More to Living Than Being Alive
Chapter Two
"Did you even go to medical school?" McCoy spat, taking a step closer to the cadet in order to look even further down at him.
"Of course," the young man said defensively, and his obvious irritation made McCoy all the more furious.
"Perhaps you missed a day, like say, the first one, where they tell you to read the damn history before you go dumping chemicals in a person's body?"
"I didn't have the history available, and there wasn't time –"
The alarms wailed, the screen of the biobed flashing red, and McCoy lunged forward, shoving the cadet toward the foot of the bed, hearing the metallic bounce of the hypospray three times on the floor as it fell from the man's hand, even as the alarms continued to scream, and he knew immediately what had happened. McCoy wrenched the drawer of the crash cart open, and without looking grabbed what he knew he needed: the two hyposprays and the intubation tube. But even as Kirk's eyes fluttered closed, as blue tinged his lips, he paused and read the side of the hypo, to be absolutely certain.
First do no harm.
"Well, you have plenty of time now," McCoy snapped. "You're on probation, pending further notice."
"But sir," the cadet argued, "given the outcome, this punishment seems severe."
McCoy handed the hypos to the nurse who delivered them in rapid succession as he tipped Jim's head back, taking a breath before he threaded the tube into the trachea and hooked up the bag, pumping three artificial breaths for Jim before he allowed himself to exhale.
"Given the possible outcome, you're lucky all I'm doing is suspending you. Your sorry ass was the reason Jim Kirk almost died today, and if I hadn't stepped in, the outcome wouldn't have been so favorable." McCoy could feel the vein at his temple throbbing and he closed his eyes, listening to the rush of blood in his ears. "Go. You're off duty until the next alpha shift. Get out."
By the time he opened his eyes, the cadet was gone.
He deftly removed the bag from the intubation tube and hooked up the ventilator, letting it push machinated air into Jim's lungs as he seized the tricorder from the side table, eyes locked on the screen even as his free hand performed a physical examination. He felt the rigid abdomen and was calling for an OR half a second before the tricorder registered a lacerated spleen.
McCoy turned toward the rear end of sickbay, into the area they used for post-op, and slipped silently through the curtain. He glanced at the readout above Captain Pike's bed, checked that his sedation was still adequate. He noted the readout on each biobed, because even though this was post-op, it was full, and not only with post-op patients, but they were overwhelmed with all the injuries. He finally reached the last bed, looking first at Jim's face before he bothered with the biobed, because he had never needed a computer to know when Jim was hurt.
They'd been pouring new blood into him, but McCoy was up to his elbows trying to cauterize bleeds and suture tears and remove everything that was obliterated beyond recognition. They lost him twice on the table, and each time McCoy had to throw his tools into the basin provided, call for everyone to step back as he applied the paddles and Jim's body jerked away from the table before crashing back onto it, as though he hadn't been through enough collisions today, and each time McCoy heard the steady stream of curses coming from behind his own mask, mixed in with pleas to Jim to hold on, threats against everyone who had made Jim this way, and general disparaging comments about Jim's stupidity and lack of self-preservation. And Jim's heart would stutter back to a start and McCoy would bark an order to new tools and get back to it, telling Jim he knew he could make it, and just hold on a little longer, and for God's sake if Jim made him face the Star Fleet board on his own after all this he was going to wring both their necks.
McCoy reached out a shaky hand, smoothing the hair back from Jim's forehead. His hand lingered just a moment, checking for fever, though the biobed gauged that temperature was normal. He glanced up at the screen, checking on the pulse, the blood pressure, before he felt Jim's unbroken wrist, needing to feel the reassurance of pressure under his fingertips before he would believe impersonal pixels.
The surgery had lasted six hours, and when it was over, Jim's blood pressure was next to nothing and his heart rate was fast and weak. They were still transfusing blood, but Jim was deathly pale, even now as McCoy's eyes lingered on the difference between his tan, strong hands on Jim's death-white skin, where the only trace of color was the mottled bruises. Jim was shirtless, bruises like ink stains marred his chest, and a large, pristine bandage covered the surgical incision, almost matching the pallor of his flesh.
McCoy hadn't fixed the bruises. He hadn't fixed the broken bones. He'd used the dermal generator on the larger scrapes and gashes, as well as the incision, but everything else he had left alone. Jim was running on fumes already; McCoy didn't think his body could take the strain. He'd put in an IV but left everything else alone.
"Doctor?" Spock's voice startled him, and McCoy whirled about, careful not to jostle the bed.
"Spock," he said by way of greeting.
"I received word that the captain was no longer in surgery and wish to inquire as to his current condition?"
"It's not good," McCoy said gruffly, turning back to look at Jim. "We took out his spleen and stopped the bleeding, but there's a lot of damage." Not the least of which was due to Spock himself, McCoy added, looking at the dark bruising around Jim's neck. He noticed Spock following his gaze.
"Doctor," Spock began, and McCoy looked up. "I deeply regret my involvement in the captain's injury and my contribution to his current state. With the understanding that both the captain and I were acting to protect Earth and prevent further loss of life, I realize that my actions on the bridge were most…illogical."
McCoy thought for a moment before speaking. "You know, Spock, I can't entirely blame you. Jim has that effect on people. God knows I've wanted to strangle him a couple of times." He tried to make it sound joking, but it fell flat to his own ears, and seeing Spock raise an eyebrow, he remembered who he was talking to. He cleared his throat.
Spock studied him for a moment. "By my calculation, Doctor, you have been performing surgery for almost twenty hours without rest."
McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, that sounds about right."
"It would be wise for you to take some rest. I can sit with the captain until your return," Spock offered quietly. McCoy glanced up, confused. Was Spock becoming attached to Jim? Did Vulcans even become attached to people? It didn't seem likely.
"That's all right, Spock," McCoy replied. "I'd like to be here when he wakes up."
"As you wish, Doctor. You will alert me when the captain regains consciousness?"
"Sure," McCoy said wonderingly, watching as Spock turned on his heel and strode away, posture impossibly straight as always.
McCoy slumped into the chair next to Jim's bed, dragging it forward slightly so that he was as close as possible to the edge of the biobed. He reached out and gripped Jim's hand gently, and thought how Jim would hate that if he was awake because he didn't like to be confined, in any way. If being confined to sick bay was too much for him. McCoy could only imagine how Jim would react to having his hand incapacitated.
But his other hand already was injured beyond use. For that matter, his whole body was confined to exactly where it was because his ribs were broken and he might puncture something else if he moved. McCoy pressed his lips together and dropped Jim's hand, setting his own, slightly larger hand, just next to it instead.
He thought of Romulans, of half-Vulcans, of falls of several thousand feet, of black holes and subzero temperatures and predatory aliens and he thought of how fragile humans are, how little it takes to break a person. How many things had tried to break Jim Kirk in the last three days.
Back in the academy, McCoy had quickly learned how little respect Jim had for the fragility of his life. People his age always thought they were invincible, but Jim, as he did with everything, took it to a ridiculous extreme. The kid had picked bar fights with aliens five times as strong as he was without batting an eye, had suffered more broken bones in three years than McCoy had in his entire life. Jim routinely skipped sleeping for days at a time, often forgot to eat, and more often than not signed up for the most dangerous activities he could find. For the first year or so of patching Jim up, McCoy had asked him questions, trying to ascertain what exactly it was that made Jim think his life was so worthless that it could be thrown away like this. For the second year, he'd asked himself day in and day out why he put so much effort into someone who was obviously determined to die, and by the third he had finally just outright asked Jim what exactly he was trying to do.
Jim Kirk did not have a death wish. He knew that now, because despite all the predicaments he got himself into, he had befriended a doctor and ensured himself free medical care, and that showed a startling amount of foresight for someone who was allegedly suicidal. He was overconfident, cocky, arrogant to the point of hilarity at times, and it allowed him to believe he could do anything. But he wasn't delusional. It wasn't that at all.
He was fearless. That was all it was. Jim Kirk did not have any fears at all, because he had already lost everything there was to lose, and he had survived. What was left to fear?
McCoy could relate. He had lost everything too. And yet he was still afraid. He did not want to die flying around in a tin can in space, nor did he want to be eaten by something large and scary, nor did he want drown or freeze or burn to death. He feared those things in a way Jim could not understand. And he feared losing Jim, and that was something he thought Jim did understand, because one drunken night Jim had begged him to stay, afraid that McCoy would be gone and someday that he wouldn't come back.
Some people, when they experience loss, hold on tighter to everything they still have. They find it more precious, more valuable for still being there, and they hold onto it as hard as they can. And then there is Jim Kirk, who experienced loss and realized that things come and things go, and the harder he held on, the more it hurt when it was wrenched from his grasp. So McCoy made it his business to be sure that Jim didn't have anything else taken from him. But the kid made it damn difficult sometimes.
"Bones." McCoy started, unsure when he drifted off, how long ago that was, or if he was even really asleep. He felt a couple of fingers weakly tapping his hand and he gently reached out and touched Jim's hand as he stood up, looking down into those brilliant blue eyes.
"Hey, kid," he said softly. He reached for his tricorder without breaking eye contact, slowly beginning to scan.
"Bones," Jim said again.
"What is it?" McCoy stopped moving the tricorder, focusing his full attention on Jim, the green pallor to his face, and he grabbed an emesis basin just in time for Jim to throw up. McCoy helped him sit up further, sitting on the edge of the bed and allowing Jim to lean heavily against him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders holding him up, the other holding the basin under his chin.
"Damn it all," McCoy muttered. "You're allergic to the anesthesia, aren't you?" he asked rhetorically. It hadn't been in the chart, but of course Jim would be allergic to anesthesia. God forbid the kid's body allow any kind of lifesaving intervention at all.
When Jim nodded that he was done, McCoy set the basin aside and helped settle Jim back on the biobed, checking his vitals once more. He glanced at the basin. "Jesus Christ, Jim, how long has it been since you've eaten?"
"I can't remember," Jim said hoarsely. "Before Vulcan."
"Damn it, Jim, that was over four days ago." McCoy hung a banana bag and hooked it up to the IV. "And I'm sure you haven't slept since then, either."
"I just woke up," Jim said, helpfully.
"Anesthesia does not count as real sleep," McCoy snapped. "It's closer to a coma than sleep, and that isn't nearly as good for you."
"Bones." McCoy looked at him, reaching once more for the basin, but Jim was just looking at him, eyes huge and worried. "The ship. How is she?"
McCoy softened. "The ship's fine, Jim. Everything is just fine."
Jim looked disbelieving. "I need to go to the bridge."
"The hell you do," McCoy retorted, pushing Jim gently back into the bed as he attempted weakly to sit up.
"Bones, there's too much to do," Jim insisted, trying once more to sit up, and McCoy firmly but gently pushed him back down.
"Yes there is. You're going to lay here and heal up, and believe me, that's plenty of work for you to do!"
"Please," Jim said softly.
McCoy paused, uncertain how much he should tell Jim, how much should be left until later, and as he considered, Jim seemed to take his silence as a concession and began to try to disconnect his IV.
"Oh, no, you don't!" McCoy extricated Kirk's still-broken hand from the wires around the other hand. "Jim…"
He dropped back into his chair, running a hand through his hair. "You had a severe allergic reaction. I had to put a tube down your throat to keep you breathing. And then I had to take out your spleen because you waited so long to come here that you almost bled out and that was the quickest way to stop the bleeding. Your heart stopped twice."
Jim was quiet, watching uncertainly as McCoy took a shuddering breath and continued. "Do you know how the bone setter works? It makes your body go through the natural process of rebuilding bone, but it makes it do it at an accelerated rate. I couldn't set any of your bones because you don't have the calcium or other nutrients to spare to build bone again. If I sucked anymore calcium out of your system, your muscles wouldn't be able to contract. Including your heart muscle. I couldn't close all those gashes on your back you got from God knows where because your body doesn't have the energy to go through that."
Jim swallowed. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. I didn't…"
"You know what else?" McCoy spoke over him. "I can't give you antibiotics, because that idiot cadet already compromised your system. I don't know what to give you that you won't be allergic to, because you're reacting to everything. Which means I had to open your abdominal cavity to all the disgusting crap floating around in the air here, and I can't give you anything to kill all the bacteria that is probably trying to kill you right now. Your body can't handle another reaction right now. I can't risk it."
He took a shaky breath, hating himself for putting all of that on Jim, but that was the boat they were in, and maybe all Jim was worried about was the Enterprise, but McCoy could give a rat's ass if Scotty had figured out a faster way to get back to Earth. All that mattered at this moment was Jim, on the wide blue eyes that looked exhausted and guilty and upset, and Bones reached out and grabbed Jim's good hand, studiously avoiding the IV.
Jim squeezed his hand, and Bones looked up, met his eyes and Jim whispered as forcefully as he could manage past a bruised trachea: "I don't believe in no-win scenarios."