Fic: Saved (2/?)
Title: Saved (2/?)
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.
Part One
Jim spent another day in the hospital, getting all sorts of scanners run over him as they hurried his skin along its path of re-knitting and smoothing over. He was almost sad that he wouldn't carry that many scars from the incident. It seemed like the kind of thing that ought to live as a map on his body, another marker of where he's been and what's happened around him. He saw Leonard again a few times, coming in to barrel through updates in his cranky, soft Georgia drawl. Jim focused on the syllables, trying not to think about how far he was from 'home' - or about how much he wanted a drink. Any drink, really, to just forget about this entire mess, to forget about a trip to the hospital that he wasn't sure whatever bullshit healthcare everybody had would cover, to forget about the police who were probably waiting for him to be discharged so they could drag his ass off to the court and then to jail. Real jail, where he hadn't deigned to set foot just yet. Why hadn't he run when the idiot had pulled a knife? Had he really been drunk enough, high as a kite, out of it enough to think he could handle that? He hadn't had backup, but the whole party had backed the asshole with the knife. He could have died. He hadn't, of course, because he was James Motherfucking Kirk, and he was going to go down in a blaze of glory, not a drunken knife fight. Still, the whole thing was enough to put him off of Georgia, as a state. Kansas had been a hell of a lot better. Or was it Missouri? Fuck, there had been good drinking and nobody'd fucked with him, not really. That was what mattered.
He gripped his hair, palms over his eyes, and tried to forget about the hospital room and how disappointed and thirsty he felt. Focus on other things. He needed a haircut. A bath, maybe. He was hungry, but the hospital came with food, thankfully. Even if it was shitty food. He'd almost managed to calm down when Dr. Leonard McCoy strode back in to the room, all straight-backed purpose and smelling like antiseptic instead of like unwashed, beer-covered human. Jim had always hated the smell of antiseptic.
“How you feeling?” McCoy asked, without seeming to really need an answer. Jim just grunted.
“Yeah, you're gonna feel like shit for a while, if you stay off the booze and whatever the fuck else you were putting in your system. That's how it goes.”
Jim had a bad feeling about this visit. He cracked an eye open, glowering at McCoy through his fingers. Sure enough, the good Doctor was pulling up a chair and looking at Jim in a searching, almost concerned way. “This is no way to treat your body, kid. You need to eat more, and hit the booze less. You could do with some basic hygiene, too. What're you doing out here, gettin' in fights with people that'll just hand you your sad, drunk ass? You're gonna get yourself killed. By them, if not by liver failure.”
Fuck. Jim hated the concerned father routine. Don't do it kid, don't flush your life down the toilet. Step away from the bowl. “I'm having a good time, man.” He smiled at the doctor, hoping to look as fucked-up and unsaveable as he felt.
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. “Your good time is gonna kill you. You know better than that, kid, I can see you're not a fuckin' moron. You're not fooling me. Out of all the things to do with your life, this is what you pick?”
Jim snorted. “Yeah, this is what I pick. You don't know shit about me, doc. This is what I fucking love. I don't want to do anything else.” He could feel the sweat gathering on his stomach ad in the hollow of his throat. It wasn't even warm in the building, but he felt like he was slowly melting and evaporating. The itch to get out of the building seemed to be almost real and physical, crawling over his arms and legs. This was more verbose and coherent than he had been in months. He didn't like it.
“Seems like a pretty sorry state to live in.” McCoy crossed his arms and settled into the chair. Apparently, he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. “You're killing your liver, among other organs, you're getting in fights, you got the police after you, and you look like hell shat you out right onto the street. Smell like it, too.”
Jim had had enough of the conversation. He leant back on the bed, closing his eyes. “Is there a point to this little heart to heart, or can I go home now?”
“You got a home to go to?” McCoy sounded sardonic. “You got anywhere to go? They found no money or keys on you. Just an ID. Where are you comin' from, kid, and where are you headed?”
“We're not friends.” Jim was getting tired, and he tried to put that into his voice. Maybe then the guy'd give him a damn break. “That's none of your business. Stay out of my shit.”
McCoy shook his head and stood up. “You should get discharged today or tomorrow. Good luck, kid.”
Jim had a feeling he was going to need it.
He didn't really know how he managed to slip out of the hospital without the police noticing. They hadn't been by the door when Jim's discharge papers had ben delivered. He had padded carefully down the hall and spotted them talking to some white coat on the other side of the lobby. He'd made it to the elevator and out the door before they'd bothered to look around. He made it out, free and clear, with a bill of health and a manageable amount of stiffness to his limbs. His beaten-up mostly empty wallet had been returned to him along with his clothes, his backpack, and his papers, even though he was pretty sure the nurses would have rather burned the clothing. He was, to put it simply, back in business.
The first place he went after hitching a ride away from the hospital was a gas station. He managed to pool together some cash there, from well-meaning good Samaritans, and bought a bottle of vodka and a hot dog. The vodka got stuffed into his bag after a couple drinks, to save for later. The hot dog he ate on the spot, and he was already feeling more like the Jim Kirk version of human. Now, all he needed was a plan of action. Namely, a destination for where to go next. He was pretty sure he should skip town, if not the state, but something made him want to head to a nice sunny patch and take a nap. He felt tired, and the warm buzz from the alcohol wasn't enough to restore him to his usual standards. He found a alley to settle into, and used his backpack for a pillow. He'd figure out what to do after he rested. For now, he felt too disquieted to do much else.
Part Three
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.
Part One
Jim spent another day in the hospital, getting all sorts of scanners run over him as they hurried his skin along its path of re-knitting and smoothing over. He was almost sad that he wouldn't carry that many scars from the incident. It seemed like the kind of thing that ought to live as a map on his body, another marker of where he's been and what's happened around him. He saw Leonard again a few times, coming in to barrel through updates in his cranky, soft Georgia drawl. Jim focused on the syllables, trying not to think about how far he was from 'home' - or about how much he wanted a drink. Any drink, really, to just forget about this entire mess, to forget about a trip to the hospital that he wasn't sure whatever bullshit healthcare everybody had would cover, to forget about the police who were probably waiting for him to be discharged so they could drag his ass off to the court and then to jail. Real jail, where he hadn't deigned to set foot just yet. Why hadn't he run when the idiot had pulled a knife? Had he really been drunk enough, high as a kite, out of it enough to think he could handle that? He hadn't had backup, but the whole party had backed the asshole with the knife. He could have died. He hadn't, of course, because he was James Motherfucking Kirk, and he was going to go down in a blaze of glory, not a drunken knife fight. Still, the whole thing was enough to put him off of Georgia, as a state. Kansas had been a hell of a lot better. Or was it Missouri? Fuck, there had been good drinking and nobody'd fucked with him, not really. That was what mattered.
He gripped his hair, palms over his eyes, and tried to forget about the hospital room and how disappointed and thirsty he felt. Focus on other things. He needed a haircut. A bath, maybe. He was hungry, but the hospital came with food, thankfully. Even if it was shitty food. He'd almost managed to calm down when Dr. Leonard McCoy strode back in to the room, all straight-backed purpose and smelling like antiseptic instead of like unwashed, beer-covered human. Jim had always hated the smell of antiseptic.
“How you feeling?” McCoy asked, without seeming to really need an answer. Jim just grunted.
“Yeah, you're gonna feel like shit for a while, if you stay off the booze and whatever the fuck else you were putting in your system. That's how it goes.”
Jim had a bad feeling about this visit. He cracked an eye open, glowering at McCoy through his fingers. Sure enough, the good Doctor was pulling up a chair and looking at Jim in a searching, almost concerned way. “This is no way to treat your body, kid. You need to eat more, and hit the booze less. You could do with some basic hygiene, too. What're you doing out here, gettin' in fights with people that'll just hand you your sad, drunk ass? You're gonna get yourself killed. By them, if not by liver failure.”
Fuck. Jim hated the concerned father routine. Don't do it kid, don't flush your life down the toilet. Step away from the bowl. “I'm having a good time, man.” He smiled at the doctor, hoping to look as fucked-up and unsaveable as he felt.
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. “Your good time is gonna kill you. You know better than that, kid, I can see you're not a fuckin' moron. You're not fooling me. Out of all the things to do with your life, this is what you pick?”
Jim snorted. “Yeah, this is what I pick. You don't know shit about me, doc. This is what I fucking love. I don't want to do anything else.” He could feel the sweat gathering on his stomach ad in the hollow of his throat. It wasn't even warm in the building, but he felt like he was slowly melting and evaporating. The itch to get out of the building seemed to be almost real and physical, crawling over his arms and legs. This was more verbose and coherent than he had been in months. He didn't like it.
“Seems like a pretty sorry state to live in.” McCoy crossed his arms and settled into the chair. Apparently, he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. “You're killing your liver, among other organs, you're getting in fights, you got the police after you, and you look like hell shat you out right onto the street. Smell like it, too.”
Jim had had enough of the conversation. He leant back on the bed, closing his eyes. “Is there a point to this little heart to heart, or can I go home now?”
“You got a home to go to?” McCoy sounded sardonic. “You got anywhere to go? They found no money or keys on you. Just an ID. Where are you comin' from, kid, and where are you headed?”
“We're not friends.” Jim was getting tired, and he tried to put that into his voice. Maybe then the guy'd give him a damn break. “That's none of your business. Stay out of my shit.”
McCoy shook his head and stood up. “You should get discharged today or tomorrow. Good luck, kid.”
Jim had a feeling he was going to need it.
He didn't really know how he managed to slip out of the hospital without the police noticing. They hadn't been by the door when Jim's discharge papers had ben delivered. He had padded carefully down the hall and spotted them talking to some white coat on the other side of the lobby. He'd made it to the elevator and out the door before they'd bothered to look around. He made it out, free and clear, with a bill of health and a manageable amount of stiffness to his limbs. His beaten-up mostly empty wallet had been returned to him along with his clothes, his backpack, and his papers, even though he was pretty sure the nurses would have rather burned the clothing. He was, to put it simply, back in business.
The first place he went after hitching a ride away from the hospital was a gas station. He managed to pool together some cash there, from well-meaning good Samaritans, and bought a bottle of vodka and a hot dog. The vodka got stuffed into his bag after a couple drinks, to save for later. The hot dog he ate on the spot, and he was already feeling more like the Jim Kirk version of human. Now, all he needed was a plan of action. Namely, a destination for where to go next. He was pretty sure he should skip town, if not the state, but something made him want to head to a nice sunny patch and take a nap. He felt tired, and the warm buzz from the alcohol wasn't enough to restore him to his usual standards. He found a alley to settle into, and used his backpack for a pillow. He'd figure out what to do after he rested. For now, he felt too disquieted to do much else.
Part Three