leftwithmybones | Entries tagged with jim

Once the speeches end, McCoy waits for the crowd to disperse and for people to move on to whatever comes next. As far as he's concerned, what comes next is waiting for Jim to come down from all the restless energy that he's probably buzzing with. Hell, the man's bad enough with a failure on his back, but a success makes him all the more dangerous. He ought to have put some kind of contingency plan into action so no one comes out of this hurt.

He's eased against a tree near the back of the stage, thinking about the productions that he's seen in his time here and how he's graduated to watching political events live. There was a time a year ago when he didn't think he'd even make it out of the house most days, let alone be present for something like this.

When the crowd's thinned out enough, he pushes away from the tree and catches up to Jim, falling into step at his side. "I'm giving you five free minutes to let your ego out," he says. "So use it wisely."

Where McCoy comes from, he knows that when you make a promise, the vow's as good as being written in blood. Debts, avowals, and all other kinds of promises are only meant to be broken on pain of violence and possibly death -- yeah, he knows it's real dramatic, but he comes from a long line of overdramatic fools. It's why Jim's owing him one is being taken seriously.

It's also why he's handing over the second trial to Jessica. When he'd taken on a lab assistant, he hadn't done it because he was lonely or had any kind of sympathy for the girl needing work; it'd been nothing like that. She's smart, good in a tight situation, and adaptable. Hell, she's brighter than half the ensigns Starfleet sent up to the Enterprise to get shaped into acceptable members of the 'Fleet.

Still, trust or no trust, he's placing a hell of a lot of responsibility into her hands in the form of a little aerosol can, loaded up with the second iteration of the sedative. He's changed a couple of chemical aspects and engineering ones to do with the release mechanism -- mostly to make it a finer spray, closer to gaseous than a liquid. "Now," he's explaining as he hands it over. "Remember, the element of surprise is key. If he's anticipating it, adrenaline might spike and I don't want that. I'm aiming to get some blood samples out of this time. I'll be there after to monitor vitals and make sure he doesn't die."

Which isn't half as much a joke as he'd like, given Jim's unique reaction to some medications. Still, McCoy's going to bring him back if that happens. He'd never let Jim out of his sight; not really.

"Understood?"

Someone is breathing on him.

No. McCoy shifts slightly and tries to push the weight off him. He doesn't remember going out to the bar or talking to anyone last night that could've come home with him, so he amends that 'someone' into a something. Last he checked, Plum couldn't make this much of a dent (and didn't have breath half this bad), which means that something's gone wrong. The heat's changed, too, roiling into something that's a little different than the usual.

Once he's got his eyes open, it doesn't take him very long to realize what's going on. First of all, his home has got sunlight peeking in through the wooden beams -- that's definitely wrong -- and second, there is a dog curled up on his chest.

Naturally, McCoy does what a sane person would do in this situation: blame Jim. "Jim!" he shouts, voice still rough with sleep. "What'd I tell you about strays?"

It's nearing the end of yet another day and McCoy's honest to god lost track of them. Instead of sitting around with his father and staring at the machine like it'll just vanish, he's gone out to the bar that's just down the street. Jocelyn's favorite place, considering McCoy had spent so much of his time here in the last days. He's got a heavy drink in front of him and has been rubbing his hands over his face, trying to make sense of any of this.

He can't finish a cure in a day. Killing his father does nothing. Not killing him doesn't do a damn thing. He's ready to put on a goddamn tutu and dance the ballet around the hospital in a day's time just to see if that does anything. The only consolations to any of this is that he's got friends and that every day at the same time, Joce brings by Jo and he sees his baby girl.

He's going to miss that if ever they solve the stupid problem.

He finishes the fifth of whiskey and slides it back over the counter. "Another, Jack," he requests quietly, laying down the credits he needs. He's got the same number in his wallet every day, he just varies the spending habits. Now, all he wants to do is use every last one of them for drinks while he tries to figure out why they can't get back.

When he wakes, the sun is familiar, the chair is familiar, and his father is still alive. At first, McCoy feels nothing but relief at the situation because he thinks that it's solved, that he's done it. He thinks that right up until the minute that his chronometer beeps at him. He only glances at it momentarily to get the time, but it's the date that strikes him as more pertinent.

"Goddammit," he mutters. It has to be broken. He yanks it off his wrist, trying to fix it, trying to get the right date on. He'd gotten through the day, he'd let his father live, things should be different as they move on. He looks around, sees his father, sees Spock and Uhura and Jim and they're all in the damn same positions as they were yesterday.

Goddammit, he thinks as cold dread begins to permeate his whole body.

It's not the next day. It's the same as before and any minute now, the pleading is going to begin again. He can't do this, not again. Why the hell is he back here when he changed things, when he made it better?

In his life, McCoy is never going to forget. His wedding day, for one. The way that band of gold slid onto his finger and felt right. The first day of his internship and the damn IV that just wouldn't go in. The day Joanna was born and the way he'd prayed over that little bed for her to just cry. And a chair. A hard-backed blue chair with frayed padding on the seat digging into his lower back.

The same chair that he's just started awake in. The same chair he hasn't sat in for over four years. The same goddamn chair he slept in for weeks while his marriage started to dwindle around a drain.

At first, he swears it's just a nightmare. There's no way any of this is possible or real. He'd gone to sleep with Plum purring away, tail idly whacking at his shoulder and he's woken up to a nightmare, the sound of a heartbeat constant at his side. Shit, is all he can think as he wakes and sees the body in the hospital bed, sees all the medical equipment, sees the time, and (worst of all), sees the date.

"Fuck," he says, scrubbing his hands over his face. Going home had always been a low-lying hope, but traveling back in time...well, he's no goddamn physicist and while it might be possible, he really hadn't been keeping red matter lying around his bedroom. He slides out of the chair, trying to prevent it from creaking and waking his father up, trying to just get out.

He knows the events of the day. He knows it like it's been burned into his brain. He'll be begged three times -- come morning, noon, and evening. Joce stops by at lunch with Jo and berates him for not coming home and he takes one quick respite in Joanna's presence before he returns to his father and finally, finally caves.

Gives in only for a cure to show up three months later. He stands and inches to the edge of the bed to check the chart, as if something will be different and it'll prove that it's all just a nightmare after all.

Dr. Leonard McCoy

damn it, jim

Entries tagged with jim

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