Author's Note: I had every intention of writing and finishing this chapter before the weekend (because I actually had more time on my hands). Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Spring Break for everyone last week, and apparently my brain needed a vacation, too.
Many thanks to plumeria47, junker5, and diamondblue4 for helping me with this update, and going above and beyond with edits and comments! I have to say that you all really helped me through the writing process this past weekend. Especially since this chapter felt more like a millstone around my neck than the milestone that posting the 20th chapter should be (okay, that was really cheesy LOL).
This first scene was a real pain-in-the-you-know-what to write, and even 'I" thought about wringing Jim's neck for the tough time he gave me while I attempted (over and over) (and over again) to write from his trippy POV. But now the scene and the accompanying chapter are complete - no thanks to Jim - and you get to read it while I go vent some more...
In all seriousness, I hope you enjoy the read. As noted above, this chapter begins with Jim, backtracking to about when he began fighting with Treadway but was losing the battle...
Important warnings in the end notes to avoid spoilers. Please look at them first if you are easily triggered.
oOo
And If I Stand Next to You
Chapter 20
I didn't want this war (only the future we had planned)
oOo
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Deep down he knew that he should be afraid.
Years of training and experience, of suffering and loss, told him that.
Someone had battered his body.
Someone other than himself was in control.
And something was wrong with him.
He should be afraid.
But he wasn't.
Everything he looked at was hazy and glowing, calling to him with its beauty. Like seductive sirens luring sailors of old from their ships and into the dangerous water. Like the shining stars that had called him into the vastness of space.
Their ships.
His ship.
The Enterprise.
Was he flying?
He thought he was.
He wanted to be.
He missed his ship, but...maybe he didn't need to. Maybe he was there. Back on the bridge.
Was this a fantasy?
Or was it real?
He had to be flying.
It had to be real.
It was freedom.
It was exhilarating.
It was happiness.
Until it hurt.
God, it hurt.
The pain made him want to retch.
It hurt, and he didn't know why.
Along his skull.
Across his shoulders.
Deep in his side.
His entire bod—
His thoughts suddenly scattered, shattering into an infinite number of scintillating pieces. A sense of calm bore down on him from the top of his head, bringing a warmth that spread like light throughout his body.
It gave him a few seconds to think clearly. Silence and breath were his again. His surroundings came into focus, a window into reality for a brief instant. His awareness grew, but he still had no idea where he was—or what he was doing.
He thought he'd been resting on a hard and unyielding surface, but someone had yanked him to his feet.
His limbs were loose.
His mind even looser.
He had a nagging feeling that he should be registering pain, at least, but he brushed any curiosity he had about it aside.
He didn't think.
He didn't cry.
He didn't fight.
He didn't care.
His part was done, though he didn't know what his part had been.
He was free.
He could fly.
He could let go.
He could feel this freedom.
He could let go.
He sank into the sensation, a feeling that both baffled him and sated a number of unfamiliar urges.
He craved more, and let himself melt.
Sinking deeper.
Deeper.
Fulfilling a longing.
But he couldn't remember what he was longing for.
He let go—only to be caught.
The feeling comforted him, bringing him a sense of safety, of rescue.
And he wanted it to.
He was relieved wanting the comfort to continue without end.
He was cared for.
He was happy.
Fulfilled.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good.
He longed for it to never end.
Until the moment his memories returned, cascading through his mind.
Things that he wished to never see again flashed before him.
Things that he'd never seen before, too.
Nightmares.
Forewarnings.
A grotesque mixture of past and present.
A part of him, yet separate.
He tried to shake the images away, purge them from his thoughts, but they held onto him, locking him in a vise.
And, eventually, helplessly, he stopped fighting the flood of images.
He could do nothing but embrace them.
His body went limp, and his mind did, too.
He didn't want to acknowledge the reality of the situation, but the truth stared him in the face.
He was helpless.
In everything.
Vulcans descended upon him like birds of prey, and he did nothing but watch as their planet crumbled.
Pale-faced, frozen bodies awakened from an icy slumber, their eyes haunted as they flashed accusingly, their gaze lancing straight through him, before fading into the starry dust of the cosmos.
Then a pair of hazel eyes pierced him, red with anger or fear or both.
It was too much.
It was not enough.
More.
He needed more.
More of something—anything—to make things right.
The flashes of clarity didn't last, and he hungered for more. More of whatever it was that had shot through his blood like wildfire.
Just as quickly as the nightmares had come, they disappeared until he was floating on a soft cloud as before, away from them all.
But he wasn't alone.
Sounds clamored for his attention all too soon, taking their place.
He was loose and free and helpless—
He couldn't think straight.
Couldn't keep track—
But he was happy.
Everything glowed.
Why couldn't he stand on his ow—
He jolted, his happiness disrupted by urgent, angry voices.
Things were happening too fast for him to process and understand.
Shouts.
Pleas.
Orders.
His mind reeled, bowing in pain as if it were being wrenched in two.
A name, a desperate plea on someone's lips.
The hoarse words, breaking through his thoughts.
Jim.
His name.
Jim.
His name.
Jim.
Startled, he blinked, opening his eyes wide.
Bones?
He thought he saw him, but just like that, he was gone.
Gone.
Profound sadness washed over him, intermingled with longing.
Where was he?
He couldn't keep his eyes open to search.
It was too bright, everywhere he looked.
Too dark.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Too blurry.
Too clear.
Too...everything.
But it felt so right.
It felt good.
Felt ri—
Jim.
Bones was here?
Jim should tell him that he felt good.
The therapy must have worked and he needed more.
More of...of something.
He wished he knew what he needed.
He was beginning to enjoy this.
And where it had taken him, whatever it was.
It felt too good to fight.
Jim.
Spock? Spock was here?
Did he know Jim was here, too?
He should be afraid, but he wasn't. His body shook like it would never stop. He couldn't control it.
More would stop it. The seductive whisper wound through his mind.
He should tell him that. Bones. And Spock. When he saw them next.
More.
He needed more.
More. More. More—
He should tell him other things, too.
About the way his blood had warmed.
That his blood had suddenly grown chilled.
That his heart had finally constricted in fear.
That he was sorry, so sorry, even when he wasn't sure what he was sorry for—
He heard it again.
Jim.
"'ones?"
A hand encompassed his neck, squeezing any more words he may have had out of existence.
But not for long.
The pressure all but disappeared, and a strange sensation exploded in his chest, instead.
He couldn't breathe, see, or hear—anything.
He was afraid.
Terrified.
Confused.
Alone.
Was this guilt?
A betrayal he didn't even remember?
Or something else?
The sensation stole the comfort of Bones away before he could even think to snatch it back.
But there were other things that vied for his attention, to replace it.
Voices that weren't even his.
At the first sound, his breath caught painfully in his throat, lodged there like an ice pick.
His thoughts froze, too, time magnifying the horrors he witnessed with his own eyes.
He no longer felt good.
Or right.
Or free.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't get away.
He didn't understand.
He felt like he was imploding.
Like Vulcan.
Like Vulcan.
Voices of the dying ripped harshly through his ears.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Billions.
They screamed until their very last breath, then the screams began again, this time directed at him.
Anguish filled his heart, yet he couldn't blame them for their accusations. It had been his fault.
His fault.
God, he couldn't take it.
He couldn't.
He screamed in his head, helpless beneath their relentless assault.
Finding his hidden places, and battering him until he was deeply bruised.
Begging was not enough.
No one heard him.
No one freed him.
No one.
Alone.
He needed Bones.
Bones would make it stop.
Bones would take care of everything.
Bones would fix this.
He'd find a way make it all disappear, wouldn't he?
Alone.
He heard them.
He saw them.
He was them.
He didn't say their names, though he knew exactly who they were.
Vulcans.
They clamored around him, shrieking their hatred at him as their mental shields shattered, their controls lost forever.
Vulcans.
And he was one of them.
He felt like he was dying, and he deserved it.
All of it.
It was his fault.
His fault.
The planet crumpled into itself until there was nothing left.
Nothing.
It vanished, out of sight but not out of mind, leaving only darkness in its place.
He'd killed them with his mistakes.
His.
It was his greatest defeat.
He would never be able to pay for his mistakes. Not completely.
Horror and shame at what he'd done shook him to his core. Emotions he could not suppress, not even when he employed all of his controls.
A scream rose from his throa—
Just as abruptly it stopped, frozen in time.
It was his pain to bear.
His alone.
His fault.
There was a horrible pain in his chest.
He'd forgotten about it.
Was this what the Vulcans had felt, dying a terror-filled death?
In a blink, his breath came back to him, along with the thoughts that had filled his mind, captured in seconds...
It didn't make sense.
It was too sudden, too unexpected.
The force of it all stunned him.
It was painful, overwhelming, beautiful, confusing, dangerous and peaceful, all at once.
It slammed into him like a ton of bricks and he could do nothing to stop it.
Where was he?
Was this Vulcan?
Was this Earth?
What was happening to him?
Was he imploding, too?
Hysteria took over.
And then he knew.
He was going mad.
It was the only explanation.
He had entered a place that was broken and alluring, and his own fau—
Jim, I'm here.
The voice in his head stopped everything.
He cried out.
He tried to respond to the voice, to the man who was his best friend.
He failed.
He tried again, because he didn't want this.
He didn't...
He didn't want to disappear.
Or lose himself.
Or betray Bones—
Never.
Vulcan.
Bones.
Christine.
Danger.
Red mat—
Ice surged through his body.
But it wasn't from anything he'd done.
He didn't know who had caused it.
Whatever it was, it was enough to quiet his inner storm.
Enough.
He pushed the feeble whisper past his lips—and with a rally of strength, shoved away from the body behind him, the hands holding him down.
It was the only way that he would get—
—more.
.
oOo
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Spock could not deny himself the rage flooding his body, a terrifying yet satisfying rush that heated his blood with each passing second.
He could not deny himself this feeling, no more than he could deny the existence of a fragile bond. The connection that had formed between him and his two dearest companions.
A bond, when he had not yet formally bonded with Nyota. A familial bond that had altered the course of his life.
Like the bond, this rage pulsed in his mind, substantial and real. The rage swiftly became a torrent, its greedy fingers reaching out to latch onto the very one who had harmed the captain. Whereas the bond filled him with a strong desire to protect his bond-brothers, the all-consuming, feverish rage greedily anticipated its next victim.
The rage was familiar. The same primal passion he had experienced while in pursuit of Khan, reborn. A desperation to save what was his, to retain its beauty before it was destroyed. Before their bond was destroyed and left incomplete.
Was this what the ambassador had foretold?
A friendship that would define them both.
It was not logical. It was not convenient.
There was no other answer but yes.
What he felt for Jim went beyond friendship or love. It was honor and companionship and loyalty and—
It was almost as terrifying as the need for revenge he felt toward Treadway.
It was almost as strong as the brotherly bond that Jim already had with Leonard.
It was indescribable.
Treadway man-handled his captain like he was a puppet, manipulating his strings, his body to his will. Though he was surrounded by law enforcement officials, and his escape unlikely, his attention remained fixed on Jim.
Spock's attention remained on both captor and victim, slipping out of sight as he rounded on Treadway.
McCoy, though he must be aware of the crushing hold Treadway had on Jim, saw only the captain.
Who, in his helpless state, had just been given a dose of another stimulant, the effects of the combination of drugs unpredictable.
Time stretched as they waited for Treadway to relinquish his hold on the captain, five seconds longer than their chronological period implied.
But then Jim gasped for air.
The officers tightened their holds on their phasers. Treadway smirked confidently. McCoy's eyes filled with unmistakable terror.
Spock reacted on instinct.
Relying on his Vulcan telepathic abilities, he forged a path to Treadway while triggering the bond with Leonard and Jim, bringing them to action.
Power surged through all of them before the police could react.
McCoy sprang forward with a raging cry, bent on rescuing Jim from Treadway no matter the cost to himself.
Jim shoved away from his unsuspecting captor. It was a valiant final show of strength, though misguided due to his severe craving. Unsurprisingly, the captain quickly collapsed, weightlessly, into McCoy's waiting and open arms.
Spock tackled Treadway, knocking the ex-boxer off his feet with a growl. They flew through the open window, hitting the floor of the bookshop, and rolling.
The impact did not stop either of them, but it did it delay the law officials behind them. The police could not fire on Treadway in confidence that they would miss him.
Spock rose to his feet first. They were already hidden in the shadows, as he desired them to be. The ex-boxer bared his teeth with a vengeful cry and charged towards him, over-confident and lacking control.
Treadway did not get far. In three swift moves, Spock trapped the criminal's arms and held him against his chest, mimicking the strong choke hold in which Treadway had captured Jim.
Spock dragged Treadway's struggling body deeper into the bookstore, finding another shadowy area in which he could contain him, away from the watchful eyes of the police.
They came to a door, and he opened it. After shoving Treadway inside, he stepped in and locked the door behind him, duly noting they had entered a small closet.
"Who is watching Nurse Chapel?" he growled in Treadway's ear, stopping when they reached the wall. "Where are they?"
"I'll never tell," Treadway rasped defiantly.
Spock released him abruptly, causing him to crash hard onto the floor, having manipulated the fall so that the other man's arm bore the brunt of his weight.
Treadway moaned as he inched his way into the corner, dragging his useless arm on the floor. "Fuck, I think you broke it," he cried.
Voices beyond the door carried inside, calling for them.
But Spock was undeterred.
"You will tell me," Spock ordered, towering over him.
Treadway tilted his head back, a hysterical laugh escaping his lips. "Or w-what? Y-you'll make me? Another broken arm won't make me talk."
Did he not understand that he could make him without much effort of his own? That he would before he unlocked the door and the police found them? That revenge charged Spock's actions? That it did not matter to him if he committed a crime in the eyes of Vulcan?
The thoughts lifted the corners of Spock lips but he forced them down. "There are other ways," he said threateningly.
He stared at Treadway, waiting until the other man's eyes widened in acknowledgment.
"Y-you wouldn't—" Treadway stammered.
Spock sent him a dark look, his reply deafening and intimidating in the silence.
The other man scrambled backward with a curse, trying to press himself into the wall, though the desperate attempt to escape was futile. He had nowhere to go.
This would not take long. A few seconds, and Spock would have what he needed.
And Treadway...he would inevitably suffer, yet not enough to provoke suspicion. Treadway would not even remember this moment. The police would not know. Neither would Jim or Leonard.
This would be on his conscience. His and his alone.
Treadway's eyes lost their defiance and filled with fear, his face whitening in the dimmed light.
Spock reveled in it.
Because of Treadway, Jim had suffered. Leonard had suffered. Jim's crew had suffered. Joanna, an innocent young child, and her mother had suffered. Relationships had been damaged, even severed.
And he could not help but think that what Treadway had done to Jim would affect him not for a week or even four weeks in the hospital—but indefinitely. That what he had done—by setting this series of events into motion, culminating in Jim being injected with more drugs—had been more damaging to Jim than they knew or could understand at this time.
Unacceptable.
"Y-you fucker, th-this doesn't change an-an-anything," Treadway babbled. "They'll d-do it, they'll kill them anyway, and y-your captain is useless, gonna be a helluva withdra—"
"Silence!" Spock demanded.
Treadway's mouth snapped shut, but not before he whimpered pathetically.
"You tire me, human," Spock hissed through clenched teeth.
Treadway shrank back, favoring his injured arm.
Before the vile, unrepentant man could make another sound, Spock reached down. He spread his fingers, confidently pressing them into the melding points of the criminal's face—
He would ensure that Treadway would never hurt another human being again.
—and intruded on his mind with a controlled, logical and self-serving rage.
.
oOo
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Jocelyn had rarely listened to Leonard's advice when they'd been married, preferring to rely on common sense, instinct, and self-preservation, the qualities that had served her well in her professional life. She didn't know why he expected her to listen to him now. Not that she didn't understand his reasoning in asking her to stay behind at the police station. She understood completely. Leonard was first and foremost a doctor. Always. He protected and healed. He would never ignore a person in a vulnerable situation. Not even her, his ex-wife.
Clay was a volatile man, more so than she'd ever imagined. Or wanted to imagine.
But now his time was up. He was headed straight for prison. Of that much she was sure. His past had finally caught up to him, no thanks to her. Could she have been more oblivious?
A part of her heart, the one she'd opened up to love again after Leonard, was still broken. Yearning for the tender man he'd portrayed m himself to be during the first weeks of their relationship. Yearning for what she'd scorned during her marriage with Leonard.
Watching Clay practically strangle Jim, only to inject a drug in his chest, put an end to that.
And then there was Joanna…
She'd heard Clay's appalling words to Leonard about Joanna with her own ears.
She was still trying to grasp them.
She was still trying to reconcile what she'd thought her life had been with what it really was.
A farce.
Her parents had not raised her to be this weak, or this naive. She wasn't raising Joanna to be like that, either. Where had she gone wrong? Would her family ever come back from this?
She was in shock, most likely. She had to be. How could Clay do this? How could she have been so stupid?
He'd been smooth, his confidence veiling a sickening evil, and she'd fallen for him. She would have never forgiven herself if her innocent daughter had suffered at the hands of a monster. A psychopath who cared for no one but himself.
She vowed never to love again and risk hurting Joanna in the process. It would be the safest way to raise her daughter. The only way. She couldn't trust herself with another man. She knew that now. So far she'd raised Joanna mostly on her own. And that's what she could continue to do. She knew dozens of single parents.
She'd just never thought that she'd be one of them.
"Jim!"
The voice brought her back to the scene transpiring before her eyes. She tried peering around the bodies in front of her, looking for the face of that familiar voice. The guttural cry had come from her ex-husband.
She caught sight of Leonard first, who suddenly launched himself at Jim.
Treadway and Spock, locked in a fearsome struggle, disappeared into the bookstore through the shattered window. Law enforcement cautiously followed them inside, and she inched forward until she was able to peer inside the dim bookstore.
But she couldn't see either Clay or Spock, only the backs of the police moving forward.
She started forward again, nudging the police officer blocking her way. "Let me through," she commanded, but her words tumbled out as a whisper.
"Ma'am, stay back," he ordered, grasping her forearm in turn.
"No, please," she protested. "I need to see...to see...Jim!'
Her vehemence shocked even her.
Emotion welled up in her chest, and she placed her hand over her heart, her breaths quick and painful.
"No," the policeman said sternly. "You must stay back."
"But—"
"This is an unsecured area, Ma'am. It's not safe to come any closer. But I assure you that the captain is receiving medical care."
Medical care?
Her gaze dropped to the glass-littered ground.
Leonard and several medics appeared to be fighting for Jim's life.
She stared at her ex-husband's ashen face as he barked orders to the medics crouching beside him to help. She tried to follow the orders coming from Leonard. The hands that held one of Jim's arms, prepping it for an intravenous line. Other hands kept his head and neck still.
"My fault," Jim shrieked as the medical team held him down. "It's gone. Gone. Vulcan. They know. They know," he babbled, his back arching and lifting his broken body off the ground. "Too late. Vulcan—"
"Jesus, you gotta hold him down," Leonard shouted, his hands on Jim's abdomen, pulling at his bloodied shirt. "That bastard knocked Jim's head pretty damn hard! We don't need a repeat!"
"Yes, doctor," a medic said, following the order with calm, practiced moves.
Tears leaked from the corners of Jim's eyes. "They know. All of it. Comin' for me—"
"Give him 40 migs propranolol," Leonard barked, eyes down. "It's in my bag."
"—m-my fault—"
"Oxygen saturation 70% and dropping, doctor."
Leonard scowled. "I know, I know. He's cyanotic. Give me a sec—"
"—can't breathe-" Jim gasped, reaching up with one hand to grasp one of the medic's forearm. "Make them s-stop! Their eyes," he wheezed hoarsely, a painfully long, high-pitched sound that pierced her ears. "Can't b-breathe... voices...m-make them stop. I need more—"
A medic quickly administered the contents of a hypospray into the captain's neck.
Jim jerked under their hands, his blue-lipped body spasming.
"Shit," Leonard hissed, frowning down at Jim's abdomen. He kept one hand on the wound during his inspection, the other clenched the captain's blood-soaked shirt. "We need to get him into surgery. There's glass lodged in there."
"He's showing signs of a significant concussion, Dr. McCoy."
Leonard hesitated, his eyes filling with determination as he stared down at Jim's face.
One of the medics lifted her eyes. "Dr. McCoy?"
Leonard firmed his jaw, but his gaze softened as he stared down at Jim and placed his hand on the captain's forehead. "Jim,'" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Listen to me."
He as acting as if they had all the time in the world.
Was Leonard insane? Even she knew that Jim had no time.
"It's me, Jim. Bones," Leonard said calmly—but his stricken eyes betrayed him.
Leonard was anything but calm.
"I'm here, buddy," Leonard whispered.
Jim's body convulsed. "They'll find me," he rasped. "It's g-gone. I'm afraid—"
"You don't have to be afraid'," Leonard soothed. "I'm here. I'm here, Jim. No one's taking you anywhere except me."
The captain grew quiet but his eyes darted wildly, looking everywhere except at what—or who—was in front of him.
"Jim, just look into my eyes," Leonard pleaded, gently patting his cheek. "I know you're worried and upset. I...I know what you're thinking. But you don't have to be afraid."
Jim blinked. His face was twisted oddly, his skin ashen and gray in the scattered light of the sidewalk.
Jocelyn clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering a cry. She'd never seen anyone look so gravely ill. So helpless.
"Just look at me, okay?" Leonard urged. "I gotcha. We're gonna take care of you, I promise."
"'M'chest," Jim mumbled, his head tilting back and chin lifting as he began to choke. "H-hurts…"
Leonard's eyes narrowed at the watery, gurgling sound. He grabbed his tricorder, running a scan.
Vomit suddenly spewed from Jim's mouth. What didn't splatter over his chest slipped down his neck—and back into his gasping mouth.
Jim's mouth gaped open, his eyes widening sightlessly on the starless, night sky.
She could tell from her vantage point that Jim was growing increasingly unresponsive, his body taxed beyond endurance by the drugs and his tenacious struggle to breathe.
"Goddammit," Leonard muttered as Jim gurgled again. "Roll him onto his side!"
The medic looked unsure. "But the glass—"
"He'll choke, dammit!" Leonard exclaimed, suctioning the vomit from Jim's mouth. "You," he shot out to the second medic. "Keep your hand on his wound. His reflexes are impaired. He's overdosed and going into shock. We have to move him."
The medics helped him turn Jim on his left side. The captain vomited violently a second time onto the wet sidewalk, shaking harder than ever. His expression...his eyes...were simply gone.
From the drugs. The hallucinations he was obviously having.
About Vulcan.
Her skin prickled, despite the raincoat she wore.
The same feeling she'd had earlier, at Nora's house, after the meld with Mr. Spock, suddenly overwhelmed her.
Leonard cursed. "Rate of respiration is dropping. We'll have to intubate."
Jim.
She had to help them. She had to help Jim.
She started forward—but strong arms wrapped around her from behind and held her back.
She stiffened. Another policeman? They were everywhere now, blocking off the area and breaking up the crowd. "Let me go! I need to get to him!"
"Jocelyn," a man whispered in her ear. "Stay back."
His hot breath sent a shiver down her spine, and she struggled to free herself from his grip.
"There's nothing you can do," he murmured.
She tried to twist in his arms, but his arms held her fast, nearly preventing her from moving at all. "But I need to help him!"
"Dr. McCoy can help him," the man said sternly. "You cannot."
She stilled.
His voice was familiar.
It was kind.
"Matthew?" she breathed, uncertain.
The man sighed. "Yes, it's Matthew."
"Why—" she began, her voice breaking off in embarrassment.
She swallowed her question—why are you helping me?—her heart pounding unbearably fast in her chest. She could not look back at him.
Not when she'd made such a horrid mess of things.
Had he heard what Treadway had said? About Joanna?
A mournful cry caught in her throat. She didn't deserve Joanna. Not after this.
"Joanna," she cried softly in spite of herself.
Matthew's chest rumbled. "Is anyone here with you?"
"N-no." She suppressed a sob. "I came with...Len. With Mr. Spock."
She squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to look at her distraught ex-husband and his ill captain any longer, Jim's poor physical state keeping the medical team on the ground busy longer than expected.
"Okay," Matthew murmured in her ear. "Okay. I'll stay with you, and take you home. To Joanna."
Home? She couldn't go home. "Joanna's with Nora."
"Okay, I'll take you there," Matthew said calmly.
"I need...I need to check on her," she said in a wobbly voice.
"Jocelyn, she's safe," Matthew murmured. "He...he's not going to hurt her."
She nodded mutely. Joanna was safe. Like Matthew had said. But Len and Jim—they would be going to the hospital soon. And Jim—he wasn't safe.
"You'll take me to the hospital, once they take Jim there?" she asked him, if just to punish herself. "I need to...to see…"
She should be there if Jim died. Ready to take the blame. To endure Leonard's hatred.
"I'll take you there, if you're sure that's what you want to do," Matthew said quietly, his chin brushing the side of her face.
She blinked, slowly coming back to herself and the realization that she felt protected and safe.
Matthew. Matthew was...comforting her.
A man her family wanted nothing to do with. A man she'd scorned, just as she'd scorned Jim.
But a man her daughter trusted.
No doubt her own daughter had better judgment than she did.
"And your store? They need you here," she stated in feigned confidence, though she was sincerely concerned for him. "It's a...crime scene," she finished lamely.
"I already called one of my employees. And the police can get my statement at the hospital. Besides, I was the one who broke the window."
"Then, yes," she affirmed, desperately trying to hide her indecision. "Take me to the hospital. I'm sure."
But she doubted her sanity in accepting help from him. To accept any help at all.
Matthew's arms tightened reflexively around her, before freeing her to stand on her own.
It was a tangible comfort she didn't deserve.
.
oOo
.
Leonard almost didn't register the fact that Spock had slipped into the back of the ambulance seconds after he had and just before they left. Spock had told him through the bond that it was necessary for him to ride with them, in order to help calm Jim's agitated state.
Leonard was dazed, struggling to maintain his usual control and professionalism. His sole focus was Jim, but the presence of a Vulcan in his head—and a distressed Jim—was hard to miss. So was the precarious state of the familial bond between them.
He'd been a trauma surgeon—was a trauma surgeon, among other things, dammit—and his hands were shaking.
Jim was stable. Barely. They'd staunched the flow of blood. He couldn't operate here—there was so much that could go wrong. Jim's concussion was serious and would complicate every needed intervention; they needed to run the proper tests first.
The list didn't end there. Jim was hallucinating about Vulcan, provoking his agitation. Shards of glass penetrated his body. The fight or flight sensation from the adrenaline was gone, the slight increase in his already low white blood cell count a fleeting, small miracle, given epinephrine's half-life. The optimal high of the Agrediphine had long since been over, but the aftereffects of the overdose were snowballing with every second, inflicting greater risks to the effective functioning of his heart and kidneys.
Not to mention how pressing continuing the drug therapy was, to restore Jim's fragile immune system. A lull or break in schedule could have deadly results.
He needed a hospital. A trauma center. The right equipment. A chance to clear his own head. He needed a Vulcan healer to agree to come and help Jim. He needed his best friend to survive the inevitable long-term care so he could wring his neck himself.
And, per Boyce's orders, he needed fucking Agrediphine.
For one long moment, when Jim had stopped his violent vomiting, he had paused in what he was doing, simply clinging to Jim's clammy hand. He'd run his other hand through the wet hair plastered to the captain's forehead, offering him a crooked smile.
"Jim, it's Bones," he'd whispered, illogically hoping that Jim's addled brain recognized him and registered what he was saying. "We'll get through this, like we always do."
Jim had whispered a word before his eyes fluttered shut, as they did now.
It brought him back to the present, and the hard days looming ahead.
Addiction, even if he was on the Agrediphine for just a few days. Eventual withdrawal and its accompanying hell. Future temptation that could blindside them all and threaten Jim's captaincy.
It was all moot. He'd stick with Jim through thick or thin, no matter what.
Maybe he was a fool, but he probably would have done the same thing had he been in Jim's shoes. Besides, he couldn't blame Jim alone for what had happened. Treadway was to blame. Jocelyn, too. The bond. The meld on Delta Vega.
Even he had played a part.
And for those reasons, he knew the only way they'd make it through this mostly in one piece was if they cared for each other. They were in this together, just like they'd always been.
He'd told Jim, as they'd sat side-by-side on the swing on his mama's back porch, that he never left anyone behind.
He'd meant every word.
Since he was a healer, it made sense to him that he should be the first to pave the way.
"You can't go to sleep, Jimbo'," he said, squeezing Jim's hand for comfort—for his comfort—and tucked what Jim had said in the back of his mind once again.
Because it was important, but it wasn't important now.
A medic lifted his Jim's eyelids, shining a penlight in his eyes. As expected, his response was sluggish.
"Leonard," Spock said, drawing his attention away.
"Yeah," he said roughly, but then his attention was drawn away a second time, this time by voices right outside.
He winced, and rubbed his temple, feeling like he was being pulled in two. Or maybe two hundred.
Treadway emerged from the bookstore, flanked by two officers. Treadway was cuffed, his usual arrogant expression replaced by one of fear and his pale face coated with tears.
Treadway hunched over, darting glances all around him, whimpering like a kicked puppy and mumbling unintelligibly as he shuffled forward.
What the hell?
The two officers, one of whom was Davis, were speaking. Amongst themselves, or with Treadway, he couldn't tell. Leonard turned his head and tried to listen more closely.
"You can call a lawyer at the station, and we'll find you a clean pair of pants," one officer was saying, a measure of disgust in his voice, the ambulance door closing before Leonard could hear the rest.
Curious, Leonard peered, with narrowed eyes, through the shattered window and immediately saw what they were referring to as Treadway passed by.
There was a distinct, dark spot on the front of the bastard's pants.
Deep in thought, Leonard didn't notice as the ambulance took off for the hospital. The darkened area of Treadway's pants reminded Leonard of Jim, and the numerous indignities the younger man had been forced to endure during his recovery.
Since when would Treadway ever lose control of himself that way? He was the epitome of arrogance, strength, and ass-holerey—and could even be described as cunning—and possibly a pediphile—the worst possible combination of attributes. But attributes that had allowed him to rise above anyone who was weaker than him, nonetheless. Even children—Leonard's own daughter—and critically ill Starfleet captains.
He was a bastard who didn't deserve even the smallest, loneliest, most pitiful, most pathetic prison cell in the fucking universe.
Leonard glanced over at Spock and arched a brow in suspicion, daring him to deny that he had something to do with Treadway's wardrobe malfunction.
Spock lifted his chin, staring back at him unflinchingly.
"Well," Leonard rasped after a moment, more than satisfied with Spock's nonverbal reply. He swallowed back a compliment, in case it would be in poor taste. "I guess that's that."
And he caressed the fragile underside of Jim's too-thin wrist, and his pulsing vein, proof of the life that meant the world to him, to ground himself.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: WARNINGS: Non-Con drug Use, Mind Rape, Implied Pediphile Referenced
The short, bolded sections in the first scene were intended to ground you to particular places in the story as you read. Just in case it wasn't clear, the first bolded section was the moment when Treadway injected Jim with another drug, and the second section indicated when he gasped his first breath after that. I know time seems very spread out in the first scene, but it was the only way I could see writing Jim's POV...which was extremely erratic, trippy, etc. from both the concussion and drugs.
I will leave the longevity of what Spock did to Treadway, or what he did at all other than retrieving the information he needed, up to you and your wonderful (and maybe even vengeful) imaginations. Some of you will no doubt enjoy the dark humor - and some of you will frown upon what Spock did, since it was actually mind rape, and you're welcome to think that. I just don't want to get hammered about it, but a calm, thoughtful discussion about it is fine. Also I won't say one way or another if I agree with what he did. However, it's in this story because I really felt things had led up to it.
One side note/reminder - this is a Jim and Bones friendship fic, but it's also big on the Triumvirate friendship, too, all with a good amount of bromance.
Thank you for reading and sticking around to see where this story is going! If you leave a comment, thanks for that, too. Your thoughts are always welcome, not to mention great inspiration for me! ;) Until next time...