels tired again, and annoyed to be out of range of coffee. “Well, it can chew me up and spit me out for all I care. I just wish Jim were here--not here here, but you know what I mean. He’d cut through this bull like a hot knife through warm butter.”

“That is exactly why it may be better that he is not here.”

“Better?” McCoy jumps to his feet, causing the squirrel to skitter away. “If you’re saying Jim is better off unconscious, then I have a mind to--”

“That is not what I’m suggesting,” Spock says, unmoving. “Only that an unconscious hero cannot incriminate himself, while a conscious one can. That is why Nyota advised you to allow the Commission to think that the serum was Khan’s idea. I suspect, however, that you did not follow her advice.”

“I didn’t,” McCoy says flatly. “I’m not subtle enough to play this game, I don’t hold with lying, and I don’t give a good goddamn what happens to me at this point.”

“If Jim recovers and the Enterprise is repaired and sent on a five-year mission, you may.”

The thought of that knocks McCoy speechless, and he drops back down onto the hard wooden bench. In his mind’s eye he sees the Enterprise and Jim, warping away without him.

“She could have told me that. I just thought she wanted to spare me a court martial.”

Spock’s jaw tightens. “We did not appreciate how much your emotional state would affect your reasoning.”

“Oh, we didn’t, did we? And you weren’t emotionally affected at all. Tell me.” He jabs a finger at Spock. “Tell me you and Uhura wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to save Jim’s life.”

“I can tell you no such thing, but fortunately, we did not have to. Your discovery ensured that.”

A gust of wind sets the delicate branches of the great trees to swaying. It seems that these days, a storm is never far away. For a long moment they’re both silent, listening to the wind, and then Spock says, “You did tell the Commission it was your discovery, did you not?”

“‘Discovery’ is a mite strong. A happy accident, I suppose, although God knows it’s going to put the fox in the chicken coop when the word gets out, regardless of what happens to me.”

Spock nods slowly. “I believe that in the end this may be for the best. I have been reviewing the archives on the Eugenics Wars, and I have been unable to find a mention of any extraordinary regenerative powers. If Augments had been functionally immortal, the war might have been even more horrific.”

“What are you saying, then? Khan was telling the truth about being the only one?”

“I’m saying that I believe Khan’s regenerative power might have been something he himself developed.”

“Another project of Marcus’s? My God--a heavily armed Starfleet with soldiers able to instantly recover from the most severe injuries--you don’t think he meant to bring back augmentation?” Spock’s right, and maybe his father is, too; without Jim’s nimble brain to help him see through the infinite layers of politics, he might be better off in Georgia, tending to scraped knees and clogged arteries.

“That, I do not know,” Spock says, “though I doubt that would have been beyond the bounds of possibility. However, it is my belief that Khan developed this capability on his own, perhaps to protect his own life, or perhaps to use as bargaining chip. The human fear of death is overwhelming and endemic; what wouldn’t someone--someone highly placed in Starfleet--do to save a loved one?”

“I know what I wouldn’t do; I wouldn’t kill an innocent person, and I wouldn’t bring back some kind of plague to humankind. If I thought that’s what this cure did, I’d let Jim die.” That much, McCoy feels confident about.

“You have that power, don’t you?” Spock asks quietly. “Legal power to discontinue Jim’s life support?”

“I do,” McCoy says, his mouth dry, “but Jim isn’t on life support, and that’s only in case of severe brain damage. At this point we don’t know what state he’d be in, if he weren’t in the coma.” He rubs a hand over his face. The queasy uncertainty--should I have, or shouldn’t I? isn’t going to go away, not until Jim’s in-between state collapses in one direction or the other.

Spock says nothing, but doesn’t move off the bench, either. The next gust of wind makes McCoy regret rushing out of the hospital in only a thin cotton shirt.

“There is something I wish you to know, Doctor.” Spock says finally. “Jim did not want to die. He was prepared to make the sacrifice for the crew of the Enterprise, for all of us--but he suffered from the same fear as any human approaching death. As any mortal being.”

McCoy resists the urge to leap up and bolt down the forest path. “I don’t want to hear what he was afraid of.”

“I could not touch his mind, so I have nothing more specific to offer,” Spock continues, relentless. “But if he was like Admiral Pike, his primary emotion was regret. At his perceived failure, at having to leave the rest of us behind to deal with the consequences.”

“Just--don’t. That’s too damned personal.”

“It is human. You of all people should appreciate that.” He turns to face McCoy. “Jim is my friend. My wish for him is to have as few regrets as possible when that time comes again, as it must.”

“That’s what I want for him, too. Of course.” McCoy tightens his jaw against the emotions he’d rather Spock not see.

“And you have taken positive steps to ensure that. I admit I am still learning about the ability that humans call intuition, which I believe to be a form of innate logic. Jim uses it most effectively. You did also, in your commission testimony. You provided Starfleet with a way to leverage your discovery largely untainted by its association with Khan. In doing so you may have saved your own career, so that you will continue to be able to serve on board the Enterprise. With Jim.”

“You’re sure he’s going to recover, then?”

Spock does the Vulcan version of a shrug, with his eyebrows. “If he does not, there is no further planning required. But if he does--I see no reason we should not be prepared.”

McCoy sits in silence for a long moment, heart full but unwilling to let his eyes tear up in front of Spock. “You’re a good friend,” he says. “To Jim, I mean.”

The corners of Spock’s mouth turn up ever so slightly. “I understand your meaning very well.”

After a few more awkward moments, Spock announces that he wants to go meditate and vanishes down a distant path like a woodland sprite in a ‘Fleet tunic, leaving McCoy alone with his thoughts.

It’s easy, now, to convince himself that he was reconciled to Jim’s passing, whether to death or some twilight way-state. But Spock has tempted him with the possibility of a future to eclipse any past, and McCoy knows there’s no way going back. If Spock had gotten a glimpse into Jim’s thoughts McCoy might have asked--he’s that desperately eager--if Jim felt the same way too. But now the only way to know will be to ask Jim himself.

Day 12

McCoy wakes at 0600 as usual to heavy gray skies and a squall beating rain against the windows. It matches his mood a little closely. He pulls Jim’s sheets over his head and, for once, is able to get back to sleep, and when he opens his eyes again it’s close to noon. He feels rested, sated with sleep, but angry at himself for the break in his routine, which among other things is going to be hell on his already confused Circadian rhythm.

The storms have cleared out, but the sky still threatens rain. McCoy decides to chance the walk anyway, stopping at the bakery on Geary for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He knows the routine can’t last forever: sooner or later he’ll have to go back to work, someone will reclaim Jim’s apartment. For now, though, it’s keeping him connected to Jim. The routine is all he has.

Inside Jim’s room there’s no change of time or weather; the doctors and nurses barely glance up when McCoy walks by. He’s part of the furniture, like the white visitor’s chair and the orange plant, which has grown long tendrils and a weird blue flower since Sulu brought it. McCoy has achieved a fragile detente with Boyce, Jim’s attending, although the guy’s cranky as hell and his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.

In the early afternoon, Scotty appears, in full uniform and carrying an official ‘Fleet padd.

“Leonard!” he says warmly, shaking McCoy’s hand. “I’m very glad you’re here. I come bearing news.” He hoists the padd.

“Good news, I hope?”

“I hope so, too, but I haven’t a clue.” He approaches Jim’s bed respectfully, as if Jim were conscious and sitting behind the desk in his ready room. “It’s the assessment of the Enterprise from Engineering. Whether they’re going to repair the old girl or sell her off for scrap.”

There’s a hitch in Scotty’s voice that McCoy doesn’t find amusing at all. While he doesn’t share Jim and Scotty’s boundless infatuation with the Enterprise he appreciates what it symbolizes: a promise to always come home. He’d see the great ship sent to the junkyard with great regret, and he knows that it would break Jim’s heart.

“Let’s hope for the best, then,” McCoy says, patting Scotty’s shoulder.

“Always. Well, here goes nothing.” McCoy sees a flash of the Starfleet emblem over Scotty’s shoulder. There’s a long pause in which McCoy waits expectantly until he realizes Scotty’s eyes are closed.

“Well, aren’t you going to read it?”

“It feels wrong,” he says, eyes still squeezed tight. “It should go to the Captain first.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, but he’s not going to be able to read it any time soon.” McCoy feels the irritation of suspense, aware that he’s being more than a bit superstitious in light of what he knows about captains and their ships.

“Here, this’ll do.” Scotty slides the padd into one of Jim’s lax hands. McCoy flinches inwardly; he hasn’t touched Jim’s bare skin since he injected Khan’s blood into him, but Scotty does it as easily and naturally as if they were all sitting around the conference table. “All right then, on the count of three? One, two-- Ach, I can’t bear to look. What if they rebuild her, and it’s as one of those Dreadnought monsters? The advanced warp capabilities are fantastic, and there are aspects of the hull design I’d keep, but a ship that size’ll have stability--”

“Scotty.” McCoy can practically feel himself developing a tic. “If Jim were awake, he’d tell you to move it along.”

“Right you are. Here we are, then.” A tap, a scroll, and Scotty leans over Jim as if he’s trying to read over his shoulder. Scotty’s expression turns from frowning concentration to open-mouthed wonder, and tears form in his eyes. “Oh,” he sighs. “Oh, my. They’re going to save her. A complete retrofit, with advanced warp and a lot of other goodies besides. She’ll still be our Enterprise, only better. Do you hear that, Jim?” he whispers. “We’re getting our girl back, and she’ll have everything she deserves. All she needs now is her captain.”

When Scotty stands up and straightens his uniform, McCoy pulls him into a hug without a second thought.

Day 13

McCoy’s taken to dozing off in the white visitor’s chair, though it hasn’t gotten a bit more comfortable in the last two weeks. He figures after so many restless nights his body’s finally catching up, so when Boyce shakes his shoulder--none too gently--he wakes up with a snort and a startle reaction more appropriate to the bridge of a starship than a hospital room.

“Easy, easy,” Boyce says, taking a step back, and then, after a closer look and his bleary face, “Hard to believe you’re the one the nurses are always going on about.”

“I’m at my best after lunch.” McCoy runs a hand through his hair, which is getting long and increasingly unfamiliar with a comb.

“I’m at my best after a martini, but we all have to carry on as best as we can. So, Doctor--I have, as they say, good news and--I don’t know what the rest of the news is. Could be good, could be bad.”

“Don’t be cute about it, whatever it is.” McCoy is now sitting ramrod straight in the chair. “Just tell me.”

That at least wipes the sardonic smile off Boyce’s face. “Well, alright then. First of all, congratulations--you’ve been placed on active duty, assigned to the Neurology Department at Starfleet Medical, which as I’m sure you know by now is right here.”

For that, McCoy could almost hug him. “Am I assigned to Jim’s case?”

“If you want to be. See, that brings me to the second thing--Dr. T'Kan proposed a plan to wake him up as early as tomorrow, if his neurograms stay consistent. She thinks that we gain nothing by waiting longer, except further deterioration in his physical condition from disuse.”

After so long without news or change in his life, it’s more than McCoy can handle. The possibility of Jim awake--talking, smiling, but also maybe suffering the mental or physical effects of the radiation poisoning--fills him with almost unbearable eagerness and a feeling that things are moving too fast.

“That sounds reasonable,” he says, trying to sound like the Starfleet doctor that he is again. “So what’s the possibly bad news?”

Boyce hooks a stool with his foot, the one the nurses perch on when they’re reading Jim’s charts and pulls it to within knee-bumping distance. “I know you know the risks by now. Hell, you’ve probably committed them to memory, see them hovering in the dark at night. Oh, don’t give me that look--I may be a doctor, but I’ve had loved ones as patients, too. So suppose we bring him out of the coma, based on the best information we have today, which is that we’ll gain nothing by waiting. But then let’s say something bad happens. Maybe he’s never completely himself again, or he relapses, or he gets sick a year or two or more from now, and you wonder if we should have waited. We don’t know all the effects of this magic serum of yours, and we may not in the near future, but--” the smile has crept back onto Boyce’s face--”you try keeping the researchers away once they realize we could have a cure for everything from Iverson’s disease to pyrrhoneuritis. You’re a modern Prometheus, Dr. McCoy.”

“You know what’s Greek to me?” McCoy growls. “Your point.”

“Simple enough. If we wake him up tomorrow, we’re acting on the best information we have today. But science marches forward. Or warps forward, when you’re around.”

“Are you telling me it’s my choice?” McCoy feels like he’s being set up, but he’s not sure for what.

Boyce is all seriousness now, hands clasped in front of him, a lock of silver hair falling in his eyes as he leans forward to speak to McCoy with paternal confidence. He does indeed remind McCoy of David a little, though he trusts that if David were here, he wouldn’t be trying to confuse McCoy’s tired mind with impossible ethical dilemmas.

“With Kirk’s medical power of attorney, you could decide to take him out of here, find somewhere with round-the-clock care and a biobed they don’t mind having used indefinitely. But as his doctor--”

“--I’d be actively participating in the decision. Yes, I know. Doesn’t seem to me that it makes a hell of a lot of difference.”

“You might feel differently, if it turns out to be the wrong one, and you have to live the rest of your life with it.”

“I’ll take my chances,” McCoy says, with a conviction he doesn’t feel.

Boyce shrugs, as if to say he’s done his best. “I’m glad you’re confident. Right, Doctor, I’ll see you at 1000 tomorrow, if not before.” He nods toward McCoy’s cotton sweater and thrice-unwashed jeans. “And I’ll expect you to be all suited up. Good luck finding a senior officer uniform that fits; that new white job is a dilly.”

Boyce leaves McCoy where he found him, slouched in the chair two feet from Jim’s bed, but it’s too far away. He moves closer, close enough to see the white, unvarying hospital light glinting off Jim’s dark lashes. He tries to tease out the threads of his desires--to have the ordeal end; to live on with hope, even if false; and most of all, to be able to look into Jim’s eyes again, just to talk with him, be annoyed by him, touch him--

He reaches out a trembling hand to take Jim’s in his. Contrary to his fears, Jim’s flesh is soft and warm, the hand well-tended, nails kept short. He’s like a perfect monument to himself, all the signifiers of Jim with none of his actual presence. It’s the presence McCoy aches for, something he’d never call a soul but is more than a collection of thoughts and memories. Jim is a trajectory, a place that McCoy wants to go, without whom his life is hollow, earthbound, all the conventional things that he once loved, that his father still loves. There’s only space in McCoy’s heart now to love one thing.

“Just a little more time,” McCoy whispers. “A few minutes, an hour--that’s all I want. You can make fun of my hair, call me an idiot, I don’t care.” He’s trying so hard not to cry, but the tears come all the same because he’s weak, and he knows what he’s said is a lie. From here on out, he won’t be satisfied with less than everything.

Part 5 >>