Fic: Every Fifteen Minutes, Chapter 4
Author's Notes: Gah! I just need to give up on the idea that I can write oneshots (or oneshots that turn into threeshots), because I just can't do it, Captain! I don't have the power. Ahem. *clears throat* No really, this story was supposed to be one chapter, and then it became three, and now we're up to six. Sorry. My tribbles have been eating, apparently. Most of the next two sections are from McCoy's POV, which was not an easy thing for me to do. I think I've finally got it right, after fighting with it for the better part of two weeks. As always, thanks to my awesome beta Wicked Jade for smacking me when it sucked and telling me when I was in the right neighborhood. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: "Your family's poor, Kenny! I said, your family is peerrhhh!" Yeah. I don't own Trek, nor do I own South Park, even if that quote is kind of fitting for me right now. I make no profit from this monetarily and I only do it because I'm insane and I like to torture myself.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
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Chapter 4
If there really was a God in heaven (or…wherever the fuck He lived), and that God was indeed merciful and benevolent, Leonard McCoy wondered if He'd be so kind as to put the young cop out of his misery. A bullet would have done the job nicely, or as Len preferred it, a spectacular and obscene bolt of lightning. Of course, that would mean said God actually existed in the first place, and in McCoy's mind, the jury was still way out on deliberations for that topic.
Good Christ.
Len wiggled his fingers. Excellent. Hands were still there. That was alwaysa positive sign. He brought the appendage up and scrubbed the palm of his left hand over his tired face, leaving it over his eyes as a shield against any unfortunate sort of light ray that dared invade his vision. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, he would stay safely ensconced in his own little world, one where most of the previous night stayed a total blur and where - what the hell? Was that a lawnmower buzzing outside the window? The sound intensified to a high crescendo right outside the glass pane, and McCoy whimpered pitifully as his head gave a particularly vicious throb.
Thinking was beyond painful, but even with a half-functioning brain, he still knew enough to know that there was no way anyone would mow the deck of his apartment. It was on the third floor, for Chrissake, so it was obvious he wasn't at home. A sense of confusion and a touch of panic trickled through his foggy brain, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered just where the hell he was. Taking the plunge, McCoy cracked one eye open and looked around.
From the properly blacked-out feeling of uneasiness crawling through his mind, it was clear he went out drinking the night before. Where that was he couldn't quite recall, but McCoy supposed things could have been worse. He was no angel; after a hard of partying, Len distinctly recalled waking up in some seedy places before. Considering now that he still had all his clothes and that he wasn't a guest of the Iowa City jail, well, at least two facts were going in his favor.
Blinking some sleep from his eyes, Len craned his head to the left. On the nightstand, a couple of packets of aspirin sat next to a big bottle of Vitamin water. His cell phone and wallet were placed adjacent to the supplies on the same surface, along with his Iowa City PD ID and badge. A real bubble of panic raced through his mind, and automatically, McCoy slammed his right hand down hard on his hip, looking for his holstered off-duty weapon. Before he could register the presence of his gun, raw, searing pain tore through his forearm and hand. So intense, it pulled an involuntary cry of pain from his lips and set off white flashes in front of his eyelids.
Len rolled over onto his back and took a couple of deep, controlling breaths in through his nose. He held it, counted to three and released the air from his lungs slowly while his racing heart slowed. Jesus Christ, that hurt. McCoy shook his hand in the air, waiting for the tail-end of the tingling, stinging sensation to wear off before he laid his arm gently across his chest.
Like he was just run over by a truck, the memories flooded back to him in waves. It was almost as if he was watching a high definition slide show taking place behind his eyes. With every blink, he saw a new, vivid image. He saw car accident, the victims, the explosion, Pike's concerned face, and the family of the girl. McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his left hand over his face, gasping breathlessly. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, the images might stop tormenting him. At the same time, the physical pain of the burns on his hand and arm were reminders of what he couldn't do the night previous.
He must have planned his night after he left the station. After driving for an aimless hour, Len vaguely recalled leaving his off-duty weapon secured in the lockbox he kept in his car. He found a random, out-of-the-way, backwater bar and headed in with every intention of drinking himself stupid until he forgot his own name. And given the drumline playing at a mezzo forte in his head, the sensitivity to light and the fact he felt like he could puke at any second given the proper opportunity, it appeared he succeeded in his goal.
McCoy's relief knowing he hadn't lost his off duty weapon was fleeting. Though one crisis was averted, he still needed to figure out just where the hell he'd woken up. He leaned over, and more cautiously this time, reached for the cell phone sitting on the nightstand. He entered his password and squinted at the clock, rocketing upright when he saw the big, white letters that read '1514'. Scrambling off the bed with a loud, "Fuck!" McCoy grabbed all the stuff off the table and started shoving things in the correct pockets. At this rate, he was going to be more than an hour late for shift, and he knew Pike was going to kill him. Desperately trying to ignore the screaming pain coursing through his skull and the rolling of his stomach, Len was just searching for his jacket when a small figure looming in the doorway caught his attention.
Big blue eyes shaded by lots of wavy dirty blonde bangs regarded the young patrol cop curiously. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a red t-shirt (all liberally stained by the grass), the boy said nothing, instead tilting his head sideways as he watched the stranger frantically tear the room apart while he looked for his belongings.
Though the kid was barely tall enough to reach the middle of his thigh, McCoy felt like he being dissected by the child's scrupulous gaze. When the tiny face twisted into a very familiar little smirk, Len sighed in realization. He knew, in that instant, exactly where he was. He'd only met Chris Pike's son once, but he was savvy enough to know that while the kid inherited his mother's looks, he also was blessed with his father's facial expressions. McCoy stopped dead in his tracks, defeated, with his green cargo jacket dangling from his fingertips when the small boy yelled loud enough to wake the dead. "Moooom!" he shrieked, drawing a wince from the man in the guest room "He's awake!" The child turned, tossed McCoy a curious expression over his shoulder, and bolted at warp speed down the hallway.
So much for making a discreet exit. McCoy heard the patter of little feet rocketing down the wooden hallway into the kitchen. He registered the sound of a muffled female voice before the echoes of her footsteps were audible off the walls outside the room. For the briefest of moments, Len wondered if he could just jump out the window and deal with all of this embarrassment another time. But before he could squeeze his ass through, Lynn Pike stuck her had through the open door of the room. Smiling, she waved and said, "Hello, Len. How are you feeling?"
McCoy stepped backwards until he felt the back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress as the adrenaline rush faded and his will to remain upright dissipated. He sat down hard, setting off a small tsunami with the blankets. He dropped his weary head into his hands and mumbled, "Like shit, pardon my language. How are you today, Mrs. Pike?"
"We've been over this before, my dear. It's Lynn," she said with an amused smile.
"What?" he mumbled from behind his hands, tossing in a pained groan for good measure.
"My name is Lynn. Not 'Mrs. Pike.' I'm not that old yet," she corrected.
"Mrs. Pike," he said firmly.
"Whatever." She waved one dismissive hand and scoffed, raising one eyebrow when he lifted his tired face to meet her eyes. "But since you asked, I am fine. You, on the other hand, look like death warmed over." She pointed to the clothes she'd laid out the night previous on the back of the chair situated at the foot of the bed. "Why don't you grab a shower first, okay? When you're done, we'll talk. The bathroom is down the hall, and there should be towels and anything else you need in the cupboard next to the door."
McCoy pushed his aching body up off the bed and attempted to walk around Lynn while the petite woman blocked the doorway. "I'd love to, but I'm really late for work. Maybe if I attempt to show up, they won't fire me outright."
Lynn rolled her eyes. "McCoy, your partner's out there mowing the lawn. I think it's safe to say that you don't have to work today. Besides, you're in no condition to go anyway, and I think you know it." She stepped closer and gave his chest a gentle shove, chuckling at his confused expression. She dipped her head and reached for his bandaged hand. When he offered no resistance, she lifted it carefully, inspecting the wrapped wound with all the care of a mother's touch. Lynn swallowed and forced her eyes up to meet McCoy's. "I know what happened last night, Len. Did you forget that the chief gave both of you guys the next three days off to relax?"
Closing his eyes, McCoy swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "It's all a blur after I left the station," he admitted. "But yeah, I think I remember him saying something about that now."
Reaching over for the clothes she left, Lynn plucked the two garments from the chair and pushed them into Len's chest. She took a couple of seconds to study him, head tilted sideways in much of the same way her son's was. He knew he wouldn't pass even the shoddiest of inspections, but even still, Pike's wife's gaze was more intense than Chief Barnett's. McCoy actively fought the urge to shift from foot to foot while Lynn dissected him with her eyes. He knew his cheeks were flushing and the tips of his ears about to turn a lovely shade of pink, but there was nothing he could do about the involuntary reaction his body produced. He simply had to stand and bear it, and hope that she didn't want his entire life story as payment for the previous night.
Mercifully, Lynn seemed to sense the young man's growing unease. She softened the disapproving stare on her face, and muted a long, frustrated sigh. She grabbed Len gently by the bicep, spun him around and aimed her husband's rookie in the right direction. With a little, fluttering motion with her right hand, she said authoritatively, "Bathroom. Shower. Shave. Coffee. Food. In that order. Now go, Officer McCoy."
A tiny but genuine smirk pulled at the right corner of Len's mouth. "Yes, ma'am," he said with a little mock salute, accepting the clothes she offered him. Turning on his heel and with as much confidence as he could muster, he walked down the hallway and clicked the door shut behind him. McCoy dumped the clothes into a pile on the floor, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. Every part of his body just hurt, even worse than it did during skills training when he was literally being drilled into the furiously at his aching temples, he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stomach gave another unpleasant roll, one that, deep down, McCoy knew had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he'd apparently consumed the night before. Len forced the bile back down by breathing through it, stood from his seated position, and set about his routine.
The shower was longer than it needed to be, but the sensations of dirt, grime, smoke and sweat rolling off his tired body and down the drain felt undeniably, criminally good. But in an instant, reality set back in, and Len felt his face burning hot with regret. He stood, forehead leaning on his arm while the water dripped down his face, wishing he might be able to wash away the previous night's shame with the same ease. With a weary sigh, McCoy finally stepped out when the water started to go cold against his skin. He dried off, dressed in the borrowed clothes he was offered, and picked up the razor and shaving gel Lynn kindly left out on the counter.
It should have been a ridiculously simple task, one that didn't require a lot of conscious thought. What shaving did necessitate, however, was an even hand, and McCoy discovered that his normal unwavering steadiness was nowhere to be found. He fumbled with the plastic cap of the shaving gel, cursing when it slipped from his numb fingertips and clattered on the tile floor. Len took another deep breath, picked up the cap and snapped it back on the container. He gripped the edge of the sink so tightly he thought his knuckles might pop out of his skin before he raised his eyes to regard his reflection in the mirror.
'Appalling' would have been an apt word to describe his own pathetic visage. McCoy was not a vain person by any stretch of the imagination, but even he was taken aback by the man that stared back at him in the mirror. His eyes, normally a vibrant grey-green, were dull and haunted. Pale skin made the bruises borne of exhaustion under his eyes excruciatingly pronounced, only matched by the drawn, tired lines stretching across his face. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and despite the long and semi-refreshing shower, he still reeked of bourbon.
He knew in an instant there was no way he was going to be able to hide the tension thrumming through his body from Lynn. But, he also knew that lollygagging in the bathroom was only going to make things worse. He reached down, picked up his rumpled, soiled clothes and used towel, dug up as much of his wounded pride as he could find, straightened his shoulders, and pulled the door open.
McCoy rounded the corner of the hallway's juncture and peered into the open space that comprised the Pike living area. The kitchen was huge and immaculate; Chris said they took out a couple of walls to make the entire area open from the living room through the entryway that led out to the garage, and in that instant, McCoy felt like the cavernous space was about to swallow him whole. Only a railing divided the actual kitchen area from the living room, and it was a barrier that Len was willing to cling to with all his might.
Lynn was curled up on the couch, a notebook balanced on her lap with colored pencils strewn in all directions. She scribbled away at the page, coloring, shading and adjusting her drawing. Len padded silently into the room and leaned on the railing, content to watch her work away as she designed her latest pastry masterpiece. He opened his mouth to say something, but his brain wasn't quite able to formulate something that didn't sound incredibly uneducated. Instead, he stood, rooted in place while he fidgeted nervously.
"I can hear you thinking while you stand there. Despite what my husband has probably told you, I don't bite," she said without looking up. Lynn dumped the art supplies back in the plastic holder and shut the sketchbook she was working on. She raised her head when his foot hit a squeaky part of the original, sixty-five year old wood covering the living room floor, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. Almost instantly, her face turned to a scowl when her sharp eyes caught the open, raw burns that encompassed a good portion of his right arm, and the way he held the affected limb protectively close to his body.
"I-ah," he struggled out as she lifted herself off the couch with the fluidity and grace of a ballet dancer. She walking towards him, and instinctively, McCoy leaned backwards, unsure. As a quick and dirty deflection, Len held up his soiled laundry and still-damp towel with a little shrug. He protested for the briefest of moments when Lynn pulled them from his hands and dropped them in her washing machine, pursing her lips as she went about her task. They made their way back into the main living area of the home. "I'm interrupting you work," he said uncomfortably, motioning with one hand toward the neat pile of art supplies she made.
"You're doing nothing of the sort. I was just working on some new designs for the shop. It's not anything that can't wait an extra day or two. Have a seat, and I'll get you some coffee," she said sweetly, moving toward the gigantic coffee pot on the kitchen counter.
He waved her off. "That's okay, Lynn. I think I've imposed enough on you in the last twelve hours to count enough for the next twelve years. I don't want to be in your way any more than I already have. But," he started, picking away at a scab on his left hand, "Thank you for what you did. You didn't have to and I'm sure you didn't really want to, but I appreciate it all the same."
"I know you do and you're welcome, but don't you dare think that lovely southern charm is going to get you out of this conversation, Mr. McCoy," Lynn replied. Shifting in place, she added, "Now, you let me take a look at that arm of yours. If you still want to bolt for the door when I'm done, then you're free to go, even if we both know you're not fine."
McCoy recoiled backwards, apprehension pulling at his already drawn face. The way she looked at him made him want to crawl into a dark hole, close his eyes, and hope that the threat passed before it turned its attention to him. Lynn, when in full mother-hen mode, was something far more frightening than even the hardest of criminals. She possessed the uncanny ability to transform from sweet and unassuming a woman to a person more akin to a seasoned drill instructor in less time than it took him to blink. The transition gave him whiplash, and it was starting to hurt. "Lynn, I-" he said, starting to make a move for the doorway.
"The care of your injury is not open for debate. Anything else we might be able to not talk about, but you're not leaving my house until that's taken care of," she said sternly, glancing down towards the angry, weeping, red and white splotching peppered across McCoy's right hand and arm. Involuntarily, she hissed. Softer, she added, "That has to be just throbbing, and I know you can't fix yourself up with one hand. Would you just let me help you? Please?"
McCoy's shoulders slumped in resignation and he trudged wearily over to the table. All but collapsing in the chair, he gently laid his arm on the clean, dry towel Lynn obviously set out for him while he was showering. His eyes followed her every movement, surprised when she opened the pantry door and pulled out a basket of medical supplies. When she turned on the water to wash her hands, McCoy raised an eyebrow and smirked, tossing out an attempt at levity. "I don't know if I should trust a woman to bake cakes when she keeps medical supplies handy in her kitchen."
"Are you getting your comedic timing from my husband now? Because his sucks," she said with a matching wry grin, plopping the basket down next to him. She dug out some non-stick medical pads, a huge tube of Neosporin, some old-fashioned gauze and a roll of medical tape, and laid her supplies out on the table. Reaching out, she cautiously flipped his right arm over so it was palm up. Lynn waited for McCoy's approving nod before she silently grabbed some gauze and began gently dabbing at the blistering sores on his arm.
Len bit his lip. Even with Lynn's gentle touch, it still hurt like hell to have any kind of pressure applied to such raw, enflamed skin. Wincing, he hissed when she rubbed a particularly tender area over the juncture of his ulna and carpals of his hand. He fought the urge to pull his arm away, suppressing the need just barely. Strangely, it hadn't hurt this much last night when the EMTs were dressing the wounds, and he didn't feel any type of pain at all after he arrived at the Stumble. The latter, however, was not surprising.
It was sobering, but the pin pricks of pain were also tangible proof that it hadn't been a bad dream. McCoy closed his eyes and tried to think of something - anything else to help occupy his mind. He never was nor would he ever be a glass half full type of optimist, but if there were
an up side, the stabbing sensations running up and down the length of his arm did help to keep his mind off other matters.
Like his total and complete failure as a police officer.
McCoy shook his head, resting his cheek against the fisted fingers of his left hand while she worked. As much as he hated to admit, it would have been impossible for him to bandage himself up on his own. He simply wished Lynn would go just a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of her house and home to his nice, cozy apartment. Len felt the rising surge of panic starting to form in his chest as the self-doubt started to creep back to the forefront of his mind. He physically forced it away, vowing to hold it together for just a few more minutes.
Lynn slathered McCoy's arm in a thick layer of Neosporin and laid some fresh, square non-stick bandages across the weepier sections of exposed skin. She wrapped the entire appendage carefully with the gauze, cocooning his hand and forearm awash in a sea of white. Cutting a piece of tape, she fastened her handiwork closed and stuffed all her supplies back in the plastic holding bin. "All set, Len."
McCoy pushed back from the table with a growing sense of trepidation. Lynn, the outspoken, opinionated mother hen hadn't said a word to him through the entire process, and it was making him suspicious. He narrowed his eyes, looking toward the door. He took two steps toward the threshold of the mudroom and said, "I'll, uh, come back for my clothes later. Or you can send them with Chris."
"Mmm," Lynn replied, not looking up. She got up from her chair and made a beeline straight for the coffee pot. Pulling an extra mug down from the cupboard, she topped off her own and filled the extra, making her way back to the table. Lynn grabbed a coaster and set both mugs down, parking herself at the table. She took a deep, satisfying sip and said simply, "I promised you coffee, if you still want some."
The steaming, black, potent brew beckoned him from the table. The Kona blend Lynn preferred was heavenly, and for a moment, he seriously contemplated accepting her offer. But instinctually, he knew it would be smarter for him to just leave, even if the manners literally drilled into his brain by his mother were screaming at him otherwise. Len ducked his head and slipped his feet into the shoes Chris laid out on the mat the night previous. "I'm good. Raincheck?" he asked with forced cheer.
Lynn silently nodded and took another sip, eyeing her husband's rookie from the corner of her eye and he sidled towards the door. As McCoy laid his hand on the doorknob, she said, "You not supposed to be blaming yourself, you know."
"Fuck," he muttered. He expected her to say something, but the childish part of his battered psyche hoped that maybe, for once, Lynn would just let it go and allow him to leave with at least a shred of dignity intact. Len closed his eyes and dropped his head. Fate, apparently, was really not into being kind to him.
But by this point of his life, should he really have expected anything different?
No, probably not.
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Next Up: McCoy decides that an entire day locked in an interrogation room with all of Iowa City's IA officers while being grilled for something he didn't do would be more pleasurable than an hour of Lynn Pike's poking, prodding and heartfelt questions. Seriously.
Disclaimer: "Your family's poor, Kenny! I said, your family is peerrhhh!" Yeah. I don't own Trek, nor do I own South Park, even if that quote is kind of fitting for me right now. I make no profit from this monetarily and I only do it because I'm insane and I like to torture myself.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
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Chapter 4
If there really was a God in heaven (or…wherever the fuck He lived), and that God was indeed merciful and benevolent, Leonard McCoy wondered if He'd be so kind as to put the young cop out of his misery. A bullet would have done the job nicely, or as Len preferred it, a spectacular and obscene bolt of lightning. Of course, that would mean said God actually existed in the first place, and in McCoy's mind, the jury was still way out on deliberations for that topic.
Good Christ.
Len wiggled his fingers. Excellent. Hands were still there. That was alwaysa positive sign. He brought the appendage up and scrubbed the palm of his left hand over his tired face, leaving it over his eyes as a shield against any unfortunate sort of light ray that dared invade his vision. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, he would stay safely ensconced in his own little world, one where most of the previous night stayed a total blur and where - what the hell? Was that a lawnmower buzzing outside the window? The sound intensified to a high crescendo right outside the glass pane, and McCoy whimpered pitifully as his head gave a particularly vicious throb.
Thinking was beyond painful, but even with a half-functioning brain, he still knew enough to know that there was no way anyone would mow the deck of his apartment. It was on the third floor, for Chrissake, so it was obvious he wasn't at home. A sense of confusion and a touch of panic trickled through his foggy brain, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered just where the hell he was. Taking the plunge, McCoy cracked one eye open and looked around.
From the properly blacked-out feeling of uneasiness crawling through his mind, it was clear he went out drinking the night before. Where that was he couldn't quite recall, but McCoy supposed things could have been worse. He was no angel; after a hard of partying, Len distinctly recalled waking up in some seedy places before. Considering now that he still had all his clothes and that he wasn't a guest of the Iowa City jail, well, at least two facts were going in his favor.
Blinking some sleep from his eyes, Len craned his head to the left. On the nightstand, a couple of packets of aspirin sat next to a big bottle of Vitamin water. His cell phone and wallet were placed adjacent to the supplies on the same surface, along with his Iowa City PD ID and badge. A real bubble of panic raced through his mind, and automatically, McCoy slammed his right hand down hard on his hip, looking for his holstered off-duty weapon. Before he could register the presence of his gun, raw, searing pain tore through his forearm and hand. So intense, it pulled an involuntary cry of pain from his lips and set off white flashes in front of his eyelids.
Len rolled over onto his back and took a couple of deep, controlling breaths in through his nose. He held it, counted to three and released the air from his lungs slowly while his racing heart slowed. Jesus Christ, that hurt. McCoy shook his hand in the air, waiting for the tail-end of the tingling, stinging sensation to wear off before he laid his arm gently across his chest.
Like he was just run over by a truck, the memories flooded back to him in waves. It was almost as if he was watching a high definition slide show taking place behind his eyes. With every blink, he saw a new, vivid image. He saw car accident, the victims, the explosion, Pike's concerned face, and the family of the girl. McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his left hand over his face, gasping breathlessly. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, the images might stop tormenting him. At the same time, the physical pain of the burns on his hand and arm were reminders of what he couldn't do the night previous.
He must have planned his night after he left the station. After driving for an aimless hour, Len vaguely recalled leaving his off-duty weapon secured in the lockbox he kept in his car. He found a random, out-of-the-way, backwater bar and headed in with every intention of drinking himself stupid until he forgot his own name. And given the drumline playing at a mezzo forte in his head, the sensitivity to light and the fact he felt like he could puke at any second given the proper opportunity, it appeared he succeeded in his goal.
McCoy's relief knowing he hadn't lost his off duty weapon was fleeting. Though one crisis was averted, he still needed to figure out just where the hell he'd woken up. He leaned over, and more cautiously this time, reached for the cell phone sitting on the nightstand. He entered his password and squinted at the clock, rocketing upright when he saw the big, white letters that read '1514'. Scrambling off the bed with a loud, "Fuck!" McCoy grabbed all the stuff off the table and started shoving things in the correct pockets. At this rate, he was going to be more than an hour late for shift, and he knew Pike was going to kill him. Desperately trying to ignore the screaming pain coursing through his skull and the rolling of his stomach, Len was just searching for his jacket when a small figure looming in the doorway caught his attention.
Big blue eyes shaded by lots of wavy dirty blonde bangs regarded the young patrol cop curiously. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a red t-shirt (all liberally stained by the grass), the boy said nothing, instead tilting his head sideways as he watched the stranger frantically tear the room apart while he looked for his belongings.
Though the kid was barely tall enough to reach the middle of his thigh, McCoy felt like he being dissected by the child's scrupulous gaze. When the tiny face twisted into a very familiar little smirk, Len sighed in realization. He knew, in that instant, exactly where he was. He'd only met Chris Pike's son once, but he was savvy enough to know that while the kid inherited his mother's looks, he also was blessed with his father's facial expressions. McCoy stopped dead in his tracks, defeated, with his green cargo jacket dangling from his fingertips when the small boy yelled loud enough to wake the dead. "Moooom!" he shrieked, drawing a wince from the man in the guest room "He's awake!" The child turned, tossed McCoy a curious expression over his shoulder, and bolted at warp speed down the hallway.
So much for making a discreet exit. McCoy heard the patter of little feet rocketing down the wooden hallway into the kitchen. He registered the sound of a muffled female voice before the echoes of her footsteps were audible off the walls outside the room. For the briefest of moments, Len wondered if he could just jump out the window and deal with all of this embarrassment another time. But before he could squeeze his ass through, Lynn Pike stuck her had through the open door of the room. Smiling, she waved and said, "Hello, Len. How are you feeling?"
McCoy stepped backwards until he felt the back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress as the adrenaline rush faded and his will to remain upright dissipated. He sat down hard, setting off a small tsunami with the blankets. He dropped his weary head into his hands and mumbled, "Like shit, pardon my language. How are you today, Mrs. Pike?"
"We've been over this before, my dear. It's Lynn," she said with an amused smile.
"What?" he mumbled from behind his hands, tossing in a pained groan for good measure.
"My name is Lynn. Not 'Mrs. Pike.' I'm not that old yet," she corrected.
"Mrs. Pike," he said firmly.
"Whatever." She waved one dismissive hand and scoffed, raising one eyebrow when he lifted his tired face to meet her eyes. "But since you asked, I am fine. You, on the other hand, look like death warmed over." She pointed to the clothes she'd laid out the night previous on the back of the chair situated at the foot of the bed. "Why don't you grab a shower first, okay? When you're done, we'll talk. The bathroom is down the hall, and there should be towels and anything else you need in the cupboard next to the door."
McCoy pushed his aching body up off the bed and attempted to walk around Lynn while the petite woman blocked the doorway. "I'd love to, but I'm really late for work. Maybe if I attempt to show up, they won't fire me outright."
Lynn rolled her eyes. "McCoy, your partner's out there mowing the lawn. I think it's safe to say that you don't have to work today. Besides, you're in no condition to go anyway, and I think you know it." She stepped closer and gave his chest a gentle shove, chuckling at his confused expression. She dipped her head and reached for his bandaged hand. When he offered no resistance, she lifted it carefully, inspecting the wrapped wound with all the care of a mother's touch. Lynn swallowed and forced her eyes up to meet McCoy's. "I know what happened last night, Len. Did you forget that the chief gave both of you guys the next three days off to relax?"
Closing his eyes, McCoy swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "It's all a blur after I left the station," he admitted. "But yeah, I think I remember him saying something about that now."
Reaching over for the clothes she left, Lynn plucked the two garments from the chair and pushed them into Len's chest. She took a couple of seconds to study him, head tilted sideways in much of the same way her son's was. He knew he wouldn't pass even the shoddiest of inspections, but even still, Pike's wife's gaze was more intense than Chief Barnett's. McCoy actively fought the urge to shift from foot to foot while Lynn dissected him with her eyes. He knew his cheeks were flushing and the tips of his ears about to turn a lovely shade of pink, but there was nothing he could do about the involuntary reaction his body produced. He simply had to stand and bear it, and hope that she didn't want his entire life story as payment for the previous night.
Mercifully, Lynn seemed to sense the young man's growing unease. She softened the disapproving stare on her face, and muted a long, frustrated sigh. She grabbed Len gently by the bicep, spun him around and aimed her husband's rookie in the right direction. With a little, fluttering motion with her right hand, she said authoritatively, "Bathroom. Shower. Shave. Coffee. Food. In that order. Now go, Officer McCoy."
A tiny but genuine smirk pulled at the right corner of Len's mouth. "Yes, ma'am," he said with a little mock salute, accepting the clothes she offered him. Turning on his heel and with as much confidence as he could muster, he walked down the hallway and clicked the door shut behind him. McCoy dumped the clothes into a pile on the floor, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. Every part of his body just hurt, even worse than it did during skills training when he was literally being drilled into the furiously at his aching temples, he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stomach gave another unpleasant roll, one that, deep down, McCoy knew had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he'd apparently consumed the night before. Len forced the bile back down by breathing through it, stood from his seated position, and set about his routine.
The shower was longer than it needed to be, but the sensations of dirt, grime, smoke and sweat rolling off his tired body and down the drain felt undeniably, criminally good. But in an instant, reality set back in, and Len felt his face burning hot with regret. He stood, forehead leaning on his arm while the water dripped down his face, wishing he might be able to wash away the previous night's shame with the same ease. With a weary sigh, McCoy finally stepped out when the water started to go cold against his skin. He dried off, dressed in the borrowed clothes he was offered, and picked up the razor and shaving gel Lynn kindly left out on the counter.
It should have been a ridiculously simple task, one that didn't require a lot of conscious thought. What shaving did necessitate, however, was an even hand, and McCoy discovered that his normal unwavering steadiness was nowhere to be found. He fumbled with the plastic cap of the shaving gel, cursing when it slipped from his numb fingertips and clattered on the tile floor. Len took another deep breath, picked up the cap and snapped it back on the container. He gripped the edge of the sink so tightly he thought his knuckles might pop out of his skin before he raised his eyes to regard his reflection in the mirror.
'Appalling' would have been an apt word to describe his own pathetic visage. McCoy was not a vain person by any stretch of the imagination, but even he was taken aback by the man that stared back at him in the mirror. His eyes, normally a vibrant grey-green, were dull and haunted. Pale skin made the bruises borne of exhaustion under his eyes excruciatingly pronounced, only matched by the drawn, tired lines stretching across his face. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and despite the long and semi-refreshing shower, he still reeked of bourbon.
He knew in an instant there was no way he was going to be able to hide the tension thrumming through his body from Lynn. But, he also knew that lollygagging in the bathroom was only going to make things worse. He reached down, picked up his rumpled, soiled clothes and used towel, dug up as much of his wounded pride as he could find, straightened his shoulders, and pulled the door open.
McCoy rounded the corner of the hallway's juncture and peered into the open space that comprised the Pike living area. The kitchen was huge and immaculate; Chris said they took out a couple of walls to make the entire area open from the living room through the entryway that led out to the garage, and in that instant, McCoy felt like the cavernous space was about to swallow him whole. Only a railing divided the actual kitchen area from the living room, and it was a barrier that Len was willing to cling to with all his might.
Lynn was curled up on the couch, a notebook balanced on her lap with colored pencils strewn in all directions. She scribbled away at the page, coloring, shading and adjusting her drawing. Len padded silently into the room and leaned on the railing, content to watch her work away as she designed her latest pastry masterpiece. He opened his mouth to say something, but his brain wasn't quite able to formulate something that didn't sound incredibly uneducated. Instead, he stood, rooted in place while he fidgeted nervously.
"I can hear you thinking while you stand there. Despite what my husband has probably told you, I don't bite," she said without looking up. Lynn dumped the art supplies back in the plastic holder and shut the sketchbook she was working on. She raised her head when his foot hit a squeaky part of the original, sixty-five year old wood covering the living room floor, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. Almost instantly, her face turned to a scowl when her sharp eyes caught the open, raw burns that encompassed a good portion of his right arm, and the way he held the affected limb protectively close to his body.
"I-ah," he struggled out as she lifted herself off the couch with the fluidity and grace of a ballet dancer. She walking towards him, and instinctively, McCoy leaned backwards, unsure. As a quick and dirty deflection, Len held up his soiled laundry and still-damp towel with a little shrug. He protested for the briefest of moments when Lynn pulled them from his hands and dropped them in her washing machine, pursing her lips as she went about her task. They made their way back into the main living area of the home. "I'm interrupting you work," he said uncomfortably, motioning with one hand toward the neat pile of art supplies she made.
"You're doing nothing of the sort. I was just working on some new designs for the shop. It's not anything that can't wait an extra day or two. Have a seat, and I'll get you some coffee," she said sweetly, moving toward the gigantic coffee pot on the kitchen counter.
He waved her off. "That's okay, Lynn. I think I've imposed enough on you in the last twelve hours to count enough for the next twelve years. I don't want to be in your way any more than I already have. But," he started, picking away at a scab on his left hand, "Thank you for what you did. You didn't have to and I'm sure you didn't really want to, but I appreciate it all the same."
"I know you do and you're welcome, but don't you dare think that lovely southern charm is going to get you out of this conversation, Mr. McCoy," Lynn replied. Shifting in place, she added, "Now, you let me take a look at that arm of yours. If you still want to bolt for the door when I'm done, then you're free to go, even if we both know you're not fine."
McCoy recoiled backwards, apprehension pulling at his already drawn face. The way she looked at him made him want to crawl into a dark hole, close his eyes, and hope that the threat passed before it turned its attention to him. Lynn, when in full mother-hen mode, was something far more frightening than even the hardest of criminals. She possessed the uncanny ability to transform from sweet and unassuming a woman to a person more akin to a seasoned drill instructor in less time than it took him to blink. The transition gave him whiplash, and it was starting to hurt. "Lynn, I-" he said, starting to make a move for the doorway.
"The care of your injury is not open for debate. Anything else we might be able to not talk about, but you're not leaving my house until that's taken care of," she said sternly, glancing down towards the angry, weeping, red and white splotching peppered across McCoy's right hand and arm. Involuntarily, she hissed. Softer, she added, "That has to be just throbbing, and I know you can't fix yourself up with one hand. Would you just let me help you? Please?"
McCoy's shoulders slumped in resignation and he trudged wearily over to the table. All but collapsing in the chair, he gently laid his arm on the clean, dry towel Lynn obviously set out for him while he was showering. His eyes followed her every movement, surprised when she opened the pantry door and pulled out a basket of medical supplies. When she turned on the water to wash her hands, McCoy raised an eyebrow and smirked, tossing out an attempt at levity. "I don't know if I should trust a woman to bake cakes when she keeps medical supplies handy in her kitchen."
"Are you getting your comedic timing from my husband now? Because his sucks," she said with a matching wry grin, plopping the basket down next to him. She dug out some non-stick medical pads, a huge tube of Neosporin, some old-fashioned gauze and a roll of medical tape, and laid her supplies out on the table. Reaching out, she cautiously flipped his right arm over so it was palm up. Lynn waited for McCoy's approving nod before she silently grabbed some gauze and began gently dabbing at the blistering sores on his arm.
Len bit his lip. Even with Lynn's gentle touch, it still hurt like hell to have any kind of pressure applied to such raw, enflamed skin. Wincing, he hissed when she rubbed a particularly tender area over the juncture of his ulna and carpals of his hand. He fought the urge to pull his arm away, suppressing the need just barely. Strangely, it hadn't hurt this much last night when the EMTs were dressing the wounds, and he didn't feel any type of pain at all after he arrived at the Stumble. The latter, however, was not surprising.
It was sobering, but the pin pricks of pain were also tangible proof that it hadn't been a bad dream. McCoy closed his eyes and tried to think of something - anything else to help occupy his mind. He never was nor would he ever be a glass half full type of optimist, but if there were
an up side, the stabbing sensations running up and down the length of his arm did help to keep his mind off other matters.
Like his total and complete failure as a police officer.
McCoy shook his head, resting his cheek against the fisted fingers of his left hand while she worked. As much as he hated to admit, it would have been impossible for him to bandage himself up on his own. He simply wished Lynn would go just a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of her house and home to his nice, cozy apartment. Len felt the rising surge of panic starting to form in his chest as the self-doubt started to creep back to the forefront of his mind. He physically forced it away, vowing to hold it together for just a few more minutes.
Lynn slathered McCoy's arm in a thick layer of Neosporin and laid some fresh, square non-stick bandages across the weepier sections of exposed skin. She wrapped the entire appendage carefully with the gauze, cocooning his hand and forearm awash in a sea of white. Cutting a piece of tape, she fastened her handiwork closed and stuffed all her supplies back in the plastic holding bin. "All set, Len."
McCoy pushed back from the table with a growing sense of trepidation. Lynn, the outspoken, opinionated mother hen hadn't said a word to him through the entire process, and it was making him suspicious. He narrowed his eyes, looking toward the door. He took two steps toward the threshold of the mudroom and said, "I'll, uh, come back for my clothes later. Or you can send them with Chris."
"Mmm," Lynn replied, not looking up. She got up from her chair and made a beeline straight for the coffee pot. Pulling an extra mug down from the cupboard, she topped off her own and filled the extra, making her way back to the table. Lynn grabbed a coaster and set both mugs down, parking herself at the table. She took a deep, satisfying sip and said simply, "I promised you coffee, if you still want some."
The steaming, black, potent brew beckoned him from the table. The Kona blend Lynn preferred was heavenly, and for a moment, he seriously contemplated accepting her offer. But instinctually, he knew it would be smarter for him to just leave, even if the manners literally drilled into his brain by his mother were screaming at him otherwise. Len ducked his head and slipped his feet into the shoes Chris laid out on the mat the night previous. "I'm good. Raincheck?" he asked with forced cheer.
Lynn silently nodded and took another sip, eyeing her husband's rookie from the corner of her eye and he sidled towards the door. As McCoy laid his hand on the doorknob, she said, "You not supposed to be blaming yourself, you know."
"Fuck," he muttered. He expected her to say something, but the childish part of his battered psyche hoped that maybe, for once, Lynn would just let it go and allow him to leave with at least a shred of dignity intact. Len closed his eyes and dropped his head. Fate, apparently, was really not into being kind to him.
But by this point of his life, should he really have expected anything different?
No, probably not.
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Next Up: McCoy decides that an entire day locked in an interrogation room with all of Iowa City's IA officers while being grilled for something he didn't do would be more pleasurable than an hour of Lynn Pike's poking, prodding and heartfelt questions. Seriously.