The Hero's Return
Old Fiat
Summary: The hero will always come home.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the estate Gene Roddenberry and I make no profit. The Lord of the Rings belongs to the estate of J. R. R. Tolkein.
Dedication: To the person who saved this story, Old Fiat n. France. Also, my lovely beta, DazzledByNorrington. I love you both.
The hero will always come home.
It was a standard rule, wasn't it? In all the fantasy stories he had read as a kid, the hero always survived. There would be the moment when the crowd held their breath or mourned their loss—but then the hero would come up from behind the hill, bruised, but otherwise fine. And everyone would cheer and celebrate the return of their champion.
Leonard McCoy was no hero.
He knew that for him there would be no sudden twist, no big turnaround when he was injured. When he lost, he would lose. There would be no need for his friends to wait for him. He would die and that was it. He just wasn't a hero.
It wasn't really self-deprecation—something his therapist accused him of doing—because it was true. He was a doctor, not a champion, not a savior. When there was no hope left, he wouldn't get any kind of deus ex machina. He would die. No surprise return. Nothing. He wasn't that kind of man.
But Jim Kirk was a hero.
He was brave, charismatic, exciting. Despite how often Bones scoffed at what he said, he admired Jim, cared for him. James Kirk was his captain, his best friend. Even though he made stupid decisions on occasion, made mistakes, was too girl-crazy for his or anyone else's own good—Jim was a good man and a good commanding officer and Bones was proud to serve under a man like him: a hero.
And the hero always came home.
Jim was always one for a dramatic return. He would beam back to the Enterprise at the last second, would suddenly breathe again after his heart had been out for several minutes. He pulled so many last-minute escapes that Bones sometimes got the feeling Jim did these things on purpose, just to give his friend a few more gray hairs.
But Jim was a hero and would always come back from the battle, bloody with half his shirt ripped off, but smiling and thoroughly alive.
More than anything else, Jim was always alive. He was the energy that made the worn out, homesick crew able to keep going, to work as hard as they could in the bleakest of circumstances. His eyes shone with excitement even when everything around him seemed hopeless. He led boldly, with a proud smile on his lips, his chest held up in a way that could only express determination, a reluctance to ever give up. Jim Kirk led as though he really didn't believe in 'no-win' scenarios, even though Bones knew that behind the sparkle, behind the brave face, a small part of him was terrified that he really would lose, that he and his whole crew would pay the price, that the ship would be destroyed, that it would not be just one life lost, but four hundred trapped forever in the vast, black emptiness of space.
But Jim was still a hero, through and through, and—though he would never admit it—one of the greatest that Bones had ever seen.
And the hero always comes home.
So why the hell wasn't Jim back yet?
It had been almost a week since Jim, Lieutenant Sulu, Lieutenant Halloway and Ensign McMillan had beamed down to a previously unexplored planet. They had communicated with the ship several times about some sort of subterranean animal life that they had found, but then they had stopped. Spock had repeatedly commanded Uhura to keep checking every possible channel, but there was nothing. No signal. They had stopped broadcasting mid-report. Spock had ordered that orbit be maintained and begun a scan of the planet, but there was no sign of any of the landing party. No readings. Nothing.
The hero will always come home.
It was the rule, so Bones had been holding his breath, waiting for Jim to reappear, for his voice to suddenly come crackling through his com device. He found himself stabbing too hard with hyposprays, banging his fists against the touch-sensitive screens in the sick bay and shouting at nurses. He was breaking. Jim had to come back. It didn't make sense for him not to. But it had to be soon. Too much longer and Starfleet would order them away from the planet and the Enterprise would be left with a new captain and no hero—a bland imitation of a captain, fueled only by logic and numbers.
Spock was no hero.
Spock was cold, rational. He silently patrolled the ship by night, his face impassive. On the Bridge, he stared straight ahead at the screen, occasionally pressing a finger against his lips as he thought. He noted none of the emotions of his fellow crewmen, though Bones wondered how anyone could miss the way Chekov arrived on the Bridge each morning with red eyes and an odd shaky sort of movement that Bones attributed to lack of sleep. If he had been in command, Bones would have sent him to bed long ago, but Spock insisted that Chekov run the computers and so the ensign did, his voice cracking as he read from the computer: still no sign of human readings.
Spock saw nothing in the crew, the ship, the universe. The world appeared to him as equations, as those stupid logic problems Bones' father had delighted in when he was little. Spock would always return to the ship, but it was different. He would return because it was logical, not because he cared for the people there.
Spock was about as much of a hero as Bones was.
Yet, when the first scan of the planet had been completed three hours after they initially lost contact and Chekov had shakily announced that, according to the ship's computers, there was no humanoid life, Spock had almost seemed to freeze in the captain's chair, his eyes slightly wider than usual. For a moment, Bones had thought Spock would punch Chekov, but instead he had relaxed once more and said, "Run another scan."
The hero always came home.
Maybe Spock believed it, too.
Eventually, the orders came through from Starfleet that the Enterprise needed to report to the nearest base, but they ended up staying in orbit for another week at Spock's command. Just a few more scans. Just a few more search parties—though they had sent down at least six already, all of whom had returned reporting that there wasn't a sign of any of the initial landing party on the planet's surface.
...That is, until the last group, when one security officer had come back with a crushed, half-melted phaser.
And Bones had known then that it was all over. Spock's face had remained stony, while Chekov, who had been standing over the computers that Spock normally controlled, had given a weird sort of half-strangled gasp which caused several people to look at him.
And Bones had known... The hero would not return this time. Jim Kirk's luck and sense of dramatic timing had finally run out.
But Spock insisted they stay in orbit and keep scanning. His hands rested calmly on the arm rests of the captain's chair, his expression blank but clearly focused. There was an odd tension visible in his shoulders that spoke of a sort of fear—like he could already see the future repercussions of directly disobeying orders from Starfleet command.
But there was also something curiously... rebellious in his posture. As though by ignoring all other evidence, he could triumph over death itself and bring back his captain.
But Spock wasn't a hero and neither was Leonard McCoy.
And when Spock had told Chekov to begin yet another scan—four days after the orders had come from Starfleet, the same day that the search party returned with the broken phaser—Bones had finally cracked.
"This is useless, Spock!" he had shouted, half-heartedly punching the back of the captain's chair. He felt empty, cold, except for a burning anger at Spock's stupid inability to understand what had actually happened. He clung to that anger—desperate to not become overwhelmed by the numbness that seemed to be rapidly taking over. "What are you going to prove by running another scan? Jim is dead, alright? And no amount of scans or search parties is going to bring him back, you stupid, stubborn half-breed!"
Silence fell. His words seemed almost to echo against the walls of the Bridge, sounding weaker and weaker as they reverberated. Slowly, Bones became aware again of the hum of the ship's computers, but the small sound only made the silence seem more dense. Finally, everyone else returned to their stations, including the shaking Chekov—leaving Spock and Bones on either side of the captain's chair. Spock had his back to the main screen, his hands clasped behind his back. Bones stood in front of the turbo lift, looking down on Spock from the raised area behind the helm.
Bones stared at him, burning fury coursing through his veins, but Spock met his gaze with a cool, expressionless eye.
"Doctor, let us speak in private. Mr. Scott, you have the con."
And they walked off the Bridge. Neither one made any attempt to restart the conversation until they reached Spock's quarters. Bones had never been inside them before. They didn't smell like the rest of the ship—which had the somewhat plastic-y scent of disinfectant—but carried instead a strange smell, like a weird mixture of freshly cut wood and some sort of incense. The air was warm and somehow softer than elsewhere on the vessel. Bones could feel his muscles relaxing a little, but he quickly reignited his anger.
"So what have you got to say, Spock?" he asked, his voice oddly hoarse. "How are you going magically prove with logic that you're not being stupid and irrational, huh? How are you going to do it this time?"
Spock raised one eyebrow. "Pray tell me, doctor, how am I being 'irrational?'"
"You're running your crew ragged, for one thing," Bones said, turning away from Spock and beginning to pace the length of the room. "Take Ensign Chekov for an example—you call him up to the Bridge every morning. Any fool can see that the kid's not slept since we lost contact with the landing party!"
"Why do you believe he is not sleeping?" asked Spock, his gaze so steady it was unnerving.
"Well, let's see," began Bones as he continued to walk restlessly back and forth. "He's been shaking, his eyes are red and he walks into half the decks before reaching the helm. Every time I see the kid, he displays another sign of insomnia—"
"You misunderstand me, doctor," interrupted Spock in the same even tone. Bones stopped pacing and turned to look at him once more. "What I meant to ask was what do you believe Mr. Chekov's reasons are for not sleeping?"
Bones stared at Spock for a few moments, confusion briefly cooling his temper. "What?"
"I doubt that Mr. Chekov is physically ill, doctor. You appear to agree with this belief. Therefore, there must be a psychological reason for his insomnia."
Bones hesitated. "Well... I... I don't really know."
Spock raised one eyebrow again. "How often have you spoken to Mr. Chekov, doctor?"
"Only a couple times," admitted Bones. He felt foolish saying it. "What does it matter what the cause is? He's still not—"
"Had you ever spoken to Mr. Chekov more than your, quote, 'couple times,' you would be aware that in almost every single conversation—and with ever increasing fervor—he will be sure to mention his 'best friend.' Do you know the identity of this person?"
Reluctantly, Bones shook his head.
"It is Mr. Hikaru Sulu," Spock stated simply, "who, as you are well aware, beamed down to the planet's surface with the captain, Lieutenant Halloway and Ensign McMillan. Thus, Mr. Chekov has been spending his time being unsure of the status of not only his captain, who he obviously admires, but also his closest friend—and, if his previous statements are to be believed, his first friend." Spock paused. "He is, thus, in the same situation as you and I, doctor. However, he is younger than either of us, which must be accounted for."
Bones stared and Spock continued.
"You are most likely correct in your assumption of Mr. Chekov's sleep deprivation. In my own defense, I reasoned, given his personal connection to Mr. Sulu and his profound respect and admiration for the captain, that it would be more useful to keep him on the Bridge. Otherwise, he would most likely get the same amount of sleep, but would also be running up to the Bridge every few hours to ask if there had been any new findings. Also, he can rapidly master the workings of the ship's computers, which is more efficient in terms of time." Spock paused and, when Bones said nothing, asked, "Do you have any other concerns, doctor?"
Bones' face flushed. His anger had managed to combine itself with guilt and an odd kind of humiliation. What did Spock know about 'personal connections?' What did he know about fearing for a friend? How could he pretend to know what Bones—let alone anyone else—was feeling? What did Spock know about emotion?
Bones clenched his jaw and found his hands curling into fists. "Yes, I do."
"Then, please, voice them."
He gritted his teeth. "I would like to know why you are ignoring direct orders from Starfleet. Why are you pretending that Jim could still possibly be alive? What—Wouldn't it be more logical to just... admit defeat? To just accept the fact that he's dead? Why—?"
"Have you read the Terran epic The Lord of the Rings, doctor?" asked Spock, cutting smoothly across Bones' words.
"What are you...? Of course I have," Bones snapped. "What does that have to do with anything, Mr. Spock? I was asking you a question—"
"You will remember then, of course, when Samwise discovers Frodo has been poisoned by the monster Shelob?"
Bones nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. His anger was dying, but that didn't mean he wasn't annoyed. "So?"
Spock paused for a moment and Bones saw something flicker in his stony features. But then he turned away, touching a strange, abstract statue that sat on one of the shelves lining the walls. "Then you understand why I must in this case disregard orders." Spock made a minute adjustment to the statue's position and then began to move towards the door.
Bones stared, momentarily speechless. "What?"
Spock stopped walking and turned back around. "Is there a problem, doctor?"
"What... Why..." Bones struggled to find words. "How... What are you talking about?" he finally shouted, gesturing wildly to try and express the utter ridiculousness of the situation.
But he didn't really feel angry. Despite all of his shouting, he wasn't really sure what he was feeling now. It was as though Spock had erased all the emotions that had, only moments before, been flooding his system, one after the other attempting to dominate his mind. Now there was just... nothing, except a tiny bit of confusion, of curiosity maybe, but it was too faint to tell. He felt empty.
The hero was dead.
Spock hesitated before speaking. His expression the tiniest bit perturbed, as though he couldn't really understand how Bones could not have comprehended what he had said.
"You will recall that when Samwise discovers Frodo poisoned, he proceeds to slaughter Shelob, then takes the ring and attempts to continue with Frodo's mission to destroy it."
"But..." Bones began, then paused, thinking. "...But Frodo isn't dead..."
"Exactly, doctor."
"But Spock," said Bones, stepping forward so that he and Spock were less than a foot apart, "you are under orders to leave. Your actions can't be chosen due to a... similar circumstance in a book—"
"Yours are," Spock answered simply, cutting short Bones' retort. "That is why you have maintained hope this long, is it not? In any case, the story is not what fuels my belief that the captain is still alive. I am remaining in orbit because I do not know what Shelob is and, thus, have not yet had an opportunity to destroy it." Spock went to the door and gestured towards it. "Come, doctor. I must return to the Bridge."
Bones felt more confused than ever, but simply nodded. "Yeah, sure."
He stepped back out into the hall, followed by Spock, who took off immediately back towards the turbo lift. Compared with Spock's warm, spice-scented quarters, the corridor seemed suddenly...
...Cold.
Three days passed and there was no sign of any of the first landing party. Spock even beamed down with a team on the last day, but could not find them. Not even the animal life that Kirk had mentioned in his last transmission. Nothing. Only vast expanses of blank desert under a hot, pearl gray sky.
The ship was silent. The entire crew moved as though through water. Chekov's demeanor had changed from shaky and nervous to cold and closed, like he was trying—and, mostly, failing—to imitate Spock. Scotty moved from the Bridge to Engineering with the same determined expression, his eyes just a little too bright. Uhura stared blankly at the communications deck, not really seeing it but beyond it, watching something that only she could see. Spock sat in the captain's chair, steepling his fingers with his elbows sitting on the armrests. His posture was no longer tense and rebellious, but beaten, though his face remained the same—blank, emotionless.
But Bones stayed away from the Bridge as much as possible. He would pace the sickbay until the bright lights made him sick and the stillness from a lack any injuries aboard the vessel drove him crazy. Or he would work in his office until Nurse Chapel came in and tried to talk to him about his feelings. Sometimes he wondered—even though he liked Christine in all other respects—why on earth she thought the best way to get someone to open up about his emotions was to remind him repeatedly that his friend was dead. It was very strange. Surely she knew that if he was feeling something that she would know immediately, that he wouldn't have hesitated to express any kind of emotion. Experience from her time serving with him must have at least taught her that.
But when the sickbay became too horribly quiet, he would go back to the Bridge, where there was always something going on. But he still felt wrong somehow. The numbness that he had tried to fight before had filled him, overwhelming his senses. Any emotion felt stifled and faint, like sounds heard from underwater. It was as though there was nothing left in him—nothing left for him. He was empty.
Jim was dead.
His hero was dead.
And now he was going to be stuck in this ship—this floating coffin—for God knew how much longer. He hated flying. He hated space, but Jim had made it seem less frightening—not so big, not so empty. Bones was going to be stuck in this hunk of tin and plastic and whatever else with Spock.
Spock wouldn't be able to fill the void of space the way Jim had. He only made it seem more vast, made Bones see that there was so little he understood about the universe. His last conversation with Spock seemed to have drained him of any feeling. He couldn't even get angry or confused or depressed about anything. He wondered what it would be like three or four years later—day after day of dealing with Spock... Bones wondered if by the end of it, he would be just as closed as Spock, stifling all emotion in favor of cold, hard logic.
Or maybe he would go back to the way he'd been before he met Jim—tired and lonely, with nothing to be angry at but himself.
Leonard McCoy was no hero.
Bones was on the Bridge on the final day. It was much quieter than usual. Everyone sat at their stations, either slumped over their computers or standing behind others, monitoring their work. The atmosphere was tense, sad. Bones stood to the right of the turbo lift, leaning against the wall and trying to rid himself of the horrible restlessness that filled him after too many hours in the sickbay.
No one spoke until Chekov finally turned away from the ship's computers and told Spock, in a voice that sounded slightly strangled, "No readings, Mr. Spock."
Spock gave a curt nod, but said nothing. Chekov turned back toward the decks and began to key something into the computer, restarting the scanners.
"I did not order you to begin another scan, Ensign." Spock's voice had a hint of anger in it and his words fell like stones, like icy, cold rain. Chekov looked a little frightened.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"
Spock rose from the captain's chair and stared at the main screen. He seemed to be deep in thought, gazing at the image of the distant planet that turned below them on the screen. Bones watched as Scotty turned away from the engineering computer to watch Spock. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for a hero to come...
"Mr. Matthews, please take us out of orbit and direct the ship toward Starbase 3."
Bones felt his stomach fall. He looked at Spock, whose body language showed nothing, no emotion, no regret. He remembered what Spock had said, about Shelob, about Frodo and Sam... They were going to leave without knowing what the monster was, knowing that the hero had died, that they would have to carry out his mission themselves. It was a terrible thought, worse than the thought of living life with this horrible numb feeling. But it was his reality now. The hero wasn't coming back.
Spock was no hero…
But he wasn't a villain either.
Mr. Matthews nodded, but his hands shook as he reached towards the instruments. "Yes, sir."
Out of the corner of his eye, Bones saw Uhura press her earpiece closer into her ear, biting her lip. Chekov began to work at the computers once more, blinking rapidly. Scotty slumped against the engineering deck, as though he couldn't even bring himself to stand properly.
Bones watched as the planet began to grow smaller in the image on the main screen—its white clouds swirling in a breeze that he couldn't feel. It was beautiful in a strange way, like one of the glass marbles he had played with as a kid. Out of the depths of his memories, he could hear his father's voice in his ear, warm and syrupy, like a southern summer when the air became heavy and humid. He could remember lying on his stomach on the floor of the living room, listening as his father read aloud.
'The road goes ever on and on...'
"Mr. Spock!" Chekov had jumped up from his chair. "The computer is showing life readings!"
Spock was at the computer in less than a second. His eyes were wide. "What?"
"Kirk to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise. Do you read me?"
Bones stared at the speaker in the armrest of the captain's chair. Shock spread through his system, waking up the emotions that had become dormant. His hands shook. Uhura rose from her chair, her eyes filled with tears. Bones felt a smile stretch across his face and Scotty, laughing in relief, slapped him on the back. Laughter filled the Bridge, bouncing off the walls the way Bones' words had days before. Happiness flowed.
Spock rushed back to the chair. "Enterprise here, captain. We read you."
"Beam us up, Enterprise."
"Yes, sir." Spock turned back towards the helm. "Return us to orbit, Mr. Matthews."
"Aye, sir!"
Spock looked at Bones. "Come, doctor. The captain may require your assistance."
Bones nodded. "Of course he will."
"Mr. Scott, you have the con."
"Yes, Mr. Spock!"
The hero always comes home.
They ran to the transporter room, too rushed and tense to use the turbo lift, racing past other officers who hadn't yet heard the news, but who would know in a matter of minutes. Spock was faster, but Bones ran behind him.
They entered just as three of the transporter pads burst into bright white light and Jim Kirk appeared along side the rest of the landing party. They were all worse for wear—covered in cuts and scrapes. Ensign McMillan staggered a little as he materialized, his ankle collapsing under his own weight. Lieutenant Halloway was cradling her right arm with her left, her blue dress stained dark red along her shoulder.
Jim was the worst by far. His shirt had been ripped in multiple places and he was bleeding heavily from several large, deep gashes across his arms and chest. He was only upright from the efforts of Mr. Sulu, who seemed to have come through with the least amount of harm—but even he seemed to be leaning against Jim as much as Jim was leaning against him. Bones ran forward and relieved Sulu, who was aided by one of the transporter officers—and Bones took the weight of the captain, of the hero.
Jim grinned, his lower lip bruised and swollen. "You missed me, Bones?"
Bones rolled his eyes and glanced at Spock, who was helping Lieutenant Halloway, his face stoic. Yet, Bones could almost detect a sort of suppressed concern just below the surface. Spock looked over at Kirk and caught Bones' eye. He gave him the slightest of nods.
Bones hoisted Jim's arm higher up around his shoulders. "More than you'd believe, Jim, but I was expecting you to be wearing a bit more clothes when you came back. You're starting to become a little one-note in your lack of shirt."
Jim attempted a shrug and then winced. "I'd hate... to disappoint the ladies."
Bones laughed as they entered the corridor, where other officers ran to help them or cheered as they passed.
Kirk gave a sort of drunken smile and looked at Bones. "Did you all think I was dead or something?" he asked, his voice a mixture of laughter and defiance.
Bones smiled, shook his head and helped Jim limp into the sickbay as Chekov ran up from behind and began to help Mr. Sulu. The two of them immediately began talking over each other—Chekov speaking rapidly about everything had happened in Sulu's absence, his accent becoming thicker with excitement; Sulu mumbling something almost incoherent about an enormous spider.
"No, Jim..." said Bones as he lowered his injured captain onto a bed. "We all knew you'd come back."
The hero had come home.