McCoy centric ST09 ficlet
Very unbeta'd, but it was fun.
His feet hurt.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking this particular stretch, but it was long enough that his hangover started creeping into his skull like a two-hundred kilo jackhammer. Len pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. Being perpetually drunk wasn't the answer, but it sure as hell helped. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Joce took everything he owned and what she didn't take, he left.
You always leave, Leonard, you always run screamed in the back of his mind and the sting of it hurt more than his feet. Hell, yeah, he ran. Back in school he'd been on the track team. Before that, he ran in the woods outback, outpacing every kid in the neighborhood. Every problem, solved like that, beating the pavement. 'Course it didn't solve anything. Just made him feel better, sort of like bourbon was doing now. Really, were he and Jocelyn all that different? Both of them were prime runners. Both of them dealt with problems by ignoring them, until it was far too late.
She woke from the fairy tale first.
She stopped running.
McCoy squinted at the sun, not even sure what the hell day it was. Or what month it was. He had a few credits left to his name, but not a hell of a choice when it came to living. He could've psychoanalyzed himself; he was still in shock, maybe. Or he would be, if he didn't keep anesthetizing himself to prevent himself from feeling anything at all. He'd hopped across the country, but most days he couldn't tell where he was or why or where he was going.
And it just now occurred to him that he'd left his daughter, too.
"Goddammit."
He rummaged in his coat pocket for a small flask and took a small sip from it. Sighing, he looked off to the side of the road and spotted a rotten log calling his tired dogs to rest. He plopped on it with a dark sigh and checked his surroundings. Christ in a handbasket. He really didn't know where he was, but he was in a hell of a fix. He'd end up like his great grandpappy, old, drunk, and homeless if he didn't watch himself. But hey, at least he amounted to something of note. He needed purpose, though, or such a thing would surely happen. He needed a sign--
Leonard McCoy did a double-take as glanced over his shoulder. He was sitting under a sign, bold as life. Something about being needed. Needing anyone and everyone. Joining Starfleet, of all things.
They needed doctors, the sign said.
"To boldly go," the sign proclaimed, and McCoy chuckled at it. Oh, hell. That wasn't the sign he meant, but it was better than nothing. The recruiting center was the next town over...he sure as hell had enough energy to get there.
Hm. He picked up his feet, dusted off his pants, and began the long trek down. Well, it was a purpose, wasn't it. Couldn't be that bad. And maybe he could get over his aviophobia between here and the recruiting office..
*Crossposted w/LJ; Dreamwidth
His feet hurt.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking this particular stretch, but it was long enough that his hangover started creeping into his skull like a two-hundred kilo jackhammer. Len pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. Being perpetually drunk wasn't the answer, but it sure as hell helped. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Joce took everything he owned and what she didn't take, he left.
You always leave, Leonard, you always run screamed in the back of his mind and the sting of it hurt more than his feet. Hell, yeah, he ran. Back in school he'd been on the track team. Before that, he ran in the woods outback, outpacing every kid in the neighborhood. Every problem, solved like that, beating the pavement. 'Course it didn't solve anything. Just made him feel better, sort of like bourbon was doing now. Really, were he and Jocelyn all that different? Both of them were prime runners. Both of them dealt with problems by ignoring them, until it was far too late.
She woke from the fairy tale first.
She stopped running.
McCoy squinted at the sun, not even sure what the hell day it was. Or what month it was. He had a few credits left to his name, but not a hell of a choice when it came to living. He could've psychoanalyzed himself; he was still in shock, maybe. Or he would be, if he didn't keep anesthetizing himself to prevent himself from feeling anything at all. He'd hopped across the country, but most days he couldn't tell where he was or why or where he was going.
And it just now occurred to him that he'd left his daughter, too.
"Goddammit."
He rummaged in his coat pocket for a small flask and took a small sip from it. Sighing, he looked off to the side of the road and spotted a rotten log calling his tired dogs to rest. He plopped on it with a dark sigh and checked his surroundings. Christ in a handbasket. He really didn't know where he was, but he was in a hell of a fix. He'd end up like his great grandpappy, old, drunk, and homeless if he didn't watch himself. But hey, at least he amounted to something of note. He needed purpose, though, or such a thing would surely happen. He needed a sign--
Leonard McCoy did a double-take as glanced over his shoulder. He was sitting under a sign, bold as life. Something about being needed. Needing anyone and everyone. Joining Starfleet, of all things.
They needed doctors, the sign said.
"To boldly go," the sign proclaimed, and McCoy chuckled at it. Oh, hell. That wasn't the sign he meant, but it was better than nothing. The recruiting center was the next town over...he sure as hell had enough energy to get there.
Hm. He picked up his feet, dusted off his pants, and began the long trek down. Well, it was a purpose, wasn't it. Couldn't be that bad. And maybe he could get over his aviophobia between here and the recruiting office..
*Crossposted w/LJ; Dreamwidth