leftwithmybones | (no subject)

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.

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Jim looks up at him, heat rushing to his face at the anger in Bones' features. It isn't directed at him, but Jim almost wishes that it was. Anything would be easier than dealing with this, and he opens his mouth, ready to push just enough to get the fight he needs, but what comes tumbling out is, "Jesus, what are we gonna do?"

Kids had been something for the future to attend to, a certain but as yet uncrystallized need, and now it's as if the floodgates have been opened. "I want our kids, Bones."

He rubs and pinches at the bridge of his nose and this is the problem. He doesn't have a damn clue. He's dressed in his pajamas and he's sitting at the table and they're discussing the fact that he hasn't got a damn uterus to carry a kid. How fucked up is their life? "Yeah, well, it's not happening," he says, something brittle and broken in his voice.

Jim watches him curl back over his bowl, his own back straightening. Everything about this is a nightmare, but however he's feeling, there's no room for them both to fall apart. "So we surrogate," he says. "Nothing's actually changed, it just feels like it has. We'll get back to center, Bones."

"Look, are we talking about this in the hopeful way you're so very accomplished in being optimistic about or are we treating this as a goddamn life plan," he says bluntly, because he knows that he's ready to deal with it. "I'm just saying, if you and I want to surrogate, we actually need to start doing shit," he points out.

It's a little like driving over that cliff in Riverside. He's thought about it a few dozen times, but Jim hadn't been sure he's ready until he finds himself already taking the plunge. "If you're ready now, then we start doing shit," says Jim, heart pounding. "There's island precedent, it can be done."

"Yeah, well, first thing first is I need samples. Both you and me, so we can choose the more healthy viable option," he says, his medical brain working despite the heavy pressure of the alcohol. "And then you need to find a woman," he says, lips together tightly because he feels like that's the nigh on impossible part. "And she's going to need to see a therapist and get tested and sign papers. And then, if, if you can find a woman, then we start trying to impregnate and then nine months later, we get a kid."

So it could be a year or two away or it could be too damn long for him to want to think about.