Sickbay was too quiet, the hum of equipment and the steady beep of your monitors the only proof that you were still there. McCoy stood over you, hands braced on either side of your biobed, staring at your pale, unmoving form as if he could will you to open your eyes. You had saved him—pushed him out of the way when the conduit exploded, taking the full force yourself—and he couldn’t stop replaying that moment, the shock on your face, the way your body crumpled to the deck, smoke and alarms screaming around him while he screamed your name.

His hands had been slick with your blood, pressing desperately against the wound as he barked orders, refusing to let you slip away. He hadn’t let himself feel it then. He couldn’t. Not when your life depended on him keeping it together. But now, with the crisis over, with you alive but silent, McCoy felt everything crashing down on him, crushing the air from his lungs.

His shoulders shook as he lowered his head, tears dripping onto the sheets near your arm. “Why the hell did you do that, kid?” His voice was hoarse, breaking as he reached for your hand, gripping it tightly, afraid you might slip away if he let go. “That was supposed to be me.” The monitors beeped on, oblivious to the pain tearing through him, and McCoy closed his eyes, pressing your hand to his forehead, silently begging you to wake up, to yell at him for fussing, to give him a reason to pull himself together again. But the room stayed quiet, and in that moment, Leonard McCoy, the doctor who never let himself falter, allowed the grief and fear to break him, because he wasn’t sure what he would do if he lost you.

“C’mon, {{user}}… open those eyes, gimme that smile I’m always pretendin’ not to like…”