That Thin Line

By Alone Dreaming

Rating: PG-13 for owies and fights

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be under fanfiction.

Warnings: Owies, a bit of language, a bit of scrapping between McCoy and Spock, a bit of angst

Dedication: KCS, who prompted this and made me smile after a difficult week. Kudos to you, buddy.

Author's Note: Well, while I'm rolling about in fandoms like a dog does in a yard full of mud, I guess I ought to return to one of my favorites for a little while. Please enjoy.

He's dragging James T. Kirk's half-conscious ass behind a rock while Commander Spock shows off an impressive set of Vulcan fighting skills. Unlike the Commander, he's of very little use in a fight. Passing a shooting exam is one thing; actually being able to pull the trigger, even set on stun, is another. He knows he can do it if he has to but he's never been a fan. After all, he's a doctor, not a fighter. He'll patch up anyone after a battle, in the midst of one if necessary, but he'll try his damnedest not to be the one who caused the hurt. Spock seems to enjoy doing it anyhow or… find it to be relaxing or something. He's not sure how much the Vulcan feels anything though Kirk's told him more than once, over a bottle of whiskey, that Spock's got a whole range of emotions. Whatever; the guy's still a hobgoblin no matter how one looks at it and he likes to pulverize things.

Besides, what's on his mind right now is making sure that Kirk isn't at death's door. He doesn't know what these weapons do; they don't have the stun/kill option of the Starfleet phasers nor the simplicity of bullets or knives. He knows that they can force someone into the great beyond by touching them but he also knows that this is not always the case. Sometimes, a blow is fatal; sometimes it merely knocks someone out; sometimes it doles out massive internal injury. His hands pull at the front of Kirk's shirt, trying to get a good look at where the knife like thing met flesh and is rewarded when the shirt gives. What he sees is not heartening. Admittedly, it's not as bad as a gunshot wound to the same place but the dark bruising around a nasty looking burn is not something to be taken lightly. Especially when the bruising looks as though it's darkening before his eyes and the vivid burn is looking more raw by the minute.

Damn, he wishes he had the tricorder on him so he could figure out all that is wrong with a wave but it's not here. His emergency kit is back in their shuttle which is currently behind "enemy" lines and inaccessible. Of course, he's always favored the old fashion route over technology but in these situations, technology is so very useful. Technology would tell him whether or not Jim's bleeding internally and the extent of the burn and the depth of the bruising. His hands can only tell him so much as he checks Jim's pulse-- too fast-- and breathing-- wheezing gasps. He peels back the Captain's eyelids, staring deep into pinprick pupils and wishing he had a penlight at the very least. God knows this planet's rocky enough that when Kirk fell after the hit that his head probably contacted something. There's no way of checking reactivity or alertness. Desperately, he runs his knuckles over the injured man's sternum, avoiding the spreading injury. No response for him so he rubs harder and gets a fretful, miserable movement. He nearly cheers in relief.

The sounds of firing weapons suddenly cease and his heart climbs into his throat. He pulls Jim upright so that he's leaning against the rock and slowly, ever so slowly, peers around the edge of the rock. The scene in front of him is not what he wants to see. Spock's on his knees, hands behind his head, one of the weapons held at his midriff over his heart and another at his throat. Four men surround him and three more are coming towards McCoy, carrying the gun sword weapons. McCoy reaches down towards his phaser, removing it from the holster and preparing himself to give injury instead of heal. Here is a desperate situation; Kirk needs him to be strong. For once, perhaps the only time ever, Spock even needs him to pull a trigger. He takes in a steadying breath, and turns sharply, trying for surprise. He isn't an amazing shot but if they aren't expecting him, he can pull it off.

The first two shots actually take out two of the party coming towards him but the next two miss. The group's within ten feet of him now, not slowing to look at their fallen comrades. He shoots three more times, four more, five more times and then they are on him. There is no warning, only a sword-gun thing put within a centimeter of his throat. He drops the phaser immediately, scooting back so he's between them and Kirk. He tried but it didn't work. Overwhelming numbers and the lack of spirit; he feels a bit guilty for not doing more but what else can he do? His hands protectively latch on to Kirk's arm and he glares at the men surrounding him.

"Doctor McCoy, please step away from Captain Kirk and place your hands behind your head," says a heavily accented voice. "We would prefer not to injure you but we will if we must. Please understand, we appreciate your intelligence and your talents; this is not a personal conflict."

"Sure as hell feels personal," he snarls, refusing to move. One of the soldiers approaches from his left. "Back off."

"Doctor McCoy, we assure you we will cause the Captain no further harm," the speaker says and he sees a man in a different color uniform. "He is much more beneficial to us alive than dead." The blade touches his skin and he gets the peculiar sensation of numbness that travels down to his shoulders. His arms suddenly aren't under his control anymore and his neck goes flaccid. He doesn't know what these weapons are but they are a pain. He finds that the numbness is traveling down to his waist and he tumbles over to the side. Damn it, useless; he's useless, the phaser's useless and now even his legs are useless. One of the soldiers slings him over his shoulder and another picks up Kirk. McCoy bounces against his soldier's back, trying to keep an eye on Kirk. The Captain's color is starting to cause him anxiety; or more anxiety than what he's currently feeling.

Spock is walking behind him now, hands behind his head. He does not speak but he meets McCoy's eyes one of the times McCoy's head swings up. The brief second translates many things to McCoy and not one of them is worry which irritates the man even further. All that Spock conveys are questions-- do you think you can walk if I free us? What is the Captain's status?-- commands-- please do not panic, please do not do anything irrational-- and cunning-- I have a plan. What McCoy wants to see is concern-- is the Captain okay-- and, at least, the tiniest degree of fear. Yes, it's logical to push friggin' emotions away. McCoy just thinks it makes the Commander impossible to deal with.

He does not catch Spock's eyes again, focusing himself on Kirk. He appears to still be breathing. There's sweat on his forehead-- both a bad and a good thing. It's an indication that he's still with them and yet, it inevitably means a worsening physical condition; the best McCoy can hope for is a reaction to the pain of injuries. It's not pleasant but its better than some of the other things that are zipping through his mind. His legs are starting to regain feeling as the ground changes from rocks to concrete. He's flexing his fingers a few seconds later just as he's dumped onto a pallet by the soldier. Kirk's dumped next to him and the soldiers back out slowly. Spock is still there with his hands behind his head soon blocked out as the man in the different color uniform steps into the doorway.

"We apologize for this, Doctor McCoy," he says. "But we do need leverage and what better than some of the elite crew of the Enterprise? You will not be mistreated if it can be avoided. We would request you do not attempt escape or we will have to take aggressive action." He leaves the doorway and the wall closes up on itself, leaving no cracks or evidence that anything was there at all. They are left in a seamless room with the single pallet and a small box on the wall.

But McCoy does not dwell on that. Able to move, he immediately crawls to Jim, shifting the Captain into a more comfortable position on the cot. Jim is trembling, sweaty and McCoy's gentle investigation of the injury reveals that it has gotten worse-- not much, but enough. The glistening blistered burn surrounded by black and blue bruising now takes up nearly half his chest, ending at his clavicle on his right. He's fairly certain now that Kirk is bleeding internally. The burn is more concerning right now because of infection. There's nothing he can do for the bleeding but pray it stops itself; but he can do something for the burn if only he had some water. The room, however, is empty with the exception of them, the pallet and the tiny grey box on the wall. There's no indication as to what it is so he studies it from a distance before physically investigating. The last thing Jim needs is him unconscious on the ground.

The box is just a box. It doesn't look like a camera, a weapon, a speaker, or a transmitter. Tentatively, he reaches out to touch it and when his fingers brush the surface it expands rapidly into a doorway. He jumps back and stares as before him, a tiny room appears with two basins, one large enough to fit a person and one small enough to be a birdbath. There's also something that looks fairly similar to a toilet. In the corner, above the larger of the two pits, the grey box sits but it is bigger than he remembers. He takes a careful step into it, double checking that the wall will not close behind him.

The two basins are empty but when he puts his hands in the tinier of the two, it fills up with a liquid substance. It tingles when it touches his hands and smells strange to him. Clearly, it is not water, and he curses in frustration. He goes to the larger basin, hoping to find water instead, and is disappointed. Frothy viscous liquid comes into the bowl from nowhere, reaching right up to the top. When he allows his finger to touch it, it jiggles like gelatin and is very difficult to actually push into. Not at all useful, he decides, damn it all to hell. He stands, wondering if this is a cruel idea of a joke or if this really is how the bathrooms on this planet are. He wouldn't know--they'd been regulated to the shuttle in all their interactions-- so he cannot get himself properly worked up over it. Striding to the box, he wonders if it'll give him a better room if he touches it again.

But the box is different than he remembers. A gentle tap does nothing and a longer press brings up no reactions. With a hiss, he smacks it and stalks out of the room, feeling more helpless and irritated than before. If they were both physically in decent condition, he supposed this would be an okay place to be incarcerated. Admittedly, it was different than most human places but it wasn't bad. Bed, bathroom; he can only assume that food is coming later. But the fact is, Jim is hurt, badly, and a doctor he is but a doctor without any medical tools. He can recognize symptoms but he can't treat them.

Kirk is where he left him, shaking and grey. He lays the back of his hand against the younger man's head and doesn't like the coolness he felt there. Next, it's a routine checkup-- pupils, breathing, pulse and so on-- and, in the end, he's not pleased. Everything's pointing to shock. Basic first aid, things he learned in survival classes, come to mind but deep down he knows it's not enough. He can't stop the bleeding, he can't clean the burn, he can't even warm Kirk if he needs to because there aren't any blankets around. They are, without a doubt, screwed.

So, he does what he can. He sits next to the cot, takes the injured man's wrist between his fingers to keep a constant monitor on his pulse and he waits for something to happen. There's nothing else for him to do. He stares at the wall, tuned in to the quick thumping beneath his fingers and the rapid, uneven breaths his friend is taking. In as even intervals as possible, he looks at the burn and the bruise to make sure they aren't worse or festering. But beyond all of this, he is stuck in limbo, hoping that whatever negotiations these imbeciles are involved in work out.

"You know, Jimbo," he says, after some time has passed. "My life really was quiet before I got involved with you. Even when I decided to join Starfleet, I did not expect that I'd end up befriending the kid who would not only become a Captain before graduation but also find every friggin' piece of trouble between here and the end of the Universe. I like you fine, kid, don't get me wrong but honestly, I could do without the stress."

What startles him is Kirk's response. "Swear I didn't plan it that way."

His heart swells and then deflates like a popped balloon. He's not liking the glassy, distant tint Kirk's eyes have acquired nor the spasms of pain that wrack his face. Fresh sweat beads on the kid's forehead which is drawn up in tight folds. The pulse beneath his fingers speeds up to a frantic pace and Kirk's breathing goes from rapid to gasps.

"Hurts real bad, Bones," he manages to whimper. "Really bad."

The popped balloon gets ground into the dirt. "I know it does, Jim. You went and got yourself cut up by some laser-sword thingy."

"Hurts," he says again. "A lot."

There's no joking with this Jim, no playful reassurances. This is not the Jim he's used to dealing with. This is hurting, semi-delirious, confused, childish Jim and he cannot remember the last time he's encountered him. He thinks it was over a bottle of Vodka in their beginning days at the Academy when they were still getting to know each other. He was seven shots in at that point, wallowing over his divorce and the fact that his daughter refused to call him back. Jim was drooling on the table, out cold, having started drinking long before Bones had and having kept up with him as far as shots. He remembers the bottle was in Jim's hand and he'd clumsily tried to remove it without waking his friend. He'd failed, obviously, but the Jim who woke up wasn't the Jim he was used to. The first thing he did was get sick in a trash can. The next thing he did was slouch onto the ground and whimper those same words.

"It hurts… a lot…" And that was the night he learned more about Jim Kirk than probably anyone else on the planet. Jim had learned quite a bit about him to but he didn't think the kid remembered.

Now, he's knows there's nothing he can do to make this better. Talking had helped solve some of the worst of Kirk's pain that night-- a hypo and sleep had cured the rest-- but this isn't the same. He can't talk Kirk through this and he doesn't have a hypo for him. Hell, he doesn't even have antiseptic for the cracked and burned skin across his ribs. All McCoy has right now is a useless bathroom, a sink full of stuff that he dares not use and Jello in a bathtub. God sure has a sense of humor.

Because-- he has to face the facts-- he's not that fun of a person to be around most of the time. He's snide, pessimistic, sarcastic and sometimes, downright nasty. Part of him actually believes that the world is innately evil. Another part of him is sure the moment he sees real goodness he'll give up everything he has and join the rainbow farting unicorns as they tramp about doing saintly deeds. There's a part of him that statistically decides how to handle every situation in order to provide him with the least amount of pain; and that side knows whether or not it's worth committing to someone again. A dark, dark side of him encourages him not to do anything the next time someone needs help because most of the idiots don't deserve it.

And, obviously, none of these are any good to help the twitching, child-like person he has with him now. These things don't provide compassion or love; and he's not sure that the other parts of him exist anymore.

Not that he cannot love or enjoy or find kindness; those are still somewhere. Those flare up in him around patients, around fellow workers, around the friends he's made. He does love them, or thinks he does. It's more that the expression of any of these has faded away under industrial strength layers of caustic attitude. Long ago, he expressed them with no problem while taking care of little scraped knees and spending passionate nights in bed. All his daughter had to do was jut her lower lip and he'd crumble before her, full of admiration for her cheeks, eyes, hair and hands. All his wife had to do was twist her hips slightly, let her mouth curl into a sly smile and he could praise every inch of her. And all that had to happen to ruin him was deprivation of those things; one divorce and the darkness in him took over without so much as a twitch from his good side. He thinks it's pathetic and then wonders if that's the good or the bad side talking.

Does it really even matter? It's not as though Kirk needs a kiss on the cheek and a reassurance or to be ravished sexually until his brains leak out his ears. He needs lies and comforts and things that McCoy doesn't think he can provide without a bottle of Jack.

"What am I going to do with you, Jim?" he mutters softly, gruffly.

Pain riddled eyes look everywhere but at him and Kirk says, "Kill me."

"And have Spock tear me to shreds? No, thanks."

"Thought you were my friend."

"I am. But I'm also not dying at the hands of a crazed Vulcan. Besides, who else am I going to practice on when the infirmary is quiet?"

Jim doesn't answer him as he's passed back into another world. Five minutes later, he still hears Jim asking, begging, for him to kill him.