leftwithmybones: (what: by dumplingdoodles)
Something's off when he wakes up.

It's not home, McCoy knows that much and he's not in space because that's some gorgeous sunlight spilling in the window. He closes his eyes and tries to shake off the strange feeling, like he's groggy. He thinks back to the memory before waking up and remembers hitting his head on something hard, something like a tree and thinking to himself that it's the kind of idiot thing that Jim does. Maybe he passed out, maybe he's been brought around, but when he opens his eyes, he's not on the island.

"What the hell?" he grumbles, fumbling for a t-shirt and yanking it on. There's a phone lying on the rumpled sheets and it's displaying a message from Jo about her thirteenth birthday being soon and his presence being mandatory.

And what the hell? Thirteen? She was eight when he...left for the island five years ago. Shit. He grasps for the phone and sends a quick message back to agree that yeah, he's absolutely going to be there, wouldn't miss it for the world, and lets out a strangled laugh. Is this what happens? He knocks his head on a damn branch and ends up back home at the exact same time? So what the hell has his alternate self been doing?

That answer comes with the sound of a baby crying. That's unexpected. He sits up in bed and stares down the hardwood hallway to where the sound is coming from, subsiding by the second as the wood floor creaks gently, like someone's rocking a baby back and forth on it, accompanied by hushed 'shh, shh, shh' noises. Which bodes the question, what the hell's been happening for the last five years of his life and why isn't he in space? Is the mission over? It'd have to be, wouldn't it? It'd have to be done...

He grabs his robe and drags himself down the hall, making it to a child's room painted baby blue and that's where he stops, stares, and doesn't exactly know what to do.

"Jim?" he demands, barely able to get the name out past the bubble of disbelief in his throat.
leftwithmybones: (hot sweaty night: by dumplingdoodles)
When he blinks his eyes awake, the sunlight filtering in through the new blinds of the second floor window is oppressive, there's a faint bitter taste on his tongue, and he feels sluggish and like he can't much move. He looks down in time to see a golden shirt on his torso and remembers, vaguely, that he had suggested this like the idiot he was.

You be the CMO, I'll be the Captain.

Apparently Jim's been harboring some resentment against all the hypos he's delivered over the years, because the very first thing he'd done was go for the goddamn hypo. "Son of a bitch," he slurs, trying to reach out with one hand to grab Jim by the uniform, but he slips out of the bed and falls, hard, onto the floor with a heavy thump.

"I hate you," he says, turning onto his back and staring up at the white ceiling and rubbing the entrance point of the hypo at his neck. "Why the hell did I marry a reprobate like you in the first place, huh?"
leftwithmybones: (unhappy face: by iconnoo)
He wakes up and Leonard McCoy is back to normal. He's a he again.

Fucking great.

Hell, it's not to say that it isn't, because it is, but after the last few days of emotional roller-coastering that he's been on, waking up to find his dick exactly where it belongs (and thank god he'd gone to bed in a large t-shirt and pair of boxers) and Jim slumbering beside him isn't half the relief he wants it to be. See, because some change in his head made him think, for a few days, that he and Jim could have a family and he's so fucking pissed off that as soon as he wakes to sunshine, he doesn't care what time it is. He lumbers to his feet and fumbles under the bed to brush against the floorboards until he knocks against the hollow one he'd put in. He drags it loose and comes up with one of Scotty's bottles from way back when, grimacing in advance of how bad it's going to taste.

He doesn't give a damn, though. He levers himself out of bed carefully and makes sure not to disturb Jim as he wanders into the kitchen for cereal and booze; a breakfast of champions. He forcibly doesn't think about anything while he's there because he has the feeling if he thinks too long about being Lena McCoy, he might actually break down and cry right then and there.
leftwithmybones: (! plot pissy and made up)
Sometimes, she hates being a genius so goddamn much. It's one thing to be smart, but when you're above the level, you can't leave little hints and clues well enough alone. Right now, McCoy's had about ten too many clues and she's starting to get concerned that something's going on. Everyone keeps mentioning the name 'Leonard' and with all the strange crap going on, she knows that she's not immune.

It's only that she expected something else. She's got the damn PADD in her hand and is staring at a picture of Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy, who's standing a hell of a lot taller and a hell of a lot more male than she's ever been lucky enough to be. Suddenly, things start making a hell of a lot more sense, but she's not entirely sure what to do with it.

She sinks down into a chair with the PADD still in her hands, numb and still trying to process the news.
leftwithmybones: (! plot closeup)
It's taken a hell of a duck to get away from Jim with his weird protective thing going on, but McCoy refuses to sit around and do nothing just because Jim's in a weird mood. She grabs her medkit and a pair of comfortable blue scrubs before heading to the clinic for the day. It's peaceful in the way that work makes her and lulls her into a familiar frame of mind. Eventually, the only thing that pulls her away is the grumbling of her stomach and she's off to the kitchen, pinning her hair up a little tighter before making lunch.

When she hears the smallest scuffle of noise, she eases back and raises a brow suspiciously in the doorway, not seeing anyone at eye level. "Who's there?" she demands, rolling her eyes. "Jim, I swear to god, if you're here to cart me off home, I'm gonna punch you in the face."
leftwithmybones: (! plot closeup)
She'd kicked Jim out of the house an hour back to get ready and to fix up dinner. Hell, if McCoy's honest about the whole thing, she'd kicked him out solely so her nerves had a chance to calm the hell down. They're up and down and she knows what she wants to ask, knows that she wants this, but it's also not the first time she's done this and the last time she'd blurted it out. Hadn't gone over too well.

She'd found a blue dress about the same length as the uniforms, a few shades darker than that and she's pinned the hair up in a functional bun while dinner's cooking -- some steak since Jim likes it, proper greens, and a pie sitting in the oven with some ice cream in the freezer. It's not exactly a feast, but it'll do.

When McCoy's sure it's ready to go, she opens the front door and pokes her head out, pretty sure she'll find Jim. "Your banishment's over," she says, nerves fluttering as she looks him over and thinks about kids, thinks about his kids and how much she wants to talk about that with him. "Dinner's ready."
leftwithmybones: (! plot pissy and made up)
When McCoy wakes up, it's to that early-morning loathing that always comes when it's been too late of a night. Between stumbling home too late and rousing Jim for a late night quickie, it doesn't leave much time for rest. She wakes, dislodging the covers while trying as best as she can not to wake Jim up -- and hell, it's not that she's avoiding him completely, not totally, it's just that she's had a lot on her mind now that their marriage hasn't completely imploded and she ain't getting any younger. The thoughts had started occurring to her a while back, but now they're coming out in full force like they won't hide any longer.

Those thoughts can be put aside.

She stumbles, naked, for the shower and puts a lot of time towards feeling human again. The cascade of warm water over McCoy's face is desperately needed and she leans into the spray, using Jim's soap, since it looks like she's out and needs a trip to the Compound. She towels off and heads for the bedroom, creeping on tiptoes and peering inside the drawers. She fiddles with her ring as she looks, absently hooking it back onto the chain she's taken to wearing it on so she can still do clinic hours and wear her ring.

Right about the third drawer she's looking in, things get weird.

"Damn it, Jim," she growls, yanking drawer after drawer open. Back in the Academy days, a prank like this might've been appreciated or laughed at, but it's too damn early in the morning and Jim's dumped all her clothes. She yanks men's shirt after men's shirt out of the drawers, littering the floor with the damn things. Eventually, she grabs hold of Jim's Starfleet U t-shirt they'd found buried and one of his pairs of boxer-briefs, yanking them on with the furious efficiency that always turns up when Lena's mad at Jim.

Clothes all over the floor, temporary clothes stolen, she leans over and flicks him hard at the arch of his foot. "Damn it, Jim," she snaps. "Wake the hell up and tell me where you put my clothes."
leftwithmybones: (science blue: by ?)
It's nothing he'd ever expect of Jim, but maybe that's his problem. Maybe he's always figuring this out because Jim keeps going above and beyond his expectations. He staggers inside slowly, staring upwards with his mouth open. "Holy shit, Jim," McCoy says, staring around at the sheer size of the place, exhaling as he comes to a stop in the centre of it.

And it's not even turned on, yet. "Now I'm starting to understand why you spent so many late nights making love to this thing instead of with me," he retorts, resting one hand on the chair to steady himself before he twists his torso and gets comfortable perched on the edge of one of the seats. "Show me how it works," he says.
leftwithmybones: (Default)
Sign here to endorse Dr. Leonard McCoy's bid for council.
leftwithmybones: (time to gut you: by circa77)
There aren't enough hours in the day. After all the responsibilities he's got to care for are through, he barely has time for a personal life anymore, and in the middle of all this, he's supposed to plan a wedding. It's beyond ridiculous. He doesn't even know what to do about it, but he knows it's weighing down on him and he's started to lose sleep.

He's also too stubborn to abandon any of his old responsibilities, which is why he's in a foul mood when he shows up for Bran's PT session -- running on two hours of sleep and the question still in mind about his newest project and where he's going to get enough stock to fabricate the taste of beef constantly and consistently.

McCoy drops his medical kit on the counter, eyeing Bran and hoping his impatience isn't showing too badly. "You ready?" he asks curtly, diving right into the session.
leftwithmybones: (relax)
He's not sure when the hell it happened, but somewhere along the way, McCoy got so involved in his projects and Auggie and the Council and the goddamn tribbles that he stopped caring about other things. The first thing to go was the time with Jim, which he hates. The second thing is some of his shifts, which he hates.

And the third thing? The third thing is his hair. He's let it grow and grow and whereas it used to curl around his ears and that didn't matter so much, now that it's managed to grow to his shoulders and makes him look like a goddamn hippie, he cares. He has to tie it up in a ponytail just to keep it out of his face and he feels like he's sixteen and rebelling again. He doesn't have time to cope with it, so he knots it up haphazardly as he gets ready for the day while scraping his palm over his cheek's stubble, groaning when he realizes he's one long leap away from a goddamn trip to the desert for Burning Man.
leftwithmybones: (middle distance: by ?)
He has to stop putting this off.

There's a line he's been straddling where he wants to deliver a good product to Auggie, but he's not going to perfect it until he gets a few prototypes in testing and the best person to try them out is Auggie. He's managed to create an organism that supports the contacts and has matched it to Auggie's vitals so that it won't bother him. They're not permanent and they're definitely finnicky, but the big part of this is the brain implant.

"Once I put the implant in, it's basically a receiver," he explains, showing off the chip in a petri-dish. "Which means that on the off chance we ever get cable television here, you might flicker," he jokes in a deadpan. "Once it's in, you slip in the contacts and then you can turn them on and off. Black and white," he reminds him. "And yeah, for a while they might be a little fuzzy. There's some tweaks I might need to make and there's a solution you'll need to keep the contacts in to keep them healthy," he says. "I'll write it all down," he promises, eyeing Auggie and giving him some space to talk or ask questions. "You still want to move forward with this?"
leftwithmybones: (profile: by dumplingdoodles)
It's one hell of a strange thing to look forward and hate a day simultaneously to this degree.

Hell, in the years that Jim wasn't on the island, he didn't know what to do, so he wound up getting drunk in Jim's stead. Now, with Jim back, the tradition returns. True, it's not gonna be the same, what with the lack of assholes to pick a fight with and the fact that this is the first year they're engaged and he's coping with the memories he knows Jim would rather not have. Something in McCoy says it has to be a good one, as a result.

It's why he's grateful he's got the Saurian brandy tucked away. There's two full bottles of the stuff left, but after tonight, there'll only be one. Bottle lazily clasped between two fingers, the night booked off, and wearing comfortable clothes, McCoy's ready to drink until his insides implode.

He sets the bottle down in front of Jim, tilting the bottle until the label shows. "Whatever you're doing, stop," he instructs. "We're starting your celebrations. Now."
leftwithmybones: (discuss: by spacewhaleicons)
WEEK 1 & 2: Hygiene
ACTIVITY: Handwashing activity with glo-germ

WEEK 3&4: CPR & blood wounds.
ACTIVITY: Wrapping proper tourniquets.

WEEK 5&6: Symptoms of island-diseases.
ACTIVITY: First aid steps.

WEEK 7&8: Sex Ed
ACTIVITY: Matching game with STDs & symptoms

WEEK 9&10: Diet & Fitness
ACTIVITY: Keep an activity log.

WEEK 11&12: Pregnancy
ACTIVITY: Care for an egg as if it’s a child

WEEK 13&14: Disease Weeks
ACTIVITY: Diseases will be assigned and groups must diagnose the disease based on the presentation.
leftwithmybones: (frustration: by avictoriangirl)
He's so damn cold.

Every time that the winter rolls around, his bones ache right down to the very bottom of his stomach. He's bundled up in three damn layers and he's got a thick coat on and he's inside. He's inside and he's staring up at the mistletoe that's popped up in the middle of their new little townhouse -- which looks nice enough, even if it's not the home he built for himself.

And now, he's got a strange place to live, he's stuck under the mistletoe, and he's so damn cold -- the scarf around his neck only barely starting to warm him up.
leftwithmybones: (wtf is wrong with your brain: by ?)
McCoy has passed righteous indignation roughly an hour ago and he's slid right into a comfortable niche where he's mad as hell and he's just not going to take it anymore. He'd been relieved and proud to get the signatures needed, but when he'd stopped to hand them in and ask how Jim's had come along, they'd told him that Jim had dropped his name out of the running.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out why, even though McCoy's got about ten on hand in order to give him an answer. He tugs at the sleeves of his long emerald green henley and paces back and forth outside of the farmhouse, trying to find some kind of sanity or sense or calm words that will help him out.

He's got nothing.

Instead, he's going to go in guns blazing. He's going to kick down the door and he's going to let himself be mad as hell. He doesn't bother knocking, using his shoulder as leverage to get the door open. "Hey!" he snaps, voice booming through the house (and probably scaring the cat while he's at it). "Jim Idiot Tiberius Kirk. Where the fuck are you?" he demands, pushing his hand heatedly through his hair one more time and managing to dislodge it from its hold.
leftwithmybones: (gesture: by ?)
Please sign Leonard McCoy's bid for Council.
leftwithmybones: (steady: by ?)
At her age, Jo's beginning to insist that she's too old for certain things. McCoy doesn't want to believe that's the truth, but he knows that she's going to slip away from him one day and he won't get her back. If that means he has to take advantage of these times while he can, then he'll do it, no matter what. It means that when they get back from the Iowa drydocks (and McCoy's over his last panic attack from the shuttle), he curls up with Jo in bed, the blankets tightly snug around them, and he reads to her from one of her favorite books -- Where the Wild Things Are.

Knowing Max as he does know, what that temper is like and the issues he has, it's a whole different experience, though he tries not to let it temper the story as he speaks. He tugs Jo even tighter to him, his gaze slipping to the door every now and again to check for Jim or his mother, wanting to know if this moment is privy to any witnesses.

"How you doing, Jo, baby?" he murmurs, taking a break as he turns the page.

Sleepily, she peers blearily up at him. "M'okay," she says quietly. "Keep going."
leftwithmybones: (stunner)
This could be a very, very bad idea. Still, Bran's interested and it'll give Jim someone to talk about space with who won't freak out and have a panic attack at the memory. It's why he shows up to Bran's next appointment with an extra body in tow, with the hope that he can sit at the back and make sure Bran continues the stretches right.

"Remember," he says pointedly to Jim, giving him two prodded fingers in his side. "He's young and he's interested in space. That's no reason you get to brainwash him with space glory. Behave," he says, hoping that Jim understands the message between the lines -- that Bran's from a different world and a different time and their personal relationship doesn't have to be the main event, here.
leftwithmybones: (Default)
At the time, it'd seemed like a good idea. They're in some strange fantasy that's made up of moments in his head, they're home, but not home, so why shouldn't he capitalize on the fact and pack a couple bags in the night so he can whisk Jim away to Iowa and the dry-docks. If this is his head, he'll want to make Jim happy and if that's the case, then the Enterprise ought to be in there for repairs.

What he did not prepare for was the fact that even though this is in his head, his goddamn aviophobia hasn't vanished. He's currently sitting in one of the seats in the shuttle, head between his knees and breathing so hard that he thinks he'll never breathe a deep breath again. In short form: he's going to throw up and it'll be the shuttle company's fault for not letting him do it in the bathroom. Another lurch and McCoy groans heavily, sinking even further forward, like he's attempting to melt into the floor.

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Dr. Leonard McCoy

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