More of a character piece than anything else, but one that wouldn't go away until I'd written it. I don't own anything...sad as it is.

The Eldest Brother

Sometimes, usually when he was in sickbay and unable to sleep, his mind would turn to his friends. As much as he hated being confined to the bright, sterile prison with his Chief Medical Officer acting jailer, he found that those times during ship's night when the lights were dimmed and the whirr of the machines and the thump of his own heart were all he could hear were his favorite times to think. What else could he do? Of course, he'd never admit to Bones that he actually enjoyed the quiet hours alone, with Spock in command of the ship's procedures and Bones in command of his every move, but it gave him time to feel human. He didn't get to feel that very often—he more often felt like some sort of god, able with a single word or a wave of the hand to send any one of his four hundred-thirty crew members off to any corner of the galaxy. Sometimes to their deaths, other times to heartache, or panic, or to the brink of insanity and back. Sometimes he wasn't able to bring them back.

He hated this part of feeling human, though some bit of him knew it was necessary, even relished it. This was the part that felt pain. Both the physical pain of whatever he had done that Bones had deemed worthy to imprison him overnight, and the emotional, spiritual, gut-wrenching sort of pain that came when his mind wandered to his losses. He had lost so many men. Some because of his own stupid carelessness, or idiotic drive to follow orders, or inability to watch or listen closely enough. Others, he knew, were accidents, but mightn't he have prevented those, too? Somehow, if he'd been a little quicker, a little more attentive, listened a little more closely to advice from Bones or Spock he might have saved them. But no. They were gone, and others had replaced them, and life aboard the Enterprise went on.

It was a good life, he reflected. Despite death and pain and disease and all the terrible things he had seen and lived through, he wouldn't trade his experiences for the galaxy on a platter. He'd often wondered what it would be like to have a wife, to settle down, to be a father and husband; often he felt lonely at nights, alone in his quarters or sickbay or on some strange planet. But then, all he had to do was look around him and realize that he had it all. He had a family. A wife named Enterprise, four hundred or so assorted children, and two brothers to help him care for them.

It was when his thoughts reached this point, lying on his biobed, staring at the scrupulously polished metal instruments and listening to the soft, monotonous readings on the charts that only Bones completely understood that a quiet smile always touched his lips. He had long ago ceased thinking of them as simply friends, those two. They were far more than that. He didn't completely grasp how he'd gotten so lucky. During the long, slow hours of the night, he would call their faces to his mind and examine them meticulously, going over every detail, one at a time, comparing and contrasting the two until he would fall asleep with their images still imprinted in his mind's eye. He would never admit this to anyone, of course, least of all the two men in question. But though he never showed it, he was a little in awe of them both. He complained and moaned and shouted and scolded the two of them for their constant bickering, but underneath he knew, and he knew that they knew, that it was all a farce. He was never truly angry with either of them—his frustration usually stemmed from self-recrimination or concern for his ship or for them. He knew them both better than he knew himself, and drew strength from them in ways he hardly comprehended. He knew that he was nothing without them. Usually, at this point in his thoughts, he would remember what he had once heard said about the three of them.

They were three parts of a whole. One entity divided into three separate beings. He had been described as the force, the intuition, the power, the raw nerve and drive. Spock was the cool intelligence, the infallible logic. McCoy was the conscience, the compassion, the heart, and the soul. Together, they made a complete, perfect being—motivation, logic, and emotion. Without one of them, they were incomplete. For what good, he would muse, was pure barbaric drive without steadying logic? Or implacable logic when faced with a situation requiring intuition and action? And what good was either without a dose of humanity, decency, and empathy? He would smile, shake his head, perhaps wince depending on the location of his latest wound, and about this time, the Good Doctor himself would make an appearance.

A tuck of the covers here, a gentle hand on an arm there, a quiet, hoarse whisper, a quick smile, and the Doctor would return to bed. Sometimes, Kirk would call him back, and of course, Bones wouldn't hesitate, but would sit down next to the bed and cross his legs and fold his arms across his chest and wait. Sometimes they would talk in low, night-graveled tones that meshed smoothly with the whirring of this or that machine, and sometimes they would just sit, or lay, in Kirk's case, in silence, thinking. Eventually, either Kirk would fall asleep or Bones would, and then the other would either quietly return to his office, or else watch the sleeper with a crooked smile, memorizing the face yet again and filing away details for later examination. His favorite was when Bones would be the one to drift into sleep, adding his gentle, familiar snoring to the background of his instruments. Though he felt a little embarrassed about these close examinations, he proceeded without qualms. It was a morbid motivation, he knew, but a reassuring one all the same.

He knew that someday he and the Doctor would part ways. Change was, after all, inevitable. He couldn't bear the thought, but it crept into his mind anyways, on those long, sleepless nights. What if…what if next time he was careless or irrational or impulsive, it was Bones that didn't come back? What if instead of just losing one of his many children, he lost his brother? This thought hurt so much that he would search the sleeping man's face with increased intensity, determined to memorize every detail. By the time the Doctor woke, usually an hour or so later, grimacing and stretching the kinks out of his neck and back, Kirk had renewed the promise he had made to himself long ago…Bones would always come back. If he had to give up his own life, the life of one of his children, even his ship, Bones would come back.

The doctor would get up, frown down at Kirk, reprimand his Captain for letting him sleep, ask why he wasn't sleeping yet, adjust the corner of the coverlet again, lay a hand briefly on Kirk's chest or forehead, smile that crooked, wry smile, and disappear into his own quarters. Kirk would watch him go, feeling oddly protective of the slender, gentle, cantankerous old country doctor. He was responsible for this man, this healer, this lamb who could flare up like a lion at a moment's notice, the doctor with the rough bedside manner and grumpy, constantly irritated exterior that masked a heart of gold. The doctor's life rested in his Captain's hands, and he felt the weight of that incredible responsibility every day of his life. Every mission, every excursion, he would look into the doctor's warm, loyal blue eyes and think, what if it's this time, this time that he doesn't come back? And then he would give the order, and Bones would nod, perhaps smile that little half-smile of his, and report for duty with the latest landing party for the newest exploration of Planet X.

And then they would get into some sort of danger, and Kirk would suddenly be worrying about Lieutenant A and Lieutenant B and sometimes Lieutenant Uhura or Ensign Chekov and his ship and where they were to go and what they were to do…and Bones. He would find himself, in the middle of a problem requiring his absolute attention, looking over his shoulder for the doctor. It was illogical, he knew. Leonard McCoy was a grown man, fully capable of defending himself against the odd ghoul or ghost or thing that goes bump in the night. But everyone knew, Kirk most of all, that Bones was no warrior. Bones was a healer, and though he was the best doctor that Starfleet had to offer, he was still no soldier. Yes, he could shoot a phaser and throw a decent right hook; he was in good physical and top mental condition. He had fairly good reflexes and a strong will to survive, but despite all of this, he hated to see anyone in pain, especially pain that he could prevent. Even if it was a choice between watching a stranger's pain or his own death, Kirk would think wryly, he just might pause to think about it. And that was why Kirk knew that Bones was the younger brother. Because nine times out of ten it was Kirk and/or Spock that stepped in at the last moment to save Bones from duels or possession or diseases or accidents, and then Bones would berate them for putting themselves into danger again, and they would shrug it off and secretly think, little brothers. What can you do?

At this point, perhaps it would be morning. He would start to grow restless, and in that way that only brothers can, Bones would sense it and emerge once again from his quarters, rubbing sleep from those summer blue eyes and carrying his favorite scanner in one fist. He would run this across Kirk's chest, Kirk would complain a little bit, cajole a little bit, and Bones would look down at him with one eyebrow cocked, purse his lips, and let Kirk stew for a few agonizing moments before reluctantly telling him he could go. Kirk would sit up, flash that charming, charismatic smile, promising to be more careful, and leap for the door. Once there, he would pause and turn to catch one last look of the doctor, who would inevitably be shaking his head, muttering to himself as he switched off instruments and straightened the bio-bed. Sometimes he would turn before leaving and catch Kirk's eye, and an understanding would pass between them. Then Bones would roll his eyes, turn on his heel, and he would be gone. Kirk would smile, step out of his prison, and stride jauntily down the corridors, remembering anew with each step of freedom why he hated sickbay so much.

Until the next landing party, the next mission, the next new planet. Then he would look into his brother's face again and remember his nights in sickbay, the long conversations over drinks, the teasing and the laughter and the ganging up together against Spock; the mutual heartache and the way they could communicate without a word. He would remember the gentle, calloused hands as they pulled him back time and again from the darkness of unconsciousness and the care and concern he recognized in every outburst of temper. He would see again the cock of the eyebrow, the unhurried lift of the shoulders, the affectionate, understanding glances, the crooked, easy smile, and hear the thick southern accent that emerged under stress. And he would feel again that unwavering support and the powerful love and empathy that only Bones was capable of giving him.

He would remember, briefly, the pain of seeing the doctor wounded, sick, afraid, heartbroken, and even near death, and then off they would go. And Kirk would once again be looking over his shoulder for the doctor, wondering and worrying. Somehow, Bones would always be there with his omnipresent wit and hypo and are you all right's, as if Kirk was the one needing protecting. Kirk would smile inwardly and shake his head, reminding himself for the millionth time that the doctor was more than competent and charge off into the next unknown. But once around the next corner he would find himself again looking for his little brother, reassuring himself that he hadn't lost his Heart and Soul. He would meet the inquiring, irritated lift of the eyebrow and the body language that said I'm fine, Jim, worry about yourself, with good grace, knowing that he would face it over and over again until he was old and gray because Kirk would always, always and forever, be there to protect his Bones.

____