oldfashionedfutureboy | Looking down through a tide of no return

Entry tags:

jiminykirkit,
psl

Looking down through a tide of no return

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This isn't how he'd wanted to handle things. This isn't something Leonard's particularly proud of, isn't something he rightly knows how to handle. By all rights he should do what they all do in times of trouble- talk to Jim, talk to Spock, talk to the command crew that's become a second family to him but- he's older than the lot. Settled in with enough dignity and pride to want to handle this his own way, even if it ain't rightly all that fair. So when the tests come in and he gets a proper read on what's happening? The only person with any idea at all is Chris Chapel. Saint that she is- she keeps mum. Lets Leonard get his recommendations and arrangements all typed up for when they finish the trip to earth.

At least he caught it early.

At least he caught it close to home.

At least there are enough regulations, expectations, interviews and social obligations keeping crew and Jim Kirk busy while Leonard quietly packs a bag and sends everything he'd typed up and prepared in that one agonizingly long week back to their pretty blue marble. The Enterprise will ship out- with a new CMO. The message to Jim cites age, joints, and a desire to retire comfortably- nothing alarming, nothing that should have the man running to haul him back out to the stars again- promises to keep in touch. That he's welcome to visit when the next five year trip's come and gone.

Nevermind that he'll be gone. That he's on the first Shuttle to the ranch as soon as he's turned in all his notes and data, tendered his resignation, and sent time delayed messages of condolence and farewell to the crew that's kept him crazy and kept him alive over the past short while.

The last thing they need to do is watch him hammer away at a wasting disease and hope for a miracle.

Better to head to a house he hasn't lived in for years, better to tell his flesh and blood family what's happening, what to expect. A little more than a year is what he's got. Less, maybe, with all the running around he used to do. Is it any wonder he wants to spend that last year with his boots on the ground, familiar stars overhead, home? Comfortable. There's not much that can be done for him other than to be...comfortable.

Content.

He'll get more writing done than he's ever managed before, having to jump from patient to patient, crisis to crisis. Got a lifetime of messages to record and leave behind for the crew, for Jim. Decades of messages for Jim because he knows- he knows Jim will need it. That it won't be as good as having him there to help but he can't be there if he's going to be six feet under. Maybe he'll feel cowardly when they ship out. Maybe he'll feel like just another asshole that's abandoned him-

Maybe Jim'll hold it against him. Get angry. He'd have a right to it.

God knows what he wrote before heading home wasn't near good enough an excuse for simply vanishing from Starfleet Headquarters during what was meant to be a brief 72 hour report and restock before they head out again. Everyone got messages and only M'Benga and Chapel checked in with him while he was enroute, just. Offering condolences. Notes of studies they looked up. Medications that can ease symptoms. They understand what it is Leonard's doing, wandering back to his own graveyard of a cottage, empty of the wife that left him and the bones of a life he'd abandoned in favor of the stars. It aches, a little, pulling the dustcloths off the old sofa and bed, airing out the place. To think of everything he'd wanted to build, everything he'd never see.

Maybe it hadn't kicked in just yet, what that ticking clock in the back of his mind meant. Maybe this was just another way of running. But he doesn't burst out the bourbon just yet. Gets his kitchen sorted, the firewood for the actual hearth chopped for when the nights get cold, settles up on the porch to watch the sunset. Let his body finally sink in to the gravity of the situation and rest. He'll have to leave Jim a handwritten apology, he figures. The entirety of his journal will go to Jim, every bit of research, every thought and memory, every emotion save one.

You don't really tell someone you love them when you've discovered you've got a terminal illness.

On the one hand some might say it didn't need say'n, that Jim knew every gesture and worried snipe and sharp hand to the shoulder to haul him back from the edge were those three little words carving away at the spaces they didn't touch, stitching them together like cloth. Pulling away felt a little like unraveling and now? Now he's entirely unspooled, that last secret held bittersweet on his tongue like honeywarm whiskey, watching the horizon.

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There's something going on with Bones.

But when he raises it with Chapel, she just smiles and shrugs and reinforces the pathetic little note that Bones left for him. Joints, right? Bones is in his forties. Not young, sure, but these days that's not ancient, either, and Jim's pretty sure he'd know already if Bones had any real trouble with arthritis. They've spent too much time together for the older man to be any fucking good at hiding if he was dealing with chronic pain.

There's not enough time, though. They're the only ship in the quadrant - first time for everything, sigh - and Jim barely sleeps through the 72 hour layover. They get restocked, rearmed, and all the engines get reScottyed, then they're out of there. The Enterprise screams into a little system near the Klingon border, saves the day, blah blah blah.

Jim reads and rereads the message, and shakes his head. He sends one back. A couple more. All completely normal and pleasant and accepting. It's bullshit, of course.

He even, to his great horror, ends up consulting Spock.

In the end, with Spock's help, he applies for leave, and gets his ass on a high speed warp courier back to Earth. There's no bed, and the shielding ain't great, jangling through his bones and his nerves for the entire trip, but then he's back on Earth, and out for blood.

Well. He's out for an explanation, at least.

He knows Bones is at home. So he picks up a decent bottle of Scotch at the dingy little spaceport, splashes cold water on his face, and hops a shuttle out to the cottage.

He'll figure out how to play it when he sees how Bones reacts, but he's not going to give him any warning, just in case. It's four in the afternoon, and he's about to rap on the door.

The first few days he makes the drive to eat with his mother and Gran, glad for the company. Filling them in had been- not entirely fun, but necessary. Someone needs to know what's going on an while they understand- they ain't all that happy. Giving them space to adjust is only polite. He's in the middle of starting up dinner for himself, a large batch of something he can work on for the better part of the week when he hears someone on the winding road to the cozy little space he'd set up for himself.

Solo hospice, sort of.

He's not really expecting company, so the sound is startling enough to nick his thumb when someone knocks- the slow welling of blood irritating more than anything else. With a swear and a sigh he bunches a rag against the small cut, shouldering the door open with a scowl that drops into immediate shock. "Jim? What are you doing here?"

There's some good smells coming from inside, and Jim half wishes he had any appetite at all. The door bumps open gracelessly, and there's a familiar face there. Jim lets himself exhale, lets a little of the tension in his shoulders slither away. Good. At least Bones still exists.

He lifts the bottle, waggling it. "Came for a drink," he says with brittle cheerfulness. "Would've called ahead first, but I figured there was an even chance of getting bullshit in return, so can I come in?"

Smile, smile.

"..." Well, shit. He hadn't counted on Jim abandoning the mission to come investigate. Because that's exactly what this is, an investigation, because Jim doesn't do letting go anymore than Leonard does and-

well. Part of him might've expected this.

The rest just melts a little against the doorframe, eyes closing with a long suffering sigh. "Sure, Jimmy. Come on in. Take your shoes off, though, I don't want you track'n dust in."

Without further explanation he pushes away, hand still wrapped tight around the cut on his thumb, peering down at the sluggish flow of blood taking it's sweet damn time to clot.

As far as Jim's concerned, he hasn't abandoned anything. It's just on hold, while he finds out what the fuck is going on here. If his CMO, his doctor, his best friend is up to something then he needs to know what it is.

(They are still those things to each other, right? He hasn't lost Bones by failing to notice something the other man needed?)

He nods curtly, completely fake smile still plastered on his face, and kicks off his shoes, padding inside.

"You need something for that?"

"Nah, I'll get it sorted. Surprised me a little by knocking is all, wasn't expecting company." Doesn't take much to rinse the cut and run a dermal regenerator over it in a few quick passes, even if it takes a half second longer than normal. Jim shouldn't notice-

Then again a suspicious Jim is a hyper-vigilant Jim and god, did he forget how squirrely he could get when Leonard dared to have anything he didn't pony up immediately. Pair that with the too sharp, too fake smile he hasn't had pointed in his direction in years?

Yeah, he'll need that drink. He's about to deal with a full on kirkian meltdown or blowout argument like they haven't had since their early days at the academy. "Speak'n of- why are you here, Jim? What about the mission?"

How the fuck was he not expecting that Jim'd show up at some fucking point? Has Jim completely misread whatever it is that's between them, or Bones' estimation of Jim's intelligence? He's all anger/dismay/worry/fury/anger as he follows Bones inside.

Is Bones moving slower?

Jim knows his intuition is a thing. Always been a super power of sorts. He also knows that if he second guesses everything, he'll get it all wrong, so he's not gonna jump at every tiny signal.

"Mission is fine," he says tightly, plonking the bottle on the table and stowing his bag in the corner. "We dealt with the Klingons. Spock has the conn for now, and he can handle the next assignment. I need to know why you're here, Bones."

Yeah, this- this is gonna involve yelling. Leonard weighs how much he can probably get away with not explaining versus how adamant Jim will get if he tries to stonewall him- not that it ever worked, Jim's got a nose for bullshit stronger than Leonard's and normally it's fair and fine, but right now? Not the most endearing trait. He grabs two heavy, cut crystal highballs and sets them on the table to match, grabbing ice for each. The clink and spin of frozen water on glass rings in his ears like tinnitus, even as he motions for Jim to pour.

"I'm retiring from the fleet, Jimmy, I wrote that much- I didn't want to." he maybe hadn't made that terribly clear in the letter, trying too damn hard not to let any important details slip. "I genuinely didn't. If I could I'd've flown out with you lot for the Klingon mission."

There's a storm coming, and it's gonna be a big one. Bones is trying to keep it simple, trying to placate, but the problem with that is that it means there's something else going on underneath.

Jim's pissed off, and getting more and more afraid underneath, too.

He doesn't think this is about falling for someone and staying on planet with 'em. Bones'd say, surely.

He opens the bottle, and lets it glug-glug-glug into each glass.

"I don't get it, then. No problem with your replacement. Guy did an okay job. But if you wanted to be there, why weren't you? What's making you stay here? You're not exactly in an aged care home, so don't feed me any lines about how you're doddering."

"..." This really is his fault for trying to cut and run without making a big thing of it- in downplaying the situation he's only made the fact that something is up more rather than less obvious. But symptoms are starting to show here and there an he wouldn't have been able to hide it long- moreover?

Leonard reaches for a glass, staring down into the warm amber of it rather than looking Jim in the eye. "...I'm unfit for duty, Jim."

Leave it at that. Please, god, let him leave it at that without making him go into details. Jim won't, Leonard knows he won't, but no small part of him is quietly, achingly hopeful they can just- have a last drink, maybe a few days, and he can send Jim on.

It's a pipe dream is what it is

Bones takes a glass. Jim pauses in the act of reaching for his own. They're trying to find some element of normalcy, but when Bones says that, everything that's potentially normal goes tits up and Jim starts to realize just how wrong this situation is.

That's not a bullshit response.

The reason for being unfit, before? That was bullshit. Being unfit is not.

Jim mms as a response, and makes himself pick up his own glass and take a sip. He may still shout at the other man, depending on just how this goes, but he'll give him a moment's grace.

Or a moment of horrible anticipation, he supposes.

Eventually: "Why?"

"Medically." And that's it. That's all he's going to say, that's all M'Benga or Chris was instructed to give if Jim leaned on them and they actually had to give him something or get court martialed-

Jim doesn't need to know how bad it already is.

How it'll get worse.

How Leonard's got a plan to make damn certain he goes with dignity when his quality of life dips below a certain, specific, measurable point. He's not making anyone go through what he went through with David McCoy. Ever.

"Medically."

Jim inhales. "Terminal? You come back here to die alone?"

There are cracks racing up inside him. How can this happen? What the hell caused it? What can they DO?

"Well that's a leap, Jimmy." Which isn't a no. It's not a yes but it might as well be.

Goddamn James Kirk and his brilliant mind. He'd forgotten just how fucking observant he is, how well he knows Leonard, how much he knows about his baggage, his wounds, his bone deep convictions.

A sip of bourbon settles him somewhat and, steadied by whiskey, he dares to look up and meet Jim's eyes.

"Which means yes."

His voice is starting to crack, now, too. Bones is an incredible doctor, and one who knows how to work with others who might have insight or experience he's lacking. He's saved so many lives. If this isn't something he can fix, then...

"You'd be on board if you could. Said it yourself. If it was something minor you probably would've fixed it, or you would've told me about it. Not lied to me."

His eyes are pale chips of ice staring at Bones. "Tell me you didn't come back here to die without being a nuisance to other people."

"..." He can't really say anything to defend himself here-

That's exactly what he'd planned on doing. His family knows. The crew would learn eventually. Jim wasn't supposed to find out until after he got back- above all else he needed to know they'd be able to focus on the mission. Keep their minds out in the stars where they belonged.

"I came here to be comfortable." Which is as much of an admission as it is a truth.

Jim stares at him, then abruptly tosses back the rest of his glass. He puts it down on the table, ice cubes clinking against each other.

"Is it that soon? How long do you have? Months?"

He's building to an eruption, and he doesn't want to erupt, and he fucking needs this information. He needs all of it. He has to know. How fucking dare Bones think that this was okay to keep to himself?

It's the waiting that's unbearable. Like sitting outside and watching a storm system roll in, air pressure playing merry hell with your sinuses, all of the sky's wrath and ruin whipping about but not yet breaking. That first crash of thunder a horrible, wonderful sound-

But Jim's not ready to rain down on him just yet.

Sighing, tired down to the bones for which Jim named him, Leonard finishes his glass. Pours himself and Jim another, god knows they'll need it. "Got about three before the symptoms get worse. Steady decline after that, look'n at ten, maybe eleven months tops."

"Less than a year."

Jim's hands fist in the thighs of his pants. "You fed me some bullcrap about your joints and you're gonna be dead in less than a fucking year?"

He stalks closer, glaring at Bones, then turns abruptly. Two steps back. Doesn't want to start an actual physical fight. But he can't help turning back again to face him. "How dare you not TELL me!"

This isn't a fight to be won, not really. He doesn't have a damn leg to stand on- so he doesn't yell back. Doesn't holler or bluster or scowl. He just-

Sips his whiskey and leans back in his chair, staring up at Jim with all the weary resignation he's got left in his heart. He hasn't had his moment of raging at the stars just yet- that'll come. He was hoping to be alone for it. Spare anyone the poison of hope that him being angry would mean he'd try to find a cure.

There isn't one. There's never been one. "You were supposed to stay with the ship. I got a backlog of holos for you. Got a lotta writing to do for you. Figure I got enough time and energy in me to give you three, four decades worth of the recorded stuff, more of the handwritten. Shouldn't lose my dexterity till month nine, at least."

He's read the studies. Done the math. It's-

Inevitable. There's no winning this.

"Stay with the ship? How could you think I'd just let you go like that?"

He's planned it all out. Got it all figured. The reality of it is searing through Jim like a supernova, curling through his insides. If McCoy can't find a cure, then there is none, and somehow he expected that Jim would just.... cope.

"No," he says flatly. "No, Bones. I'm not letting you go through this alone while you try to pacify me. I want your attention, I want your time. Yes, I'm selfish like that, because you're one of the most important fucking people in the galaxy to me, but I'm not a two year old to be patted on the head and sent off to play. Whatever you're going through, I'm gonna be here with you and face it with you. You understand me?"

"Jim-" But he can't get a word in, and he expected that to some degree. All this frustration, all this fire-

And it goes hard and flat and, fuck, now he's stepped in it. Now Jim is genuinely, rightly, facing down Marcus and Khan and Nero and the Narada goddamn pissed.

Fantastic.

"You don't want that. You want to fix this. You want an answer or a solution, you don't- you do not belong here, watching me waste away, because that's what's gonna happen. I am not doing that to you- I've done it myself and it broke me."
Some of the weary resignation melts away, an old, irritated fire not yet snuffed out crackling in Leonard's eyes, his voice. "You've faced down everything this fucked up galaxy has thrown at you time and again and come up swinging and like hell am I gonna be the thing that breaks you. I won't do it. So you can stay- a week, maybe two, but you gotta get back to the ship, Jim. You don't belong here. You belong out there. Exploring. Learning. Doing things no sane man has done in worlds no one's ever seen."

"No, of course I don't want that."

Bones is right. He can fight until he drops, and then get up and fight again, but he's not good with slow wasting declines. He can support, he can comfort, he can distract. He's not good with issues of self-care, and dignity.

But he'll figure it out. He has to.

"Then let me hire a nurse. Someone who can help with the things that get harder for you, while I'm still here to support you. I can't leave you, Bones. I can't."

His voice is starting to crack, and he moves closer, pulling Bones' head into his midsection. "I can't."

"It'll kill you to stay, Jimmy." He doesn't want to be the cause of that. The pain won't be near as bad for his slow decline, not physically. But watching Jim's fire sputter out, watching him struggle to come to terms with the inevitable?

This is a shade of visceral empathy he never expected to share with his father.

"...god damnit Jim." He murmurs, slumping into the hold, forehead pressed to Jim's abdomen, arms settling around his waist. "I can take care of myself. I got my family just up the road when things get more difficult. Don't hurt yourself by watching me."

He'll have...handled himself before the situation gets too far, though. Can't code a hypo without being able to feel his fingers, after all.

Would - would it be selfish to stay?

Everything in him is fighting against that. There are times when you respect what a person wants for themselves, sure, no matter how much it might stick in your throat. He's given McCoy time to be alone when he's been sunk deep in something before, because everyone needs time alone to feel the ugly feelings and shout and throw things. But he also can't count how many times he's bulled his way into the other man's quarters when it's been too long. To listen, to be yelled at if necessary, to join him in a drink, to just be there.

Bones has done the same for him. Too often to think about. Like when they lost those ten people over Hellevir III, and Jim was curled in a ball of anger and frustration and regret over those ten letters back home to their loved ones. Or when... when Winona finally told Jim her news.

Does he want to stay for his own selfish reasons, because he can't accept this? Will it hurt Bones more if he stays?

Or is Bones telling him to go purely because he can't handle Jim getting upset over him, and it'll just reinforce that he's not important?

He's breathing shakily with Bones' head against him, Bones' arms wrapped around him.

"You shouldn't be comforting me," he says eventually. "That's not fair on you. I'll deal with it, Bones. One way or another. I don't want to-" Oh, just say it.

"I don't want to miss any time with you."

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