(no subject)
Title: Saved (5/?)
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:Sorry this took so long! I went on my own dirty kid trip to Philly, Detroit, and back, and then back to school and other busy things. The lovely dragonlet beta'd for me again, but is too busy to do so in the future -- I'd appreciate any help? This chapter isn't particularly long, either. I promise things pick up soon!
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any form, and I especially don't own Jim and
Bones. Which is probably a good thing. I'm just havin' fun.
Jim learned pretty quick that he was terrible at staying out of trouble. His main problem, he admitted, was in riding back into town with Bones when the doctor inevitably went in to the hospital - He seemed pretty bad at the “not being there” thing - and getting dropped off to wander the city. It looked like McCoy knew it was a bad idea, too, because when Jim had clambered out onto the street, he'd looked seriously at him and reminded him not to get in trouble.
“Not even a little bit, all right? Jesus, you don't have room for more injuries yet.”
Jim had tried, he really had. He'd plonked his ass down on the sidewalk in a moderately (but not actually) out of the way spot, and panhandled with his usual charming smile and the promise to do handstands for a dollar. He wasn't doing terribly, though he made sure not to advertise the fact. The people here were all right, really, barring the asshole from his first night with the knife. It reminded him of a book he'd read a long time ago, the one that'd put this crazy idea of traveling in his head to begin with. “Most folks don't want to do things to you anymore, they want to do things for you.”
That was a bunch of bull, really. Nobody cared much about anybody else. He was pretty sure the main character died at the end of that book, too. Why he'd never thought about that when making grand plans to run away, he had no idea. Everybody's stupid when they're a kid, he guesses.
He'd taken the money he made and...almost bought lunch. He had, indeed, bought a cheap hamburger and water, and a bottle of whiskey. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get nearly as drunk as he had the night before - That was probably trouble - and absolutely no fights. If he hid the bottle from McCoy and he could walk a straight line when the man came looking for him, who was he to know?
Of course, it didn't work out that well. He drank, and decided a little more wouldn't hurt, and by the time he'd finished “a little more” he was too tipsy to remember not to do it again. He wasn't the only one who wanted to drink on the street, though, and he'd never been good at sharing. He'd gotten a black eye and a split lip, maybe more, and another guy had gotten the whiskey. He leant against the wall of some back alley (they all looked the same after a while) and slid down slowly, legs sprawled in front of him. Every ache and pain that had started to ease off was flaring up again, and for just a moment he'd like to not move. He stared up, not focusing on anything in particular, and took a moment to wonder a truly pathetic why me? before pulling himself together again. He sighed, and stood up unsteadily. If he went back out now, if he was lucky, he could make a little more money before Bones came back for him. He could buy some kind of food, a drink, anything to make the world stop spinning. The spinning would get him in more trouble than the smell, he knew. He drifted out of the alley, and was halfway down the street before he wondered why he'd bought the booze at all.
He wasn't lucky, either. He made another handful of change before Bones pulled up and nudged the door open for him, his eyebrows raised. Jim hauled himself up and tried to look as sober and unbruised as he could, but from the look on his face, Bones wasn't buying it.
“Oh, darlin'.” He said, sighing.
That was worse than the beating had been, almost. He wasn't even getting yelled at, just an 'Oh, darlin'.' and this damn patient waiting for him to get in. Which he did, carefully and slowly. He hunkered down in the seat, his shoulders pulled in and his head down. He was tired, and sore, and at that unpleasantly melancholy stage of drunkenness. Bones' calm, understanding, disappointed silence wasn't helping at all, either. It just made him feel worse. Just like the stupid southern charm - Who the hell called another guy darlin'? It was...endearing. God damnit. Jim just wanted to go to sleep.
He did eventually manage to drift off to sleep, curled in on himself slightly with his head on the window. McCoy had music playing softly, something old and slow, quiet enough not to wake Jim for the entire ride back. Not that anything could have woken him up - It was some badly needed rest, and he didn't wake until they had arrived back at the McCoy home, and Bones had leaned over to shake his shoulder gently.
“Hey, Jim. Come on, you've gotta get on your feet and in to the couch.” He muttered, not wanting to jostle the jumpy young man too badly.
Jim blinked groggily when he woke, sitting up slowly. He followed Bones back inside, and collapsed almost instantly onto the couch. Bones just shook his head and grabbed a blanket, tossing it in Jim's direction. Jim was far past being able to catch it, but he pulled it around himself afterward, settling in.
“We'll call today a mulligan, kid. You get some sleep.” Bones shook his head again, climbing the stairs to his own room.
Jim lay awake for a moment afterwards, staring across the room. Great. A do-over. You fucked it up, Jim, have another try. Thanks. Bastard. Jim knew he should be glad enough about it. So he'd fucked up, so what? He got another chance, his head hurt, he was covered in bruises and scrapes, he wasn't near drunk enough, and he was exhausted. He just wanted more sleep. He'd deal with all the strange, muddled feelings when he woke up in the morning. Though for once, he was worried 'deal with' wasn't code for drinking his problems away.
Morning came early and insistent, with Bones pressing another hypospray to his neck and passing him a cup of coffee somewhere in the midst of his rushing around and getting ready for work. Jim sat on the couch and watched him hurry from room to room, in a set, efficient pattern. It reminded him of bumblebees or ants, moving in set, seemingly random ways. Pajamas disappeared after a fifteen minute shower, his hear was combed, stubble vanished, shoes were tied on in the living room, but his belt was back upstairs. His keys were in one room, his wallet another. His personal comm wasted a good five minutes, and Jim had to help by turning over cushions that Bones hadn't actually been anywhere near in the past twenty-four hours, until they realized it was in last night's slacks. The whole process took hardly any time at all, and ended with Dr. Leonard McCoy looking at Jim from where Bones had been last night.
“You sure you want to tag along today, Jim? You could get some rest in 'round here.” McCoy looked hesitant, and Jim knew he was thinking about last night. Jim knew he'd fucked up, but hell, he hadn't figured it was that bad.
“Nah, I'll be fine. I learn from my mistakes real quick, I promise.” Jim grinned, trying to put his usual charm into it. He wasn't sure what it was about Bones that set him off-kilter, but he could hardly keep a grip on his composure around the older man.
“If you're sure, then.” Was all Bones had to say, before leading the way out to the truck. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, and the fields around the house were a grayish sort of pink and blue. Jim didn't know how much land Bones had, but he felt like he could see for miles. Something about the long grass in the early morning reminded him of home, of Riverside and the hours of driving through endless, rolling nothing. He pushed the bout of homesickness aside and climbed into the truck, shutting the door heavily.
Somehow, he managed to make it through the morning without incident. That was probably due more to the fact that he found a bench to sleep on for most of it, and less to some staggering amount of self-control he'd magically come up with. He took up more time with panhandling and stopping by a fountain, dragging his fingers through the cool water. Once again, he found himself wondering why he was playing along with this stupid dare. For one, it made him stuck in this town for a whole week. That was longer than he wanted to spend anywhere, free place to sleep or not. He didn't owe this guy anything, even if he was pretty all right, he guessed. Why had he promised not to get into 'trouble', anyway?
He sat and watched cars drive by for a while. If he stuck out his thumb, he could be halfway out of Georgia before nightfall. He could go back to how it had been just a couple days ago, drunk and high on adrenaline and every other substance he could get his hands on. He could forget about this whole weird interlude, put it down to interfering, bleeding heart doctors and move on with his shit life. Go back to normal.
He sat there watching cars until Bones pulled up that night. He never did bother trying to catch one.
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:Sorry this took so long! I went on my own dirty kid trip to Philly, Detroit, and back, and then back to school and other busy things. The lovely dragonlet beta'd for me again, but is too busy to do so in the future -- I'd appreciate any help? This chapter isn't particularly long, either. I promise things pick up soon!
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any form, and I especially don't own Jim and
Bones. Which is probably a good thing. I'm just havin' fun.
Jim learned pretty quick that he was terrible at staying out of trouble. His main problem, he admitted, was in riding back into town with Bones when the doctor inevitably went in to the hospital - He seemed pretty bad at the “not being there” thing - and getting dropped off to wander the city. It looked like McCoy knew it was a bad idea, too, because when Jim had clambered out onto the street, he'd looked seriously at him and reminded him not to get in trouble.
“Not even a little bit, all right? Jesus, you don't have room for more injuries yet.”
Jim had tried, he really had. He'd plonked his ass down on the sidewalk in a moderately (but not actually) out of the way spot, and panhandled with his usual charming smile and the promise to do handstands for a dollar. He wasn't doing terribly, though he made sure not to advertise the fact. The people here were all right, really, barring the asshole from his first night with the knife. It reminded him of a book he'd read a long time ago, the one that'd put this crazy idea of traveling in his head to begin with. “Most folks don't want to do things to you anymore, they want to do things for you.”
That was a bunch of bull, really. Nobody cared much about anybody else. He was pretty sure the main character died at the end of that book, too. Why he'd never thought about that when making grand plans to run away, he had no idea. Everybody's stupid when they're a kid, he guesses.
He'd taken the money he made and...almost bought lunch. He had, indeed, bought a cheap hamburger and water, and a bottle of whiskey. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get nearly as drunk as he had the night before - That was probably trouble - and absolutely no fights. If he hid the bottle from McCoy and he could walk a straight line when the man came looking for him, who was he to know?
Of course, it didn't work out that well. He drank, and decided a little more wouldn't hurt, and by the time he'd finished “a little more” he was too tipsy to remember not to do it again. He wasn't the only one who wanted to drink on the street, though, and he'd never been good at sharing. He'd gotten a black eye and a split lip, maybe more, and another guy had gotten the whiskey. He leant against the wall of some back alley (they all looked the same after a while) and slid down slowly, legs sprawled in front of him. Every ache and pain that had started to ease off was flaring up again, and for just a moment he'd like to not move. He stared up, not focusing on anything in particular, and took a moment to wonder a truly pathetic why me? before pulling himself together again. He sighed, and stood up unsteadily. If he went back out now, if he was lucky, he could make a little more money before Bones came back for him. He could buy some kind of food, a drink, anything to make the world stop spinning. The spinning would get him in more trouble than the smell, he knew. He drifted out of the alley, and was halfway down the street before he wondered why he'd bought the booze at all.
He wasn't lucky, either. He made another handful of change before Bones pulled up and nudged the door open for him, his eyebrows raised. Jim hauled himself up and tried to look as sober and unbruised as he could, but from the look on his face, Bones wasn't buying it.
“Oh, darlin'.” He said, sighing.
That was worse than the beating had been, almost. He wasn't even getting yelled at, just an 'Oh, darlin'.' and this damn patient waiting for him to get in. Which he did, carefully and slowly. He hunkered down in the seat, his shoulders pulled in and his head down. He was tired, and sore, and at that unpleasantly melancholy stage of drunkenness. Bones' calm, understanding, disappointed silence wasn't helping at all, either. It just made him feel worse. Just like the stupid southern charm - Who the hell called another guy darlin'? It was...endearing. God damnit. Jim just wanted to go to sleep.
He did eventually manage to drift off to sleep, curled in on himself slightly with his head on the window. McCoy had music playing softly, something old and slow, quiet enough not to wake Jim for the entire ride back. Not that anything could have woken him up - It was some badly needed rest, and he didn't wake until they had arrived back at the McCoy home, and Bones had leaned over to shake his shoulder gently.
“Hey, Jim. Come on, you've gotta get on your feet and in to the couch.” He muttered, not wanting to jostle the jumpy young man too badly.
Jim blinked groggily when he woke, sitting up slowly. He followed Bones back inside, and collapsed almost instantly onto the couch. Bones just shook his head and grabbed a blanket, tossing it in Jim's direction. Jim was far past being able to catch it, but he pulled it around himself afterward, settling in.
“We'll call today a mulligan, kid. You get some sleep.” Bones shook his head again, climbing the stairs to his own room.
Jim lay awake for a moment afterwards, staring across the room. Great. A do-over. You fucked it up, Jim, have another try. Thanks. Bastard. Jim knew he should be glad enough about it. So he'd fucked up, so what? He got another chance, his head hurt, he was covered in bruises and scrapes, he wasn't near drunk enough, and he was exhausted. He just wanted more sleep. He'd deal with all the strange, muddled feelings when he woke up in the morning. Though for once, he was worried 'deal with' wasn't code for drinking his problems away.
Morning came early and insistent, with Bones pressing another hypospray to his neck and passing him a cup of coffee somewhere in the midst of his rushing around and getting ready for work. Jim sat on the couch and watched him hurry from room to room, in a set, efficient pattern. It reminded him of bumblebees or ants, moving in set, seemingly random ways. Pajamas disappeared after a fifteen minute shower, his hear was combed, stubble vanished, shoes were tied on in the living room, but his belt was back upstairs. His keys were in one room, his wallet another. His personal comm wasted a good five minutes, and Jim had to help by turning over cushions that Bones hadn't actually been anywhere near in the past twenty-four hours, until they realized it was in last night's slacks. The whole process took hardly any time at all, and ended with Dr. Leonard McCoy looking at Jim from where Bones had been last night.
“You sure you want to tag along today, Jim? You could get some rest in 'round here.” McCoy looked hesitant, and Jim knew he was thinking about last night. Jim knew he'd fucked up, but hell, he hadn't figured it was that bad.
“Nah, I'll be fine. I learn from my mistakes real quick, I promise.” Jim grinned, trying to put his usual charm into it. He wasn't sure what it was about Bones that set him off-kilter, but he could hardly keep a grip on his composure around the older man.
“If you're sure, then.” Was all Bones had to say, before leading the way out to the truck. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, and the fields around the house were a grayish sort of pink and blue. Jim didn't know how much land Bones had, but he felt like he could see for miles. Something about the long grass in the early morning reminded him of home, of Riverside and the hours of driving through endless, rolling nothing. He pushed the bout of homesickness aside and climbed into the truck, shutting the door heavily.
Somehow, he managed to make it through the morning without incident. That was probably due more to the fact that he found a bench to sleep on for most of it, and less to some staggering amount of self-control he'd magically come up with. He took up more time with panhandling and stopping by a fountain, dragging his fingers through the cool water. Once again, he found himself wondering why he was playing along with this stupid dare. For one, it made him stuck in this town for a whole week. That was longer than he wanted to spend anywhere, free place to sleep or not. He didn't owe this guy anything, even if he was pretty all right, he guessed. Why had he promised not to get into 'trouble', anyway?
He sat and watched cars drive by for a while. If he stuck out his thumb, he could be halfway out of Georgia before nightfall. He could go back to how it had been just a couple days ago, drunk and high on adrenaline and every other substance he could get his hands on. He could forget about this whole weird interlude, put it down to interfering, bleeding heart doctors and move on with his shit life. Go back to normal.
He sat there watching cars until Bones pulled up that night. He never did bother trying to catch one.