Last movie-era Whumptober prompt, inspired by one of my favorite bits of movie dialogue in TSFS:

T'Lar: McCoy, son of David, since thou art human, we cannot expect thee to understand fully what Sarek has requested. Spock's body lives. With your approval, we shall use all our powers to return to his body that which you possess. But, McCoy, you must now be warned. The danger to thyself is as grave as the danger to Spock. You must make the choice.

McCoy: l choose the danger. [under his breath] Hell of a time to ask.


Whumptober prompt No. 16: "Would you lie with me and just forget the world?"


He'd forgotten how insufferably, unbearably hot it is on this beautiful but inhospitable dust-bowl of a planet.

Granted, the North American South is by no means a temperate climate, and some might argue its natural humidity is the worst possible enemy to human comfort; so it's not like he, a true Georgia native, is completely unused to such things. But this dry, scorching heat starts on Vulcan as soon as the sun hits the horizon line, and does not let up until the following night, when the temperature then abruptly plummets, as it does on most desert planets with very thin atmospheres.

Here, atop this apparently sacred mountain, the scarlet sands and ochre cliffsides seem to reflect the post-sunrise radiation tenfold, and even the breeze is like a blast straight from an oven, bringing no relief from the ruthless onslaught. Increased gravity just makes everything seem ten times as heavy, dragging everything and everyone downward in infinitesimal but relentless increments.

It's altogether miserable, and it's absolute hell on a rapidly increasing headache.

The aforementioned cliffsides are wavering a bit, and he realizes almost too late that's not because of heat distortion, that's because his body is very rapidly catching on to the fact that his brain is somewhat on overload, and it's time to shut down temporarily for self-protection.

Montgomery Scott is closest, and manages to catch his elbow in a quick save as he staggers slightly to the left.

"All right there, Doctor?"

He puts both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes, but nods. "'M fine, Scotty. Just need to lie down for a while. And drink some water. All of us need to."

Jim's right there in his personal space a moment later, a flurry of concerned activity, and there's a conversation happening over his head that isn't really registering, because his ears are ringing annoyingly.

"Bones. Bones, hey. Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

He blinks a few times, and then worried features come back into focus, way too close and way too scared. "I'm dehydrated, not deaf. Give me some space to breathe, for pity's sake."

Jim's face twists in what might have been amusement in other circumstances; right now, it only looks inestimably sad. "You feel up to walking for a few seconds? Sarek left us a hovercraft, and said they've got rooms set up for us at the house. Unless you'd be more comfortable in a medical facility?"

"Gods, no." The last thing he wants is to be in close quarters with any of these competent but clearly judgey Vulcan healers, whether they respect his participation in this little stunt or not. "House is fine."

The craft is waiting only a few dozen meters away, and McCoy mentally makes a note to thank Sarek for his foresight. The Vulcan himself is nowhere to be seen, nor are Saavik or Spock. Saavik has distant family here on the planet, so her quiet departure is not surprising. She seemed to have gotten close with David very quickly, so there's little doubt she's grieving too, and would prefer to do so in solitude.

It's also not surprising that the other two have at least temporarily sequestered themselves somewhere, likely a medical observational facility. It'll be at least day or two before Spock is even close to approaching full assimilation of everything which has just happened, and that's if there are no complications. If the Vulcans are to be believed, there is no precedent here, medical or otherwise, so observation is the smartest move they have, medically speaking.

In other circumstances, he would be thrilled about being on the front edge of something so entirely new and undiscovered in the field; but right now, he just wants to lie down and try to forget the crawling sensation of a dozen telepaths sifting through his brain for trace evidence of someone else's soul.

Strange, how he never wants to let Spock go again. (Whether that desire takes the form of hugging him or throttling him, or both, remains to be seen.)

"Absolutely not, Admiral," he hears Sulu say, as he settles into the back seat of the craft and closes his eyes. "You look like you haven't slept in days, and I plan to live to see our court martial."

"Mr. Sulu, you are –"

"Out of line, I know. I don't care. Get in the back, sir." There's a hiss of rapidly shutting door, and vague spluttering from Jim, who has apparently been booted from the driver's seat with hilarious rapidity. Chekov's snicker is clearly audible from the front passenger side.

"Y'heard the man, Admiral," Scott adds, clearly grinning, as he settles in on McCoy's left in the back. "All right, Doctor?"

"For the second time, yes," he drawls, not bothering to open his eyes. "Jim, get in the damn car already."

Muttering under his breath, Kirk waits for Uhura's quick hop in and then finally seats himself, sliding the side door shut with a bit too much force.

"Headache, Jim."

"Sorry."

The word is calm enough, but McCoy can hear the shakiness behind it. Kirk is barely holding it together, and there's likely a time limit on how long he can do that. Thankfully, the drive to Spock's family estate home is not long, and Sulu's an expert pilot, on or off-ship. McCoy almost nods off in the short period, so smooth is the ride, and no one really seems to feel the need to fill the silence over the soothing sound of the auto-nav's perfectly enunciated Standard.

The rush of cooler air (still warm, but a drastic difference) as they finally enter the covered courtyard of Sarek's familial estate is enough to wake him up with a rush of adrenaline and serotonin, however quick-lived both might be.

"Family bedrooms are on the right side of the house, guest rooms here on the left," Jim says, indicating the closest corridor. "Sarek said someone made sure they were aired out and ready for us. Just remember Amanda hasn't been well, so we need to be quiet if we wander around."

"Aye, sir."

"Understood, Admiral." Scott glances between the two of them, hesitates for a second, and then wisely just disappears down the guest corridor, whereupon the others take their cue to do the same without further discussion. Uhura is the last to leave, flicking them both a quick smile of reassurance before she then follows Scott into the first room on the left.

Well, that's interesting.

"Don't start," Jim says with the smallest of smiles, seeing his expression. "I have no idea."

"None of my business anyhow." Adrenaline is rapidly seeping away, leaving him feeling sick and shaky. He's probably got another ten minutes, maximum, before the choice is taken out of his hands completely. "I really need a cold shower before I crash, Jim."

"Right, right. Sorry." A gentle tug on his hand, and he allows it, because he suspects the physical contact is needed. The admiral opens the door across the hall from Scott's, and indicates the spacious en suite across the room. "I'll be right back."

Kirk then disappears down the corridor and heads across the courtyard, clearly comfortable with the layout of the house.

Huh. That's also interesting, but also none of his business.

On a planet where water is precious, hydro showers have preset time limits; but even those brief minutes are sufficient to both physically and metaphorically wash away the majority of the day's events in a way sonic cleansing never could. He makes good use of the teeth-cleaning kit and other amenities available in the nearby cabinet, tosses his dusty clothing into the laundry chute, and returns to the bedroom.

A comfortable set of what looks like lightweight linen sleep-clothes wait for him on the bed, and judging from their ridiculous leg length they probably were just stolen from Spock's room on the other side of the house; but they'll work. A glass of water also sits on the nightstand, along with a hypospray with Vulcan writing on it.

"It's just oxybutalbital," Jim says from the doorway, as McCoy squints at the side of the cartridge in irritation. "One of the healers said you can take a half or full dose, as you see fit, and another in twelve hours if needed. Do you want to eat anything?"

"Not sure I could right now," he admits, administering the full hypospray and sitting heavily on the bed. The water glass, he drains in one go. "I'm fine, Jim, just need to sleep off this headache. Is everyone else settled in?"

"Yes. I just showed them where the kitchen is, but I think we're all going to just go straight to sleep. We'll deal with everything tomorrow. Today, rather."

It has been a very long night, and an even longer couple of days, weeks even, prior to that. McCoy's eyes are already threatening to close, exhaustion towing him under even without the aid of a heavy painkiller. He shoves the light woven blanket to the end of the bed and slips under the cool sheets with a pleasurable sigh.

"Make sure you get some sleep, Jim, 'm serious," he mutters into the pillow.

"I will."

It's not very convincing, but he literally doesn't have the energy to pay attention to it right now. That, too, is also a problem to deal with later.

For now, there is only the alluring promise of unconsciousness.


Voices wake him, however long it is later.

Not intentionally, he can tell by the low tones and hushed steps in the hall; but his sleep hasn't been exactly peaceful, and so it's not really their fault.

As a doctor and a psychologist, he has all the training, so this isn't a surprise. He knew from the beginning that once everything with the mind-meld-melodrama was said and done, there would be some trauma to deal with, both from subject matter and his own less-than-enjoyable associations with it. Sharing a thoughtscape, much less something far more intricate and intimate, is not a comfort zone on a good day, and there have been no good days, of late.

Spock's a lucky Vulcan, because in literally any other situation there would definitely be hell to pay for this.

That's one thing. The survivor's guilt? Realizing too late that he'd been stupid enough to put his back to a Vulcan known for nerve-pinching? Waking up from said nerve pinch to the horrifying realization of what is happening, right in front of them? Knowing someone has to tell Jim in the next thirty seconds, or it'll be too late to even say goodbye, but also knowing he can't do that until the ship is confirmed safe?

Having to watch that goodbye, still reeling from all of the above?

That's a completely different matter.

And he's not sure yet, which one is worse. Which one will take longer to deal with. Right now, all they can do is focus on one hour, one day at a time, and he is not going to be focusing on those first few horrible hours.

Right now, they'll survive by focusing on the present. Not the past, or even the future. Just the here and now.

"Well, at least we know. And it's not like it was unexpected," he hears in a quiet undertone from the doorway, which his one open eye can see stands partly open.

Silhouetted against the slanting afternoon light of the corridor, Jim leans against the stone framing like it's the only thing holding him up. Scott's response is muffled, but clearly contains an inquiry of concern.

"No, no, I completely agree. We can talk about it more when everyone's had a chance to…process, I guess. Maybe tonight or tomorrow, if Bones is up to it. We can't just stay here indefinitely, but I can't see them sending someone after us anytime soon. It's just a waste of resources, and they have Genesis to deal with right now."

The following question is too quiet to hear clearly.

"I'll be fine, Scotty. Thank you, though. Can you let me know if Amanda needs anything, or if we hear from Sarek?" A quick affirmation in response, and Kirk sighs, pushing off the door frame with one hand. "Thanks."

"Of course, sir."

The door closes almost noiselessly, and for a long, silent moment, Jim braces himself against the polished wood with one arm. Then there's a prolonged, unsteady exhale, and he drops his head to rest on his hand, shoulders shaking.

After all these years, McCoy knows better than to indicate he's seen any or all of this, and so he pretends to have only just woken up, shifting into a stretch with a rustle of sheets and a not entirely put-upon yawn.

Kirk's head jerks up, and he dashes a rough hand over his eyes before turning around. "Hey. How are you feeling?" he asks, and his voice is steady as a rock.

"Still feel like I got hit by a shuttlecraft, but the headache's manageable now," McCoy replies tiredly. "How long was I out?"

"About seven hours. We haven't heard anything from Sarek yet, so I would assume no news is good news."

"Mmhm." He raises himself to one elbow, and looks pointedly across the expanse of the room between them. "I'm guessing you were lurking in here most of that seven hours, and not sleeping like I told you to?"

A red-rimmed glare. "I slept."

"For how long, Jim."

"…About twenty minutes."

That this is being admitted to at all is alarmingly uncharacteristic, and indicates the admiral's exhaustion level is too high to even think about prevarication. It does look like he cleaned up and changed clothes, but there's no indication anything else has been done to start a healing process, physical or mental.

McCoy's expression must give him away, because Kirk barrels onward in a slightly rambling, "I need to reset my circadian rhythm anyway, Bones, so it's fine. We're probably going to be here a while."

"But that's not why." At the baleful look he receives, he sighs, rubbing his eyes for a second. "Jim, y'see this?" He holds up his left wrist, thin band fixed in place over a subcutaneous sensor. "It's an MMD. Medical monitoring device," he clarifies, at the somewhat befuddled look. "If I so much as sneeze, half a dozen medical personnel will know about it in two seconds. I'm not going to suddenly take a turn for the worse in my sleep, I promise."

"I know that."

"Doesn't really help though, does it."

There is only heavy silence, and McCoy can't really blame him for it. Lord knows the man's lost enough recently, it's not surprising he's scared out of his mind to lose what he has left.

This isn't going to be easy, though. He reaches out and pats the expanse of empty bed beside him.

"Hmh?"

"Don't look at me like that. You want to pass out tomorrow at breakfast in front of his parents? Sit down and relax for a while."

"I am fine." The first sign of life flashes briefly in those tired, tired eyes. "You should be worrying about yourself, Bones."

"I am. And havin' to babysit you isn't helping me feel any better about the whole mess, so lie down, Jim. For a few minutes, at least."

Almost mechanically, Kirk obeys, seating himself heavily on the edge of the wide bed. It's obvious that the siren call of unconsciousness ratchets up drastically as soon as he does; his eyes close for several seconds, head drooping over his chest, before he flops down into a very stiff, unnatural position, staring at the ceiling and hands folded neatly over his chest.

"Boots off the bed, you heathen."

A faint snort, but they hit the floor with a clomp a moment later.

"'S better." He stifles a yawn and shifts to lying on his side, watching the unyielding profile. "Now. You either try to sleep, or talk to me. Those're your only two options."

Kirk's eyes close in exasperation, and one hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Are you serious."

"Mmhm."

"I'll just leave, if you don't mind your own business."

"Will you now." He grins, somewhat evilly, because it's very clear the human body has limits, and this particular human blew past them at warp speed about two days ago; no amount of willpower is going to override that. "Can you even get back up?"

"Maybe." A beat of silence, and then a rueful, "No." The hand flops back to his chest, limp and exhausted. "Don't rub it in."

"Not going to." He lets the silence speak for them, for a few seconds. "But you do need to talk to someone, Jim."

"I can't."

"You won't," he corrects, gently. "But you're going to have to, sometime. I know you didn't see anyone the last couple of weeks, because I was losing sanity in leaps and bounds, and no one else knows you'll lie to Medical's face about your emotional state, if you can get away with it."

"It's not lying, Bones, I wouldn't risk people's lives over something like that. It's just…creative interpretation of duty fitness."

"You've never endangered the ship or your crew over it, I acknowledge that," he agrees, grudgingly. "But that doesn't mean you haven't hurt yourself in the process."

"It's worked for me so far."

"No, it hasn't." His voice softens. "Because every time I've ever been seriously concerned and you weren't cooperative, all I had to do was sic Spock on you, Jim."

An unsteady inhale.

"So, until he figures out who he is again, you need to talk to someone else."

"Bones, I can't."

"You can, you just –"

"No, you don't understand, I can't." The words are almost desperate, intensely so.

"Help me understand, then. Why?"

"Bones, I just – I just torpedoed the professional futures of my entire former command crew." The words are accompanied by a sharp, almost angry gesture in the air above. "And none of them even blinked, they just came when I called. It didn't even hit me until – until about an hour ago, that there are going to be serious consequences. And I made the call."

"They love you, Jim. And Spock, for that matter. This isn't about the job, and I don't think it has been for years now. Not for us."

"It doesn't matter. Spock said it himself, a long time ago – I can't afford to show vulnerability in front of people who depend on me to fix things. And until I can figure out how to fix this…I just can't fall apart now, Bones."

"You said the same thing before his funeral, Jim." He chooses his next words with care. "And I commend you for it. He'd've been proud of how you handled everything, handled the ship and the cadets and the crew. But it's been long enough, you've really got to deal with some of that."

"I hear your concerns, Doctor. But it's not happening now."

"Well, I'm as much to blame as you here, by that logic. If anyone needs to worry about fixing things, it should be both of us, equally."

"No. You didn't have a choice in any of it, Bones. And anyway, it's the first law of command. The commanding officer is solely responsible for the safety of ship and all souls aboard."

McCoy hesitates for a second, and then reaches out to briefly lay a hand on the stiff shoulder before him.

"Look at me."

Kirk's head turns slightly toward him, eyes haunted.

"The Enterprise is gone, Jim," he says quietly. "You're not in command of anyone. Not anymore."

Jim couldn't look less shattered if McCoy had slapped him across the face.

While he hadn't intended it as such, it does seem to have been the proverbial final straw. Such things might be necessary, but they're certainly never pleasant – and this particular man has always been peculiarly stubborn, unwilling to admit to any such vulnerability even behind closed doors. Fallout when the repressed storm finally breaks has always been nothing short of catastrophic.

But even now, when his eyes are clearly filling with horrified tears, Jim turns away. Rolls to his side with his back to the doctor, fingers clenched in the pillow and face buried in the back of his hands. No doubt intending to have this long-needed breakdown in complete silence, nice and neat and at some level of grief considered acceptable by an arbitrary standard set by academics who have zero idea what it means to lose all that this man has.

McCoy's first human instinct is to comfort, because they don't get enough physical comfort as it is, in this business.

But something stays his hand.

Maybe it's some lingering hint of Spock's calming presence, maybe it's just the unpleasant knowledge that some things are too heart-wrenching, too big to be alleviated by the common go-tos of humanity. Either way, the doctor stops, and finally shifts into a sitting position, back to the padded headboard and eyes closed, to consider his words more carefully than he had a second ago.

"You know," he begins, in a tone he hasn't brought out in decades, not since Joanna was small. "All those years ago, when you sat in my office one night over a glass of bourbon and went on for a literal hour about how excited you were to have the smartest scientist in the 'Fleet agree to be your First Officer? I thought you were out of your mind. That you were making a huge mistake."

There is no audible response, but he isn't really expecting one.

"And then you did the exact same thing two days after the V'Ger mission, and I thought, here we go, all over again." He rolls his eyes at the remembrance. "I've seen – and had, for that matter – divorces that were less messy than whatever happened between you two at the end of that first five years."

Fingers clench even harder in the pillow.

Sighing, he reaches out and hesitantly, so very carefully, shifts a straggling lock of hair away from Kirk's lined features, hesitating only a second before repeating the soothing motion.

"But you proved me wrong, both times," he finally continues, musing aloud. "And every time after that. I've never seen two people become so much better together, without losing their own individuality or turning toxic in the process. It's something special, Jim. And you don't see it often, either personally or professionally."

"We're…only as good as the crew we serve," is the tremulous response, barely audible.

"That's true. But it's because of the two of you, that this crew turned into the family it did, Jim. We'd never have survived retirement from active ship duty, much less ground careers, otherwise. Humans aren't mean to live without a support group, and you made us one. That doesn't happen on every ship in the 'Fleet."

He can feel a labored, shuddering breath under his hand.

"So you need to let go of the idea that any of us regret doing this, or that you're responsible for it," he says quietly. "And maybe on paper the choices don't make sense. Maybe they're not the wisest thing we've ever done, and maybe – probably - there'll be consequences. But they're our decisions, Jim. And you can't take that away from us."

"You didn't get a choice." The rasp is sandpaper-hoarse, though slightly more steady than a moment ago. "We took the option from you."

"That's an oversimplification. But you know what? Even if I'd known all the facts, I'd've made the same decision, Jim." He sighs, stilling his hand for a moment. "For him or for you, much less for the both of you."

Jim finally turns over on his back to look at him, eyes wide and soft and earnest in the low amber light. "You're the bravest man I've ever met, Bones," he whispers. "I know how dangerous this was, and I know how much you're terrified of telepathic invasion. I can't – I don't know how you even did this. You chose the danger, without a second's hesitation."

"To be honest, that's how," he responds, with a wry snort. "Didn't let myself think about anything other than getting him back."

"Well, it was amazing. Thank God for you, Bones." It's almost a prayer, and this from a man who's never really believed in such things. "We owe you more than I can even comprehend right now."

"Oh, I plan to take advantage of that when everything's settled, don't you worry."

Jim's lips curve up at one corner, though the moment is fleeting.

"So." He resumes the soothing gesture, and Kirk's eyes begin to blink more slowly now, exhaustion taking over despite the stubborn fight against it. "Whatever happens, you don't have to go it alone, Jim. You need to let us in, now. Let us help. We'll deal with everything as it comes, but we need to do it together."

"What if he doesn't remember, Bones." It's barely a whisper, and a solitary tear sneaks its way down to the pillow as punctuation to the finally vocalized root fear. "What if after all of this, he has no idea why these foolish humans even bothered, or why he ever cared about the 'Fleet in the first place. We'll go back to face the music on Earth, and he won't even know why we were here."

"That's not going to happen."

"You can't be sure of that."

"I can be very sure of that." His hand drops to Kirk's shoulder, tightening emphatically. "He was in my head, Jim."

Eyes still closed, Kirk sighs. "The katra isn't the seat of memory, according to the research I've done."

"No, it isn't, although I think he'll be fine there too. But the soul is the seat of emotional control."

"So?"

"So I can tell you, because I could see it plain as day - there's no universe where you're not smack in the center of it, for him."

Kirk's breath hitches sharply.

"Now it's going to be a long road sorting everything, probably, and we don't have any guarantees. But I got no problem dragging his skinny backside down that road of humanity with me if that's what it takes. We will get there, Jim, or we'll die trying."

Oh. That's not…that's not what he should have said. How soon is too soon?

"Uh."

But there's a startled little wheeze of congested laughter, and a hand swats blindly at his sheet-covered leg. "Please don't make me laugh, or I'll probably start crying all over again."

He snorts, and manages to wriggle back down into a supine position without bouncing the large mattress too much. "Fine, I'm done trying to help. You do whatever you want, but I'm going back to sleep."

"Do you…want me to leave?"

"No. Unless you need some space to process things."

"I don't."

"So stay."

"Okay, then. If…if you're sure."

"I'm ignoring you now, I'm sure of that."


Some eight or nine hours later, McCoy discovers two things.

One, Spock's mother is indeed feeling better, which is lovely.

He wakes up a little startled, sensing somehow that he's being watched, and finds her doing just that. But she only smiles at his bewildered expression, and indicates a few colorful blankets she appears to have just set down at the foot of the bed.

"It is nearly midnight, Doctor," she says softly. "And it will grow quite cold on this side of the house."

He sleepily murmurs his thanks, still trying to get his bearings after such a lengthy repose. They've apparently lazed the entire day away, but that probably means they both needed it. The headache of earlier is barely at a low simmer, now.

"Spock?" he whispers.

"Home tomorrow," Amanda responds, also in a whisper, but she looks at peace rather than concerned. "I do not have more details, but it is a good sign."

He nods, trying to reach up and politely cover a yawn – and it's only then that his drowsy brain makes the second discovery: In all defiance of every time he's seen the man sleep alone, in a Sickbay bunk or otherwise, Jim apparently turns into a heat-seeking missile if he's sharing a bed. He is at the present time blissfully oblivious to McCoy's discomfort, snoring heavily into the doctor's shoulder and crushing a very-much-asleep arm as if it were an exceptionally thin, bony teddy bear.

Amanda hides a smile at his resigned expression, and simply covers them both with one of the blankets. She turns the lights down to a warm, rosy glow, and then leaves as quietly as she'd entered.

Well, it's not the worst situation he's found himself in this week.

He's fast asleep again before the door closes.