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The planet’s sky is the color of dying embers when everything goes wrong.
One minute the four of you. James T. Kirk, Spock, Leonard McCoy, and you are cataloguing mineral readings for the science division.
The next minute the ground shudders like the planet itself is coughing you off its surface.
Rock collapses.
Dust explodes into the air.
Someone shouts.
And when the rumbling finally stops, you’re on your hands and knees, ears ringing, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Status,” Kirk coughs somewhere behind you.
“I’m good,” you answer automatically, already scrambling to your feet. “Spock?”
“I remain functional.”
“Bones?” Kirk calls.
A strained voice answers from deeper in the ravine where the quake split the ground open.
“Peachy,” McCoy groans. “If peachy means I’m pinned under half a damn mountain.”
Your stomach drops.
You move before anyone can stop you.
The dust is still settling when you reach him.
McCoy lies against the rock wall, one leg trapped under a slab of fractured stone. Blood stains the side of his uniform, but the first thing he does when he sees you crouch beside him is glare.
“What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Helping you,” you say simply.
“You were supposed to get to higher ground.”
You brush grit from his hairline, quick and careful. “I did.”
He stares at you.
“You’re the higher ground.”
From above, Kirk’s voice echoes down the ravine.
“The ridge is unstable! We need to beam out now!”
Spock appears at the edge of the crack, assessing the damage with that quiet, calculating gaze.
“The transporter lock will degrade within approximately four minutes,” he says. “We must ascend immediately.”
McCoy huffs a bitter laugh.
“Well, that settles it.”
You glance at him.
“What does?”
“You go.” He gestures weakly upward. “All of you.”
You blink.
“No.”
“Don’t start,” he snaps.
You’re already shifting the rock pinning his leg, ignoring the scrape of stone against your gloves.
“Dammit,” McCoy groans. “You are not dying on this rock for me.”
“Good thing I’m not planning to.”
“Kid-”
You stop, meeting his eyes.
“You’re crazy if you think I’d leave you here to save myself.”
The words land heavier than the falling dust.
For a moment, McCoy just stares.
“Y/n-”
“We go together,” you say quietly. “Or not at all.”
Behind you, there’s silence from the ridge.
Kirk exhales softly.
Spock tilts his head, studying the two of you like a fascinating anomaly.
But McCoy?
McCoy looks like someone just pulled the floor out from under his world.
Three minutes later the rock shifts just enough.
Spock lifts it with precise efficiency while you drag McCoy free.
He bites back a cry when his leg moves.
You immediately slide an arm around his back.
“Easy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“That’s practically my natural state.”
You help him stand anyway.
He leans against you more than he wants to admit.
And when the ground trembles again, his hand instinctively grips the back of your uniform.
You pretend not to notice.
Transporter light swallows you all seconds later.
The last thing McCoy remembers before the beam takes him is the way your arm tightens around him like letting go was never even an option.
Sickbay is quiet hours later.
Too quiet.
McCoy wakes to the soft hum of the ship’s systems and the faint ache pulsing through his leg.
The first thing he sees is you.
Curled in the chair beside his bed.
Still wearing your uniform.
Still here.
Your hand rests loosely on the edge of the mattress like you fell asleep making sure he didn’t disappear.
Something tight pulls in his chest.
“Dammit,” he murmurs softly.
Your eyes flutter open instantly.
“You’re awake.”
Relief floods your voice so fast it almost sounds like panic.
You lean forward, brushing your fingers gently over his forehead, checking for fever out of pure instinct.
“You scared me.”
“I’m the one who got crushed by a rock.”
“And you’re the one who told me to leave you behind.”
His jaw tightens.
“You should’ve.”
“No.”
“You could’ve died.”
“So could you.”
“That’s different.”
You blink.
“How?”
McCoy doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he watches the way your thumb absentmindedly traces the edge of the blanket near his arm. The way your voice softened the moment you saw he was breathing. The way you never once complained about the hours sitting beside his bed.
And suddenly something clicks.
Something he should’ve realized a long time ago.
“All those missions,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head.
“What about them?”
“You always stay.”
“Of course I do.”
“You bring coffee when I’m working too late.”
You shrug.
“You forget to eat.”
“You remember every damn thing that annoys me.”
“That’s not hard.”
“And today…” His voice roughens. “You were ready to die with me.”
You frown like that part is obvious.
“Well… yeah.”
The simplicity of it nearly wrecks him.
“Why?”
Your eyebrows knit together.
“Bones…”
“No, I mean it.” His voice is quieter now. “Why?”
You hesitate.
Then your fingers shift slightly until they rest over the back of his hand.
Soft.
Warm.
Careful of the bruises.
“Because I love you.”
The words leave your mouth like they’ve been there forever.
Like they’re the most natural truth in the universe.
McCoy stares at you.
“You…”
You smile gently.
“I thought you knew.”
“I did not know.”
“Oh.”
You start to pull your hand away.
McCoy stops you.
His fingers close around yours, surprisingly firm for someone who just had half a mountain dropped on him.
“Don’t,” he says.
You pause.
He studies your face for a long moment.
Then sighs.
“Hell,” he mutters softly. “You’ve been loving me this whole time and I’ve been too blind to see it.”
“You’re not blind.”
“I am when it comes to feelings.”
That earns a small laugh from you.
He shifts carefully, ignoring the ache in his leg.
Then he opens his arm slightly.
“C’mere.”
You hesitate.
“Bones-”
“I didn’t almost die on a rock just to miss my chance to hold you.”
Your cheeks warm.
But you stand anyway.
Carefully.
Slowly.
You settle beside him on the narrow Sickbay bed, mindful of his injuries.
McCoy immediately pulls you closer until your head rests against his shoulder.
Not urgent.
Not desperate.
Just… warm.
His fingers slide gently through your hair.
And for a long time neither of you say anything.
Your breathing evens out.
Your hand rests over his heart.
Eventually he murmurs softly into your hair,
“You meant it, didn’t you.”
You tilt your head.
“Meant what?”
“We go together or not at all.”
You nod against his shoulder.
“Always.”
McCoy presses a slow kiss into your hairline.
The kind that carries a thousand quiet promises.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice warm with a new kind of wonder,
“that sounds like a pretty good normal to me.”