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The world returned to him in layers.
The shrill beeping of monitors and the buzzing of equipment nudged at the edge of his awareness. There was murmuring around him, too indistinct yet in the fog to attach to specific persons. The constant thrum of the Enterprise underlie everything, small vibrations registering along his spine as the ship seemed to breathe with him. The acrid smell of disinfectant and alcohol wrinkled his nose and his eyes fluttered open to hard white light and reflective grey metal.
Pain lanced through his head and he screwed his eyes tightly shut against the assault.
The beeping became louder and more pronounced.
“Light to 50%.”
He knows that voice. Something is making it hard for him to think, his thoughts drifting in a tide of molasses.
“Are you with us Jim?”
McCoy. Relief rolled through him as he recognized the voice.
“Bones.” His voice was harsh croak, raw and hoarse. His throat was so dry he could almost feel his vocal chords scraping together to form that one word.
He opened his eyes again. The haggard face of his friend and CMO was bent over him, dark eyes intense and lips pursed in worry. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. He was holding a plastic cup with a straw to his mouth.
“Drink this Jim. I know you're parched.”
Unbalanced by his first effort to lean forward, Jim did not object when McCoy hooked and arm below his shoulders and held him semi upright so he could sip gratefully. He was careful to take slow sips and the burning sensation had begun to subside when the cup was emptied.
Jim lay back, exhausted by the effort. Everything still seemed distant and disconnected.
“You made it, you got us out.” A choked whisper was the best he could manage for now it seemed. He fought back the need to cough and tried to level the full weight of his concern with his eyes alone. “Spock?”
McCoy tilted his head to other privacy screen before running his hands over his face and slumping down on the chair. “He's stabilized now, but it was close. You both were. You were in cardiac arrest when you were beamed aboard and Spock was bleeding out beside you. I had to shock your heart back and stick you to a damn breathing machine for a day.” He shuddered once at the memory and clasped his hands tighter together. “Spock nearly died on my table three times before I got him stable enough to induce a healing trance.”
The doctor looked up from his wringing hands a moment, the pain and worry radiating from his face. “It was too damned close Jim. I almost lost you both.” He hesitated and the words fell from his mouth slowly, each one increasing in weight, “You're going to be fine.. but your arm..”
Concern for his First Officer had allowed him to push it back in his mind. Now he glanced warily at his left shoulder to where the incongruously cheerful white gauze was swathed up over his shoulder and back to his chest. He could still feel the weight of it, same as the arm he could actually see, but the gauze ended at the shoulder cap.
“There was nothing left for you to save.” He said it simply, the gravity of the statement still disassociated in the cloud of drugs. He was tired again.
He lifted his good arm slowly and let it rest numbly on the hand that was gripping the bed rail so tightly.
“Not your fault Bones. My choice,” he murmured as he let the fog waft up and gently carry him down into oblivion.
He felt a hand at his cheek and a brush of something soft against his forehead and he returned to peace with a small smile on his face.
---
The lights were still set to half when he resurfaced. The smells were the same but seemed less overwhelming, less noxious. He was thirsty again. McCoy had left at some point during his sleep but some kind soul had left a pitcher and a fresh cup, complete with ice and a straw he could sip through. Unfortunately that kind soul was also a bit dim and placed them on the left side of the bed so that Jim would have swivel and lever himself with his raw stump in order to reach relief.
The dryness in his throat had him considering how to pull the move off when a soft voice interrupted.
“Here, let me help.”
Jim turned his head and met Spock's solemn eyes. He tried a smile but the First Officer dropped his gaze and began filling the waiting cup with water. His movements were slow but graceful, as if the Ship gravity had been increased and he was determined to remain unffacted. A measure of serenity stirred in Jim's mind. Something about Spock was always able to put him at ease, the reserve and unflappable nature of the Vulcan somehow acting as a shield between Jim and the rest of the Universe.
“Spock.” He tried to convey the entirety of his relief and affection into the smile that came to his face.
“I'm so glad you made it.”
“Yes Captain. I am also glad that you have survived.”
The formal address startled a laugh out of Jim. “I think that we've moved beyond titles by now Spock. If you can't call the man who cut off his own arm to save you by his first name then we have some serious issues.”
He immediately regretted his words when Spock froze for a moment and turned a look of incredible sorrow on him. The dark eyes were moist as he walked over to the prone Captain and propped him up so that he could drink.
He remained silent as Jim sought to ease his thirst. The cold water felt so nice flowing down his throat but sloshed uncomfortably cold and wet in his stomach. Nausea and a prickling of sweat forming at his brow made him refuse the next drink. He tried to settle back down, slightly amused when the hard arm at his back refused to be forced down.
He shifted slightly intending to meet the downcast eyes and offering something to lift the sorrow that seeped through the other man. The movement effected a press of his injured shoulder closer against Spock's steady arm, and expressive eyebrows drew in as his gaze lingered on the injury he'd been reluctant to examine.
“Jim...”
The warmth flowly through him probably had as much to with drugs coursing merrily through his system as the emotion resonating from his name in that voice.
The soft voice was rich with remorse. “I can not find words to express the depth of my sorrow for what has happened Captain, had it not been for me you would be whole and healthy still. I feel as if I have robbed you of yourself and destroyed your life.”
Jim felt the first flush of anger at the situation rise through him, hot enough to force away the pleasant lassitude.
“Damn it Spock, it was my own stupid fault we were down there in the first place. It was bad fucking luck that landed us in the middle of the earthquake and it was my own damned decision to act to save your life. We would both be dead now if I hadn't used the only tool available to me at the time to reach the only thing that could contact the ship. If I hadn't heard you dying beside me I might not have had the courage to go through with it. Don't you dare tell me you regret it, it is both illogical and insulting to what we both went through in that damned cave.”
Spock's eyebrows had risen to the level of flummoxed. Jim's anger was winding down at the bemused expression on his friend's face and the need to offer reassurance was almost overwhelming. He took another deep breath and continued.
“This,” he gestured to the raw stump with his good hand. “This sucks. It's going to take me months of physical therapy to learn how to compensate, my masturbation routine is going to get pretty stale and I'm probably going to have to talk to the fucking ship's counselor, who is a moron by the way, before Starfleet lets me resume my command. This has not destroyed me.” He spat those last words out, almost contemptuously and tilted his head back until he was certain of Spock's complete attention.
“Here's the clincher, Mr. Spock, if we were in the same position now, I would do the exact same thing even if it meant I had to gnaw the thing off. I would do it again because you are more important to me than all of that bullshit.”
He shook with the intensity of his speech and slumped with exhaustion against the other man.
The arm at his back tightened reflexively and Jim found himself curled into a warm hard wall of muscle. When it sunk in that Spock was actually hugging him, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak, Jim figured he might as well go for broke.
“I would die for you, Mr. Spock. I think I might even love you. I will not let this be what detroys us.”
The impact of the speech may have been lost when he found himself giving it to the Vulcans uniform as both arms came around him. The force squeezed a squeak out of the Captain, reasurring him that Spock at least, spoke shirt dialect. At the light sound the grip eased and Spock slowly pulled away until their faces were level. There was still sorrow in his eyes but something else seemed to be forcing it's way through.
“While we were trapped I estimated that given the nature of my injuries, the odds of my survival were less than 4%. It was your voice that reminded me that those weren't precisely impossible odds and what allowed me to keep fighting. I believed in you Jim, and took strength from that belief.”
A pause followed by another light embrace. “I was wrong to suggest you could be brought low by such as this.”
Jim breathed in the clean warm scent of Spock and smiled crookedly.
“Damn straight. I need you, you cold bastard. You keep me whole.”
They lay like that for some time, Jim's mangled body supported by calm Vulcan strength and his mind drifting pleasantly on on a fresh wave of opiate, words and thoughts becoming fuzzy and far way again but surrounded by warmth and trust.
He began to sink back into another comfortable limbo and murmured sleepily as the Vulcan settled him down for a more comfortable rest.
“Do you think my prosthetic will come with any kinky attachments?”
“I think the Doctor may want to lower the dosage on your medication, Jim.”