(no subject)
Title: Saved
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, background McCoy/Jocelyn at the beginning
Rating: R (Drug and Alcohol reference/abuse, violence, foul language, etc.)
Summary: What was Jim doing, those years before Pike found him? What if he'd met Bones a little sooner?
Author's Note: This spawned out of one Kirk/Bones vid, a playlist, and having some very... interesting friends and acquaintances. If there's a background event or anecdote, it's quite possibly true or at least only stretched a little bit. My thanks to dragonlet for her beta skills, as always.
Jim Kirk was sprawled on the cool ground, unmoving. He wasn't dead or dying, he was just unconscious. Again. He was twenty-one, young and handsome, and he spent quite a lot of his time laying unconscious on the ground in strange places. This time, it was the back alley of a moderately run-down bar in a city he didn't really remember the name of. His clothing was stained and dirty, he could probably use a shower and to shave, and the smell of alcohol permeated the air around him, as well as the smell of other unsavory things like piss and blood and trash.
It wasn't as if he had anywhere better to sleep. There was nowhere else to go, not in this city. He was past the point of caring what happened to him when he passed out in a drunken stupor. He didn't have much worth mugging him for, and he'd suffered enough of a beating inside that he was hardly worth beating again. For all intents and purposes, he was just another bag of trash tossed out the back door. In truth, if he'd been conscious (and coherently sober) he would have said he didn't really give a shit. About anything. That was his official stance on life in general: Don't give a shit about it, and it won't hurt you. It had, in his opinion, got him through quite a few hard times and hadn't failed him yet. Not everyone would agree, but he - Unsurprisingly - didn't give a shit.
The police had something of a different perspective than he did, and come six in the morning, they were prodding at him and attempting to wake him. It had rained during the night, not that he'd noticed, but it meant waking up to sodden clothing, a distinct chill, and the blank, disapproving face masks of a pair of policemen staring down at him. Jim hated those creepy face plates. He hated the creepy automated tone the voices that came from behind them carried even more.
“Fuckin' - Whaddya wan'?” He slurred up at them, squinting against the dim light of dawn.
“Citizen. You can't sleep here. You're going to have to get moving.” The bigger one seemed to radiate disdain, and Jim's head throbbed from trying to focus on him.
“'S a free planet, dickhead.” Jim levered himself up woozily, his balance still staggering from the night before.
“Get moving or we'll move you. Go home.” The officers seemed less than impressed with Jim's coordination as he swayed to his feet, looking more than a little like he was going to be sick. Which he was. All over the big policeman's boots.
“Oh, Christ.” Big Guy exclaimed, jumping back just moments too late. His partner backed up quickly as well, not looking forward to the same treatment.
“Fuck. 'M sorry, man.” Jim swayed a moment, before leaning over and voiding the contents of his stomach once more. He put out a hand and leaned against the dirty wall of the bar, trying to wait for his stomach to settle.
“Look, citizen, call someone to pick you up and get home.” Short Guy said, as he'd apparently drawn the 'Good Cop' straw that day.
Jim laughed, and then heaved again. When he'd stopped for a moment, he looked up to attempt eye contact with Shorty, without much success. “Nobody t'call. I'ma hike back, I got this.”
It took a good twenty minutes of arguing before the police convinced him to get a ride back to his 'hotel' from them, if he couldn't afford a cab. He'd gotten a stern lecture about knowing his limits and not running out of cash, as well as various suggestions on how to settle his stomach. He either didn't have the heart to tell them he was allergic to milk, or he'd been too out of it to even consider it. He stepped into the lobby of the hotel and waited for them to move along, before staggering back out and falling asleep in the bushes. It was as good a place as any.
Jim had spent most of his time for the last few years drifting from town to town, anywhere but Riverside, and doing as much drinking, partying, and fucking as he could when he wasn't trying to catch his next ride or find a place to sleep. He'd walked out of his 'mother's' house at seventeen, fresh out of high school and barreling toward his eighteenth birthday like a train on a collision course. He'd run into the police in most of the towns he'd rolled through, and the encounters varied from not so bad to Jim cooling his heels in a holding cell for a few days at a time. He'd charmed his way out of the courthouse a number of times, which was good, because he had shit-all money to pay fines with. He had, however, gotten better and better at outrunning the law.
Jim's life was a party. One long, never-ending, fight-filled, cops called, roofies in your drinks and drugs on the countertops, endless party. Most of the time, he had convinced himself that he loved it. Most of the time, he wasn't anywhere near sober. He drank himself into unconsciousness at night, and breakfast every morning was a swig of cheap, strong whiskey out of a plastic bottle. He'd dabbled in more illegal past-times, when he could afford it; he made the money for booze panhandling on street corners and by being pleasant and pitiful at the people who were nice enough to give him a ride to the next town. He drifted into bars and clubs when he had the money, and managed to get invited to a regular enough string of house parties when he didn't. Sometimes he scored a couch to sleep on for the night, and sometimes he ended up with a black eye, a broken nose, and empty pockets.
And then, one night in Georgia had gone worse than the others, and drunken bickering over the way Jim smelled, how much he'd drunk, and how much his presence pissed off some trust fund kid had escalated into a full-blown fistfight. They'd brawled through the house and down the steps, screaming obscenities and insults, tearing clothing and swinging at each other without much concern for who got in the way. The other guy had pulled a knife; someone else called the cops. As the fight got worse, Jim ended up with blood on his face and his body, the skin on his knuckles scraped from the beating he gave the other boy, and the blood soaking his clothes from the knife wounds he'd been given in return. The police brought an ambulance with them, and for once Jim's lazy grin at the paramedics wasn't accompanied with a “You should see the other guy.” This time, “The Other Guy” was busy getting loaded into one of the flashy police vehicles, and Jim was practically unconscious, anyway. He didn't give a shit what the other guy looked like. He was out by the time the paramedics had rushed him into the ambulance and on the way to the hospital.
When Jim was conscious again, he was squinting up at the clean, white ceiling of a hospital. He hated hospitals. He hated everything about them, and he hated knowing he'd probably needed it. He groaned and moved to sit up, before a strong hand pushed him down again.
“Sit your ass down, kid, you're not going anywhere.” The man pushing him said gruffly, and Jim focused on him. Great. A doctor. Jim wasn't too fond of doctors, either.
“I don't have insurance, get me outta here.” He felt woozy and, frankly, like shit. He usually felt pretty shitty, or he felt amazing, but this was an even worse low than he usually had. His body ached, his head ached, he felt dizzy and tired, and he felt as if he was nearly vibrating off of the sickbed. If this was healing and detox, Jim preferred not to take part.
“You've got the same damn health care as everyone, dipshit, so shut up - because you've got multiple severe lacerations. And you're detoxing. Your sorry ass isn't going anywhere any time soon.” The doctor looked even less impressed by Jim's situation than Jim did. He moved around the room irritably, every bit of his body language seeming to say that he hated it here and he was wasting his time. Still, he was surprisingly gentle when he had to move around Jim, checking him both by tricorder and by hand. Jim still tensed and hissed, ready to jerk away at a moment's notice. He felt like his skin was crawling over his body, and it hurt. At least the doctor didn't seem too interested in poking and prodding him into feeling worse.
“You should see the other guy.” Jim tried, flashing his usual charming grin. If he could sweet talk the doctor into letting him out early, he could skip town before any question of bills or legal repercussions surfaced.
“I've seen the reports. He did a damn number on you, can't say the same for what you did to him.” he rolled his eyes. “Real impressive, kid.”
Jim grimaced. Right, so maybe this one wasn't so easily charmed. He studied the other man. Tall, broad shoulders, handsome and clean cut looking. He was still frowning at the PADD in his hand. He couldn't be that old, really - His face wasn't too lined, his hair was dark brown with no signs of gray, he didn't look like the standard cranky old nowhere-left-to-go doctor. Jim couldn't see what he had to be so angry about - Well, besides the half-mutilated kid on the bio bed. Stupid question, Jim. He snorted.
“What's so funny?” He growled, looking up from his PADD. “You nearly got yourself killed, I don't see a damn laughing matter here. The fuck were you thinking, kid?”
“Are you allowed to say fuck to me?” Jim drawled lazily. “Aren't you supposed to be all official and shit? I could probably report you for being a douchebag. What's your name, anyway? I ought to write to your boss.”
The doctor let out a short laugh, finishing whatever he'd been doing with the PADD. “You wouldn't be the first one.” He shook his head and grabbed the curtain partition separating Jim from the rest of the room. He stepped out and looked back at Jim thoughtfully. “And it's McCoy. Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
He pulled the curtain shut and left Jim alone again.
“Leonard's a stupid name.” Jim muttered.
----
Part two.
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, background McCoy/Jocelyn at the beginning
Rating: R (Drug and Alcohol reference/abuse, violence, foul language, etc.)
Summary: What was Jim doing, those years before Pike found him? What if he'd met Bones a little sooner?
Author's Note: This spawned out of one Kirk/Bones vid, a playlist, and having some very... interesting friends and acquaintances. If there's a background event or anecdote, it's quite possibly true or at least only stretched a little bit. My thanks to dragonlet for her beta skills, as always.
Jim Kirk was sprawled on the cool ground, unmoving. He wasn't dead or dying, he was just unconscious. Again. He was twenty-one, young and handsome, and he spent quite a lot of his time laying unconscious on the ground in strange places. This time, it was the back alley of a moderately run-down bar in a city he didn't really remember the name of. His clothing was stained and dirty, he could probably use a shower and to shave, and the smell of alcohol permeated the air around him, as well as the smell of other unsavory things like piss and blood and trash.
It wasn't as if he had anywhere better to sleep. There was nowhere else to go, not in this city. He was past the point of caring what happened to him when he passed out in a drunken stupor. He didn't have much worth mugging him for, and he'd suffered enough of a beating inside that he was hardly worth beating again. For all intents and purposes, he was just another bag of trash tossed out the back door. In truth, if he'd been conscious (and coherently sober) he would have said he didn't really give a shit. About anything. That was his official stance on life in general: Don't give a shit about it, and it won't hurt you. It had, in his opinion, got him through quite a few hard times and hadn't failed him yet. Not everyone would agree, but he - Unsurprisingly - didn't give a shit.
The police had something of a different perspective than he did, and come six in the morning, they were prodding at him and attempting to wake him. It had rained during the night, not that he'd noticed, but it meant waking up to sodden clothing, a distinct chill, and the blank, disapproving face masks of a pair of policemen staring down at him. Jim hated those creepy face plates. He hated the creepy automated tone the voices that came from behind them carried even more.
“Fuckin' - Whaddya wan'?” He slurred up at them, squinting against the dim light of dawn.
“Citizen. You can't sleep here. You're going to have to get moving.” The bigger one seemed to radiate disdain, and Jim's head throbbed from trying to focus on him.
“'S a free planet, dickhead.” Jim levered himself up woozily, his balance still staggering from the night before.
“Get moving or we'll move you. Go home.” The officers seemed less than impressed with Jim's coordination as he swayed to his feet, looking more than a little like he was going to be sick. Which he was. All over the big policeman's boots.
“Oh, Christ.” Big Guy exclaimed, jumping back just moments too late. His partner backed up quickly as well, not looking forward to the same treatment.
“Fuck. 'M sorry, man.” Jim swayed a moment, before leaning over and voiding the contents of his stomach once more. He put out a hand and leaned against the dirty wall of the bar, trying to wait for his stomach to settle.
“Look, citizen, call someone to pick you up and get home.” Short Guy said, as he'd apparently drawn the 'Good Cop' straw that day.
Jim laughed, and then heaved again. When he'd stopped for a moment, he looked up to attempt eye contact with Shorty, without much success. “Nobody t'call. I'ma hike back, I got this.”
It took a good twenty minutes of arguing before the police convinced him to get a ride back to his 'hotel' from them, if he couldn't afford a cab. He'd gotten a stern lecture about knowing his limits and not running out of cash, as well as various suggestions on how to settle his stomach. He either didn't have the heart to tell them he was allergic to milk, or he'd been too out of it to even consider it. He stepped into the lobby of the hotel and waited for them to move along, before staggering back out and falling asleep in the bushes. It was as good a place as any.
Jim had spent most of his time for the last few years drifting from town to town, anywhere but Riverside, and doing as much drinking, partying, and fucking as he could when he wasn't trying to catch his next ride or find a place to sleep. He'd walked out of his 'mother's' house at seventeen, fresh out of high school and barreling toward his eighteenth birthday like a train on a collision course. He'd run into the police in most of the towns he'd rolled through, and the encounters varied from not so bad to Jim cooling his heels in a holding cell for a few days at a time. He'd charmed his way out of the courthouse a number of times, which was good, because he had shit-all money to pay fines with. He had, however, gotten better and better at outrunning the law.
Jim's life was a party. One long, never-ending, fight-filled, cops called, roofies in your drinks and drugs on the countertops, endless party. Most of the time, he had convinced himself that he loved it. Most of the time, he wasn't anywhere near sober. He drank himself into unconsciousness at night, and breakfast every morning was a swig of cheap, strong whiskey out of a plastic bottle. He'd dabbled in more illegal past-times, when he could afford it; he made the money for booze panhandling on street corners and by being pleasant and pitiful at the people who were nice enough to give him a ride to the next town. He drifted into bars and clubs when he had the money, and managed to get invited to a regular enough string of house parties when he didn't. Sometimes he scored a couch to sleep on for the night, and sometimes he ended up with a black eye, a broken nose, and empty pockets.
And then, one night in Georgia had gone worse than the others, and drunken bickering over the way Jim smelled, how much he'd drunk, and how much his presence pissed off some trust fund kid had escalated into a full-blown fistfight. They'd brawled through the house and down the steps, screaming obscenities and insults, tearing clothing and swinging at each other without much concern for who got in the way. The other guy had pulled a knife; someone else called the cops. As the fight got worse, Jim ended up with blood on his face and his body, the skin on his knuckles scraped from the beating he gave the other boy, and the blood soaking his clothes from the knife wounds he'd been given in return. The police brought an ambulance with them, and for once Jim's lazy grin at the paramedics wasn't accompanied with a “You should see the other guy.” This time, “The Other Guy” was busy getting loaded into one of the flashy police vehicles, and Jim was practically unconscious, anyway. He didn't give a shit what the other guy looked like. He was out by the time the paramedics had rushed him into the ambulance and on the way to the hospital.
When Jim was conscious again, he was squinting up at the clean, white ceiling of a hospital. He hated hospitals. He hated everything about them, and he hated knowing he'd probably needed it. He groaned and moved to sit up, before a strong hand pushed him down again.
“Sit your ass down, kid, you're not going anywhere.” The man pushing him said gruffly, and Jim focused on him. Great. A doctor. Jim wasn't too fond of doctors, either.
“I don't have insurance, get me outta here.” He felt woozy and, frankly, like shit. He usually felt pretty shitty, or he felt amazing, but this was an even worse low than he usually had. His body ached, his head ached, he felt dizzy and tired, and he felt as if he was nearly vibrating off of the sickbed. If this was healing and detox, Jim preferred not to take part.
“You've got the same damn health care as everyone, dipshit, so shut up - because you've got multiple severe lacerations. And you're detoxing. Your sorry ass isn't going anywhere any time soon.” The doctor looked even less impressed by Jim's situation than Jim did. He moved around the room irritably, every bit of his body language seeming to say that he hated it here and he was wasting his time. Still, he was surprisingly gentle when he had to move around Jim, checking him both by tricorder and by hand. Jim still tensed and hissed, ready to jerk away at a moment's notice. He felt like his skin was crawling over his body, and it hurt. At least the doctor didn't seem too interested in poking and prodding him into feeling worse.
“You should see the other guy.” Jim tried, flashing his usual charming grin. If he could sweet talk the doctor into letting him out early, he could skip town before any question of bills or legal repercussions surfaced.
“I've seen the reports. He did a damn number on you, can't say the same for what you did to him.” he rolled his eyes. “Real impressive, kid.”
Jim grimaced. Right, so maybe this one wasn't so easily charmed. He studied the other man. Tall, broad shoulders, handsome and clean cut looking. He was still frowning at the PADD in his hand. He couldn't be that old, really - His face wasn't too lined, his hair was dark brown with no signs of gray, he didn't look like the standard cranky old nowhere-left-to-go doctor. Jim couldn't see what he had to be so angry about - Well, besides the half-mutilated kid on the bio bed. Stupid question, Jim. He snorted.
“What's so funny?” He growled, looking up from his PADD. “You nearly got yourself killed, I don't see a damn laughing matter here. The fuck were you thinking, kid?”
“Are you allowed to say fuck to me?” Jim drawled lazily. “Aren't you supposed to be all official and shit? I could probably report you for being a douchebag. What's your name, anyway? I ought to write to your boss.”
The doctor let out a short laugh, finishing whatever he'd been doing with the PADD. “You wouldn't be the first one.” He shook his head and grabbed the curtain partition separating Jim from the rest of the room. He stepped out and looked back at Jim thoughtfully. “And it's McCoy. Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
He pulled the curtain shut and left Jim alone again.
“Leonard's a stupid name.” Jim muttered.
----
Part two.