Fears and Guilt

by Snickerdoodlecocoa

Summary:

When a mission goes wrong, Jim Kirk must face the reality that he can't protect everyone in his crew.

OR: As a starship captain, Jim Kirk bears the responsibility for every member of his crew. Losing that control might break him.

COMPLETED!

Notes:

All of my medical terminologies is whatnot I've acquired from other Star Trek fanfiction, so all cred to them. All of my medical knowledge is from... google!

(Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone from this fic (expect Tamara Glass). All rights belong to the owners of Star Trek)

Chapter 1

Not much scares Jim Kirk. He’s faced certain death countless times, actually died, then came back to life, and survived the direst of situations. He willingly chose to take the most dangerous classes and electives at the Academy and volunteered to go on every mission. And yet despite all of that, he’s managed to avoid his greatest fear for six years.

It all changed with a diplomatic mission to a seemingly peaceful planet. Covered with lush meadows and sparkling lakes, every crew member wanted to be a part of the Enterprise’s convoy. After much debate and bribery, a list was posted on the wall outside the bridge. Cadets and senior staff alike could be found clamoring over one another to read the names. In the end, Spock, the one impartial to any and all means of persuasion had selected, compiled the names. Jim, Spock, Sulu, Uhura, (and surprisingly) McCoy, accompanied by two cadets, Sarah Henderson and Mark Daniels would go planetside and conduct a ceremonial signing of D’Farion into the Federation.

Upon arrival at the “city hall”, a tall spire with native ivy growing up the walls, the entire group was at ease. The short tour of the surrounding villages and gardens was exquisite and all that was left was the simple signing. Everything had gone perfectly. Jim and his crazy immune system had stayed calm, the cadets had behaved according to Starfleet protocol despite their age, and, most importantly, nothing went horribly wrong. To be fair, it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that a rebel group ambushed the group.

Spock was the first to notice the slight change in body posture of the secretary in the corner. The slight shifting of the feet, a nervous twitch of the fingers. Almost on cue, Uhura’s fingers slipped into her pocket, the action appearing completely natural, to press the emergency button sewn to the seams. Scotty, upon the Enterprise, received a distress signal and their location, ready to be transported back up at a moment’s notice. The ambush only took about five minutes to run its course. A squadron of twenty-five rebels streamed out from behind the column and tapestries that adorned the walls. Before anyone could even draw a phaser, worn purely for precaution, every member of the party was disarmed, handcuffed, and dropped to the ground with a shock from the cuffs. Maybe it was by intention, maybe not, but Jim was the last to be knocked out. And the last thing he saw before he gave into the darkness was Bones, falling to the ground in a heap, shaking uncontrollably.

---

 

Light and soft noises began to seep into Jim’s consciousness. He cracked open his eyes and McCoy’s blurred form came into view, “Jim? You with me?”

“Yeah. What happened?” Jim reached up to his eyes, only to realize that his hands were still trapped in the cuffs. “Where are we?”

“I’m not really sure, kiddo. Spock doesn’t think that we’ve left the planet, which is good. I’m not really sure how he got to that conclusion, but what the hell—any theories on what happened are helpful. And they took everything— phasers, my med kit, they somehow even found the SOS button.”

“How did this happen? Why? We didn’t have any intel on rebel groups on D’Farion. I didn’t get an angry eyebrow twitch from Spock for doing something wrong.”

“I don’t know—listen, Jim—” McCoy started.

“Where is everyone? Are they okay?”

McCoy took a breath.

“Shit, are they dead? Bones, you have to tell me. Torture? Bones?”

The doctor shifted in his crouch. He turned his gaze towards the corner of the semi-dark, windowless room. Cadets Sarah Henderson and Mark Daniels were slumped in a boneless heap against the wall. Jim’s eyes traced the slits in their throats and followed the dark stain to the floor. Jim’s body tensed up, locking into place, sheer panic gripping at him.

“No no no no no no, shit, Bones, how?”

“They just walked in, and,” McCoy's voice took on a dark edge, “did the deed. Henderson and Daniels didn’t even have the chance to scream. It just...happened.”

McCoy thought he saw a tear forming, but Jim just regained his composure--but it wasn’t Jim anymore. He was Captain Kirk.

“Where are Spock and Uhura? What happened to Sulu?”

“When I woke up, they were here, but after about ten minutes they were grabbed. They knocked me out again...when I woke up, it was just you and the cadets.”

“We need to get out of here. I can’t let anyone else get hurt or killed.”

“Jim— it isn’t your fault. Everyone knows that off-ship missions are—”

“Dangerous?” Jim interjected, “Yeah, but they were cadets. They were supposed to see a new planet. It was supposed to be peaceful. The smoothest mission we’ve ever had despite our reputation of having every mission end badly.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what? Bones, it’s my responsibility to keep them safe. Mine. My starship, my mission, my cadets. I have to tell their parents why their twenty-year-old children won’t be coming home.”

Just as Jim’s tirade ended, the door slid open. Instinctually, McCoy and Jim both turned away from the door, the light blinding them after so much time in the dark. Three bodies were roughly shoved in—Spock, Uhura, and Sulu. And they were all still alive. Shaken, but alive. Sulu bore signs of a beating, shallow cuts decorated his torso and his eye was swelling. Spock’s face was as calm as always, but McCoy could see he was slightly unnerved. Uhura was shaking. McCoy automatically switched into doctor mode, pulling Sulu from between the others and gently propping him against the wall. A deep cut on Sulu’s forearm that was still seeping blood was quickly bandaged by a torn strip of McCoy’s uniform. Spock and Uhura crouched next to the doctor, ready to help at a moment’s notice.

“What did they do to you? Spock?” McCoy asked.

The Vulcan’s voice filled the small room. “They chained Mr. Sulu to the opposite wall from Lt. Uhura and myself. They chains were connected, as to prevent us from reaching him. Any attempts to get close to Mr. Sulu would result in him being pulled off the ground, likely resulting in further injury. After securing our bonds, the rebel group attempted to acquire classified information regarding Starfleet from Mr. Sulu.” Jim raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question. “No, Captain, if it was not already evident from the extensive injuries, Mr. Sulu did not disclose any data.”

Sulu coughed. “I did good, yeah?”

Jim squeezed his shoulder, “You did great, Sulu. What exactly were they looking for? It might help us figure out why they ambushed us.”

“Access codes, serial numbers, schematics. Anything they could get their hands on.” Uhura finally spoke up, “They even asked me to translate a couple of documents in Exlion... when I couldn’t, they took it out on Sulu.”

Just as Uhura finished her sentence, the door opened. Rough hands yanked Jim and McCoy off the floor, away from the rest of the circle. In quick, fluid movements, their hands were pulled back into the same electro-shock cuffs as when they were captured, gags shoved into place. In a combination of pulling and guiding through winding hallways, they reached what could only be described as a torture chamber. Without missing a beat, their hands were freed from the cuffs only to be locked into the chains Spock told them about; there was barely enough slack to move away from the wall. Underneath McCoy’s feet glistened a puddle of blood. Jim’s eyes met McCoy’s and the same thought flashed through heads.

Sulu. That’s Sulu’s blood.

The situation was almost funny. McCoy, who had lost many pairs of shoes to blood splatters in surgery and had knelt in pools of blood, triaging damage, was now standing in a comrade’s blood, unable to fulfill his one job: heal.

Someone walked into the room, clearly the leader. The guards bowed their heads and made their way out, fear visibly rolling off them. He stood tall, using his unnatural height to his advantage. He appeared to be nothing more than a freakishly tall human. He wore no armor, opting for a sheer cloak and the traditional D’Farion garb of a tunic and tight fitting pants. He radiated control and power; even Jim, who normally was immune to such displays, could feel himself cower a little bit. The leader strolled to McCoy and in an almost mindless action, dislocated his left shoulder with nothing more than a clasp and a yank. The scream that McCoy let loose pierced a part of Jim--typically it was Jim who was hurt and McCoy who was made to watch. The switch of the positions was incredibly cruel. McCoy passed out immediately.

It took everything in Jim’s power not to charge at the tall man. His yell into the dirty gag didn’t go unnoticed; the leader turned to face the struggling captain. “How do you like your doctor, Captain?” he gave McCoy’s shoulder another squeeze, the doctor writhing beneath him, even unconscious. “Mostly unhurt? Near death?”

Jim all but growled at the man. All he wanted was to beg to switch places, keep Bones safe. Jim could get hurt. It wasn’t anything new. Years of abuse from Frank and the torture he endured on Tarsus IV built up a pain tolerance unlike anyone's. Bones would yell at him for not noticing he was injured on a regular basis. But it wasn’t supposed to be Bones who was hurt.

“My name is Sentaro Glishtor. I, along with my comrades, the D’Finem, have no interest in joining your federation, and your noose of hierarchy. You must leave this planet with your crew, but only after you have supplied us with the necessary materials needed to free other planets from your federation. I’m sure you can figure out what we need. Let your companion be an example of what will happen to those who do not comply.”

Jim gave the man a flat glare and an eye-roll. The speed at which Glishtor crossed the room was so fast that by the time Jim noticed that he had moved, Glishtor had his arms around him, in a hug almost identical to a lover’s embrace. Except for the fact that the Jim could slowly feel his rib cage crack under the pressure. Glishtor’s arms got tighter and tighter, forcing all the air from Jim’s lungs.

“That, my dear Captain, is the last time you disrespect me. You shall reveal all that I need to know, or I will take the pleasure of slowly bringing your companion to death. You, of course, will be left here. Perhaps death will take you after a week,” he pulled the gag from Jim’s mouth, “but I take it that that outcome is not very likable. But please, answer all of my questions, and other than the dislocated shoulder and your helmsman’s light beating, you will return back to Starfleet with information about me. My name, my motive. The choice is yours.”

Jim spat at Glishtor’s face, “Go. To. Hell.”

It wasn’t even a hard reciprocation. The slap stung as Glishtor’s hand swung across Jim’s cheek. At least he wasn’t crushing Jim’s chest anymore. The loss of pressure left him gasping for oxygen, suddenly acquired the ability to fully expand his chest. There was a slight grating in his chest. That couldn’t be good. “You dare, Captain?”

Jim laughed, “All you, to use a common phrase, bad guys are the same. You don’t want to be ruled over and you demand the same things, expecting to get answers to questions with torture. Nothing original, just the same old act over and over.”

“Then I suppose I should change up the act.” Glishtor pulled a short knife out of a hidden sheath and placed its tip on Jim’s cheek. A slight bit of pressure pushed the blade underneath the skin. The movement earned a grunt from Jim, much to his displeasure. “Are you familiar with the concept of flaying, Captain? Historians often describe it as one of the most excruciating means of torture, almost always leading to the procuration of information from a captive. I wonder how effective it will be for you- should we find out?”

“Do your best, Sentaro.” Jim retorted. Then he screamed.

Glishtor had pulled the knife across his cheekbone, slashing through thin muscle, creating a three-inch cut that went all the way to the bone. Jim had actually felt the knife tip graze the bone for an excruciating moment. And without taking a breath, Glishtor replicated the movement from the top, detaching the skin from Jim’s face, save for centimeter long bits at either end.

Blood was pouring down Jim’s cheek. “Now tell me, Captain, would you like to divulge information regarding Starfleet?” Glishtor asked, “Or should do you need more convincing? I would be more than happy to assist.”

Once more, Jim spat in Glishtor’s face. Only this time, his mouth had been filled with blood. Looking back, Jim would speculate that it was that extra element that pushed Glishtor over the edge. McCoy would laugh, but always wonder if there more to the story.

Glishtor didn’t hold back. It was almost like a montage, flashes of pain and torture. The knife would cut through uniform and skin all over his body. At some point, his command gold returned to cadet red. Fingers dislocated. Punches were thrown from his head to his navel. Fingernails torn from their beds. At some point, through the haze of agony, Glishtor stepped away from Jim to wake McCoy from unconsciousness with a quick slap. Then the thuds of fists on his body were intermingled with McCoy’s pleas to stop, stop, hurt me instead. Glishtor eventually grew fed up with McCoy begging him to stop, crossed the room and shoved the gag back in between McCoy’s teeth and punched him in the gut.

After what seemed like an eternity, the blows came to a stop. Glishtor had pulled Jim’s wrists above his head, letting the chains keep him just barely on the ground. The earlier injury Glishtor inflicted to his torso pulled, ribs grating against each other. Blood streamed down his face from the cuts on his cheek. God, Bones was going to be so mad when--definitely when--they got made it back to the Enterprise. Jim would do everything in his power to get his crew back safely, even if it meant trading himself for the safety of his friends. Which is what he offered to Glishtor.

“You think I’m foolish enough to accept that proposal? As tempting as it is, and as valuable you would be, I’d rather send you on your way. You are nothing to me, Captain Kirk. Nothing but a bank of information that I have to pry open. And if I can’t access that, perhaps we’ll just have to revisit this when you’re feeling more giving. In the meantime, I’ll return you back to your crew members.” He motioned to the guards who walked in, “Take them back to the cell. We’ll speak more tomorrow.”

The guards unlatched the pair’s cuffs from the wall and dragged them back to the cell, where Spock, Uhura, and a mostly conscious Sulu were waiting. They pushed the captain and doctor towards the others and slammed the door shut behind them.

Chapter 2

Almost instantaneously, Jim keeled over. Had Spock not noticed his eyes roll back, he wouldn’t have caught Jim’s body and quickly situated Jim on the floor. McCoy slid against the wall, clutching his dislocated shoulder against his chest. Blood covered Jim’s face and torso. Whatever area Glishtor didn’t injure was drenched in red.

“Doctor, why did Glishtor inflict this upon the captain?” Spock asked, a seemingly obvious question.

McCoy looked at his best friend’s broken body. “Because this idiot mouthed off.”

“Did he—”

“If you’re asking if he gave up anything on Starfleet, no, he didn’t. You have any on how to get out of here?”

Spock frowned. “Unfortunately, Doctor, this door was not meant to be opening from the inside. Other than this room, the hallway they took us through, and the interrogation room, the building’s layout is unclear to me. I believe we just have to wait until the Enterprise can retrieve us.”

“That... isn’t... an... option.” All eyes turned to Jim, who was trying to push himself up on his elbows, hands unusable. His arms gave out and Uhura caught his head and placed it on her lap, ignoring the blood that covered his face. “We’ll never make it out if we wait. Soon their technique will turn from beating to maiming. It isn’t like we need all of our fingers in order to give him the information he wants... he’s already proven that much. And then he’ll kill us if we can’t provide them with the information they want.” Jim’s tone was matter-of-fact as if he had to distance himself to speak the hard truth. “Just like they killed Henderson and Daniels.”

“You are correct, Captain. However, I fail to see how you plan our escape. We do not have the means to leave, nor do we have the physical advantage, with you, Dr. McCoy, and Mr. Sulu incapacitated. We have no other option; if we attempt to escape, they will only hurt us more.”

“Maybe I can try to negotiate with them,” Uhura’s voice joined the conversation. “They speak D’Fion... it was one of the first languages I learned at the Academy.”

“The probability of that succeeding is low, despite your skill. Furthermore, they appear to speak English, so why not negotiate in our native tongue? You will have the advantage.”

“Spock, did you not take Diplomacy 101? The first step in any deal is to embrace their culture, not enforce your own!”

“Nyota...” The break in formality startled the crew, “please be careful.”

Uhura reached over to brush Spock’s hand, an incredibly intimate gesture. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Now we just have to wait till they return. In the meantime...”

“We take care of our own.” McCoy’s voice softened. “Starting with this idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot, Bones.” Jim coughed, blood reddening his lips.

A sense of panic filled McCoy. Given the beating that Jim just took, the blood was either from a nosebleed that dripped down his throat or from a hole in his lung, caused by a broken rib. Whatever it was, he needed medical attention ASAP. Which meant that McCoy had to get him back to the Enterprise. Which meant that they needed to get out. McCoy had nothing to treat Jim’s injuries in the cell, and no one knew when the members of D’Finem would return. They had been brought no water or food. All they had was the clothing they were wearing and the cuffs on their hands. Nothing that could be used in the case of a medical emergency. All they could do was wait.

---

 

Time passed. No one knew how much. It could have been an hour, a day, three minutes. Time became fluid with nothing the mark the hours. Even Spock’s freaky ability to be aware of the current hour and minute disappeared. Nobody looked at the dead bodies in the corner, ignoring the smell of rotting flesh. McCoy kept track of Sulu and Jim’s vitals, asking Uhura to count the seconds. McCoy’s shoulder was still dislocated. He refused to have anyone pop it back it, claiming he wanted to have a focused mind. Uhura insisted he immobilize the limb, so they wrapped it tightly against his chest using Spock’s uniform top. McCoy relocated Jim’s fingers, but they were still swollen and extremely sensitive, rendering both hands useless.

At some point, the door opened a crack and a tray with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread was shoved it. Uhura jumped up and began speaking in D’Fion only to have the door shoved shut in her face. She groaned. “There went that plan. Now what?”

“Now, we wait.” It was rare to hear the captain sound so dejected. This was Jim Kirk , the Kelvin baby, the cadet that tried to pass the Kobayashi Maru not twice, but three times, the Starfleet captain who came back from the dead . He didn’t believe in no-win scenarios. And now he was giving up. At least they had food. The group divided the tiny loaf and water and settled down, anticipating a long wait ahead of them.

After what seemed like several days with only tiny loaves and pitchers of water to sustain them, the door opened again. This time, D’Finem soldiers mentioned to McCoy to get up and leave with them. Uhura once more began speaking in D’Fion, only to be ignored entirely. Finally, the soldiers pulled McCoy off the ground, checked his cuffs, and dragged him out of the room. And Jim panicked. Because he needed Bones. And Bones needed him.

“No! Bones!” Jim tried to get reach out, hold onto whatever piece of McCoy’s clothing he could get his bloody and swollen hands on. By the time he was upright, the door was once more locked shut and Jim was slumped against it, wheezing heavily. Uhura placed his damaged hands on his stomach and eased his head back onto her lap and carded her fingers through his hair. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Leo will be fine. He knows how to handle himself, even in situations like this. They’ll bring him back. Until then, we just have to be patient and hope that the Enterprise finds us.”

“I can’t let them hurt him, Uhura, I can’t.” Jim sounded broken. “Please, make them take me instead. Please...”

Uhura kept on carding her fingers through Jim’s blonde locks, murmuring senseless nothings, in an attempt to soothe the agitated and hurting man.

More time passed. Jim’s condition was slowly declining; blood loss was taking its toll. Sulu was in and out of consciousness, sometimes waking up only to pass right back out. It appeared that the cut went deeper than they initially thought. Even Spock was starting to feel the effects of captivity. The amounts of food and water received was decreasing, his typical Vulcan posture starting to slouch. McCoy was still gone.

Chapter 3

The next time the door slid open, nobody tried to escape or negotiate. But it wasn’t needed. Standing in the doorway was the one and only Chekov, with a set of security officers behind him, and most importantly, Dr. M’Benga with a medical team, including Nurse Christine Chapel. M’Benga was the first to enter the cell, immediately heading to Jim, who looked like he was near death with blue-tinged lips and a blood covered-uniform and face. “How long ago did he sustain these injuries?”

“I am not aware, Doctor.” Spock seemed worried. “But, Ensign Chekov, we must find Dr. McCoy. Sentaro Glishtor, the leader of the D’Finem, removed Dr. McCoy from the cell some time ago and presumably took him to an interrogation room.”

“Call...it...what.. it...is...Spock.” Jim coughed. “Torture...chamber.” With every cough, he grimaced as he stretched the cuts on his face.

“Please, Captain, stay as still as possible while we move you to the stretcher.” M’Benga and his team carefully placed a backboard underneath Jim and fastened only the straps across his chest and legs, aware that he might panic if restrained too heavily. They lifted him onto the stretcher and began scanning him, only to cause just about every alarm to go off. Someone placed an oxygen mask on his face, only to have it shoved off a moment later.

“Wait... Bones. Spock... we have...to get... Bones.” M’Benga moved the mask back on his face.

“Yes, Captain,” Spock stood up and mentioned to the door. “we should retrieve the doctor as soon as possible. It is unclear what Glishtor has inflicted, given the amount of time Dr. McCoy has been missing. Follow me. I can locate the room.”

M’Benga and another member of the medical staff followed Spock from the cell, while others got Sulu situated on another stretcher.

Uhura trailed after Spock, wanting to stay close. Spock led them through a maze of corridors, all with matching white doors and drops of blood smeared across the floor. Finally, they reached the right room... and inside was McCoy hanging from his wrists, a short blade buried to the hilt in each shoulder, blood dripping down his chest. Upon instinct, M’Benga rushed towards McCoy, unlatching the cuffs from the hook dangling from the ceiling. Then Glishtor stepped out from the shadows, phaser pointed right at Spock. “Please, replace Doctor McCoy’s cuffs. I would prefer to not have to use this.”

Spock charged at Glishtor, pure Vulcan rage surging through his veins, raw emotion breaking free, regardless of his weakened state. But Spock was unarmed and feeling the effects of malnutrition, and Vulcan strength or not, a phaser was still a phaser. Glishtor’s shot burned right through Spock’s shoulder, dropping the Vulcan instantly to the bloody floor. In the moment of chaos, Uhura tackled Glishtor. When telling the story later, she would describe that moment as a blur, a moment where all she could see was Glishtor and all she could feel was a desire to inflict pain. The pair hit the ground, Uhura wrapping her fingers around Glishtor’s throat, squeezing has hard as she possibly could. Glishtor writhed beneath her, completely taken by her attack until M’Benga stunned him unconscious with a phaser. M’Benga glanced at Spock, who Uhura had maneuvered into a sitting position, assessing the injury. “He’ll be fine. Some time under the dermal regenerator and he’ll be as good as new.” With Uhura’s help, they got McCoy to the ground, careful not to dislodge the knives.

“As I’m sure you know, we can’t take out the knives yet. We have to get him back up to the Enterprise as soon as possible. The knives, if left in for too long or removed improperly could cause permanent damage, that is, if they haven’t already. I’ll comm the med team and tell them to bring over another stretcher. Spock, can you walk?” The Vulcan nodded, a long-fingered hand clutched to his shoulder. His breaths were shallow, but he was already beginning to regain his steadiness.

Uhura nodded. “I’ll bring them over. It’s easy to get lost in these hallways.” She got up and with a look at Spock, she ran out of the room.

Jim was in an even worse condition when she found him. The medical staff had an IV line already running into the back of his hand and transportable monitoring equipment set up in addition to the oxygen mask. Gauze covered his cheek, already soaked through. “We need to transport McCoy up, along with Spock. Is there another stretcher we can use?”

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Chapel pushed the handles into Uhura’s hands and with a quick murmur of thanks, she raced back to the torture room.

When she returned, M’Benga was kneeling next to McCoy, trying to rouse the unconscious man. M’Benga looked up upon hearing her enter, his face grim. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Can you help me get him onto the stretcher? We can’t jostle his upper body.” Uhura nodded. M’Benga coached her through the proper placement of her hands, and with a heave, they situated the doctor’s limp body on the stretcher. Uhura helped Spock off the ground and draped his good arm across her shoulders. M’Benga pushed McCoy out the door, Uhura and Spock following in an awkward three-legged pace.

By the time they made it back to the cell, Sulu was awake, albeit drowsy, and Jim was somewhat stable; one of the members of the med team had inserted a crude version of a high-tech chest tube into his torso, relieving some of the pressure and giving him a bit more lung capacity. “Great, you’re back.” Chapel flipped open her comm. “Chekov, beam us to the sickbay!”

All they saw next was the golden swirls of light and the walls of the transporter room. A medical team swept McCoy and Jim away, M’Benga shouting, “Get them to the OR! We want Leo to be able to perform surgery again and Kirk’s right lung has collapsed; run two units of O-neg!”

A single nurse took Spock’s weight from Uhura’s shoulder and gently pushed the Vulcan into a hoverchair and headed off to the dermal regen machine. Another nurse manhandled a confused Sulu in the direction of a biobed, Sulu stumbling occasionally. After the flurry of commotion passed, Uhura was left standing alone in the middle of the sickbay. Dr. Tamara Glass, if Uhura was remembering her name correctly, took Uhura’s hand in hers, and guided her to a biobed. “How are you, Lieutenant?”

The simple question startled Uhura. Out of all the questions to be asked, “How are you?” is not the one she expected. Maybe, “Are you injured?”, or “Are you feeling dizzy or lightheaded?” Not “How are you?”

“I’m okay, I think. They didn’t hurt me like they hurt Jim and Sulu and Spock. Just some bumps and bruises.”

The doctor squeezed Uhura’s hands. “You’re a little shaky, honey. Can I run a quick scan?” Uhura nodded. “Alright, I’m sure you know the drill. Up on the bed, please, and as still as possible.”

She waited a moment for Uhura to situate herself and studied the readouts from the biobed and her tricorder. “You’re dehydrated and malnourished, as expected. If it’s okay, I’m going to put you on a TPN and saline drip. I’d also recommend that you stay here overnight, just to make sure no other problems arise.”

“That’s fine. Do you know how the others are doing?”

“I can go check in with M’Benga and Chapel. In the meantime,” she handed Uhura a hospital gown, “you can put this on--sorry, it’s procedure.”

Uhura smiled. “I know. I’ve seen McCoy and Jim fight this out enough times.”

Dr. Glass pulled the privacy curtain around the biobed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. When you’re changed, just pull the curtain back.”

Uhura began removing her uniform, pausing at the sight of rust colored stains on the fabric.

It’s okay. They’re safe. We’re safe.

She left her ruined uniform in a neat pile at the end of the biobed, slipped on the gown and drew the curtain back. She watched the busy sickbay handle the various injured crew members until Dr. Glass returned.

“Lieutenant? I have updates on the others.” Dr. Glass was standing next to her, PADD in hand.

Notes:

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Chapter 4

Notes:

Only one chapter left after this one! Can't wait to see what you guys think!

“Yes, thank you. And please, call me Uhura.” Uhura watched her face intently, the doctor’s face showing no signs of worry.

“Captain Kirk was taken into surgery to repair his collapsed lung and while it was successful, we were forced to place an intercostal drain to remove the blood that accumulated. I believe that he will come out of surgery in about thirty minutes if no other complications arise. Furthermore, we had to stitch up his cheek instead of using a dermal regenerator, due to the severity of the cuts. He will recover fully with no lasting effects. Commander Spock is currently in a dermal regen session, repairing the blast from the phaser. The shot missed everything vital and was nothing more than a flesh wound, but its placement can make long-term recovery painful. He is also being treated for malnutrition. Mr. Sulu is receiving similar treatment to yourself. The beating only resulted in a cracked rib and deep laceration, so some time under the osteo generator will fix the bone before it causes future problems and the dermal regenerator will repair the skin before they even have the chance to get infected. He is also going to get a TPN and saline drip to account for dehydration and malnourishment. Dr. McCoy, received the worst injuries of them all, as I’m sure you’re aware. He is currently in surgery, fixing the practically sheared-though muscle and severed ligaments. I am confident in M’Benga’s ability to repair the damage and allow Dr. McCoy to practice surgery again, however, I will be checking in with him and making sure everything was done properly; he is a surgeon Starfleet values deeply. He will most definitely need to undergo several months of physical therapy starting as soon as his shoulder has healed enough.” She paused for a moment. “Sorry, that was a bit of an information overload.”

Uhura took in the information. “Okay. When can I see them?”

“In a few minutes. I want to get you started on the IV line sooner than later.” Dr. Glass said. She placed a tray on the stand next to the biobed. “You good with needles?” Uhura hummed her approval.

After about a minute, the doctor had the IV tubing running from the back of Uhura’s right hand to two bags on hung an IV pole. “Let’s get you over to Spock, yeah?” Dr. Glass steered her towards a hover chair, “While it may not be the mandatory procedure, I think it’s a good idea.” Uhura didn’t protest, just sat down patiently. The doctor spread a blanket over her lap and pushed the chair through the sickbay to where Spock was laying down underneath the dermal regenerator, a light orange IV bag hanging next to him, providing him with nutrients unique to Vulcans. Despite being injured, his Vulcan hearing picked up the almost inaudible whirring of the hoverchair.

“Nyota. I am glad to see you look well.” Spock’s voice retained its calm manner, even if his voice sounded weaker. He reached out with his good arm towards Uhura, being careful not to pull out the IV... She clasped his hand in hers, holding on tightly. Uhura raised their conjoined hands and pressed her lips to Spock’s hand. He repeated the action. “Doctor, may I inquire as to the remaining duration of the regenerator?”

“About six more minutes.” Dr. Glass examined the slowly healing mark. “You might want to go under another round to minimize scarring.”

“I will follow whatever course of treatment you recommend.”

“You’re one of the better patients, Commander. Uhura, I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

Uhura gave the doctor a smile and turned back to Spock. The pair fell into a quiet conversation and eventually lapsed into a comfortable silence.

By the time Dr. Glass returned, Uhura had fallen asleep on Spock’s biobed, head on his thigh, hands still intertwined. The doctor carefully maneuvered Uhura back into her own biobed and tucked her in, making sure the IV wasn’t tangled in the blankets.

---

 

Bones.

They took Bones.

Did they hurt Bones?

I’ll kill them if they hurt Bones.

Henderson.

Daniels.

What do I tell their parents?

They were so young.

Uhura.

She came for another...

Stretcher?

Stretcher.

Did Spock get hurt?

Shit, was it for Bones?

Bones.

I gotta find out if he’s hurt.

Bones.

Returning to the world of consciousness was never Jim’s favorite thing. Asleep, he felt no pain, but now, as he cracked open his eyes the bliss of pain meds faded away and panic started to set in. Jim tried to push himself up, still not seeing clearly, only to have M’Benga gently hold down his shoulders, careful not to jostle them too much. “Take it easy, Captain. They did a real number on your ribs. Trust me, lying down is much better than trying to hold yourself up on shoulders that aren’t at their full capacity. Not to mention, your lungs are not at one hundred percent either, hence the supplied oxygen.”

Again, the beauty of sleep--no feeling the sharp discomfort of almost-dislocated shoulders, actually dislocated fingers, and a torn up cheek. Jim dropped back onto the biobed, gasping as his brain processed all the damage Glishtor inflicted. When he hit the bed, the nasal cannula settled under his nose shifted; M’Benga quickly reaching over to adjust it “Shit, this hurts.” M’Benga tapped a few buttons and almost instantly Jim relaxed as the analgesic hit his body. “Wait, how are the others?” Jim’s voice was slurry, but panic coated every single word. “What happened to Bones? And is Sulu okay? Uhura and Spock? What about Henderson and Daniels?” The monitors beeped faster and faster and Jim’s anxiety increased.

“Before I tell you the details, you should know that everyone will be fine. We brought the cadets’ bodies back, don’t worry.” Jim’s heart rate settled down a bit, but his eyes conveyed the need to know what happened. M’Benga launched into a detailed explanation of what happened and by the time he finished, Jim was dead asleep. M’Benga chuckled and moved onto the next bed, housing a heavily sedated Leonard McCoy.

The surgical team managed to repair all the damage the twin knives caused. After they stitched up the deep gashes and relocated his left shoulder, they had strapped both arms into an immobilizer. Scotty had it custom built for McCoy after he found out about the injury. The brace secured McCoy’s arms against his torso, then wrapped around his back, prevent any movement. In addition to the brace, M’Benga had set up a stasis field that ran from his shoulders to his hips. M’Benga was hoping that McCoy wouldn’t live up to the saying: doctors make the worst patients. Maybe even worse than Kirk. The man was not going to be happy when he woke up.

M’Benga proposed that McCoy be kept under until the wounds had healed enough to remove the brace, but Dr. Glass vehemently disregarded that idea. First, she said, keeping him under longer than necessary wouldn’t be good for his mental state, and two, Jim would need McCoy awake. The two were closer than brothers and they relied on each other more than anything.

His PADD beeped, signaling the completion of Sulu’s double regen session. Sulu, who was wide awake and talking to Chekov, only letting the slightest grimace cross his face as the beam swept across his ribs. The beam shut off and Sulu practically melted against the bed. “Mr. Sulu, your treatment has completed. I’d like you to remain in the sickbay for a couple more hours so your IV drip can finish and we can be sure of no secondary effect.”

“Sure thing, doc. How are the others doing?”

“They will recover fully with time. For now, I want you to rest.” Sulu gave the doctor a thumbs up and carefully turned onto his side and dropped off almost immediately. Chekov smiled and stood up and headed out to his own quarters, most likely.

Now, M’Benga thought, we wait.

Notes:

With only one chapter left, I value your feedback more than ever! Let me know what you think!

Chapter 5

Sedation could be compared to a haze. Sometimes, after a sedative was injected, the patient would fall asleep, other times, the patient would remain awake, almost too tired to slip unconscious. As Leonard McCoy’s body worked through heavy doses of sedatives, he could feel himself rising up through the layers of sleep. Finally, he reached the final barrier: opening his eyes. He cracked one eye open, then the other, and was immediately greeted by a blue-tinged stasis field wrapping around his torso and abdomen. That would be from the knives.

Doctor, I can only imagine how valuable your shoulders are, said Glishtor from across the room, twirling two knives around his fingers. It would be absolutely terrible if something was to happen to them. In a blink of an eye, he had positioned the knife mere millimeters from the soft skin between McCoy’s left armpit and clavicle. Would you like to share the Starfleet information with me, before I do something that can’t be undone?

I would prefer not to.

What a shame. Glishtor snaked one hand behind McCoy’s back and pushed forward. The first inch of the knife entered McCoy’s body, McCoy letting out a short scream.

Now?

Definitely not.

Another push, another inch, another scream.

I’m sure you’re aware that the next time the knife goes deeper, I’ll sever the subscapularis muscle from your humerus. How shall you perform surgery then?

I’m not telling you anything, he gasped. McCoy just about passed out, the knife now all the way through his shoulder. Blood leaked from the small space between the metal blade and McCoy’s skin.

Good thing I have two knives. And this, Glishtor tweaked the blade embedded in McCoy, was not your dominant shoulder, emitting a short yell from the doctor.

Without even a second to process, Glishtor slammed the second knife into McCoy’s right shoulder, the tip of the blade poking through his back. That’s when McCoy passed out. The last memory he had was Glishtor murmuring in his ear, say goodbye to everything you love, Doctor.

The familiar view of the sickbay comforted him, complete with the unfortunate beeping of the biobed’s monitors. The bed had been raised to a thirty-degree angle, giving him a wide field of vision. He couldn’t move anything except for his head, thanks to the stasis field. Anyway, he couldn’t really feel that much due to the heavy pain meds.

“Doctor McCoy? Are you with us?” Christine Chapel stood next to to the bed, armed with, as McCoy hoped, a painkiller.

“Yeah. How’s cough Jim?” said McCoy, dissolving into a coughing fit before he was able to get out anything else.

“Here, try these.” Chapel slipped a spoonful of ice chips into his mouth, McCoy relishing the coolness in his sore throat. “Jim will be fine, Leo. We had to take him into surgery to repair the punctured lung which had collapsed, then placed an ICD due to the collection of blood in his chest cavity; we’ve also using a nasal cannula to provide extra oxygen to take the strain off his lungs. We also sewed up his cheek. Spock got dermal regen on his shoulder—Glishtor shot him while he and Uhura were getting you. Sulu underwent both dermal and osteo regen for his ribs. Uhura was treated for dehydration and malnourishment, so was Spock and Sulu. Everyone is fine, Leo. We just need to worry about you now.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow that would have made Spock proud. “And what exactly is my prognosis?”

“If you follow through with physical therapy and take your meds, you should be back in the OR in a few months. Glishtor did some serious damage; he severed your—”

“Yeah, my subscapularis muscle. You were able to fix it?”

“M’Benga was able to reattach the pieces flawlessly and Dr. Glass approved his work. You should regain full use of both arms.”

“When can we drop the field?” McCoy asked.

“Soon. We wanted to make sure you were coherent before taking it down. It’s going to have to go back up when you sleep, so you don’t accidentally turn over and rip out your stitches or cause any other damage.”

“Do I count as coherent now?”

“Do you have any idea how much morphine is in your system right now?”

“Do I want to know?”

“Go to sleep, Leo.” As soon as she said those words McCoy felt the drugs coursing through his veins and let his eyes drift shut.

---

 

Dr. Glass walked through the sickbay, eyes on the three members of the crew that were to be released. Sulu and Uhura were sitting by Spock’s bed, the Vulcan sitting upright, no evidence of the phaser wound visible, IV already removed in the last hour. Sulu and Uhura were already in Starfleet blacks. “Commander Spock, Lieutenant Uhura, Mr. Sulu. I am pleased to inform you that the three of you are being officially released from the sickbay. Commander, I expect you back here in four days for one last dermal regen; same goes for you, Mr. Sulu. Uhura, if anything comes up, you know where to come.”

“Of course. Thank you for everything, Dr. Glass,” said Uhura.

“Please, call me Tamara. Now go rest in your quarters. Putting one’s body through regen sessions saps at your energy. You can return to active duty in a couple days, but in the meantime, relax while you can.” With that, Dr. Glass shooed Uhura and Sulu away from Spock’s bed and handed the Vulcan a black undershirt and sweatpants. She drew the curtain around his bed, “You can go as soon as you’re dressed.”

Further down in the sickbay, Jim was attempting to get up and make his way to McCoy’s bed. He pushed himself up, only to be stopped by a sharp pain in his sides and a rush of dizziness. When his vision cleared, Jim looked underneath his gown and found, two chest tubes, one per side. “Whoa, Captain. You gotta stay on the bed. You definitely don’t want to pull those out.” said M’Benga.

“Bones. I have to see Bones.” Jim sounded desperate, gasping with the strain of holding himself upright. M’Benga subtly upped the level of oxygen flowing through the nasal cannula, satisfied with the rise in Jim’s O2 stats.

“I can get you over to him, but you have to promise that you’ll stay in bed and,” M’Benga swatted Jim’s hands away from the tubing under his nose. “leave that alone. I can’t have you ruining all my hard work.”

Jim nodded. M’Benga tapped a couple buttons on the side of his biobed, releasing it from the wall. The doctor pushed the bed a couple feet to the right, where McCoy lay asleep, arms strapped down, with the stasis field humming. M’Benga locked the bed in place, right next to McCoy’s. Jim reached out, as if to clasp his best friend’s hand, and withdrew at the realization that both hands were locked inside the field. “What happened to him?” Jim asked.

M’Benga didn’t sugarcoat his words. “Glishtor stabbed him once in each shoulder, causing severe damage— he cut through entire muscles. We were able to reattach the muscles and fix the torn ligaments and tendons--he should make a full recovery, but it isn’t going to be easy. He’s going to need months of PT and setbacks could have major long-term consequences.”

“Why the field?”

“We don’t want him to wake up and strain his shoulders. Next time he breaks free from the sedation,” M’Benga checked McCoy’s IV, “which looks like it will be pretty soon, we’ll replace the field with padding on either side of his chest to prevent him for turning over and putting pressure on his shoulders.” McCoy’s eyes fluttered open.

“Huh? What’s goin’ on?” McCoy struggled for a moment before conceding to the hold of the field. “Jim?”

“Hey, Bones,” said Jim. “how are the arms?”

“They hurt like a bitch,” grumbled McCoy. “Doc, can we get some more of the good stuff, hmm?”

M”Benga smiled. “Sorry, Leo, we’re already got you on a high dose of analgesics. I’m sure you know why we can’t give you any more. Besides, I’m sure Jim can tell you how doped up you are at the moment. However, what we can do now is turn off the stasis field— I’m going to place wedges on either side of your torso, which will keep it in place and prevent you from slowing down the healing process.” With a flip of a switch, the field fizzled out and M’Benga was carefully lifted each side of McCoy’s body and positioned the padded blocks half under his chest. “How’s that feel, Leo?”

“Pretty good. How long till the braces come off?”

“When the incisions have completely healed. Right now, we’re going slow with the dermal regen so we don’t put too much stress on your body. But be prepared— as soon as the braces come off, you’re in for a ton of PT. For the time being, you need to preserve your energy.”

Jim fidgeted with the blanket spread over his legs. “Doc... the cadets...” His voice trailed off, an unbearable question in the air.

“Do you want the medical story or where they are now?”

“Both.”

M’Benga took on a professional tone. “After we got you and the others off of the planet, we sent down a crew to recover the cadets from the cell. We think that they died very quickly— the placement of the laceration in the neck went right through the windpipe and jugular. Death should have occurred within a minute, with them going unconscious within ten seconds. Right now, they are in cryotubes so we can preserve their bodies for the trip back to Earth.”

“God, Bones. How could I let this happen?”

All McCoy wanted to do was wrap his best friend in a hug and hold him, but he couldn’t. “Sometimes, things happen, kiddo. You had no idea that we were going to be ambushed. They knew what they signed up for.”

“How am I going to be able to face their parents? Thank them for their dead children’s service, knowing that it’s my fault that two twenty-year-olds are in coffins?”

“Jim. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I can, Bones.”

McCoy saw that there was no way to argue with his best friend. “We’ll talk about this later when I’m not doped up. Now, I’m going to let the drugs do their job. Go rest, kiddo.” He gave Jim one last look. “Seriously, go sleep. We will talk about this.” M’Benga unlocked Jim’s biobed and moved it back to its place against the wall.

“Sleep, captain.” M’Benga tapped a few buttons on the IV console, releasing more pain meds into Jim’s system. Jim’s eyes drooped shut, allowing the meds to pull him to a restless sleep.

---

 

By the time that McCoy’s arms had healed, Jim had fallen deep into the pits of guilt. He came to every one of McCoy’s PT sessions but he was distant, almost as though his mind was off sulking in a corner, reluctant to face the truth that nothing that happened on D’Farion was his fault. The bodies of the cadets lay in the morgue, held in stasis until they could be returned. No matter how much cajoling McCoy did, Jim denied even talking to him or even more so to the onboard psychiatrist. He would offer whiskey to accompany the conversation, but McCoy was still on meds that kept him from indulging in the sweet release of alcohol, and letting Jim drink alone was never a good idea. After his second-to-last session before the Enterprise docked on Earth, McCoy decided to face the problem head-on.

“Jim. We need to talk.” He had cornered his best friend in the captain’s quarters when there were still hours to go until gamma shift.

“About what, Bones? What do we need to discuss?” Jim tried to push McCoy out of the doorway, but McCoy’s stood his ground.

“You’ve been avoiding the topic for the past month. You can’t just let this go and expect to be fine. You need to talk to someone, at least me. What’s going on, Jim?”

“Bones, you wouldn’t understand this. You’ve never been responsible for lives like I have before. Everyone looks up to me, believing that I’m going to be perfect.” McCoy grasped Jim’s shoulders, ignoring the lingering ache within his arms.

“I do get it, kiddo. Whenever people walk up to me in the sickbay, they think that I can solve all of their problems. I can’t just use a hypo and make anything go away. And even when I think the issue is solvable, complications can arise. During a procedure as simple as an appendectomy, especially in this era of medicine, a patient might be allergic to anesthesia, or an antibiotic and I’ll end up having to restart their heart on the table, forcing them to stay in the sickbay for even longer than planned. Sometimes, people can even die and there was nothing we could do to prevent it from happening. Jim—we don’t always know what is going to happen. It’s how we handle them that matters most. You got me, Spock, Sulu, and Uhura out— alive. And even though some of us got hurt, we’re alive now. You’re allowed to mourn, but this is too far. You’re not sleeping. You’re not taking good care of yourself. Please, talk to me, Jim.”

It seemed like Jim almost deflated at McCoy’s words. He sagged into his best friend’s grip, tension draining out of his body. McCoy guided him to the sofa, propping him up and setting down beside him. “It’s like... every time I close my eyes I see them just lying in the corner, covered in blood. And I couldn’t do anything to save them. But I brought them there. When people sign up for Starfleet, they know there is a risk of injury or fatalities when on a ship. But only when facing Klingons, Romulans, your typical bad guys. Not on peaceful missions. Not like this. Everyone is going to blame me—”

“Nobody blames you, Jim.”

“But that doesn’t matter, because I blame me. How am I supposed to act like nothing has happened? Give a comforting smile, pass on the flag, and pretend like it’s fine?”

“You don’t have too. You’re allowed to feel the loss of two cadets; everyone expects you to feel that loss. But you have to let yourself mourn and move on from the guilt.”

“I don’t know if I can, Bones. And not to mention, I didn’t get you out— Chekov did. I was utterly useless.”

“Doesn’t matter. You just have to try, yeah?” Jim nodded. “How about we start with a full night of sleep?”

Jim fidgeted with the fraying sofa cushion. “Nightmares. Like I said, I keep on seeing them. Glishtor, too. I keep on seeing him hurt you and the rest of the crew.”

“Would it help if I stayed here tonight?”

“Maybe.”

McCoy smiled and hauled Jim off the couch. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go sleep.” Jim removed his uniform garments and boots and slipped into the bed. McCoy followed suit and climbed into the opposite side. He could feel Jim finally relax next to him. Even if today wasn’t great, and tomorrow wasn’t better, they could move forward, towards a better day.

Notes:

I hope you guys liked the last chapter! I'm always open to feedback and (constructive) criticism, so send it all my way!

Also, I'm also open to prompts-- I love writing hurt/comfort, whump, the sort.

:)

Notes:

This is a completed fic, but I'm always open to prompts (not to mention, prompts motivate me to write, so send em in!)