Hello, all! This was written for a prompt on trekkink, asking for some Kirk/McCoy hurt/comfort after Kirk catches McCoy cutting himself like he does every time he loses a patient. Enjoy!
Leonard McCoy sighed. This was nothing new. He'd sighed plenty of times ("Precisely eight hundred seventy-seven times," Spock reminded him yesterday) in this, the first year of the Enterprise's five-year mission. But nobody knew that while he sighed, what he really wanted to do was something far more drastic.
They were visiting a newly-discovered planet known as Alzar C, and after a week of hovering just outside its orbit, Kirk, Spock, and two fresh-faced ensigns beamed down to talk and explore. (Kirk would do the talking, Spock and the ensigns would do the exploring.) Everything was going pretty well, if not a little awkwardly (the people of Alzar C were quite tall, and Jim had to crane his neck the whole time), when one of the ensigns touched one of the plants.
Ensign Alexander was the type of person who saw a lot of things as "beautiful." McCoy always thought it was kind of nice, even if he didn't ever make that sentiment known. And he saw it that way because most of the time, to him, things were dark. Space was dark-the light of the stars barely broke through the black. Sickbay was dark with illness despite the fluorescent lights overhead. And when he closed his eyes his mind was dark, retreating into itself and bringing up the worst of his memories, the most depressing of his feelings.
And so it seemed so utterly fitting to McCoy, who got sadistic during times like these, that Ensign Alexander's demise, his descent into utter darkness from which no one ever escaped, was brought about by something he found "beautiful."
It was a flower-looking thing: long, bending stem and big, purple petals with a bright yellow center. It looked like something right off the page of a child's drawing. That was, until someone touched it. Dripping spikes darted out and lodged themselves in Ensign Alexander's wrist, and he screamed in unadulterated pain. Spock and Ensign Roberts rushed over to him, and then they were screaming for Kirk, who then screamed to Scotty to beam them up and make sure McCoy was ready.
Ensign Alexander was rushed to Sickbay, where he died an hour later. McCoy had no idea what had flooded the ensign's system, and he was frantic and screaming orders and trying everything he could, but to no avail.
McCoy sat in his office and pulled a scalpel out of his desk drawer. Pulling up one blue sleeve, he made a short, vertical cut on his forearm, watching with detached fascination as thick, red blood spilled from the wound. He then opened another drawer right below the first one and took out a large, green bottle of whiskey, which he opened. He tipped the bottle slowly, hissing at and yet reveling in the pain it caused.
A knock on his office door startled him, causing him to drop the bottle, green glass splintering over the tile floor. "Bones? Can I come in?" McCoy hastily pulled down his sleeve, the blood and alcohol mixing and soaking through the fabric. "You OK?" Jim asked, looking at his friend with drawn eyebrows.
"Yeah," McCoy answered quickly. "I mean, you know, considering."
Jim nodded and moved closer. "I'm re-your shirt's wet."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I spilled some whiskey."
"Are you bleeding?"
"What?"
"Don't play dumb," Jim said harshly, tugging up McCoy's wet sleeve, earning a hiss in response. Blood was smudged over the cut, and whiskey was sticky against the skin. "Bones, you're cut!" Jim's eyes flicked to the shattered bottle on the floor, then to the scalpel beside him on the desk. "Bones..." he warned.
"Jim, no-."
"You did this!" he shouted, jerking his hand away. "You cut yourself and then you poured alcohol on it! Why?"
McCoy's face crumbled before Jim's eyes. "He died. He died and I did nothing!" he shouted.
Jim moved, his hands on his friend's arms. "Bones, look at me. You did everything you could. You tried so damn hard. Spock-."
"I don't care what Spock thinks!" McCoy shouted, slapping an open palm against the wood of his desk. "And I don't care what you think either! I failed! That's the only explanation!"
"For all the times you've called me a damn fool, Bones, I think I deserve one. You're being completely irrational."
"Don't you fucking talk to me about irrational, Captain," McCoy growled.
Jim took a breath. "Bones, somewhere in there, behind all the anger you feel, you know Ensign Alexander's death had nothing to do with you. But I also know you feel responsible. Who do you think understands better than me?"
McCoy couldn't stop the tears that fell from his eyes, nor he could stop his head falling to Jim's chest. "You're right," he whispered.
Jim looked down at his friend's arm, noticing for the first time the little pink scars next to the fresh cut. McCoy followed his gaze, but Jim said nothing, just stroked his thumb over them. "Bones. I can't see you do this to yourself," he whispered, resting his head on top of his friend's. McCoy nodded. "Promise me this won't happen again."
"Jim..."
"Promise me!" Jim shouted desperately, and McCoy noticed that his friend was crying too.
"OK, Jim. OK," he responded softly, and Jim pressed a kiss to his hair in response.
There was much to be done. They'd have to contact Ensign Alexander's family and transport him to another ship that could get him to Earth. He and Spock would have to fill out a report, and McCoy would have to make his own report and write up a death certificate. There would be a memorial gathering. But at the moment they didn't think of any of that. They just concentrated on the feel of each other, on the smell of whiskey, and on the drying blood of McCoy's last self-inflicted cut.