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kathierif_ficTitle: A Life
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Spock/Bones
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: It’s a handful of life, blood, sweat and tears, and he is holding it cupped in his hands.
A/N: kink_bingo fic, prompt wildcard: washing/cleaning. 1437 words.
Warnings. Off-screen (off-fic?) death of a non-canon character.
A handful of blood, sweat and tears.
It’s all that is left over from a promising young life.
Not just a handful.
It’s his handful, carefully cupped, his skin stained red.
Blood red.
Leonard can’t make himself wash off the shockingly bright color. He can’t get himself to get rid of the drying and darkening, cloying blood that once transported oxygen through a living, breathing body.
That once was transported through a body by the strong contractions of a heart muscle.
It’s all that’s left of a young, bright-eyed lieutenant that vaguely reminded him of Jim, even if it was just from the tilt of his chin and the spark in his eyes.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. He is aware of the fact that he should rouse himself and go back to work. He hasn’t been beamed down here for sightseeing, but for a medical emergency, after all. He and his team are supposed to find a cure for a viral disease that is decimating the population of the planet.
The panicking population of the planet.
He can’t bring himself to care right now, sitting in the small room that serves as his office, his lab, and his quarters, his back pressed against a smooth cool wall and his hands in his lap covered in blood. His uniform is dirty and bloodstained, he is in desperate need of a shower and a long nap, and he just can’t make himself care.
His head is filled with static, his mind wiped blank. He is very acutely aware of the beat of his own heart, threatening to choke him and leaving him gasping for air.
He clenches his teeth tight and forces the gagging down.
The blood is everywhere, on his hands, in his throat, on his clothes. Distantly, he thinks that it’s been years since he’s had such a strong reaction, such a violent outburst of not being able to cope. He’s usually better at this, better at keeping his shit together and moving on doing what has to be done.
Apparently not today.
Not now.
Cold numbness is filling him, starting at his fingertips and spreading inwards.
He barely looks up from his hands when black boots and regulation uniform pants appear in his line of vision. He doesn’t say anything when the person in them kneels down and the face of Commander Spock swims into focus. The fact that Leonard has to wipe his eyes is the only thing that makes him aware of the fact that tears are running down his face.
Spock’s face is smooth, betraying none of the feelings he denies having, but his eyes are warm and expressive.
Leonard wants to say something, but his throat is dry and tight, not a word escaping.
Spock still understands him. He is good at that, when he’s not being deliberately obtuse. He grips Leonard’s wrists and hauls him up to his feet.
Spock shouldn’t even be here. He should be on board of the Enterprise, working on figuring out the secrets of this virus, together with the part of the medical department that isn’t planet-side.
Spock being here, on the planet, can mean two things. Either they found a cure, or Christine contacted the ship and told them of his little breakdown, and Jim, not willing to let him be on his own and unable to come himself, sent Spock.
One quick glance into Spock’s expressive eyes tells him which of the two options it is.
“Leonard,” Spock murmurs as he sits him down on the edge of his cot and kneels down in front of him. “Leonard, are you all right?”
He doesn’t need a verbal response. Spock can read him as well as he can read Spock, plus, he is a touch telepath. Everything he needs to know about Leonard’s state, the grip he still has on his wrists already told him.
And yet, Leonard manages to croak, “I’m not hurt, Spock. I’m fine.” He wants to tell him about the lieutenant, about the blood still clinging to his skin, seeped into his clothes, but there are no words.
None that are adequate or sufficient.
Spock looks at him for a long moment, really looks, reading his face like an old-fashioned open book, and abruptly rises. Leonard can hear him speak, his voice soothing and detached as he gives orders and assures the person he’s talking to – Christine, most likely – that Doctor McCoy is merely exhausted and will be all right with sufficient rest and a meal. The spot where Spock touched his wrist is suddenly cold, and Leonard feels weirdly alone, even if Spock is just a few steps away.
He knows that Spock would be with him in seconds if he called out, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he focuses his eyes once again on his bloody hands.
When Spock returns, he is carrying a bowl and a bundle of fabric which he places over the back of Leonard’s chair. His hands are gentle as they coax him to take off his uniform shirt, folding the material carefully and putting it aside. Leonard’s undershirt follows and receives the same treatment.
Leonard watches quietly, unmoving, as Spock dips a piece of cloth into the bowl, wets it, and runs it carefully over one of his hands.
The thick crust of drying blood slowly dissolves and gets wiped away, Spock’s touch brisk and efficient. The water in the bowl first gets a pinkish hue that turns darker and more intense while Leonard’s skin slowly and gradually becomes cleaner.
The cloth is rough against his palms, rough and cool, and Spock’s fingers are careful, almost gentle against his skin, as if Leonard is something fragile and needs to be handled with care.
Slowly, Leonard’s mind settles again as he falls into the rhythm of Spock cleaning his hands, his arms, his face. His thoughts become unstuck from their grief, and start to move again, at first in sluggish circles centered around his guilt, against the knowledge that he would’ve just needed to be a little quicker to save that life, but he feels easier, the burden getting lighter. Cool logic is taking a hold of his thought process and soothes his aching heart.
“Dammit, Spock,” he whispers, his voice rough and betraying the fact that he is still struggling with his tears.
“Leonard,” Spock murmurs soothingly. “You did everything you could. It was an outbreak of panic among the population. There is nothing you could have done.”
“There was,” Leonard answers, vehemence creeping into his voice. He wants to be stubborn about this, wants to hang on to the feeling of loss, to motivate him to work harder and be a better doctor, a better version of himself. “I could’ve saved him, I could…”
“You could not have done such a thing,” Spock interrupts him and rubs the cloth over Leonard’s fingers. “You are, as far as I’ve been informed, a doctor. Not a miracle worker.” His fingertips of his forefinger and middle finger trace along the side of Leonard’s fingers. The touch is a very private one, usually reserved for the privacy of their quarters on board of the Enterprise.
It’s unexpected, and Leonard looks up in surprise, into Spock’s face.
Of course, Spock doesn’t twitch a muscle to betray his emotions, but Leonard knows what Spock feels.
“You’re in my head, aren’t you?” he asks and runs his now clean hand over his face, feeling stubble rasping against his palm.
Spock arches his eyebrow. “Yes, Leonard,” he admits. His mind caresses Leonard’s at the same time, and it sends a shiver down Leonard’s back.
Leonard wants to complain and demand that Spock gets his computer mind out of his thoughts, but if he’s honest, the logic and heat of Spock’s mind brushing against his are soothing and familiar.
He slumps forward and rests his forehead against Spock’s chest.
Dry fingers brush against the back of his neck, against his hairline, and Spock’s thoughts wrap around his and gentle push at his guilt, urging him to let go of it, stopping him from getting consummated by it, and the mental touch is soft and gentle and it is cleaning Leonard’s mind with the same care and carefulness he used on his body.
“Spock,” he murmurs roughly. He’s feeling exhausted suddenly, the long hours of work and the adrenaline leaving his bloodstream taking their toll on him.
Spock’s fingers close around his shoulder. “Leonard,” he replies. He helps him curl up under the blanket and presses hot, dry lips briefly against Leonard’s temple. “Sleep now.”
Leonard does.
~end.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Spock/Bones
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: It’s a handful of life, blood, sweat and tears, and he is holding it cupped in his hands.
A/N: kink_bingo fic, prompt wildcard: washing/cleaning. 1437 words.
Warnings. Off-screen (off-fic?) death of a non-canon character.
A handful of blood, sweat and tears.
It’s all that is left over from a promising young life.
Not just a handful.
It’s his handful, carefully cupped, his skin stained red.
Blood red.
Leonard can’t make himself wash off the shockingly bright color. He can’t get himself to get rid of the drying and darkening, cloying blood that once transported oxygen through a living, breathing body.
That once was transported through a body by the strong contractions of a heart muscle.
It’s all that’s left of a young, bright-eyed lieutenant that vaguely reminded him of Jim, even if it was just from the tilt of his chin and the spark in his eyes.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. He is aware of the fact that he should rouse himself and go back to work. He hasn’t been beamed down here for sightseeing, but for a medical emergency, after all. He and his team are supposed to find a cure for a viral disease that is decimating the population of the planet.
The panicking population of the planet.
He can’t bring himself to care right now, sitting in the small room that serves as his office, his lab, and his quarters, his back pressed against a smooth cool wall and his hands in his lap covered in blood. His uniform is dirty and bloodstained, he is in desperate need of a shower and a long nap, and he just can’t make himself care.
His head is filled with static, his mind wiped blank. He is very acutely aware of the beat of his own heart, threatening to choke him and leaving him gasping for air.
He clenches his teeth tight and forces the gagging down.
The blood is everywhere, on his hands, in his throat, on his clothes. Distantly, he thinks that it’s been years since he’s had such a strong reaction, such a violent outburst of not being able to cope. He’s usually better at this, better at keeping his shit together and moving on doing what has to be done.
Apparently not today.
Not now.
Cold numbness is filling him, starting at his fingertips and spreading inwards.
He barely looks up from his hands when black boots and regulation uniform pants appear in his line of vision. He doesn’t say anything when the person in them kneels down and the face of Commander Spock swims into focus. The fact that Leonard has to wipe his eyes is the only thing that makes him aware of the fact that tears are running down his face.
Spock’s face is smooth, betraying none of the feelings he denies having, but his eyes are warm and expressive.
Leonard wants to say something, but his throat is dry and tight, not a word escaping.
Spock still understands him. He is good at that, when he’s not being deliberately obtuse. He grips Leonard’s wrists and hauls him up to his feet.
Spock shouldn’t even be here. He should be on board of the Enterprise, working on figuring out the secrets of this virus, together with the part of the medical department that isn’t planet-side.
Spock being here, on the planet, can mean two things. Either they found a cure, or Christine contacted the ship and told them of his little breakdown, and Jim, not willing to let him be on his own and unable to come himself, sent Spock.
One quick glance into Spock’s expressive eyes tells him which of the two options it is.
“Leonard,” Spock murmurs as he sits him down on the edge of his cot and kneels down in front of him. “Leonard, are you all right?”
He doesn’t need a verbal response. Spock can read him as well as he can read Spock, plus, he is a touch telepath. Everything he needs to know about Leonard’s state, the grip he still has on his wrists already told him.
And yet, Leonard manages to croak, “I’m not hurt, Spock. I’m fine.” He wants to tell him about the lieutenant, about the blood still clinging to his skin, seeped into his clothes, but there are no words.
None that are adequate or sufficient.
Spock looks at him for a long moment, really looks, reading his face like an old-fashioned open book, and abruptly rises. Leonard can hear him speak, his voice soothing and detached as he gives orders and assures the person he’s talking to – Christine, most likely – that Doctor McCoy is merely exhausted and will be all right with sufficient rest and a meal. The spot where Spock touched his wrist is suddenly cold, and Leonard feels weirdly alone, even if Spock is just a few steps away.
He knows that Spock would be with him in seconds if he called out, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he focuses his eyes once again on his bloody hands.
When Spock returns, he is carrying a bowl and a bundle of fabric which he places over the back of Leonard’s chair. His hands are gentle as they coax him to take off his uniform shirt, folding the material carefully and putting it aside. Leonard’s undershirt follows and receives the same treatment.
Leonard watches quietly, unmoving, as Spock dips a piece of cloth into the bowl, wets it, and runs it carefully over one of his hands.
The thick crust of drying blood slowly dissolves and gets wiped away, Spock’s touch brisk and efficient. The water in the bowl first gets a pinkish hue that turns darker and more intense while Leonard’s skin slowly and gradually becomes cleaner.
The cloth is rough against his palms, rough and cool, and Spock’s fingers are careful, almost gentle against his skin, as if Leonard is something fragile and needs to be handled with care.
Slowly, Leonard’s mind settles again as he falls into the rhythm of Spock cleaning his hands, his arms, his face. His thoughts become unstuck from their grief, and start to move again, at first in sluggish circles centered around his guilt, against the knowledge that he would’ve just needed to be a little quicker to save that life, but he feels easier, the burden getting lighter. Cool logic is taking a hold of his thought process and soothes his aching heart.
“Dammit, Spock,” he whispers, his voice rough and betraying the fact that he is still struggling with his tears.
“Leonard,” Spock murmurs soothingly. “You did everything you could. It was an outbreak of panic among the population. There is nothing you could have done.”
“There was,” Leonard answers, vehemence creeping into his voice. He wants to be stubborn about this, wants to hang on to the feeling of loss, to motivate him to work harder and be a better doctor, a better version of himself. “I could’ve saved him, I could…”
“You could not have done such a thing,” Spock interrupts him and rubs the cloth over Leonard’s fingers. “You are, as far as I’ve been informed, a doctor. Not a miracle worker.” His fingertips of his forefinger and middle finger trace along the side of Leonard’s fingers. The touch is a very private one, usually reserved for the privacy of their quarters on board of the Enterprise.
It’s unexpected, and Leonard looks up in surprise, into Spock’s face.
Of course, Spock doesn’t twitch a muscle to betray his emotions, but Leonard knows what Spock feels.
“You’re in my head, aren’t you?” he asks and runs his now clean hand over his face, feeling stubble rasping against his palm.
Spock arches his eyebrow. “Yes, Leonard,” he admits. His mind caresses Leonard’s at the same time, and it sends a shiver down Leonard’s back.
Leonard wants to complain and demand that Spock gets his computer mind out of his thoughts, but if he’s honest, the logic and heat of Spock’s mind brushing against his are soothing and familiar.
He slumps forward and rests his forehead against Spock’s chest.
Dry fingers brush against the back of his neck, against his hairline, and Spock’s thoughts wrap around his and gentle push at his guilt, urging him to let go of it, stopping him from getting consummated by it, and the mental touch is soft and gentle and it is cleaning Leonard’s mind with the same care and carefulness he used on his body.
“Spock,” he murmurs roughly. He’s feeling exhausted suddenly, the long hours of work and the adrenaline leaving his bloodstream taking their toll on him.
Spock’s fingers close around his shoulder. “Leonard,” he replies. He helps him curl up under the blanket and presses hot, dry lips briefly against Leonard’s temple. “Sleep now.”
Leonard does.
~end.
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(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-04 03:28 pm (UTC)