Work Text:
Fuck Protocol
By Anne Higgins
His hands shook – shook damnit! Surgeons' hands did not shake – as he tried to find enough strength to go on with his medical log. He swallowed hard, then continued, "It's been three days since the volcanic eruption that cut off our landing party. I … keep thinking about all the ways even relatively minor things can kill someone when left untreated for that length of time." Shock, infection, dehydration, exposure. … "I sent my best medic along per standard protocol when the captain and first officer are on an away team. Not that there really is a protocol that covers this since the two fucking morons are never supposed to be off the ship at the same time and why the fucking hell Starfleet lets them get away with this mission after mission –" He brought both of his hands slamming down on his desk, shouting, "FUCK!"
The large brown tribble sitting a safe distance way trilled in alarm, and he scooped it up in his throbbing hands. "Sorry," he whispered brokenly into the soft fur. "So sorry." Shitfaced began to purr, but without the man who'd given the tribble its ridiculous name, the sound could not soothe him.
"Computer, stop. Transfer to personal log database," a shaken voice said from the doorway of his office, and he looked up to see a beautiful woman with the same haunted look in her eyes he knew he must have. "Authorization Uhura."
"Acknowledged," answered the artificial voice programmed into the computer. "Transfer completed."
Lieutenant Nyota Uhura took hold of his arm and pulled him up, then over to the cot Leonard and Jim slept on whenever a crisis in sickbay kept the CMO from returning to their quarters. At the moment it was deployed in what Jim insisted on calling the 'sofa setting.' It gave the two of them enough room to sit down and rest against each other. In a way it was strange to take comfort from one another. One or the other should have been free from worry and extremely grateful that it was the other's lover down on the surface. Should have been kind of a crazy perk to being the husband of the ship's captain; the lover of the first officer – never, ever off the ship at the same time.
No, it should have been far too awkward, but Jim and Spock always went together. And who better to turn to in these awful, lonely hours than his best friend?
Hey, I thought I was your best friend!
You were, but now you're my husband. That trumps best friend and leaves the slot open for other applicants.
Oh, okay, then I guess Spock's mine. Kinda. We're working on it?
They sat there for several minutes, petting Shitfaced, waiting for their lives to end or start again. "I … I can feel them," she said after the silence became too big for the tribble's purring to fill. "I know they're still alive."
A mental bond between mates – a Vulcan trait Spock managed to share with her enough to give her a vague, but constant sense of him. But it couldn't tell her where he was, and it certainly couldn't tell her anything about Jim. Still he loved her for trying.
He wanted to offer her something in turn and struggled to think. "Winslow is a good man. Good at his job." And how sad was it that all he could do was give a recommendation for the poor sap of a medic he'd sent along to look after the two biggest trouble magnets in the galaxy?
Her head rested on his shoulder, and she sighed, the wetness of tears in the sound. "It's just his job to look after them."
Leonard could have argued. Could have said the man had taken the same oath he had to care for the sick and injured, but he didn't. Bottom line, she was right. Winslow was a member of the crew and prone to following the orders of captain and first officer. If they were remotely conscious, they'd order him not to risk his life for theirs and he'd obey. Probably give the poor kid guilt nightmares for the rest of his existence, but yeah, he'd run for cover if ordered to do it. Hell, given Jim and Spock's infernal luck, it was even the smart thing to do since odds were those with them were more likely to die than either of them.
Another long silence, then she shifted and rose with a grace that defied the fear trying to weigh her down. She pressed a kiss to his temple. "I have to get back to the bridge."
He nodded and tried not to acknowledge the stab of hatred her words caused. She had to return because she could help with the search, while he had a sickbay full of empty beds and nothing to do but worry wherever he chose to wait.
Time blurred as he sat there alone with Jim's tribble, but he knew at least an hour or two had passed when the inevitable finally happened. "Three beaming straight to sickbay," Uhura's voice announced, and he leapt for the door.
He didn't break stride until he'd reached the first bed triaged for transporter reception and someone took the tribble out of his hand a split second before a body – male and too covered with blood to even begin to see the color of the jersey – materialized in front of him. He didn't look at the face just went straight to work. Sterile field on, orders leaping to his lips as he fought to seal one oozing injury after another. And that was the hell of it. Oozing, not gushing. Too serious to stop without a surgeon to do the work, but not enough to die from if they'd just gotten the beam in sooner. Going to die. The logical part of his brain assessed the situation and called it, but he was angry and he would not allow it. He. Would. Not.
Faster and faster his hands flew, sealing up damage, giving the blood being pumped into the patient a chance to stay inside. And by some miracle it worked. The heart continued to pump, the lungs to rise and fall. Safe enough to move on. "Harshman, he's yours," he snapped to the surgeon assisting him, then whirled to the next bed.
A swift scan of the room took everything in – the sheet covering the third body; Winslow standing beside it; Spock looking bruised, but in good shape as he held Nyota; and -- a sob caught in Leonard's throat – and Jim sitting on another bed, petting Shitfaced. Face pale, eyes haunted, but nothing more than the same bruised-state Spock suffered. No time to say a word, and he moved to take over the work on a female ensign.
She'd lost less blood, but had a broken arm and leg. A few burns. Saving her didn't quite require a miracle, but another hour and they would have had a second blanket-covered body. The initial team had done good work, but he had to pull off a tricky by-pass around an artery that wanted to rupture. He finished, handed off the more standard work back to them, then stepped back.
Again his eyes swept the room. First patient stable, vitals growing stronger now that warm, blood flowed through, not out of his body. Second patient in good hands. Third beyond help. He went over to Winslow, touched his arm in comfort, then gave him the escape of procedure. "Report, Lieutenant."
The man turned and gave him the details. Some he already knew – volcanic eruption, minerals in the ash blocked the ship's sensors and communication until Scotty found a way to punch through – but Winslow filled in the rest. Two of the away team killed instantly, the others injured by debris. So little he could do, but he'd done all he could. Hadn't he?
Leonard saw the deeper question in his eyes -- could anyone else have done more? Then it vanished into the certainty that said he thought he was looking at a man who could have. "No, you can't think that way," Leonard told him. "Someone else might have been killed with the others. And you did a good job." He nodded toward the two patients. "You triaged them correctly." Although he hadn't. First patient should have been classified 'beyond help.'
He shrugged. "Another five minutes and. …" He shook his head. "I knew there was a good chance you could still save him when we got the transport signal."
Which meant he either had an incredible eye for what others could do or a mild case of hero worship. For the moment Leonard couldn't figure out which, but it really didn't matter. He could see the one important thing – Winslow was done. Leonard knew the feeling, but now wasn't the time. But he couldn't let him give up medicine along with ship duty. Hell, he'd always thought the man should be a doctor anyway. He spoke very softly, "Discharge to a civilian medical school or Starfleet Medical, I'll see that it happens."
Winslow looked startled, then sighed in undeniable relief. He opened his mouth to answer, but Leonard shook his head. "Not now. Think it over for 24 hours, then let me know."
"Thank you."
Leonard nodded, then muttered, "Dismissed."
His personnel taken care of, Leonard turned his attention to the last two who needed it. He fixed both Jim and Spock with his best 'Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me' glare and both of them proved they did have a few self-preservation instincts as they quickly flattened out on their respective medibeds. (Although Spock looked more bemused than properly worried.)
The scanner readouts instantly confirmed his eyes-only diagnosis – a few bruises and scrapes. Utterly nothing requiring the CMO. Which worked out well since he was done.
"Usual painkillers and muscle relaxants as needed," he snapped to Chapel, then turned on his heel. "I'll be in my office. Don't bother me unless the fucking ship's about to explode."
He heard her answer, "Yes, doctor," a moment before the door slid shut, cutting him off from probing blue eyes.
*
He cuddled his tribble close, a living echo of the teddy bear his uncle had ripped apart in one of his drunken rages. Bones was going to leave him. No. Tears burned his eyes, and he couldn't think what to do.
Long, graceful fingers, curled around his biceps, then gave him a shake, and he looked up into Uhura's face. "Get in there," she told him.
No. If he went in there, Bones would tell him goodbye. No.
"Jim," Spock appeared at his side, then with surprising gentleness got him on his feet, and relieved him of the tribble. "Nyota is correct. You must go to him."
He shook his head. He'll leave. Everyone leaves.
"Captain," Uhura snapped, "he needs you."
He was across the room and going through the office door before he even registered moving. For an instant he almost fled, but that was long enough for the door to seal him in.
His husband stood in the middle of the room, his back to the door as if he'd simply stopped walking and didn't know what to do next. "Bones?" he whispered.
"Jim … don't you have some captain stuff to do?"
Tears. He could hear them. Bones was crying and trying to hide it. "Husband stuff comes first," he said, crossing over to him, then he wrapped his arms around him.
As Jim drew him closer, Bones turned and embraced him. Jim held him tight while Bones shook. He felt at a loss, and couldn't think what to do other than order the office into privacy mode. No other eyes or ears to see his husband fall apart because he'd been stupid enough to fall in love with a basketcase by the name of Jim Kirk. "I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again. What else could he say? He didn't know how to be the sort of captain who stayed all safe and sound in his ship while his first officer took all the risks. But he couldn't keep tearing Bones apart. Then he figured out what he had to do, because hadn't he just said it? Husband stuff first.
Jim's stomach churned, but he suddenly knew how utterly different he was from the version of himself who had clung to space until it killed him. Because as much as it would gut him, he'd give it all up – his rank, his ship, fucking outer space – all of it for the man in his arms. "I'll resign," he forced the words out, and, yes, his voice shook, but he felt the rightness of it – this man, not this ship was his life.
Bones went very still. "What?"
"I'll turn the ship over to Spock. We'll go somewhere. Do something else. Just don't-"
"Don't what?" Bones pulled back so he could look at Jim, and God, Bones was beautiful. His face shining with tears, his eyes glowing like green lasers. "Don't leave you?"
Miserable, he nodded.
"Never happen. Not this side of death. Never. You got that?"
He nodded and did believe. At least until the next time his inner demons rose up to make everything all about him. But no, it wasn't. Not this time. The strain of the last few days had almost destroyed the man he loved. He could make certain it never happened again. He could do this. For Bones. "I should tell Spock-"
Bones shook his head. "Jim, not a chance in hell I'm letting you do that."
Relief made him light headed. Relief and love so hot it all but burned him to a cinder, because despite the power this fucking insane way Jim loved him gave Bones, the man absolutely refused to use it against him. It seemed so unfair not to meet him halfway, but if he stayed captain, he had to be his sort of captain. "I … can't stay behind."
"I know." He smiled. It was forced, but seemed genuine. "For all the fighting we've done about it, I've always known."
And they were back to his quitting because, "I can't keep doing this to you, Bones."
"You won't." Bones sighed. "You're going to do it to yourself instead."
"What?"
"Protocol says the captain and the first officer are never to leave the ship at the same time. You've pretty much told Starfleet to fuck protocol, and they let you get away with it." He shook his head apparently still unable to get why. "Time to pay for it, Jim."
Suddenly Jim had an awful feeling he knew what was coming next. "Bones. …"
"If you can say it, I can, too. Fuck protocol, any mission that requires a medical presence," and they both knew that meant 98 percent of them, "you go, I go."
Shit! Jim wanted to shout, to throw a flat out temper tantrum or pout or something. Anything to keep his husband out of the clusterfucks that made up most of their away team missions, but he didn't even have the tiniest scrap of solid ground to stand on. Hell, given his general life goal of breaking just about every rule in the book, he didn't have a fucking molecule to stand on. God, he wanted to scream. Instead he nodded his agreement. "Just don't fucking die on me." And damn, didn't he sound all calm and mature. Stupid Captain better not get his Bones killed.
It wasn't anything Bones could promise, but he kissed Jim, then said, "I want you alive, Jim. Can't keep you that way if I'm dead."
"And don't you ever forget it."
"I won't. That I can promise." He kissed Jim, then deepened the touch. Given the strain they'd both been under it should have led to a hard, angry coupling, but instead they moved together slowly, each touch soothing and full of love. And when they both came in the same instant it was like the final piece of their partnership fell into place. Together. Forever. In everything.
end