The Fragile
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a forearm swiped it away, stopping just short of blue latex-free gloved hands. His breath was heavy and sharp, eyes focused yet frantic and scared. He twisted the scalpel between his fingers, letting the blade hover above pale-as-death skin; unsure. Indecision weighed heavily. Gripped his heart, his morals, his mind, his—dare he say it—logic.
He was a doctor, damn it! This should be easy. Piece of cake. Easy as pie. As simple as coloring inside the lines of a children's art book. His crayon should not escape those lines. Because it was so simple.
Then why?
The green-veined skin on his metal table mocked him. Frightened him. His red crayon threatened to stray from the confines of the thick black line. He was not a child. His fingers were not clumsy enough to stray beyond the lines. So why did he hesitate?
He was Chief Medical Officer. Of all people for the job...of all people for this job...he should be able to do it.
Jim was sitting beyond those closed double doors. Leonard could almost visualize the physical concerns. The left foot tapping impatiently. Brows knit together with unveiled concern. Arms crossed in a not-quite-comforting hug. Eyes gazing dimly, unfocused toward the floor. Blond hair disheveled from nervous hands that continue to run through the locks. Oily forehead from sweat. Those blue eyes. Such emotion.
He clenched his teeth, pulled the scalpel away, and looked at his patients closed eyes. They moved behind the lids, flickering. It was a sign of life. But life could end with nothing more than a simple mistake. He couldn't let his crayon stray. Keep the red lines inside the black confines.
Lowering the scalpel, he placed the blade beside the harsh, mutilated skin of the half-Vulcan's shoulder, close to the neck. This is necessary, he told himself, the only way to save him. Should he not continue with the surgery, Spock would die. Should he proceed and make a small error, a single centimeter of an error, Spock would still die. The possibility of success during surgery—the possibility of saving the Vulcan's life—was near impossible.
His hands were clumsy.
Blinking his weary, frightened eyes, he glanced up at Nurse Chapel. Masked, gloved and ready for action, she gazed worriedly at him. She loved Spock. He knew that. She shouldn't be working with him. Not now. Not with Spock in such condition. This was a trying procedure—in all aspects: mentally, emotionally, physically. This was hurting her, but she was the only one suited for the job.
"Doctor McCoy?" She asked softly, hands fidgeting.
Shut up! He wanted to scream that at her, but it would do nothing but worsen the situation. His nerves would affect her. He closed his eyes. Breathed. Inhale. Exhale. Focus. He opened his eyes, gazed at the body. The still living body. The body of his friend. Breathing body. Fragile body.
Should he make that small incision?
It should be simple. Oh! so simple. But the margin for error was great. What if his hands shook? What if he cut too deep? What if he accidentally cuts an artery? He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing with stress. His body quivered. Sweat dripped down his back. It was cold.
A cold sweat.
I can't do it, he realized.
Pulling the scalpel away, he stepped back from the table. Chapel watched him, unsure. She was sweet, very sweet. Too sweet. She couldn't help him now. Nothing she could say. Nothing she could say would make any damn difference.
Spock was dying.
He couldn't do anything. He was a doctor and he couldn't help the patient. He couldn't do it. Spock was going to die, and he couldn't do a thing. Helpless. Hopeless. His chest seized up, breath caught in his throat—burning. He was giving up.
He was giving up.
What am I doing? Leonard froze, gazed at the instrument in his hands. Twisted it between his forefinger and thumb, watched it reflect the light from above. It was very sharp. Very sharp indeed. It could cut without so much as a feather-weight of pressure. It could kill. It could maim. It was dangerous.
Irrationally so, he began hating—despising—the scalpel.
It was so sharp.
He listened, distantly, to the monitor beeping beside him. The steady beating of the Vulcan heart. Inconsistent beeps. Inconsistent heart. Dangerous. He had to do something. He was the doctor. He was The Doctor! His friend was dying—and it was up to him whether he would try or not at saving that precious life.
He couldn't give up.
But coloring in the lines was harder than it looked—with clumsy hands. His hands were clumsy. They would fail him. His red crayon would stray. His friend would die. At his own hands. He couldn't take it. He wouldn't live knowing a good friend died on his watch. Under his hands. The breath dies at his touch.
He was a child. With clumsy hands.
But...but...
...if he does nothing, he's guaranteeing Spock's death.
Should that happen, he would surely kill himself. He couldn't live knowing he'd done nothing. He couldn't. Just couldn't.
"God damn it!" He cried through painfully clenched teeth, "God fucking damn it."
He wanted to cry. Wanted release. Not now. Not now. Tears would blur his vision. Vision was crucial. Precision was crucial. He needed to be at his peek. He could do this. He would do this. He would give it his all—despite the high probability of failure.
He couldn't give up. Couldn't throw down the white flag of surrender. Couldn't sentence his friend to absolute death without doing something to try and save him.
Leonard moved forward, "Nurse, get me a glass of water."
Chapel smiled softly, nodded, and left the table. He took no notice—eyes focused solely on the spot between the mutilated, green shoulder and the pale, smooth neck. He could do it. His hands were clumsy, but even clumsy hands could stay inside the lines. It took patience. He had to be slow. Couldn't move quick. He could do it.
A crystal glass of water invaded his vision. He grabbed it in his left hand, chugged it, dropped it into awaiting hands, and pressed the blade into skin. Green blood bubbled at the surface, exploded, and ran down the pale expanse in ribbons.
He could do this.
It was only logical, after all
He was a doctor.
His crayon ran the pages smoothly, inside the lines. Careful now. No room for error. No room for error.
The beeping monitor quickened pace. His heart flinched. Dangerous. He must continue. The procedure had a slim chance of success. He knew that. Jim knew that. The damn entire crew knew that. Still, he had to try.
Spock had but five percent chance of survival. The procedure was deadly. A last resort. It cost a lot of blood. Too much blood. Jim had offered his own blood to help Spock. Such a good man. A good friend. Good Captain. Good. Leonard would've done the same had he not been the doctor. Would've given the damned Vulcan part, if not all, of his liver if he had to.
He cut deeper. Warm, green ribbons spilled over his hands. Clumsy hands grew slick; clumsier. He had to be more careful now. No room for mistake.
Sweat beaded at the back of his neck. He could feel it. The room was hot. Vulcan temperature. It needed to be at such temperature. 100 degrees. Should be hotter, but humans couldn't work under such stress. The room had to be hot. Hot for Spock. His body was too fragile. Low temperature could make him go into shock. Shock was bad. Shock was equal to death—in this situation. Spock needed to be warm. Always warm. Vulcan's needed warmth, for they were cold-blooded. Cold-blooded humanoids.
The heat was getting to him.
The sweat slid around his neck. It tickled. He ignored it. Tried to ignore it. Failed to ignore it.
Blinking away a sudden weariness, he bit his tongue, swallowed. Sweat dripped down his temple, rolling to a stop at his chin. He's sure it dripped. Onto Spock's pale, bloody chest. It was okay. No risk of infection.
Focus.
Finished with the red, he opted for a blue crayon. Clumsy hands fumbled. He was a child. A child with clumsy hands.
But he could do it.
Dropping the scalpel, he motioned for Chapel to use the suction—clean away the blood. The vacuum noise invaded his sensitive ears. It sickened him. Despite being a doctor—it always sickened him. To hear the wet slurp of blood sucked away into a machine. Something ill fell into his stomach. He couldn't falter.
Chapel moved away.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Felt some drip down his chest. He must continue. The procedure was long. Already an hour had passed. Another two were needed. Another two.
In this heat, even another ten minutes was torture. But Spock was already tortured. This had to be done. Had to be done. It must be done.
Spock was still breathing. Still living.
There was hope.
Taking a deep breath, he took his clumsy hands and worked the delicate procedure. Slowly. So slowly. Patiently. With care. Such care.
His hands. Clumsy hands. They were so gentle. As if he were dealing with a newborn. A fragile life so precious that it's very death would cause great pain. Frail newborn body. He didn't want to cause further damage. Didn't want to err. Yet, all humans make mistakes. No matter how careful. Mistakes; failure is inevitable. But this time. This time there would be no mistake.
Although he was erring on the edge of fate, he would not fail. Would not fall off that edge. He would stay in those lines with his blue crayon.
He was no child, and Spock was no newborn.
He was a doctor, and Spock was both Science officer and First officer. They were adults. Intelligent beings. They were not frail, but they were fragile. Humans were fragile. Life was fragile. So very fragile.
The green of his blood was deep, rich, almost velvety in the strokes of ribbons that flood with another incision.
He blinked away sweat that fell into his eyes. They burned. It hurt. The pain was okay. He could handle it. The pain would be incomparable to the pain he would feel should he lose Spock.
He would continue. With his clumsy hands. Continue to try. Continue to hope.
He must!
His childlike, clumsy hands reached for a green crayon.
O
His Achilles ached with each nervous tap upon the linoleum. How long had it been? Surely more than two hours. Way more. Five hours. He was tired. It had to be more than ten. Or had it only been thirty minutes? Time moved so slow. Too slow. Waiting was painful. The ticking clock on the wall in front of him only served to remind him of the passing seconds. Time ticked life away. Each swing of a pendulum was a second lost. A life lost. Life was precious. Each tick, each tock, each stroke of the pendulum made his heart clench tighter and tighter.
He hated waiting. Despised it. Especially in such a situation. It was painful. So painful. A sacred pain. The universe stood so still. Pausing on it's revolving axis. Frozen. No wind. Nothing. Beyond the clock's ticking, the silence was unbearable. So quiet. A silence he'd never heard. A silence he hoped to never hear again.
There was nothing he could do now. Nothing he could say. Nothing. No amount of compromise could reverse things. He couldn't bribe the powers beyond, could not negotiate, could not fight. Couldn't even try at anything. All that could've been done, can't be done. Everything stood beyond reach. Up above. High. Gone. He was too small. The Universe—the fate of things—too big. Too powerful.
Everything was over now.
There was nothing he could say. Nothing. Nothing.
He could do nothing.
Everything he loved was at risk. Everything. Spock was everything. He couldn't lose him. Didn't want to lose him. He wanted to fight, but no amount of fighting—no amount of words, no amount of trying—could do anything. Everything was done. Left to fate's hands. The hands of time. Luck. Serendipity.
I would give my life to keep you safe, he thought bitterly. Even if his life were lost—it wouldn't help Spock. He couldn't do anything. Nothing. His life couldn't do a damn thing. Things were beyond his control.
He could only wait. He was no doctor. He didn't know a bottle of pain pills from a bottle of vitamins. He did not know how to stitch a wound—even a small one. He did not know how to ease the pains of a sore throat. He didn't even know which bandage to use for a simple scrape. He was useless.
Sometimes he yearned to go back in time. Return to his Academy years. Change his field of work. Go into medicine. Learn of disease. Learn to stitch up wounds, slice through skin, which medicine is used for what. Doctors were useful. They helped. They weren't useless.
Why had he become a Captain? It required so much. Too much. Could he give it all? Could he give enough? He was taxed. Drained. Useless. So useless. Two men were dead, and Spock was barely clinging to life. What if he let go? Went for the light? Spock was logical, so would he think it was logical to go to the unknown world beyond life?
Bones said he was surprised the Vulcan was still breathing.
He felt as useless as someone speaking into an ear that was deaf to the world. Felt as useless as a man looking at the world through blind eyes. Felt like a moon during daylight. A pen without ink. A crumpled piece of scrap paper in a waste basket. A knife with a blunt edge. A mirror without reflection. A candle with no flame.
He wanted to begin again. Restart. Replay. Why couldn't life work life a video game?
He had to wait. Watch. Suffer. Suffer through the time. The pain. The thoughts. Such roaming thoughts. He couldn't do anything It should be him. Useless. Useless.
Waiting was similar to being in Hell. It had to be. So very painful. Torturous. Why couldn't it be him on that table?
Spock was an idiot. Relying on logic for every decision was...logical, but it hurts people. Other people. People like me, Jim chuckled bitterly.
He had been on the same mission. Down on the supposed vacant planet of dust and dry-wind tornadoes. The rocks were crumbly and cracked. A touch would bring them to dust. It was surprising. Why had he touched one? Why were rocks considered sacred stones of God? God had no place. There was no God. But...what if there was a God? Should he pray? Would it help? Would it give Spock more of a chance of survival?
Should he pray?
Faith is so blind. How would you know if you're bestowing your obedience to an actual God, a devil in disguise, or a figment of imagination?
Why did he touch that damned rock? It crumbled to dust under his fingers. The primitive humanoids came from the earth. Soft earth. Sand. They attacked. Why did they attack? I hurt their sacred stones, Jim frowned. Clenching his eyes shut, he placed his fingers at his temples. Their arrows were simple, but so strong. Piercing. Fast. Quick. Precise. He even remembered Spock comment on how logical their weapons were.
They killed his men without so much as batting an eye. Then...
Then they took aim at me, he bit his tongue—eyes burning with the coming of tears. They were aiming at me, it should've been me!!
Spock, logical Spock, had thrown himself in the line of fire. Pushed Jim out of the way. Took the arrows. The poisoned arrows. The logical arrows. It was a death sentence. Spock knew it. He knew it, yet he still did it.
He could still hear the sound of his body hitting the ground. Could still see the green blood pool around the body. Could smell the smoke of dust and sand wafting the air after impact. Could still hear Spock's words, "A Captain is of more importance than a First Officer."
Damn him. Damn logic. Damn humanoid bastards. Damn arrows. Damn, fucking, damn it!!
It should've been me!!
He looked up at the clock. Unsure of what time the surgery began. He should've paid attention. Spock could be dead. Could've died hours ago. When will the surgery end?
He hated being useless. Unable to do anything. It hurt so much. The guilt ate his heart, devoured his blood. He felt cold. Was it cold? His skin had goose pimples. It was so cold. Could he see his own breath?
Was Spock cold?
A tear streamed down his cheek. The salt of it burned.
Then, finally, after the torturous eternity, the double doors of the Sick Bay opened. Jim jumped to his feet—legs jelly and weak. He moved forward. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. Lungs freezing. Thoughts deadened. Little hairs on his neck standing at end. The room grew colder. He saw the white of his breath.
Bones stepped out. Green blood soaked the front of his blue uniform. Long since dried. His hair flew everywhere, and his eyes were weary. So weary. The dark bags were bigger, darker, deeper. Sweat poured from his forehead. Long hours of work. Under the hot light. In the hot room. For Spock. All for Spock.
Was it enough?
Jim hesitated, afraid to speak, opened his mouth and whispered, "...Bones?"
Those tired, unfocused eyes traveled to meet his own. It was a slow movement, but there was no hesitation. The doctor breathed heavily, took a deep breath—released a loud sigh. His hands were trembling. A trickle of sweat weeped from his brow, dripped to the floor. Jim could hear the splatter of it.
Then, in a moment of such stillness—such silence, Bones tired, clear-voiced whisper rang louder than the engines of the Enterprise,
"He's still here, Jim."
And he cried. Fell to his knees and cried.
"He's still here." Bones whispered again.
Jim's cries echoed in the halls.
"He's alive."
I hope you enjoyed!
R&R Please.
In case anyone is wondering, the story is meant to be repetitive--so all the repeated phrases and words are intentional; mostly for affect. I hope it worked. :)
Happy New Year~!