Title: The Best There's Ever Been
Author: sunriseinspace
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Character(s): Jocelyn McCoy, Leonard 'Bones' McCoy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Star Trek (2009), its plotlines or characters, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: "You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," Len rumbles in her ear, warm arms sliding around from behind her, holding her close.
A/N: Written for the where_no_woman First Anniversary Ficathon prompt Jocelyn McCoy – Maternity.
BTW: I'm not a mom, so if anything's off, I do apologize. My siblings were born when I was 2 and 6 (and I'm in my 20s now); I don't remember anything about when my mom was pregnant.
.:::.
She wakes to the smell of antiseptic and clean linen, to the sound of machines and monitors and hushed voices just out of earshot. Her thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, connecting only with difficulty and concentration, but there's something troubling lingering at the back of her mind. She blinks and frowns at the ceiling, trying to remember.
"Jo," Len says, his voice hoarse and strained with an unknown emotion, drawing her attention to the doorway. He's clutching the doorframe of her hospital room as though it's the only thing holding him up, his eyes full of sadness and heartbreak, the shallow lines on his face drawn deeper than they were yesterday morning. "Sweetheart-"
"Where's my baby?" she asks suddenly, memory returning in a lightning-bolt of sensation, her eyes filling as she reads his face in a different context. "Len, where's our baby? Where is he?" Her voice rises as hysteria starts to bleed into her thoughts, as she frantically searches the room for any sign of a newborn, as Len pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly as she grabs great handfuls of his shirt. She screams into his shoulder as she realizes that the bassinet in the corner is empty, as his fingers dig desperately into her skin, as hot tears fall on her neck and he brokenly begins to explain what happened, what went wrong, how he almost lost them both.
She hardly hears him over the sound of her pain, the wailing, screaming sobs brimming with emptiness and loss and heartbreak as her arms ache for the weight of her dead child and her husband holds her tight against the tide of her grief and his.
.:::.
Time passes in a blur of faces and voices, all insignificant, cloaked in the shadows of her grief. The doctors keep her in the hospital a few more days, long enough for almost complete physical recovery, long enough for grief to really set in, before sending her home with Len.
The house is preternaturally quiet, despite the silence being no deeper than it ever was before. They only mention the baby when necessary – choosing the cemetery plot, planning the service, informing family. Len's eyes are perpetually red-rimmed, but she doesn't cry at all, not since the hospital room. She feels broken, as though something vital has gone missing, and she hasn't the strength to try to repair it.
In the silence after the funeral, there's new distance in their marriage, a new boundary that neither knows how to cross. They don't talk much; his new schedule at the hospital doesn't allow for much time together and she doesn't know what to say anyway. The chasm between them is unfamiliar and a little scary, but she's tired and hurting and it's easier to forget he's in as much pain as her, that he lost a child, too.
They drift farther and farther apart, strangers living under the same roof, sharing the same bed and, somehow, it hurts less to just let it happen.
.:::.
Something's not right, she realizes, staring around the empty house. But what, exactly, is wrong hovers just out of thought, leaving a sense of dissonance about the place. She wanders carefully through the living room, stepping over and around stuffed animals and action figures, dolls and toy cars. Eyebrows drawn in confusion, she reaches down and picks up one of the toys, a stuffed giraffe, and cradles it to her chest as she continues down the hallway to their bedroom. Len's clothes are thrown over the chair in the corner, his shoes tossed carelessly at the base of the closet door. Keys, comm, and wallet are in their usual place on the dresser, but there's no other sign of her husband in the house and he never goes anywhere without his comm.
She heads back toward the living room, not sure how to find the answers she needs, but seeking the security of the overstuffed couch cushions. She perches on the arm of the couch, staring blankly at a pile of cars, wondering where her family is. Something tells her they're here, something more than the things left lying around the house, something soul deep and vaguely troubling. If they're in the house, where are they?
She blinks and several things happen at once. The house darkens, filling with smoke and heat, the flickering light of flames just barely visible around corners. And a thin, childish wail of terror threads through the house, pulling her head around to stare in horror at the flame and smoke filled hallway.
"Jo?" she hears Len yell frantically and she's on her feet in an instant, rushing though the smoke toward his voice, trying to find him in the darkness. A baby's cry echoes over the chaos of the fire again and she stops, torn between finding her husband and rescuing her baby (her baby? she lost her baby, never got to meet him, to hold him, never heard his cry). Clouds of smoke billow around her, completely obscuring the walls of their home, leaving her adrift amid the chaos. Closing her eyes, she tries to listen beyond the roar of the flames, ignoring the smoke filling her nose with each breath.
Len yelling and the baby crying and flames crackling ominously around her and she can't make up her mind can't decide what she'll do where is she where are they where where where—
She opens her eyes and starts running, voices getting closer but staying just out of reach, as the roar of the house collapsing into the flames builds around her, nips at her heels, and the ceiling above her head cracks, she can hear it, it's going to land on her, oh God oh God oh God—
"Len!"
She sits upright in the bed, tears spilling down her cheeks as Leonard's warm arms wrap tightly around her. She shudders and melts into him, sobbing for the first time in seven months, since their baby's funeral. He doesn't ask what's got her so upset, doesn't pry or prod, just soothes, his voice low and melodic as he runs his hands up and down her back.
Slowly her tears taper off, leaving her limp and gasping for breath in her husband's arms. She sniffles pathetically and he presses a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, and she can feel his slight grin against her skin. It's familiar and warm and she needs more, needs to banish the nightmare-flames she can still feel flickering against her skin.
She turns into his next kiss, meets it with one of her own, open-mouthed and tender, as she works her hands up underneath the t-shirt he wore to bed. Gooseflesh breaks out over his skin as she traces her fingers across his stomach, his eyes glinting in the ambient light of their bedroom as he leans back and pulls off the shirt, as he tugs her forward until she's pressed against his chest. She tilts her head up, seeking his lips as his fingers trail up one thigh, heading higher until she's gasping his name, clinging to his shoulders and hoping to God he never lets her go.
He never asks what had her screaming in her sleep, not the next morning as he kisses her cheek before leaving for work, not that evening as they sit down to dinner together for the first time in a month. And she doesn't explain her tearing sobs or the urgency in her touch, how she needed him so much that night but was still able to let him leave the next morning without promises or reassurances. It's the pattern they've fallen into and, despite the night before, they're still as far apart as ever.
.:::.
His eyes have always been the most expressive thing about him. From beneath heavy, mobile brows, they're sharp, clear, unfailingly honest, a barometer for his moods more surely than his body language or words.
The air hangs heavy around them as she stares up into his liquid hazel gaze, trying to read the tangle of emotions within. He's hardly breathing, staring blankly into the distance as he tries to grasp the full meaning of her revelation. Nervous, throat dry with anxiety, she takes a sip of iced tea, pressing her lips together against the lip of the glass as she fights away tears. He should say something, anything, no matter how broken they are, how mangled their relationship.
He blinks and a grin starts to curl the edges of his mouth, his eyes taking on a reverential glow as he reaches out and traces her cheek with gentle fingers.
"Oh, Jo," he breathes, his voice warm velvet as he calls up his old nickname for her, and she pulls it around her heart, trying to find joy in the love shining in his eyes.
Maybe it'll be all right, after all.
.:::.
Things are radically different once he knows. And it's so immediate, she's sure she's hallucinating.
"Len, you're home," she says stupidly, staring at him from the living room couch, the five o'clock news playing quietly on the TV.
"Hello to you, too, darlin'," he quips as he wanders into the kitchen, pausing to drop a kiss on her forehead as he passes.
She watches as he pokes at the pot on the stove, sniffing appreciatively before ambling back into the living room and dropping onto the other end of the couch. She pulls her feet out from under his thigh and settles them in his lap, closing her eyes and swallowing back irrational tears as he gently rubs his thumbs into the arches of her feet.
"What brought this on?" she questions around the lump in her throat, her voice muted by the emotion. He's not been home before eight in ages, in time for dinner since her nightmare over a month ago. His hands on her feet still and she curls her toes into the warm weight of them as they linger on her feet.
He stares at her for a breath or two and she opens her eyes to meet his gaze. "I want to," he starts, eyes sad and almost angry, frustrated, as he bites down on the sentence. She wonders what he might say, what words he might use to start to fix what they've let fall apart.
She underestimates him, though, startling as he leans forward and presses his lips to hers. She freezes for a second, then melts into the familiar warmth of his kiss, smiling softly as he starts to nibble along her jaw, up to her ear.
"I want to keep you," he whispers in her ear, honey-thick and warm, drawing shivers from her skin. Her eyes slide closed as she wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to her. "I want to keep you," he repeats against her lips, his hand against her belly as he crushes her to him and surrounds her in warmth.
"You've still got me," she whispers back, sealing the reassurance with a kiss.
.:::.
She's horrendously ill the first two months, despite all of Len's medicines and suggestions, living on crackers and apple juice and Len's gentle caresses along the back of her neck. She's quiet and tired and she can see the worry in Leonard's eyes each time she stumbles back from the bathroom, but she appreciates the simple fact of his presence around the house. She'd missed him.
They don't talk much about the past few months, about how much like strangers they are after almost a year's worth of overworking and grieving. Len treats her like spun-glass, like she's dying, not pregnant, but there's more affection in his eyes then there has been recently and she's afraid of losing that, afraid of seeing replaced by caution and wary hesitance again. So she just smiles when he comes home early, doesn't question his presence in the kitchen as she tries to make dinner, savors the warm weight of him against her back at night.
They both ignore the questions and shadows lingering at the edge of their shaky happiness.
It's not until the third month that she makes it through the day without being sick. They go out to see a movie to celebrate, some funny romantic thing that makes her giggle and Len roll his eyes. They make out like teenagers in the back of the theater, his hand warm on her thigh as the audience laughs around them, his eyes glinting silver in the light from the screen. They fall giggling into bed that night, punch-drunk and as in love as ever, as laughter changes to heat and urgency.
.:::.
Things are better than ever, she muses one day, running a hand over the small bump rising under her shirt. Five months since Len worked much past six. Five months since they let an evening pass in strained silence and easy avoidance. Five months of careful, mutual, blissful happiness. She grins, a content expression spreading leisurely across her face.
"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," Len rumbles in her ear, warm arms sliding around from behind her, holding her close.
"Just happy," she assures him, leaning her head against his cheek as he traces random patterns across her stomach. She scoots forward on the couch to make room for him and he slides in to fill the space behind her, letting her practically sprawl across his lap, her back to his chest. He settles his arms around her again and she sighs contentedly.
His arms are warm and reassuring and she lets herself start to doze against him, lulled by the steady beat of his heart against her shoulder-blade. He trails the fingers of one hand through her auburn curls while the other strokes gently over her stomach and she snuggles into his chest, draping one hand over his on her belly.
They drift in contented silence, the television playing the evening news softly in the background. Len hums a little, an old Lennon song, sappy for him, but entirely romantic when breathed into the locks of hair above her ear. She smiles sleepily as he presses a kiss to her forehead, thoroughly satisfied with what her life is in this moment. Nothing, she thinks, could be any better than this.
She doesn't really notice it at first, having grown so used to the tiny flutters and almost-shifts over the past week or so. Maybe it's because she's so completely relaxed, somnolent, that she doesn't connect the dots; mostly it's because she'd barely had this last time, hardly remembers the strange sensations after a year of grieving for what was lost. In any case, the first real movement makes her jump, raising adrenaline-induced goosebumps over her arms.
"What?" Len asks, sleepy confusion underlain with clinical concern. She raises a hand, head cocked as though listening, and waits. A brilliant smile lights up her face as she feels the baby move again. Turning to sit practically in his lap, she grabs Len's hand, pressing it against her stomach, just to the left of her hipbone, and watches his face. His eyebrows draw together in question and they stay that way for several minutes, until he opens his mouth to say something. He stops, his face going blank, when a gentle kick ripples slightly under her skin, and his hazel eyes shine with tears and happiness as he pulls her into his arms.
"Jo," he breathes against her ear, a smile laced through the rough sound, and she feels her own eyes grow wet as she clings to him, burying her face in his neck. She trembles against him, hope and fear warring in her chest as he tightens his grip around her, holding her as close as possible.
.:::.
After entering her third trimester, she visits the clinic once a week, a preventative measure to keep history from repeating. A kind of tension runs through each visit, dread curling thick and heavy in her stomach until the doctor completes her scan and smiles. Her whole week hinges on that smile, on the simple reassurance she gleans from that expression.
Len's sigh as she meets him in the waiting room after the exam is soul-deep and grateful, his eyes glowing with hope as he leads how out to the car and his arm tight around her waist as he comforts himself with her happiness.
.:::.
Days pass slowly, filled with worry and tinged with desperate hope. Len alternates between hovering and avoiding, coming home hours early from work and staying on past dinnertime. She chafes at the old pattern threatening to reestablish itself but decides that, as torn and tense as he is, it's better to let him do whatever necessary to stay sane. So long as she has the reassuring weight of his arm around her at night, she allows his vacillating schedule.
It's still a month early when she wakes in the middle of the night, back muscles pulled tight as the first ripple of a contraction crosses her belly. She curls up and moans softly, more from fear than pain, tears leaking from closed eyes as she tries not to think of all the things this could mean. The next contraction is stronger and she bites a knuckle against the pain. As she draws in a shuddering, panickedpained breath, she feels Len roll over, feels the mattress shift as he sits up.
"Jo?" he asks, only the slightest bit of bleariness dulling the edges of his voice. He calls up the lights before she can answer. "Jocelyn? Honey, what-?" Through tear-blurred eyes, she sees his face shift, sees panic and his doctor's detachment war in his eyes as he realizes what's happening.
He's up in an instant, pulling on a sweatshirt and faded jeans as he comms the hospital. She carefully sits up and grabs the pullover he tosses on the bed, sliding it over her head while he pulls out her overnight bag and sends a quick message to his dad and her parents. In minutes, they're in the car and on their way to the hospital, grim worry written on his face and her arms wrapped around herself as if she could stop this, as if she could protect her baby from her body's betrayal.
The world descends into madness, a whirl of color and sound and sensation that leaves her feeling lost and adrift, barely anchored by the warm weight of Len's hand wrapped around her own. Mindlessly, she does as she's told, taking instruction from nurses and doctors as they rush around her, calling out medical terms and tossing suggestions back and forth over her head. They're never alone in the hospital room, always a doctor or a nurse hovering nearby, ready for anything, and that thought is reassuring, another support to hold back the flood of panic threatening to overtake her. She clings to Len's hand, his steady voice in her ear, and rides out the contractions, her breathing timed to match the Leonard's pulse under her hand.
.:::.
She wakes to the smell of antiseptic and clean linen, to the sound of machines and monitors and hushed voices just out of earshot. Her thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, connecting only with difficulty and concentration, but there's something lingering at the back of her mind. She blinks and frowns at the ceiling, trying to remember.
"Jo," Len says and she turns her head to see him sitting next to her bed, a bundle of blankets in his arm. His eyes are crystal-clear, more green than brown, filled with light and love and laughter, and she feels like she did three years ago, seeing him for the first time. Her face feels stiff, her eyes gummy, but she smiles at him, love like an ache in her chest.
Smiling back, he reaches out and nestles their baby in her arms, perching on the edge of her bed and looping his arm around her shoulders. With trembling fingers, she peels back the edge of the blanket and stares down at her daughter, a wordless sound of joy spilling from her lips. She's perfect, rosebud-pink and petal-soft, her brows already arched in a perfect imitation of Len's.
"She's perfect," she whispers, looking up at her husband, tears spilling down her cheeks. He smiles softly and swipes a thumb under one of her eyes, cupping her face and nodding his agreement. She tightens one arm around her daughter and reaches up with her free hand to lace her fingers with his, the solid weight against her shoulder grounding her happiness. "What should we call her?"
They hadn't even discussed names this time around, too afraid to hope that much after the last time. They had had names picked out before, a perfectly rounded choice for either sex and, once they'd learned what to expect, she'd been looking forward to meeting David Michael McCoy. This time—this time, they hadn't even been willing to ask after their baby's sex, trying to save themselves as much heartbreak as possible if the worst happened.
A thoughtful silence stretches between them as they both consider names for their little girl. A soft smile touches her face as she retraces their family trees, sifting through the names of those loved and lost, testing them out in her head. She settles on a name and, glancing up at her husband, she wonders what he'll think of it.
"We could name her after your mother," he offers, a slight shadow deepening his hazel eyes as he tries to please her. She grins at him, thinks for a second, then makes her offer.
"How 'bout after both our mothers?" He stares at her, his face a relative blank, and she feels her cheeks pink. "Joanna Kathleen."
He studies her eyes, silent and inexplicably serious, and the scrutiny is almost too much to bear as she wonders if she's crossed some sort of line. She knew his mother died when he was young, a freak shuttle accident on a routine trip, but she'd thought that, after all this time, maybe—
He clears his throat, swallowing harshly as he reaches out to trail one finger over their baby's cheek. "Joanna Kathleen McCoy," he mutters, testing the name, trying to connect it to the little person in her arms. He nods, a wistful smile touching one corner of his mouth. "I like it. Another Jo," he decides, and she smiles back at him.
His eyes shine as the arm around her tightens, pulling her closer to his side, and it's easy, effortless, to lean up and kiss him, tasting his happiness as she realizes that this, this is perfection.
Nothing could be better than this.
.:::.
**I did do some research, to avoid sounding like an idiot, and found that it is possible (and safe) for a couple to conceive only seven months after a miscarriage – which is the case here. Jocelyn miscarried their son, though she was close enough to her due date that there had been some hope of saving the child.