Fic: The Chicago Caper (Kirk/McCoy, STXI, NC-17)
Title: The Chicago Caper
Authors: jessofthebugs and sail_aweigh
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex, violence, drug use
Disclaimer: Not ours, we're just dressing them up in cute trench coats and fedoras for a while.
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy, Chekov/Sulu, Spock/Uhura
A/N: So this started as a round robin in reply to a request for "Noir AU" on the st_respect battle post for the latest prompt. Only two of us took up the gauntlet, myself (sail_aweigh) and the lovely jessofthebugs. We started writing this on March 17th and finished it up the morning of the 22nd. A little over 11,000 words in just 6 days between the two of us. Kind of amazing, when you think about it. Especially since we didn't contact each other in any way between switching off, just took what the person before wrote and then ran with it. There were more than a few continuity errors that had to be either stitched together or patched over, but it all holds together pretty damn well, if you ask me. I think you'll enjoy it. Hold onto your hats; we're headed to the Windy City for thugs, thieves and terror.
Summary: Private Detective Leonard McCoy didn't think taking a missing person job for a foxy lady was going to lead to such adventure and even true love.
Thanks to jessofthebugs for making this wonderful piece of art to go with our story! Originals are here and here at Deviant Art.
Hard Boiled Detective McCoy
Airport Reunion
Leonard H. McCoy had been a doctor, not a goddamned private investigator, but times had been hard and when the ex-wife took everything, including their young daughter, he'd become little more than a shell of a man and this was all there was left for him to do in this messed-up world. Christine sauntered in, eyes like smoke and legs that didn't stop, "You've got a client, doc. Maybe this one will even pay." She was rough around the edges, acerbic, but the best secretary a man could ask for. One of these days, she'd own the place.
"Send 'em in," he grumbled.
The client in question was fierce looking woman in a red dress that clung to every curve of her body. Sultry was hardly enough to describe her; she was smoking hot like a volcano and, by the looks of her, just as deadly. Her lips were painted a bright cherry red against her chocolate skin and McCoy briefly fantasized that they tasted like the candies he used to get in his Christmas stocking as a kid. He laughed, little more than huff, at the thought of chocolate covered cherries and tried to push back the thought of how much Jo had loved them. This candied goddess sat in the old leather chair across the desk, looking like a queen, "I'm looking for someone." Her voice was like satin, though it hid a hurt that was all too familiar. He could tell she'd been pierced through the heart, only to have love's arrow twisted and pulled out again, leaving nothing but a gaping wound in his chest.
Christ. This was supposed to be about the client, not his own painful past. All the same, heartbreak was written all over this dame's face and it was a look he'd seen in the mirror for far too long. "Alright, sweetheart, let's have it."
She took a photo from the sparkling red clutch and placed it on his desk, "His name is Spock and I need to find him."
“The last time I saw him, he was with that no-good, low-down Jim Kirk.” She reached into her clutch and pulled out a slim cigarette case. Deftly extracting a slim brown cigarillo, she placed it in the corner of her mouth and lit it with a brushed gold lighter. It had an emblem on it that McCoy recognized as being that of the Enterprise Gang.
“They were going to take a run down to Charleston, pick up some goods at the port there for the B…for Mr. Pike. That was seven days ago; delivery was expected yesterday. Spock is very reliable; you can count on him down to the second. I know that pretty boy, Kirk, has messed him up somehow. I want you to go down to Charleston and find out what happened to them.”
Charleston. It wasn't Georgia, but McCoy longed to be out of this hell-hole they called "The City" and back into the warm, loving arms of the South. "You shouldn't smoke."
"What are you, a doctor?" she scoffed.
"Yeah," if looks could kill, his third year of marriage would have already done him in. As it was, he was steeled against the harsh eyes of a woman, his own scowl like armor. "Leonard McCoy, M.D. PhD. P.I. and the rest of the damned alphabet, too, for all the good it does me." The City was getting to him and he'd forgotten his manners, "Pardon my language."
"I've heard worse." She extinguished the cigarillo and extended a slender hand, "Uhura."
He took it and her chestnut eyes softened for a moment as they both allowed themselves the shadow of a smile. "Well, Ms. Uhura, I don't work for free and Charleston's a long way from here. I'll need travel money."
"Mr. Pike has authorized me to pay you five to get you started and another eight upon delivery." She'd turned to ice again, her jaw tightened into a sharp line that showed she meant business.
McCoy sighed, thirteen hundred bucks was a paltry sum for what she was asking. "I've got bills, sugar, and an ex-wife extorting me for all I've got. I'm going to need more than that."
Uhura leaned forward, fire in her eyes, "Very well, Doctor, six thousand now and ten thousand on delivery, but don't push your luck."
"Yes, Ma'am." He knew it was dangerous to get caught up in business like this, but he accepted the deal, maintaining a calm façade over his surprise at the sheer amount of cash she was offering. More men than he could count ended up dead after a tangle with the Enterprise Gang and he figured they must be desperate if they're throwing mountains of cash at his two-bit operation. What's more, this Spock, whoever he was, must be more to her than a lover that left her heart a bleeding mess. And Jim Kirk? Now there was a name he hadn't heard in years.
"Good," she stood as gracefully as she'd sat down, her head high as if she owned the place, "I'll have Mr. Pike's private plane waiting for you at the airport first thing in the morning."
She left before he could say anything and when the door slammed shut, he cursed the smog-filled skies, wondering what the hell it was he'd gotten himself into.
“Christine!” he bellowed from behind his desk, hand moving toward the bottom drawer of his desk where a bottle of the best bootleg Romulan ale lay. He yanked the drawer out and growled at the level of liquid he could see left in it. Barely enough for a snort or two before he left to get supplies for the trip to Charleston.
“Bring me that dossier on Nero that Boyce left us when he retired. I’m heading down to Charleston, tomorrow, to look for a coupla runners for Pike. No doubt he’s mixed up in this, somehow. Nero has had a stranglehold on all traffic in and out of the city for the past 25 years.”
Slapping a glass on the desk, he poured himself out a hefty tot of the fiery blue ale. He knocked it back, then shook his head at the burn in the back of his throat as it went down.
Christine brought the file in, dropping it in front of him as she perched on one corner of his desk. One long leg swung back and forth, the short blue skirt riding up and exposing an enticing length of slim thigh to his gaze. He looked at it in appreciation before he opened the file to familiarize himself with the legalities, and illegalities, of Nero’s import business. He needed to concentrate on business, not on the things his libido picked up on. Maybe one of the things he could do during this trip was find an uncomplicated pick-up that didn’t know him and didn’t tempt him to do sinful things in his own backyard, where they could come back and bite him. He paid enough in alimony, already; cheaper by far to pay a little rent for a night’s good times than the other half of his paycheck for the rest of his life.
“What are you waiting for, Chapel? Haven’t you got filing or supplies to order or something useful to do?” He poured another jolt of Romulan ale in his glass, but before he could even think of picking it up, the glass was snatched off the desk and Christine knocked it back defiantly.
“You’re a fool, McCoy. Taking a job for the Enterprise Gang is going to get you killed. May as well let me have the rest of this bottle, now, because you’ll never be back to finish it.” Saying that, she slammed the glass back down on the desk, leaving the room in a huff, her skirt twitching with her irritation at his words and plans.
McCoy let out a long, suffering sigh and stuffed the files in his suitcase. "Women." He'd about given up on the fairer sex- they'd been nothing but trouble for him. He left the ale, not for her, but because he didn't want to travel with contraband. At least, that's what he told himself, hoping that he could at least find some decent bourbon in Carolina. As he passed her desk, he felt a twinge of guilt, or regret, or combination of the two, it was hard to say, but two grey-blue eyes looked up at him, begging him without words not to go. "Listen, I don't know how long I'll be gone and I'll be incommunicado for most of it, but I'll call." She wouldn't cry, not in front of him anyway, but he could see the tears making her eyes shine like a blue sky reflected in calm waters. Chapel was neither. She was all grey storms, the proverbial dark cloud of lost love hanging over her as well. That bastard Korby had done her wrong and the blood of a McCoy ran hot. They'd met in a bar just off the bay and he saved her from him, just as she'd saved him from joining the service. Korby left that night with a broken nose and McCoy left with a leggy blonde secretary that owed him one.
"You'd better."
"I give you my word." He grabbed his hat and coat, looking back once before making his way down the stairs, "And water my plants for me, willya?"
She smiled and rolled her eyes, "Sure thing, Boss."
"You're a good woman, Chapel." He meant it, too, and not just because she'd agreed to water his plants. McCoy decided not to stop at the bar on the way home, instead picking up a fifth of Kentucky bourbon for the flight. He hated flying more than anything. He'd rather have his wisdom teeth extracted without anesthetic than fly. He packed quickly and slept little that night, anxious about what was to come and when the next morning came, the sun didn't dare to show his face.
McCoy was sweating bullets when he arrived at the airport and it wasn't because of the heat. The tiny plane looked like nothing but a death trap and when he climbed in, the cockpit was occupied by what looked like nothing more than a kid. "How old are you, son?"
"Seventeen, sir." He had some kind of an accent, Eastern European, perhaps, and a head of blonde curls. He was a skinny kid and McCoy regretted not finishing the last of that Romulan ale. He was going to die for sure and not on the wrong end of the barrel of a gun, but falling from the sky in a ball of fiery death.
McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose, "Oh, good," he mumbled to himself, "he's seventeen."
"In spite of my age, sir, I am the best nawigator in the skies. The pilot should be here soon." The kid was too happy, his eyes too big and too green.
McCoy thought of Jo again and sighed, taking a swig from his flask, "What's your name, kid?"
"Chekov, Pavel Andreievich."
McCoy took one more look at the kid, shook his head and headed straight to the back of the plane. Everyone knew the tail was safer than the front of the plane, rear sections tending to remain intact in crashes more than mid-sections where the engine blades could shred the cabin and its occupants if something caused the engines to fail. He stuffed his carryon into a storage compartment after putting away the flask and pulling out a full bottle of booze. Spotting a flight attendant in a gold suit with blue accents, he asked for a glass, and on careful consideration, ice for his drink. He didn't like diluting the bourbon, real waste of fine whiskey, but felt that having the drink cold might help him concentrate on things other than his nerves and fear of flying.
He settled back in his seat with a sigh, watching the pale young navigator greet a dark-haired man who had just come leaping up the stairs two at a time. Sprightly young man, good reflexes, those would come in handy when something happened to make the plane plummet from the sky like a meteor streaking in from outer space. McCoy held the glass of bourbon against his forehead letting the ice cool him down where he'd started sweating. Maybe he should look into some of the meditation courses offered by the yoga ashram on the floor below his office. Of course, he could fix the problem by just not flying. But the money Pike was offering was too damn good. This would guarantee that Jo could get into that fancy dance academy that her mother was so insistent upon.
McCoy's stomach lurched as the plane started backing away from the gate. Looked like they were getting ready to take-off. He felt his stomach rumble and made sure he knew exactly where the airsickness bags. Eye closed tightly, he clutched the armrests next to him and tried not to list all the ways a human could die when the plane crashed while waiting for the feeling of the wheels to leave the ground. He found himself repeating over and over in his head, "It's all for Jo, it's all for Jo."
The flight attendant checked on him more often than was necessary and he may have been a little too curt with her, but he was not fine, dammit. He just wanted to be left alone with his misery and his bourbon. He'd hyperventilated through the taxi and takeoff (24% of fatal accidents), sweated the climb (18%), drank heavily during the cruise, and, much to his surprise, didn't vomit on the landing (36%). As flights go, it was the best he'd had - not that he'd want to do that again any time soon. He thanked the pilot on the way out and rolled his eyes at the smug kid standing next to him. He glanced back just once and caught them looking into each other's eyes. They were definitely friends, but... maybe more. He dismissed the thought and donned his grey fedora to shade his eyes against the harsh Southern sun. The old familiar wave of heat and humidity hit him as he exited, squinting his eyes in the too-bright light.
He flagged a cab and checked into a seedy motel where the carpets were stained with God-knows-what, but the sheets were blessedly clean. It was just the kind of place where many a woman of ill repute spread whatever venereal diseases she happened to carry to untold numbers of Johns. This was the kind of place where gang deals went bad and people ended up with their guts spilling out or their brains splattered on a wall. As night fell, the kudzu-covered trees turned blue in the faltering light of dusk and soon nothing could be heard but the crickets and a rhythmic thumping against the wall. The whole world, it seemed, was disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.
He wasted no time, but made his way to East Bay street to a dive near the ports where there was as much smoke as oxygen to breathe. He ordered a shot of Evan Williams, cheap, but not half bad, and sipped at it. Something told him that Kirk was the key to this thing, to finding Spock and taking Nero down. Maybe that dame Uhura's heart would mend when he found the man, but he doubted it. In a dark corner of the dark bar, there sat a woman as gorgeous as they come, hair as red as the setting sun and the flickering neon that served as their only light making her skin look green. She was sitting with a salty-looking seaman, smiling, and he'd have dismissed her as a whore, but she was dressed as a dock-worker. They were out of place here and when he caught a glimpse a silver pendant she wore, he knew that this was the place to start. It was the same emblem as he'd seen on Uhura's cigarette case and if this *tomato didn't know anything, he'd eat his hat.
McCoy pushed his empty glass towards the barkeep and flicked his finger indicating he wanted another. When his glass had been refilled, he leaned in and asked the tender for one of whatever the red-headed dame in the corner was drinking. He was given a martini glass with something in a virulent chartreuse color. Picking up the two drinks, he made his way over to the corner table where he set the drink in front of her and then sat down with his own.
She looked at him closely, taking in the trench coat worn at the cuffs, the battered fedora and scuffed oxfords with worn down heels. A slender finger came out and circled the rim of her glass while she seemed to consider him and it for a moment. Reaching a decision, she picked the drink up and sipped delicately at it giving the lie to her rough clothes. He was sure this was one sister who would have been more at home in a high class parlor than a dive like this. It showed in the supercilious lift to her upper lip.
"You're either a copper or a peeper; I got nothin' to say to you." She took another sip and looked at the sailor she was sitting with. A jerk of the head had the wiry middle-aged man rising from his chair to step towards McCoy threateningly.
McCoy raised his hands to show he meant no harm. "I'm just looking for a mug, my client thinks he took it on the lam with some of the merchandise and I just have to report back to him where he is. I don't care what sort of racket you're running and whether or not it's sanctioned." He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and stripped off a number of twenties, looking at her as he did. When she nodded, he stopped and handed her the stack of bills. They were rolled up quickly and tucked away in the valley between her breasts.
"Ask," she said in cheery voice, now that the wheels had been suitably greased.
"What's the dope on Spock?" he growled as a midget in coveralls with a beer as big as his head approached the table.
"Hey!" The little man said, "That's my seat."
"Shut it," the sailor retorted, betraying a brogue that put him near Glasgow, "Get another."
She grinned at them and fingered the olive in her drink, "I can't tell you where or why he's gone, but rumor has it he took some high explosives with him. I'm not talkin' TNT here," she took a sip and leaned in close, "This is top secret stuff, probably nicked from the feds. That's all I know."
"Aye," the sailor agreed, taking a deck of smokes from his jacket and tapping them on the heel of a hand that was missing its middle finger. There was a story there, but McCoy didn't have time for idle curiosity, "The old gee showed up with it after the Alameda job and it's worth a lot of cabbage."
"Tell me about the old man, what's his part in all this?" The dame looked at the Scotsman and the midget pointedly looked away and took a swig at his beer. They knew something they weren't saying and McCoy had to get it out of them, come hell or high water. He passed a couple bills to the salty dog and sipped at his whiskey.
"All I know is that he came to me with some blonde haired, blue-eyed jobbie needing to get to Chi-town." Conversation came to a dead stop when the tender delivered a fat sandwich to the Scotsman. He took a bite, smacking the little man's hand away as he reached for a fried potato. The Scotsman gave in and handed him one, continuing his tale when the barkeep was gone, "I told him I couldnae do that, but he promised to get me out of the boondocks and he did. Keenser and I were freezing our arses off in Alaska and would ha' done anything to get out of there. He delivered, obviously, and that's the last I saw of him."
Blue eyes, blonde hair. There were a lot of cats that fit that description, but only one whose mitts were all over this case - James T. Kirk. Brash and reckless, they'd crossed paths once and it was a memorable occasion; one he tried hard to forget, but couldn't. "His name wouldn't happen to be Kirk, would it?"
"I don't know, but-"
The broad downed the rest of her drink and slammed it on the table. "Jim?! I thought I was in love with him, the bastard, and it turns out it was all bunk. I told him to breeze off. If you see him, kiss him in the mug and tell him Gaila sent you."
She spat and hissed like an angry cat, making the message clear. He knew what she meant and a good sock in the kisser was likely no more than he deserved, but Kirk's reputation muddied the waters a bit. "I'll keep that in mind." McCoy could use a good kiss, but he'd settle for a mediocre lay. The way things were going, he'd get neither tonight. "Thanks." He paid the bartender and plunked two bits into the payphone in the back. The receiver picked up after two rings, "Christine?"
“Boss, you’re still alive!” Christine still managed to sound doleful even with the good news. “Found the mug, yet?”
“Not yet. Got a lead on a geezer who might be involved with the job, but I need more info. Call the cop shop up there and see if they have any known jobbers on file with Jim Kirk and his activities. It’s in relation to some grift that went down in Alameda. Might be a ship involved, I need its name. I’m stayin’ at the Sailor’s Rest Hotel, room 214. Call me with the lay when you get it.”
“Will do. You be careful, now. Nero’s men are ruthless; I don’t want to read you’ve been spotted wearing a wooden kimono in the newspaper tomorrow morning.”
“Christine, I can take care of myself. I’m going straight back to the hotel from here. I’ve got better bourbon in my room than I can get in this dive.”
“Okay, Boss. Take care.”
“Night, sugar.” McCoy hung up the phone, took a quick look around and then exited the club. There was a taxi stand at the end of the block and he made his way toward it. He kept one hand in his pocket where his piece lay hidden. While he wasn’t expecting trouble, word always traveled fast in the underground lairs of the gangs and it was better to be prepared.
He was still taken off guard when he passed a narrow alley between two shops and a slim figure darted out to grab him by the elbow. A hand with a very strong grip reached into his pocket and latched onto his gun hand. McCoy turned a startled face to the man accosting him and gasped. “Jim!”
"Bones! Am I glad to see you." Kirk eased his grip and backed away with his hands up. "You gotta help me. I've got no one else to turn to."
"You've made a lot of enemies, Jim, and not a lot of friends. What makes you think I'm going to help you?" McCoy eased his hand off the trigger, but not out of his pocket.
"Relax, Bones, we're here alone, so unless you're going to blow me down, I suggest you keep that pea-shooter in your pocket." Kirk's grin was the same as before, but someone had roughed up that pretty face of his. McCoy trusted him for reasons he couldn't explain and invited him back to the dump where he was staying. Either he was making the biggest mistake of his life or Kirk would lead him where he needed to go.
Back at the motel, McCoy took out the worn leather doctor's bag that had been his father's before he died. The "McCoy" embossed on the side in fading silver letters was for David McCoy, not Leonard, and every time he needed it, it felt like failure. He'd failed his father, giving in to his pleas for death when Koch's disease had made him weak. That was three years ago and the beginning of the fast train to Hell that had been his feeble existence since. Now, with Jim Kirk back in his life, Hell had come to him. McCoy patched him up, cleaning the wounds and binding them, despite the kid's protests. "Don't be such an infant," he groused.
"It stings, Bones!" He'd first met Jim Kirk in Iowa when he was making his way across the country in a beat-up old flivver, trying to get as far from Georgia as possible. Kirk was nothing but a drifter whose old lady had given him the bum's rush after one too many times in the slammer. He'd called McCoy "Sawbones," and shortened it to "Bones" and they shared everything in that car. They were like brothers that had only just met. It was only a day, but what a day! They took turns driving too fast and made it all the way to Salinas in record time. Like Gaila, he thought he was in love, but Jim Kirk slipped away before morning and McCoy drove to San Francisco alone. "So you're a private dick now?"
"Yeah." He finished up, poured two fingers of corn into a glass, and handed it to the kid. There wasn't much to say. He was what he was, sawbones, shamus, it didn't matter.
"I got mixed-up in some crazy shit, Bones, and if you don't help me, a lot of innocent people could die. I hate to lay it on you like this, but I've got to get to Chicago. I'm really behind the eight-ball here, Bones. I'm on the nut and if I get caught knocking over another joint, they're going to put me away for good." Kirk was desperate and in his eyes was the anguish of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
McCoy wanted to do the right thing, but finding Uhura's wayward gink meant a lot of kale and he had to do it. He had to do it for Jo. "Can you help me find Spock?"
"Yeah, Bones," he slapped McCoy's shoulder with his one good hand, "eggs in the coffee." Kirk looked around, "Mind if I flop here for the night?"
McCoy was a sucker for hard-luck cases and sighed, "Sure thing, kid."
He watched as Kirk knocked back the last of the corn, then started disrobing. He actually took the time to hang up his jacket and dress shirt in the closet; his shoes went neatly underneath them and his pants were draped over the back the chair that accompanied the small desk along the left side of the room. Spare change, a pack of gum and a cigarette lighter ended up in a pile on top of the desk. The kid was learning to appreciate the niceties of life. This was a far cry from the disheveled hick that he’d picked up in Iowa, looking like a roughneck who only changed his linens when he took his weekly bath.
“Mind if I have the left side of the bed, Bones?” Kirk sat down on the side indicated in his vest and boxers. After fluffing the pillow up behind his back, he picked up the newspaper that McCoy had thrown on the desk when he’d first checked in.
“Yeah, sure, kid. I'm waiting for a call, though. Just give the phone straight to me if it rings. Don't try to flirt with my secretary, she'll eat you alive through the telephone lines.” He hung up his own jacket and shirt. When he was finished undressing down to his skivvies, he used the facilities to wash up a little before bed. The thought of sharing a bed again with Jim Kirk was just a bit mildly disconcerting. He hadn't expected anything last time and found himself wrestling with a boa constrictor for half the night. It had been glorious and a revelation to him, the first time he'd acted on an attraction to a man, but it had worn him out to the point that Kirk had been able to skip out on him without difficulty early in the morning. He'd taken the last fin in his wallet, but before he'd left he had fixed the hitch in the gearshift where it hung up going into reverse. An odd sort of trade, but McCoy had needed that flivver to get the hell away from the demons chasing him more than he needed the cash. He'd sold the pocket watch his grandfather had left him and that money had lasted him until he got to the coast where he'd met up with Boyce. He slid into the bed beside Kirk.
"Turn the light off when you're done. I sleep better when it's full dark. Night, Jim."
"Night, Bones." McCoy thought he felt the brush of a hand over his right shoulder before he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
The phone rang just as McCoy's thoughts began to wander into territory best left to explore when a man was alone and with Kirk in the bed with him, he wouldn't even be able to beat the sausage. He groaned and rolled over, reaching to grab the phone and finding himself laying across Kirk's lap. He looked into the kid's eyes and McCoy's blush and fluster was answered with a smirk. "It's for you, Bones."
McCoy grabbed the horn on what was probably the tenth ring and cleared his throat to try and gain some composure, "He- hello?"
"You alright, Boss? You sound terrible." Hearing Chapel's voice was a relief and he wished she had some good news. Hell, he'd even settle for bad news, just to distract himself from the man next to him.
"Yeah, fine," he lied, "What's the dish, sugar?"
"I've got good news and I've got bad news." McCoy shook his head in mild amusement. It looked like his wishes were coming true, but like all wishes, this one wasn't going to be free.
"Bad news first, Chapel." Kirk made like he was reading, but McCoy knew the sly dog was listening in. Not that it mattered, he was part of this, too.
"The buttons down in Alameda clammed up about whatever it was got lifted and I can't find anything on the geezer. It's as though he doesn't exist. The good news is that I was able to talk to a paddy up in the Windy City who didn't mind working overtime for a little extra scratch. Turns out our man Nero was stationed in the pacific during the war," there was a pause on the other end of the line, "He was on the other side McCoy. I don't know if that helps much, but maybe he's got some kind of a grudge. I looked up Spock as well. I didn't find much more than a record of him living in Hawai'i. His father's a Japanese expatriate and his Mother's from Chicago, Mr. Sarek..." She stumbled over the syllables for a moment, "...sorry, Boss. I can't pronounce this name. Anyway, the mother's name is Amanda Grayson."
McCoy rubbed his temple to try and relieve some of the tension building there. It wasn't much more than he'd started with, but it was something, "Anything else, dollface?"
"Yeah, the copper that gave me the beef is Officer Kevin O'Riley. He said to look him up when you get to Chicago. He and Boyce used to drink out of the same bottle." McCoy promised himself he'd do something nice for her when he got back to The City, take her out to eat, buy her something pretty to wear, but not until this job was done. The sister was a saint and it was silk so far, thanks to her. "Uhura called. She told me to tell you that Mr. Pike's plane was ready when you are."
He dreaded another flight so soon, but there was no other way. If Kirk was right, people might die if he didn't haul tail up there as soon as possible. The oath he'd taken was one to preserve life and just because he'd chosen the life of a gumshoe, it didn't mean he threw away his promise to preserve the lives of others. "Thanks, sugar. I'll call you when I get there." They said their farewells once more and she told him to be careful- as if he'd forgotten who he was dealing with. McCoy groaned and pulled the covers up, settling in once more to sleep, but unsettled by the warmth of another body in the bed. It was gonna be a long night of short sleep.
McCoy woke slowly to the feel of soft breath huffing against the back of his neck. It was still dark in the room, but he could see the gray of false dawn creeping in around the edge of the blinds. A warm arm was wrapped over his waist, the hand splayed against his chest pulling him back into the curve of Kirk’s body around his. It was so comfortable, made him feel so wanted, that for more than a handful of moments he didn’t even notice that Kirk’s hand had started to slowly move down his chest and over his stomach, heading south for the elastic waist of his boxers. Evidence of Kirk’s arousal was prodding him in the ass, undulating slowly against him.
He put a hand over the one making headway towards his own hard cock and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this? We have to spend the rest of the day together, at least. Last time, you didn’t even wake me up to say good-bye. Can you look me in the kisser, later, and not be sorry if we do this?”
“Bones, you worry too much. Let me do this for you; it’ll be aces.” The hand burrowed its way into his shorts and wrapped around his cock. A thumb rubbed over the head of his dick, gathering his precome and spreading it around as the hand moved up and down in a steady rhythm. He reached his own hand back, placing it on the curve of Kirk’s ass to hold him in place, pressing back with his hips to grind against the other man’s hard-on. They established a slow, rolling pace that built the gathering tension slowly. One of Kirk’s hands slid his vest up and started traveling from nipple to nipple, pulling and rubbing. McCoy’s whole body was responding with shivers and a tingle that started low at the base of his spine.
“Damn, kid, that feels good. What can I do for you?” he panted out, wanting to give something back to the hands that were so warm on his body, teasing and pleasing at the same time.
“Shut your yap and just enjoy. Give it up, Bones. Give me all of it.” Kirk’s hands were all over his torso; broad, hot sweeping caresses that McCoy just wanted to wallow in. His hips kept pushing into that warm hand that held him so firmly and stroked with just the right amount of pressure, with a little pinch on the end of his dick to thrill him.
“Christ, Jim, yeah, I can do that. Fuck.” He gave himself up to the motions and the feelings and he found himself shuddering from his shoulders down to his toes as he came in Kirk’s hand, a few last thrusts to get the very last drop of come out. When he was done, he went completely limp in Kirk’s arms. He didn’t object when the arms turned him so he was facing the other man. Kirk smoothed them down over his back to the curve of his buttocks, bringing his hips into his still hard arousal. He found himself reaching down to press against the other man’s cock, fondling and rubbing it through the fabric of his skivvies. They were in a better position for kissing, now, and he found himself pressing forward, slanting his mouth across Kirk’s, licking his way into a hot mouth that responded with passion, tongues twining together the way their hands were caressing Kirk’s cock in unison.
“Bones, Bones,” Kirk chanted, his hips jerking hard against McCoy as he came into their hands. They lay there exchanging slow, sweet kisses for a few more minutes before McCoy, ever mindful of messy bodily fluids, eased out of the bed to amble into the washroom. He came back with a damp facecloth that he used to mop up his belly before handing it off to Kirk to do the same.
“We’ve got a little while before sunrise; get some more sleep, kid.” McCoy slipped back into the bed, planning on maintaining his distance, when he found himself pulled back into the warmth of Kirk’s arms with his head on his shoulder. It felt good: good like he hadn’t had since Jocelyn had left him with nothing but his bones. He allowed himself to settle back into the embrace, wondering at his own ability to trust this man, even after past experience told him to be wary. Finally, he shut his brain down enough to just enjoy the feelings and drift back into a slumber more restful than he’d had in years.
The jury was still out on whether or not last night had been a good idea when they grabbed a stack of wheats and too many cups of joe at the hash house near the motel - McCoy's treat, of course. The food was cheap, the service was good, and he was glad to be in a place where the waitresses called you "Honey." Jim was easy to talk to and they kept the chin easy, catching up on what they'd been doing since they last saw each other. Kirk had got caught up in the Enterprise gang not long after leaving Salinas and it had been a tangle of mistakes and narrow escapes ever since. Pike recruited him personally and knowing that Kirk's father had been an Army Captain and a war hero, the kind that came back in a box, but the kid was tight-lipped about whatever it was that earned Captain Kirk the respect and admiration of a big cheese like Pike.
They hopped in a hack and headed for the airport, McCoy tipping back his flask to calm his nerves. It didn't help. Between the humidity and his elevated heart rate, McCoy started to sweat before they even set foot on the tarmac. The pair of them made their way to Pike's private plane and as McCoy tried not to think about the tin can death trap he was about to get into again, something caught his eye. The spry young pilot stood just inside the hangar, closer to the young navigator than two friends would be. They touched each other's faces and smiled and even a fool could see they were head over heels for each other. As if to drive home a point, they leaned in and kissed, holding hands. There was nothing raunchy about it, and if something as sweet and pure as that was sinful, there was no hope for this world.
"D'awww, Bones, look at that." Kirk threw an arm over McCoy's shoulder and squinted in the morning light, "Kinda makes you want to believe in true love."
McCoy grumbled, not wanting to admit that his heart had softened a little when he saw those two kiss. He wanted that feeling again, to be blinded by love so much that he didn't care who knew. He climbed in and headed toward the back of the plane. Between the aviaphobia and the fact that his stomach had been doing flips all morning after pitching woo with Jim Kirk, he was going to lose his lunch on the takeoff for sure. He turned to Kirk, tipped up his hat, and gave it to him straight, "I may throw up on you."
Kirk threw his head back and laughed at that until he saw the greenish cast to McCoy's face.
"Shit, you ain't just whistling Dixie when you say that. C'mon, Bones, let's go have a sit down."
Kirk led him to a seat near the lavatory, he noticed in gratitude. He set up a patter about how, when he was eleven, he'd taken his stepfather's jalopy on a joy ride along the back roads of Iowa. "Ran it right over the edge of a cliff into a quarry. The old man went off the track and that was the first time I ended up in juvie." McCoy realized that by the time the story came to its conclusion, the plane had taxied, taken off and they were flying at altitude. Wagging the jaw seemed to help keep some of the fear at bay. It didn't hurt that the man was extremely good looking and he couldn't keep his eyes off his mouth or the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He asked Kirk questions to keep him talking until they were preparing to land in Chicago. It was only once they were buckled into their seats for landing that he realized at some point in time Kirk had picked up his hand to hold it, because he had to let it go to buckle himself in. He looked out the window at the city spreading out before him and wondered what the end of this job would mean for whatever might be developing between he and Jim Kirk.
The sun sparkled over the lake and he couldn't help but notice how beautiful the city was, with its majestic buildings rising white and silver into a blue sky. "Jim, look at that," there was a glint and flash of sun on glass and metal as McCoy realized he wasn't afraid, not with Kirk by his side. As they descended into O'Hare, he remembered that this was Daley's playground and underneath the city's pretty face were the crooked bones of a town where the only difference between the lawmen and the crooks were the clothes they wore.
O'Riley was waiting for them at the gate, wearing his checkers and blues and McCoy half expected Kirk to take the run-out. Instead, they shook hands, "Ha boy, what's the craic, Jimmy?"
"Kevin Thomas O'Riley! I haven't seen your ugly mug since-" There was something left unsaid here and McCoy wondered what the angle was on these two. "How are ya?"
"Right jaded, boyo. I haven't had a good night's sleep since that header Nero came to town. Don't tell me you're mixed up in all this, Jimmy-boy." McCoy stood by patiently with one eyebrow raised into the brim of his hat, "An' you must be the shamus sweet Miss Christine told me about." O'Riley extended a hand to McCoy, and they piled into the front of the copper's can.
"So," McCoy asked him straight, "How do you know Officer O'Riley?"
"Mom and I lived in Ireland for a couple years. It didn't work out." The kid clammed up after that. There were some secrets best left unsaid and for all Kirk jawed about his past, McCoy still knew next to nothing about him.
A crackling voice came over the radio and O'Riley took a sharp U-turn toward Grant Park, weaving in and out of traffic, under the El, lights and sirens blazing blue. "That's the luck o' the Irish for ya, Jimmy. A friend breezes into town and next thing ya know, some gowed-up hood is shootin' up the place. Hang on to your hats, boys, it's about to get brutal."
The ride in to the park was a nail-biter. They flew down Michigan Ave., passing all the high-class shops of the Magnificent Mile without a care towards pedestrians or other cars alike. McCoy started to worry about the state of his stomach more on this trip than on the plane. As they approached Grant Park they could see a number of other black and whites in a cluster at one end of the park. Meat wagons were hanging back, waiting for the fall-out from the tense situation. O'Riley pulled up beside one of the other cop cars, hopping out while remaining low behind the vehicle. He scurried over to one of the other cars to consult with the cop barricaded behind it. When they finished jawing he came back over to his own heap and slid back inside. Turning around to face McCoy and Kirk he reported what he'd been told.
"That crazy bastard Nero has snatched Amanda Grayson and is threatening to put a shiv in her unless some old geezer named Selek turns himself over to him. He's got trigger men all over the park and a chopper squad on the way to City Hall, all set to start a bloodbath if he doesn't get the old gee within an hour." He took off his hat to run his hand through thinning brown hair in agitation.
"The high pillows don't want to touch this one. Nero's poured millions into their coffers to keep the port open to his ships and graft runs rampant downtown. We've got to find a way to force him out of his rat hole without harm to the frail and stop the massacre he's planning. Only no one knows this gee he's looking for to even try to find him."
Kirk looked discomfited for a moment, then turned to O'Riley and spoke. "Shit, this is awkward. Listen, I'm here on orders from Pike. The feds got word that Nero was going to use his ship, the Narada, to blow the breakwater to the port with some fancy soup left over from the war. With all the refineries east of the city depending on port deliveries, it would be economic chaos. They asked Pike to help out, because he had worked with my dad in the OSS during the war and still had connections. Pike got word to an old friend from those days, a guy named Selek. He's working with Spock. Nero must have got word that Spock and Selek were closing in on the location of the Narada and he's set this up as a distraction. We need to find Spock, now!"
O'Riley scanned the fray, "If only we could do a flyover of the lake. We'd see a whole lot more from the air than we can from here."
"O'Riley, you get on the horn to the airport, see if you can get those two kids to fly some recon for us to find the Narada. I'm going to get the old dame myself." Kirk started for the statue of Abe Lincoln where Nero held a struggling Mrs. Grayson.
McCoy grabbed his shoulder, "Dammit, Jim, that's suicide! There's no way we can win this!"
Kirk tipped his hat up and grinned, "Don't worry, Bones, we got the bulge on this bing bird. I've always known that when it was my time for the big sleep, I'd go it alone. With you here, there's no way we can lose. Besides, I don't believe in no-win scenarios." Kirk gave him a big smack on the kisser and patted McCoy's shoulder.
"Here, kid," McCoy took his old roscoe and pressed into Kirk's hand, "if you're gonna face a crazy cat like Nero, you'd better be heeled. It's just a coffee-and-doughnut six-shooter, but it's better than nothin'. Don't die out there, Jim." Kirk laid another one on him and jumped the police barrier, dodging Chicago lightning as he went. McCoy could do little more than watch as Kirk took a beating and pray for a miracle. He spotted a dark-haired figure in a blue button-up running toward them. The man was alone and packing heat, but McCoy couldn't tell if this was friend or foe. Like a deer in the headlights he watched as the man vaulted the barrier, guns blazing. Four of Nero's Torpedoes were cut down in no time and either this cat was out his fucking mind or he'd be the savior of Chi-town. Mrs. Grayson went down and against all better judgment, McCoy rushed in. Nero made a clean sneak while Kirk and the dark-haired goose were distracted. McCoy rolled up his sleeves and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late.
"Spock..." She drew what was probably her last breath, "No matter what you choose to be, my son, you will always have a proud mother."
McCoy closed her eyes and sighed, "She's dead, Jim."
The starch seemed to go out of the spine of the dark-haired bird as he stared at the dead sister who McCoy decided must be his mother. Kirk tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but the gunsel shook him off roughly and looked ready to plant one on Kirk's beezer. "Spock, we have to keep going. Nero's still out there looking to make trouble, but we've tightened the screws on him by shutting this part of the plan down. We need to rendezvous with Selek. Can you show us where he is?"
Spock scrubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. "Selek is out in the harbor. He commandeered one of the harbor police yachts and is waiting for our word on the Narada's location." He shook his entire body like a dog shaking off water; when he was done he seemed to have gathered strength from somewhere deep inside. "Jim, you are indeed correct. We must stop Nero or there is an eighty-six percent chance that he will succeed in destroying the harbor facilities."
Kirk looked relieved that Spock had gotten his act back together. He strode over to where O'Riley was talking to someone on his police radio. After consulting with the flatfoot for a few minutes, he came back over to where Spock and McCoy were watching Amanda being loaded into a meat wagon.
"Sulu and Chekov took a spin over the harbor; they spotted an unmarked tub with five or six punks on deck carrying tommies. You know they can't be kosher. The can's tied up behind the Shedd Aquarium. Spock, get on the horn to Selek and tell him to pick us up. We'll all go together to put the smack-down on Nero."
Kirk took McCoy off to one side. "You stay with Kevin; he'll take good care of you. I'll meet you at the clubhouse when we've got Nero sewed up."
McCoy grabbed Kirk by the biceps and pulled him in close. "Jim, you be careful. I don't want to have to go back to Pike and Uhura and tell them you got yourself and Spock killed by flying off the handle over this jingle-brained gonif. Be smart out there."
Kirk looked at him, then away. He hesitated, then glancing at him from the corner of his eye he offered, "Bones, I've never really had anything or anyone I wanted to come back to until now. As long as you wait for me, I'll be jake." With that, he leaned forward and laid a quick buss on McCoy before turning back towards Spock and making a gesture toward the waterfront. The two men left at a jog, heading for the police tug that had laid up next to the seawall. McCoy swallowed past the lump in his throat and turned back towards O'Riley's heap. It was going to be a long wait, no matter how quickly the affair got settled.
McCoy was relegated to the position of observer once more; a hell of a job for a man of more actions than words. "C'mon ya jobbie, we can watch from Navy Pier. Jimmy and I, we've been through more'n a few tight spots and I don't know much about this Spock fella, but he seems like a right guy." They drove the few blocks down Randolph Street and up Lake Shore Drive to the Pier and McCoy hung on for dear life. When they arrived, the place was crawling with beatniks and the kind of riffraff that hangs around a college campus. McCoy had done his time in academia and could easily pick out the serious students from the jaspers and janes just there to get smoked on jujus. He caught a whiff of reefer as he leaned against the bumper of the button's boiler and wondered if the carrot-top copper would bother taking them in. "Here, Doc, take this." O'Riley shoved a heater into his hand. McCoy hadn't ever held anything bigger than a six-shooter and looked at the gat with a raise of the eyebrow. "Better safe than sorry, eh, boyo?"
McCoy growled in acknowledgement as he watched the scene. A seaplane marked with the number 1701 flew low over the pier and McCoy spotted the blond-headed kid hanging out one side with a tommie as big as he was in one hand. They flew over what McCoy assumed was Nero's ship and the pop and crackle of an exchange of lead for lead echoed across the water. In the distance, a blue and black marked water pistol came speeding up and more gunfire was exchanged. McCoy was on the edge of the pier now, as close as he could get without jumping in the water, and he paced back and forth, feeling about as useful as a cigarette lighter on a motorbike. One of Nero's patsies jumped from the Narada to the police tub and struggled with Kirk. He looked like he had the bulge on the kid, but Kirk, the lucky bastard, grabbed the loogan's pistol and filled him full of lead. There was one of Nero's men, at least, that ended up in the drink.
The Narada sped away from the docks and out into the lake and the police tub gave chase. Soon, all he could see were two specks in the water, one racing toward the other as though they were going to collide.
McCoy watched with his heart in his throat as three figures dove off the deck of the water pistol into the choppy waters of Lake Michigan. The tub kept going, heading straight for Nero's transport. When they did hit, the boats seemed to disintegrate in a tremendous explosion of water and sound that reverberated across the harbor. The three figures in the water floundered around, eventually managing to reach each other over the swells and latch onto one another. As they floated in the water, the sea plane came in from the north and landed in a wash of water that nearly swamped the Enterprise crew. The young navigator, Chekov, opened the door and threw a life preserver out to the three men and carefully pulled them in one by one. As Kirk was being pulled onboard, he pointed out a figure floating in the water another hundred feet or so off to one side. The sea plane revved her engines and trundled in that direction.
When they reached the figure Kirk leaned down and spoke to the goon for a minute. He stuck out a mitt, but got it slapped away and while everyone watched, the body slowly sank beneath the surface of the lake. Kirk shook his head at the others, then climbed into the back seat of the bird with the two other waterlogged gents.
McCoy and O'Riley watched as the plane got up to speed and took off into the sky, again. It circled around, waggled its wings at the Pier and then headed off for the airport.
"C'mon," O'Riley pointed at his black and white, walking over to the jalopy at a fast clip. "Let's get down to the clubhouse, we'll wait for them there so they can make a report to the chief. Time to wrap this all up. The big boss will be happy to know that Nero's taking a dirt nap and won't be bothering us anymore."
McCoy nodded in agreement. "I gotta report back to my client. She'll be glad to know her cat appears to have more than nine lives. Ballsy move with that tin can out there. If they'd timed that wrong, they'd all be singing to St. Peter, now." He slapped O'Riley on the back with a smirk and slid into the passenger seat of the flattie's heap, relaxing back against the seat with a sigh of relief that Jim appeared to have made it out in one piece, too.
They all spent the better part of the evening pushing paper and answering questions down at the station, a manky kind of a place with all the charm of a government building. Miraculously, they were let off scot-free when the pilot came down to the station with some kind of a message, presumably from Pike. When he finally saw Kirk, the kid had been beat six ways to Sunday and McCoy couldn't decide whether to smack him for the goofy stunt they pulled out on the lake or to kiss him. He did neither, but instead patched him up, "You pull a stunt like that again, kid, and I'll kill ya myself." O'Riley took them to a place called the K-7 Pub on the South side and to McCoy's surprise, the whiskey was decent and the company was better than he'd had in a long time.
"I was gonna pull him into the plane, Bones," Kirk shook his head in disbelief, "but he refused my help. I guess he'd rather drown than spend the rest of his life in the slammer, but I just don't get it."
"Perhaps his death is only fitting. Nero is responsible," Spock spoke as he nursed a mug of black coffee, "for unspeakable crimes; not only the death of my mother, but that of hundreds of innocent people. You, of all people, Mr. Kirk should know this."
"I, of all people?" Kirk was annoyed and he let it show, his eyes sharp and blue, even in the pub's dim light.
"Your father, Lieutenant George Kirk was stationed aboard the Arizona, was he not?" The cat meant well, but had the emotional range of a rock and McCoy couldn't begin to guess what the dame back in San Francisco saw in him. "During the attack on Pearl Harbor, he assisted *Captain Van Valkenburgh in defending the ship while the survivors were evacuated, is that correct."
Kirk took a swig of his beer and sighed, "Yeah. My mom was aboard that morning, delivering medical supplies. She was pregnant with me at the time and she went into premature labor when the first blast hit. If it hadn't been for him and *Sam Fuqua, I wouldn't be here today. Are you telling me Nero's responsible for the Arizona?"
"Indeed I am," Spock continued, "Afterwards, Captain Nero was captured by the Red Army during the conflict in Manchuria and has been plotting revenge against my family ever since."
"I'm sorry we couldn't stop him in time to save your mother, Spock; she was one classy dame." Kirk looked at him with sympathy despite his own discomfort with the topic.
McCoy looked between the two of them questioningly. "I thought your father was a captain in the army, Jim. What was he doing on the Arizona?"
"He was actually one of the first men recruited by Wild Bill Donavon for the OSS, before it even had a name. Dad actually was an army captain who had been working on breaking the Japanese radio cipher, code-named Magic. Donavon sent him and another operative out to Pearl to save time on relaying messages back to Washington and have someone who had the authority to act on them instantaneously. He was placed on the Arizona under an alias, so he wouldn't be connected with his office back in DC. Dad wasn't on duty in the radio room the morning of the attack and the other agent was killed, also, so we don't know if they intercepted the order to attack or, if they did, why they failed to act. I'm only sorry I never knew it was Nero who was responsible." Kirk looked glumly at the label he was peeling off the beer bottle. He swirled the dregs around for a few moments before raising his hand to the barkeep for another.
Spock looked up from his cup of joe with an intense look at Kirk. "I had not known that about your father. He was a hero in more ways than one and I think he, too, would have been proud of you, today."
Kirk sighed. "I dunno. I got here purely by accident. Pike says I could do a heck of a lot better than be the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest. He's talking full pardon for me and an appointment to the Academy. He wants a decision from me by the time we get back to San Francisco and I'm not sure I want to take him up on the appointment. Guess I can sleep on it."
"Unless you're planning on sleeping on the plane, sir, my orders were to bring the lot of you back to The City ASAP. Mr. Pike doesn't like to be kept waiting." The dark-haired pilot had been teetotaling the whole night, but his partner had been hitting the vodka pretty hard. McCoy narrowed his eyes at the big-eyed kid as the pilot moved his hand under the table. He was unsubtle in his affection for the navigator. They looked into each other's eyes, letting touches last too long, sitting too close together.
The kid had to have some stones to let his affection show so easily in public and considering the stunts he pulled over the lake, he was either tough as nails or he was completely section eight."I never did catch your name, son," This was the first time he'd said more than a passing thanks to the fly-boy that had been ferrying him across the country for the past couple days. Of all the flights he'd ever taken, those two had been the smoothest and if McCoy had his druthers, if ever he had to get into a plane again, it'd be this kid flying it and no one else.
"Hikaru Sulu," they shook hands properly and he could tell this egg was no daisy. His partner was just as hard as any of Nero's trouble boys had been and twice as keen by the way he slung lead. They gave him hope that what he felt for Kirk didn't make him less of a man and when a cool hand touched his under the table, he couldn't bear to pull it away. He was dizzy with the guy and was never gonna let go again, not for all the mazuma in the world.
They bid farewell to O'Riley, thanking him for all he'd done, and hopped in a hack to the airport. Spock took the copilot's seat while the Russki kid snoozed in the front row. They touched down in San Francisco in the small hours of the morning and with Kirk by his side, McCoy even managed to catch a few winks on the way. They were greeted on the tarmac by the same broad that hired him, and a grey old bird in a wheelchair that could have been none other than Pike. Christine ran up, past all the rough-looking mugs he'd come with, and threw her arms around him. "I never thought I'd see you again, McCoy." There was a jealous glance from Kirk and McCoy could do nothing but shrug. She stepped back and her eyes became grey and stormy, "Never do a thing like that again, McCoy. You got people that care about you; people that don't want to see you killed."
Kirk stepped up and threw an arm over McCoy’s shoulders, baring his teeth in Chapel’s direction. “She’s got that right, Bones.” Chapel looked unimpressed with Kirk’s posturing, tucking her hand into the open elbow on McCoy’s other side and giving the kid a level stare. It didn’t so much say ‘back off’ as ‘you’re not the only one.’ His smile turned sweeter and he winked at her, teasing an answering smile out of her that surprised McCoy. He didn’t think she’d cotton on to Kirk so quickly--he could be a charmer--but was also a bit blatant about it and Chrissie was once burned, twice shy. His musings were interrupted by Mr. Pike’s voice.
“Dr. McCoy, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Phil Boyce. If the golden child over here makes up his mind to accept an appointment to the Academy, would you be willing to accept one, too?” He reached a hand up to shake McCoy’s. “We could use a doctor of your caliber on the team. You’d be done with training and out helping people again in only three years. Worth a shot?”
McCoy thought about it, then looked over at Kirk. “Whattaya say, Jim?”
Kirk looked smug. “If you can do it in three, so can I. Let’s go home, Bones. This is something to celebrate. We’re going to be together for a while.” So saying, he tucked one hand into the crook of McCoy’s elbow, dragged Chapel around behind him and tucked her hand into his free arm and started walking toward the parking lot where McCoy’s flivver was parked.
McCoy looked back at the tableau around Pike: Sulu and Chekov were standing too close, as usual, absorbed in each other to the exclusion of all else; Spock and Uhura stood side-by-side, barely touching-only the fingertips-but so at ease with each other they looked like they didn’t even need to speak to communicate. It had been a tumultuous three days, he thought he’d fallen into and out of a rabbit hole in that time, but he’d come out with a new perspective on life and someone he could care for and call his own.
As they slid into the car, Kirk behind the steering wheel, he was told in a gleeful tone, “Buckle up, Bones!” Whatever was to come might be scary, he thought, but damn, he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth.
A/N: *These men were stationed aboard the Arizona in real life and both were awarded the Medal of Honor. Captain Van Valkenburgh died on the bridge defending his ship and Lt. Cdr. Fuqua gave the final order to abandon ship, directing damage control and the escape of the surviving personnel, leaving with the last boat.
If you're having problems slinging the lingo, try out Miskatonic, it's a right savvy kind of joint.
Authors: jessofthebugs and sail_aweigh
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex, violence, drug use
Disclaimer: Not ours, we're just dressing them up in cute trench coats and fedoras for a while.
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy, Chekov/Sulu, Spock/Uhura
A/N: So this started as a round robin in reply to a request for "Noir AU" on the st_respect battle post for the latest prompt. Only two of us took up the gauntlet, myself (sail_aweigh) and the lovely jessofthebugs. We started writing this on March 17th and finished it up the morning of the 22nd. A little over 11,000 words in just 6 days between the two of us. Kind of amazing, when you think about it. Especially since we didn't contact each other in any way between switching off, just took what the person before wrote and then ran with it. There were more than a few continuity errors that had to be either stitched together or patched over, but it all holds together pretty damn well, if you ask me. I think you'll enjoy it. Hold onto your hats; we're headed to the Windy City for thugs, thieves and terror.
Summary: Private Detective Leonard McCoy didn't think taking a missing person job for a foxy lady was going to lead to such adventure and even true love.
Thanks to jessofthebugs for making this wonderful piece of art to go with our story! Originals are here and here at Deviant Art.
Hard Boiled Detective McCoy
Airport Reunion
Leonard H. McCoy had been a doctor, not a goddamned private investigator, but times had been hard and when the ex-wife took everything, including their young daughter, he'd become little more than a shell of a man and this was all there was left for him to do in this messed-up world. Christine sauntered in, eyes like smoke and legs that didn't stop, "You've got a client, doc. Maybe this one will even pay." She was rough around the edges, acerbic, but the best secretary a man could ask for. One of these days, she'd own the place.
"Send 'em in," he grumbled.
The client in question was fierce looking woman in a red dress that clung to every curve of her body. Sultry was hardly enough to describe her; she was smoking hot like a volcano and, by the looks of her, just as deadly. Her lips were painted a bright cherry red against her chocolate skin and McCoy briefly fantasized that they tasted like the candies he used to get in his Christmas stocking as a kid. He laughed, little more than huff, at the thought of chocolate covered cherries and tried to push back the thought of how much Jo had loved them. This candied goddess sat in the old leather chair across the desk, looking like a queen, "I'm looking for someone." Her voice was like satin, though it hid a hurt that was all too familiar. He could tell she'd been pierced through the heart, only to have love's arrow twisted and pulled out again, leaving nothing but a gaping wound in his chest.
Christ. This was supposed to be about the client, not his own painful past. All the same, heartbreak was written all over this dame's face and it was a look he'd seen in the mirror for far too long. "Alright, sweetheart, let's have it."
She took a photo from the sparkling red clutch and placed it on his desk, "His name is Spock and I need to find him."
“The last time I saw him, he was with that no-good, low-down Jim Kirk.” She reached into her clutch and pulled out a slim cigarette case. Deftly extracting a slim brown cigarillo, she placed it in the corner of her mouth and lit it with a brushed gold lighter. It had an emblem on it that McCoy recognized as being that of the Enterprise Gang.
“They were going to take a run down to Charleston, pick up some goods at the port there for the B…for Mr. Pike. That was seven days ago; delivery was expected yesterday. Spock is very reliable; you can count on him down to the second. I know that pretty boy, Kirk, has messed him up somehow. I want you to go down to Charleston and find out what happened to them.”
Charleston. It wasn't Georgia, but McCoy longed to be out of this hell-hole they called "The City" and back into the warm, loving arms of the South. "You shouldn't smoke."
"What are you, a doctor?" she scoffed.
"Yeah," if looks could kill, his third year of marriage would have already done him in. As it was, he was steeled against the harsh eyes of a woman, his own scowl like armor. "Leonard McCoy, M.D. PhD. P.I. and the rest of the damned alphabet, too, for all the good it does me." The City was getting to him and he'd forgotten his manners, "Pardon my language."
"I've heard worse." She extinguished the cigarillo and extended a slender hand, "Uhura."
He took it and her chestnut eyes softened for a moment as they both allowed themselves the shadow of a smile. "Well, Ms. Uhura, I don't work for free and Charleston's a long way from here. I'll need travel money."
"Mr. Pike has authorized me to pay you five to get you started and another eight upon delivery." She'd turned to ice again, her jaw tightened into a sharp line that showed she meant business.
McCoy sighed, thirteen hundred bucks was a paltry sum for what she was asking. "I've got bills, sugar, and an ex-wife extorting me for all I've got. I'm going to need more than that."
Uhura leaned forward, fire in her eyes, "Very well, Doctor, six thousand now and ten thousand on delivery, but don't push your luck."
"Yes, Ma'am." He knew it was dangerous to get caught up in business like this, but he accepted the deal, maintaining a calm façade over his surprise at the sheer amount of cash she was offering. More men than he could count ended up dead after a tangle with the Enterprise Gang and he figured they must be desperate if they're throwing mountains of cash at his two-bit operation. What's more, this Spock, whoever he was, must be more to her than a lover that left her heart a bleeding mess. And Jim Kirk? Now there was a name he hadn't heard in years.
"Good," she stood as gracefully as she'd sat down, her head high as if she owned the place, "I'll have Mr. Pike's private plane waiting for you at the airport first thing in the morning."
She left before he could say anything and when the door slammed shut, he cursed the smog-filled skies, wondering what the hell it was he'd gotten himself into.
“Christine!” he bellowed from behind his desk, hand moving toward the bottom drawer of his desk where a bottle of the best bootleg Romulan ale lay. He yanked the drawer out and growled at the level of liquid he could see left in it. Barely enough for a snort or two before he left to get supplies for the trip to Charleston.
“Bring me that dossier on Nero that Boyce left us when he retired. I’m heading down to Charleston, tomorrow, to look for a coupla runners for Pike. No doubt he’s mixed up in this, somehow. Nero has had a stranglehold on all traffic in and out of the city for the past 25 years.”
Slapping a glass on the desk, he poured himself out a hefty tot of the fiery blue ale. He knocked it back, then shook his head at the burn in the back of his throat as it went down.
Christine brought the file in, dropping it in front of him as she perched on one corner of his desk. One long leg swung back and forth, the short blue skirt riding up and exposing an enticing length of slim thigh to his gaze. He looked at it in appreciation before he opened the file to familiarize himself with the legalities, and illegalities, of Nero’s import business. He needed to concentrate on business, not on the things his libido picked up on. Maybe one of the things he could do during this trip was find an uncomplicated pick-up that didn’t know him and didn’t tempt him to do sinful things in his own backyard, where they could come back and bite him. He paid enough in alimony, already; cheaper by far to pay a little rent for a night’s good times than the other half of his paycheck for the rest of his life.
“What are you waiting for, Chapel? Haven’t you got filing or supplies to order or something useful to do?” He poured another jolt of Romulan ale in his glass, but before he could even think of picking it up, the glass was snatched off the desk and Christine knocked it back defiantly.
“You’re a fool, McCoy. Taking a job for the Enterprise Gang is going to get you killed. May as well let me have the rest of this bottle, now, because you’ll never be back to finish it.” Saying that, she slammed the glass back down on the desk, leaving the room in a huff, her skirt twitching with her irritation at his words and plans.
McCoy let out a long, suffering sigh and stuffed the files in his suitcase. "Women." He'd about given up on the fairer sex- they'd been nothing but trouble for him. He left the ale, not for her, but because he didn't want to travel with contraband. At least, that's what he told himself, hoping that he could at least find some decent bourbon in Carolina. As he passed her desk, he felt a twinge of guilt, or regret, or combination of the two, it was hard to say, but two grey-blue eyes looked up at him, begging him without words not to go. "Listen, I don't know how long I'll be gone and I'll be incommunicado for most of it, but I'll call." She wouldn't cry, not in front of him anyway, but he could see the tears making her eyes shine like a blue sky reflected in calm waters. Chapel was neither. She was all grey storms, the proverbial dark cloud of lost love hanging over her as well. That bastard Korby had done her wrong and the blood of a McCoy ran hot. They'd met in a bar just off the bay and he saved her from him, just as she'd saved him from joining the service. Korby left that night with a broken nose and McCoy left with a leggy blonde secretary that owed him one.
"You'd better."
"I give you my word." He grabbed his hat and coat, looking back once before making his way down the stairs, "And water my plants for me, willya?"
She smiled and rolled her eyes, "Sure thing, Boss."
"You're a good woman, Chapel." He meant it, too, and not just because she'd agreed to water his plants. McCoy decided not to stop at the bar on the way home, instead picking up a fifth of Kentucky bourbon for the flight. He hated flying more than anything. He'd rather have his wisdom teeth extracted without anesthetic than fly. He packed quickly and slept little that night, anxious about what was to come and when the next morning came, the sun didn't dare to show his face.
McCoy was sweating bullets when he arrived at the airport and it wasn't because of the heat. The tiny plane looked like nothing but a death trap and when he climbed in, the cockpit was occupied by what looked like nothing more than a kid. "How old are you, son?"
"Seventeen, sir." He had some kind of an accent, Eastern European, perhaps, and a head of blonde curls. He was a skinny kid and McCoy regretted not finishing the last of that Romulan ale. He was going to die for sure and not on the wrong end of the barrel of a gun, but falling from the sky in a ball of fiery death.
McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose, "Oh, good," he mumbled to himself, "he's seventeen."
"In spite of my age, sir, I am the best nawigator in the skies. The pilot should be here soon." The kid was too happy, his eyes too big and too green.
McCoy thought of Jo again and sighed, taking a swig from his flask, "What's your name, kid?"
"Chekov, Pavel Andreievich."
McCoy took one more look at the kid, shook his head and headed straight to the back of the plane. Everyone knew the tail was safer than the front of the plane, rear sections tending to remain intact in crashes more than mid-sections where the engine blades could shred the cabin and its occupants if something caused the engines to fail. He stuffed his carryon into a storage compartment after putting away the flask and pulling out a full bottle of booze. Spotting a flight attendant in a gold suit with blue accents, he asked for a glass, and on careful consideration, ice for his drink. He didn't like diluting the bourbon, real waste of fine whiskey, but felt that having the drink cold might help him concentrate on things other than his nerves and fear of flying.
He settled back in his seat with a sigh, watching the pale young navigator greet a dark-haired man who had just come leaping up the stairs two at a time. Sprightly young man, good reflexes, those would come in handy when something happened to make the plane plummet from the sky like a meteor streaking in from outer space. McCoy held the glass of bourbon against his forehead letting the ice cool him down where he'd started sweating. Maybe he should look into some of the meditation courses offered by the yoga ashram on the floor below his office. Of course, he could fix the problem by just not flying. But the money Pike was offering was too damn good. This would guarantee that Jo could get into that fancy dance academy that her mother was so insistent upon.
McCoy's stomach lurched as the plane started backing away from the gate. Looked like they were getting ready to take-off. He felt his stomach rumble and made sure he knew exactly where the airsickness bags. Eye closed tightly, he clutched the armrests next to him and tried not to list all the ways a human could die when the plane crashed while waiting for the feeling of the wheels to leave the ground. He found himself repeating over and over in his head, "It's all for Jo, it's all for Jo."
The flight attendant checked on him more often than was necessary and he may have been a little too curt with her, but he was not fine, dammit. He just wanted to be left alone with his misery and his bourbon. He'd hyperventilated through the taxi and takeoff (24% of fatal accidents), sweated the climb (18%), drank heavily during the cruise, and, much to his surprise, didn't vomit on the landing (36%). As flights go, it was the best he'd had - not that he'd want to do that again any time soon. He thanked the pilot on the way out and rolled his eyes at the smug kid standing next to him. He glanced back just once and caught them looking into each other's eyes. They were definitely friends, but... maybe more. He dismissed the thought and donned his grey fedora to shade his eyes against the harsh Southern sun. The old familiar wave of heat and humidity hit him as he exited, squinting his eyes in the too-bright light.
He flagged a cab and checked into a seedy motel where the carpets were stained with God-knows-what, but the sheets were blessedly clean. It was just the kind of place where many a woman of ill repute spread whatever venereal diseases she happened to carry to untold numbers of Johns. This was the kind of place where gang deals went bad and people ended up with their guts spilling out or their brains splattered on a wall. As night fell, the kudzu-covered trees turned blue in the faltering light of dusk and soon nothing could be heard but the crickets and a rhythmic thumping against the wall. The whole world, it seemed, was disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.
He wasted no time, but made his way to East Bay street to a dive near the ports where there was as much smoke as oxygen to breathe. He ordered a shot of Evan Williams, cheap, but not half bad, and sipped at it. Something told him that Kirk was the key to this thing, to finding Spock and taking Nero down. Maybe that dame Uhura's heart would mend when he found the man, but he doubted it. In a dark corner of the dark bar, there sat a woman as gorgeous as they come, hair as red as the setting sun and the flickering neon that served as their only light making her skin look green. She was sitting with a salty-looking seaman, smiling, and he'd have dismissed her as a whore, but she was dressed as a dock-worker. They were out of place here and when he caught a glimpse a silver pendant she wore, he knew that this was the place to start. It was the same emblem as he'd seen on Uhura's cigarette case and if this *tomato didn't know anything, he'd eat his hat.
McCoy pushed his empty glass towards the barkeep and flicked his finger indicating he wanted another. When his glass had been refilled, he leaned in and asked the tender for one of whatever the red-headed dame in the corner was drinking. He was given a martini glass with something in a virulent chartreuse color. Picking up the two drinks, he made his way over to the corner table where he set the drink in front of her and then sat down with his own.
She looked at him closely, taking in the trench coat worn at the cuffs, the battered fedora and scuffed oxfords with worn down heels. A slender finger came out and circled the rim of her glass while she seemed to consider him and it for a moment. Reaching a decision, she picked the drink up and sipped delicately at it giving the lie to her rough clothes. He was sure this was one sister who would have been more at home in a high class parlor than a dive like this. It showed in the supercilious lift to her upper lip.
"You're either a copper or a peeper; I got nothin' to say to you." She took another sip and looked at the sailor she was sitting with. A jerk of the head had the wiry middle-aged man rising from his chair to step towards McCoy threateningly.
McCoy raised his hands to show he meant no harm. "I'm just looking for a mug, my client thinks he took it on the lam with some of the merchandise and I just have to report back to him where he is. I don't care what sort of racket you're running and whether or not it's sanctioned." He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and stripped off a number of twenties, looking at her as he did. When she nodded, he stopped and handed her the stack of bills. They were rolled up quickly and tucked away in the valley between her breasts.
"Ask," she said in cheery voice, now that the wheels had been suitably greased.
"What's the dope on Spock?" he growled as a midget in coveralls with a beer as big as his head approached the table.
"Hey!" The little man said, "That's my seat."
"Shut it," the sailor retorted, betraying a brogue that put him near Glasgow, "Get another."
She grinned at them and fingered the olive in her drink, "I can't tell you where or why he's gone, but rumor has it he took some high explosives with him. I'm not talkin' TNT here," she took a sip and leaned in close, "This is top secret stuff, probably nicked from the feds. That's all I know."
"Aye," the sailor agreed, taking a deck of smokes from his jacket and tapping them on the heel of a hand that was missing its middle finger. There was a story there, but McCoy didn't have time for idle curiosity, "The old gee showed up with it after the Alameda job and it's worth a lot of cabbage."
"Tell me about the old man, what's his part in all this?" The dame looked at the Scotsman and the midget pointedly looked away and took a swig at his beer. They knew something they weren't saying and McCoy had to get it out of them, come hell or high water. He passed a couple bills to the salty dog and sipped at his whiskey.
"All I know is that he came to me with some blonde haired, blue-eyed jobbie needing to get to Chi-town." Conversation came to a dead stop when the tender delivered a fat sandwich to the Scotsman. He took a bite, smacking the little man's hand away as he reached for a fried potato. The Scotsman gave in and handed him one, continuing his tale when the barkeep was gone, "I told him I couldnae do that, but he promised to get me out of the boondocks and he did. Keenser and I were freezing our arses off in Alaska and would ha' done anything to get out of there. He delivered, obviously, and that's the last I saw of him."
Blue eyes, blonde hair. There were a lot of cats that fit that description, but only one whose mitts were all over this case - James T. Kirk. Brash and reckless, they'd crossed paths once and it was a memorable occasion; one he tried hard to forget, but couldn't. "His name wouldn't happen to be Kirk, would it?"
"I don't know, but-"
The broad downed the rest of her drink and slammed it on the table. "Jim?! I thought I was in love with him, the bastard, and it turns out it was all bunk. I told him to breeze off. If you see him, kiss him in the mug and tell him Gaila sent you."
She spat and hissed like an angry cat, making the message clear. He knew what she meant and a good sock in the kisser was likely no more than he deserved, but Kirk's reputation muddied the waters a bit. "I'll keep that in mind." McCoy could use a good kiss, but he'd settle for a mediocre lay. The way things were going, he'd get neither tonight. "Thanks." He paid the bartender and plunked two bits into the payphone in the back. The receiver picked up after two rings, "Christine?"
“Boss, you’re still alive!” Christine still managed to sound doleful even with the good news. “Found the mug, yet?”
“Not yet. Got a lead on a geezer who might be involved with the job, but I need more info. Call the cop shop up there and see if they have any known jobbers on file with Jim Kirk and his activities. It’s in relation to some grift that went down in Alameda. Might be a ship involved, I need its name. I’m stayin’ at the Sailor’s Rest Hotel, room 214. Call me with the lay when you get it.”
“Will do. You be careful, now. Nero’s men are ruthless; I don’t want to read you’ve been spotted wearing a wooden kimono in the newspaper tomorrow morning.”
“Christine, I can take care of myself. I’m going straight back to the hotel from here. I’ve got better bourbon in my room than I can get in this dive.”
“Okay, Boss. Take care.”
“Night, sugar.” McCoy hung up the phone, took a quick look around and then exited the club. There was a taxi stand at the end of the block and he made his way toward it. He kept one hand in his pocket where his piece lay hidden. While he wasn’t expecting trouble, word always traveled fast in the underground lairs of the gangs and it was better to be prepared.
He was still taken off guard when he passed a narrow alley between two shops and a slim figure darted out to grab him by the elbow. A hand with a very strong grip reached into his pocket and latched onto his gun hand. McCoy turned a startled face to the man accosting him and gasped. “Jim!”
"Bones! Am I glad to see you." Kirk eased his grip and backed away with his hands up. "You gotta help me. I've got no one else to turn to."
"You've made a lot of enemies, Jim, and not a lot of friends. What makes you think I'm going to help you?" McCoy eased his hand off the trigger, but not out of his pocket.
"Relax, Bones, we're here alone, so unless you're going to blow me down, I suggest you keep that pea-shooter in your pocket." Kirk's grin was the same as before, but someone had roughed up that pretty face of his. McCoy trusted him for reasons he couldn't explain and invited him back to the dump where he was staying. Either he was making the biggest mistake of his life or Kirk would lead him where he needed to go.
Back at the motel, McCoy took out the worn leather doctor's bag that had been his father's before he died. The "McCoy" embossed on the side in fading silver letters was for David McCoy, not Leonard, and every time he needed it, it felt like failure. He'd failed his father, giving in to his pleas for death when Koch's disease had made him weak. That was three years ago and the beginning of the fast train to Hell that had been his feeble existence since. Now, with Jim Kirk back in his life, Hell had come to him. McCoy patched him up, cleaning the wounds and binding them, despite the kid's protests. "Don't be such an infant," he groused.
"It stings, Bones!" He'd first met Jim Kirk in Iowa when he was making his way across the country in a beat-up old flivver, trying to get as far from Georgia as possible. Kirk was nothing but a drifter whose old lady had given him the bum's rush after one too many times in the slammer. He'd called McCoy "Sawbones," and shortened it to "Bones" and they shared everything in that car. They were like brothers that had only just met. It was only a day, but what a day! They took turns driving too fast and made it all the way to Salinas in record time. Like Gaila, he thought he was in love, but Jim Kirk slipped away before morning and McCoy drove to San Francisco alone. "So you're a private dick now?"
"Yeah." He finished up, poured two fingers of corn into a glass, and handed it to the kid. There wasn't much to say. He was what he was, sawbones, shamus, it didn't matter.
"I got mixed-up in some crazy shit, Bones, and if you don't help me, a lot of innocent people could die. I hate to lay it on you like this, but I've got to get to Chicago. I'm really behind the eight-ball here, Bones. I'm on the nut and if I get caught knocking over another joint, they're going to put me away for good." Kirk was desperate and in his eyes was the anguish of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
McCoy wanted to do the right thing, but finding Uhura's wayward gink meant a lot of kale and he had to do it. He had to do it for Jo. "Can you help me find Spock?"
"Yeah, Bones," he slapped McCoy's shoulder with his one good hand, "eggs in the coffee." Kirk looked around, "Mind if I flop here for the night?"
McCoy was a sucker for hard-luck cases and sighed, "Sure thing, kid."
He watched as Kirk knocked back the last of the corn, then started disrobing. He actually took the time to hang up his jacket and dress shirt in the closet; his shoes went neatly underneath them and his pants were draped over the back the chair that accompanied the small desk along the left side of the room. Spare change, a pack of gum and a cigarette lighter ended up in a pile on top of the desk. The kid was learning to appreciate the niceties of life. This was a far cry from the disheveled hick that he’d picked up in Iowa, looking like a roughneck who only changed his linens when he took his weekly bath.
“Mind if I have the left side of the bed, Bones?” Kirk sat down on the side indicated in his vest and boxers. After fluffing the pillow up behind his back, he picked up the newspaper that McCoy had thrown on the desk when he’d first checked in.
“Yeah, sure, kid. I'm waiting for a call, though. Just give the phone straight to me if it rings. Don't try to flirt with my secretary, she'll eat you alive through the telephone lines.” He hung up his own jacket and shirt. When he was finished undressing down to his skivvies, he used the facilities to wash up a little before bed. The thought of sharing a bed again with Jim Kirk was just a bit mildly disconcerting. He hadn't expected anything last time and found himself wrestling with a boa constrictor for half the night. It had been glorious and a revelation to him, the first time he'd acted on an attraction to a man, but it had worn him out to the point that Kirk had been able to skip out on him without difficulty early in the morning. He'd taken the last fin in his wallet, but before he'd left he had fixed the hitch in the gearshift where it hung up going into reverse. An odd sort of trade, but McCoy had needed that flivver to get the hell away from the demons chasing him more than he needed the cash. He'd sold the pocket watch his grandfather had left him and that money had lasted him until he got to the coast where he'd met up with Boyce. He slid into the bed beside Kirk.
"Turn the light off when you're done. I sleep better when it's full dark. Night, Jim."
"Night, Bones." McCoy thought he felt the brush of a hand over his right shoulder before he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
The phone rang just as McCoy's thoughts began to wander into territory best left to explore when a man was alone and with Kirk in the bed with him, he wouldn't even be able to beat the sausage. He groaned and rolled over, reaching to grab the phone and finding himself laying across Kirk's lap. He looked into the kid's eyes and McCoy's blush and fluster was answered with a smirk. "It's for you, Bones."
McCoy grabbed the horn on what was probably the tenth ring and cleared his throat to try and gain some composure, "He- hello?"
"You alright, Boss? You sound terrible." Hearing Chapel's voice was a relief and he wished she had some good news. Hell, he'd even settle for bad news, just to distract himself from the man next to him.
"Yeah, fine," he lied, "What's the dish, sugar?"
"I've got good news and I've got bad news." McCoy shook his head in mild amusement. It looked like his wishes were coming true, but like all wishes, this one wasn't going to be free.
"Bad news first, Chapel." Kirk made like he was reading, but McCoy knew the sly dog was listening in. Not that it mattered, he was part of this, too.
"The buttons down in Alameda clammed up about whatever it was got lifted and I can't find anything on the geezer. It's as though he doesn't exist. The good news is that I was able to talk to a paddy up in the Windy City who didn't mind working overtime for a little extra scratch. Turns out our man Nero was stationed in the pacific during the war," there was a pause on the other end of the line, "He was on the other side McCoy. I don't know if that helps much, but maybe he's got some kind of a grudge. I looked up Spock as well. I didn't find much more than a record of him living in Hawai'i. His father's a Japanese expatriate and his Mother's from Chicago, Mr. Sarek..." She stumbled over the syllables for a moment, "...sorry, Boss. I can't pronounce this name. Anyway, the mother's name is Amanda Grayson."
McCoy rubbed his temple to try and relieve some of the tension building there. It wasn't much more than he'd started with, but it was something, "Anything else, dollface?"
"Yeah, the copper that gave me the beef is Officer Kevin O'Riley. He said to look him up when you get to Chicago. He and Boyce used to drink out of the same bottle." McCoy promised himself he'd do something nice for her when he got back to The City, take her out to eat, buy her something pretty to wear, but not until this job was done. The sister was a saint and it was silk so far, thanks to her. "Uhura called. She told me to tell you that Mr. Pike's plane was ready when you are."
He dreaded another flight so soon, but there was no other way. If Kirk was right, people might die if he didn't haul tail up there as soon as possible. The oath he'd taken was one to preserve life and just because he'd chosen the life of a gumshoe, it didn't mean he threw away his promise to preserve the lives of others. "Thanks, sugar. I'll call you when I get there." They said their farewells once more and she told him to be careful- as if he'd forgotten who he was dealing with. McCoy groaned and pulled the covers up, settling in once more to sleep, but unsettled by the warmth of another body in the bed. It was gonna be a long night of short sleep.
McCoy woke slowly to the feel of soft breath huffing against the back of his neck. It was still dark in the room, but he could see the gray of false dawn creeping in around the edge of the blinds. A warm arm was wrapped over his waist, the hand splayed against his chest pulling him back into the curve of Kirk’s body around his. It was so comfortable, made him feel so wanted, that for more than a handful of moments he didn’t even notice that Kirk’s hand had started to slowly move down his chest and over his stomach, heading south for the elastic waist of his boxers. Evidence of Kirk’s arousal was prodding him in the ass, undulating slowly against him.
He put a hand over the one making headway towards his own hard cock and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this? We have to spend the rest of the day together, at least. Last time, you didn’t even wake me up to say good-bye. Can you look me in the kisser, later, and not be sorry if we do this?”
“Bones, you worry too much. Let me do this for you; it’ll be aces.” The hand burrowed its way into his shorts and wrapped around his cock. A thumb rubbed over the head of his dick, gathering his precome and spreading it around as the hand moved up and down in a steady rhythm. He reached his own hand back, placing it on the curve of Kirk’s ass to hold him in place, pressing back with his hips to grind against the other man’s hard-on. They established a slow, rolling pace that built the gathering tension slowly. One of Kirk’s hands slid his vest up and started traveling from nipple to nipple, pulling and rubbing. McCoy’s whole body was responding with shivers and a tingle that started low at the base of his spine.
“Damn, kid, that feels good. What can I do for you?” he panted out, wanting to give something back to the hands that were so warm on his body, teasing and pleasing at the same time.
“Shut your yap and just enjoy. Give it up, Bones. Give me all of it.” Kirk’s hands were all over his torso; broad, hot sweeping caresses that McCoy just wanted to wallow in. His hips kept pushing into that warm hand that held him so firmly and stroked with just the right amount of pressure, with a little pinch on the end of his dick to thrill him.
“Christ, Jim, yeah, I can do that. Fuck.” He gave himself up to the motions and the feelings and he found himself shuddering from his shoulders down to his toes as he came in Kirk’s hand, a few last thrusts to get the very last drop of come out. When he was done, he went completely limp in Kirk’s arms. He didn’t object when the arms turned him so he was facing the other man. Kirk smoothed them down over his back to the curve of his buttocks, bringing his hips into his still hard arousal. He found himself reaching down to press against the other man’s cock, fondling and rubbing it through the fabric of his skivvies. They were in a better position for kissing, now, and he found himself pressing forward, slanting his mouth across Kirk’s, licking his way into a hot mouth that responded with passion, tongues twining together the way their hands were caressing Kirk’s cock in unison.
“Bones, Bones,” Kirk chanted, his hips jerking hard against McCoy as he came into their hands. They lay there exchanging slow, sweet kisses for a few more minutes before McCoy, ever mindful of messy bodily fluids, eased out of the bed to amble into the washroom. He came back with a damp facecloth that he used to mop up his belly before handing it off to Kirk to do the same.
“We’ve got a little while before sunrise; get some more sleep, kid.” McCoy slipped back into the bed, planning on maintaining his distance, when he found himself pulled back into the warmth of Kirk’s arms with his head on his shoulder. It felt good: good like he hadn’t had since Jocelyn had left him with nothing but his bones. He allowed himself to settle back into the embrace, wondering at his own ability to trust this man, even after past experience told him to be wary. Finally, he shut his brain down enough to just enjoy the feelings and drift back into a slumber more restful than he’d had in years.
The jury was still out on whether or not last night had been a good idea when they grabbed a stack of wheats and too many cups of joe at the hash house near the motel - McCoy's treat, of course. The food was cheap, the service was good, and he was glad to be in a place where the waitresses called you "Honey." Jim was easy to talk to and they kept the chin easy, catching up on what they'd been doing since they last saw each other. Kirk had got caught up in the Enterprise gang not long after leaving Salinas and it had been a tangle of mistakes and narrow escapes ever since. Pike recruited him personally and knowing that Kirk's father had been an Army Captain and a war hero, the kind that came back in a box, but the kid was tight-lipped about whatever it was that earned Captain Kirk the respect and admiration of a big cheese like Pike.
They hopped in a hack and headed for the airport, McCoy tipping back his flask to calm his nerves. It didn't help. Between the humidity and his elevated heart rate, McCoy started to sweat before they even set foot on the tarmac. The pair of them made their way to Pike's private plane and as McCoy tried not to think about the tin can death trap he was about to get into again, something caught his eye. The spry young pilot stood just inside the hangar, closer to the young navigator than two friends would be. They touched each other's faces and smiled and even a fool could see they were head over heels for each other. As if to drive home a point, they leaned in and kissed, holding hands. There was nothing raunchy about it, and if something as sweet and pure as that was sinful, there was no hope for this world.
"D'awww, Bones, look at that." Kirk threw an arm over McCoy's shoulder and squinted in the morning light, "Kinda makes you want to believe in true love."
McCoy grumbled, not wanting to admit that his heart had softened a little when he saw those two kiss. He wanted that feeling again, to be blinded by love so much that he didn't care who knew. He climbed in and headed toward the back of the plane. Between the aviaphobia and the fact that his stomach had been doing flips all morning after pitching woo with Jim Kirk, he was going to lose his lunch on the takeoff for sure. He turned to Kirk, tipped up his hat, and gave it to him straight, "I may throw up on you."
Kirk threw his head back and laughed at that until he saw the greenish cast to McCoy's face.
"Shit, you ain't just whistling Dixie when you say that. C'mon, Bones, let's go have a sit down."
Kirk led him to a seat near the lavatory, he noticed in gratitude. He set up a patter about how, when he was eleven, he'd taken his stepfather's jalopy on a joy ride along the back roads of Iowa. "Ran it right over the edge of a cliff into a quarry. The old man went off the track and that was the first time I ended up in juvie." McCoy realized that by the time the story came to its conclusion, the plane had taxied, taken off and they were flying at altitude. Wagging the jaw seemed to help keep some of the fear at bay. It didn't hurt that the man was extremely good looking and he couldn't keep his eyes off his mouth or the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He asked Kirk questions to keep him talking until they were preparing to land in Chicago. It was only once they were buckled into their seats for landing that he realized at some point in time Kirk had picked up his hand to hold it, because he had to let it go to buckle himself in. He looked out the window at the city spreading out before him and wondered what the end of this job would mean for whatever might be developing between he and Jim Kirk.
The sun sparkled over the lake and he couldn't help but notice how beautiful the city was, with its majestic buildings rising white and silver into a blue sky. "Jim, look at that," there was a glint and flash of sun on glass and metal as McCoy realized he wasn't afraid, not with Kirk by his side. As they descended into O'Hare, he remembered that this was Daley's playground and underneath the city's pretty face were the crooked bones of a town where the only difference between the lawmen and the crooks were the clothes they wore.
O'Riley was waiting for them at the gate, wearing his checkers and blues and McCoy half expected Kirk to take the run-out. Instead, they shook hands, "Ha boy, what's the craic, Jimmy?"
"Kevin Thomas O'Riley! I haven't seen your ugly mug since-" There was something left unsaid here and McCoy wondered what the angle was on these two. "How are ya?"
"Right jaded, boyo. I haven't had a good night's sleep since that header Nero came to town. Don't tell me you're mixed up in all this, Jimmy-boy." McCoy stood by patiently with one eyebrow raised into the brim of his hat, "An' you must be the shamus sweet Miss Christine told me about." O'Riley extended a hand to McCoy, and they piled into the front of the copper's can.
"So," McCoy asked him straight, "How do you know Officer O'Riley?"
"Mom and I lived in Ireland for a couple years. It didn't work out." The kid clammed up after that. There were some secrets best left unsaid and for all Kirk jawed about his past, McCoy still knew next to nothing about him.
A crackling voice came over the radio and O'Riley took a sharp U-turn toward Grant Park, weaving in and out of traffic, under the El, lights and sirens blazing blue. "That's the luck o' the Irish for ya, Jimmy. A friend breezes into town and next thing ya know, some gowed-up hood is shootin' up the place. Hang on to your hats, boys, it's about to get brutal."
The ride in to the park was a nail-biter. They flew down Michigan Ave., passing all the high-class shops of the Magnificent Mile without a care towards pedestrians or other cars alike. McCoy started to worry about the state of his stomach more on this trip than on the plane. As they approached Grant Park they could see a number of other black and whites in a cluster at one end of the park. Meat wagons were hanging back, waiting for the fall-out from the tense situation. O'Riley pulled up beside one of the other cop cars, hopping out while remaining low behind the vehicle. He scurried over to one of the other cars to consult with the cop barricaded behind it. When they finished jawing he came back over to his own heap and slid back inside. Turning around to face McCoy and Kirk he reported what he'd been told.
"That crazy bastard Nero has snatched Amanda Grayson and is threatening to put a shiv in her unless some old geezer named Selek turns himself over to him. He's got trigger men all over the park and a chopper squad on the way to City Hall, all set to start a bloodbath if he doesn't get the old gee within an hour." He took off his hat to run his hand through thinning brown hair in agitation.
"The high pillows don't want to touch this one. Nero's poured millions into their coffers to keep the port open to his ships and graft runs rampant downtown. We've got to find a way to force him out of his rat hole without harm to the frail and stop the massacre he's planning. Only no one knows this gee he's looking for to even try to find him."
Kirk looked discomfited for a moment, then turned to O'Riley and spoke. "Shit, this is awkward. Listen, I'm here on orders from Pike. The feds got word that Nero was going to use his ship, the Narada, to blow the breakwater to the port with some fancy soup left over from the war. With all the refineries east of the city depending on port deliveries, it would be economic chaos. They asked Pike to help out, because he had worked with my dad in the OSS during the war and still had connections. Pike got word to an old friend from those days, a guy named Selek. He's working with Spock. Nero must have got word that Spock and Selek were closing in on the location of the Narada and he's set this up as a distraction. We need to find Spock, now!"
O'Riley scanned the fray, "If only we could do a flyover of the lake. We'd see a whole lot more from the air than we can from here."
"O'Riley, you get on the horn to the airport, see if you can get those two kids to fly some recon for us to find the Narada. I'm going to get the old dame myself." Kirk started for the statue of Abe Lincoln where Nero held a struggling Mrs. Grayson.
McCoy grabbed his shoulder, "Dammit, Jim, that's suicide! There's no way we can win this!"
Kirk tipped his hat up and grinned, "Don't worry, Bones, we got the bulge on this bing bird. I've always known that when it was my time for the big sleep, I'd go it alone. With you here, there's no way we can lose. Besides, I don't believe in no-win scenarios." Kirk gave him a big smack on the kisser and patted McCoy's shoulder.
"Here, kid," McCoy took his old roscoe and pressed into Kirk's hand, "if you're gonna face a crazy cat like Nero, you'd better be heeled. It's just a coffee-and-doughnut six-shooter, but it's better than nothin'. Don't die out there, Jim." Kirk laid another one on him and jumped the police barrier, dodging Chicago lightning as he went. McCoy could do little more than watch as Kirk took a beating and pray for a miracle. He spotted a dark-haired figure in a blue button-up running toward them. The man was alone and packing heat, but McCoy couldn't tell if this was friend or foe. Like a deer in the headlights he watched as the man vaulted the barrier, guns blazing. Four of Nero's Torpedoes were cut down in no time and either this cat was out his fucking mind or he'd be the savior of Chi-town. Mrs. Grayson went down and against all better judgment, McCoy rushed in. Nero made a clean sneak while Kirk and the dark-haired goose were distracted. McCoy rolled up his sleeves and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late.
"Spock..." She drew what was probably her last breath, "No matter what you choose to be, my son, you will always have a proud mother."
McCoy closed her eyes and sighed, "She's dead, Jim."
The starch seemed to go out of the spine of the dark-haired bird as he stared at the dead sister who McCoy decided must be his mother. Kirk tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but the gunsel shook him off roughly and looked ready to plant one on Kirk's beezer. "Spock, we have to keep going. Nero's still out there looking to make trouble, but we've tightened the screws on him by shutting this part of the plan down. We need to rendezvous with Selek. Can you show us where he is?"
Spock scrubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. "Selek is out in the harbor. He commandeered one of the harbor police yachts and is waiting for our word on the Narada's location." He shook his entire body like a dog shaking off water; when he was done he seemed to have gathered strength from somewhere deep inside. "Jim, you are indeed correct. We must stop Nero or there is an eighty-six percent chance that he will succeed in destroying the harbor facilities."
Kirk looked relieved that Spock had gotten his act back together. He strode over to where O'Riley was talking to someone on his police radio. After consulting with the flatfoot for a few minutes, he came back over to where Spock and McCoy were watching Amanda being loaded into a meat wagon.
"Sulu and Chekov took a spin over the harbor; they spotted an unmarked tub with five or six punks on deck carrying tommies. You know they can't be kosher. The can's tied up behind the Shedd Aquarium. Spock, get on the horn to Selek and tell him to pick us up. We'll all go together to put the smack-down on Nero."
Kirk took McCoy off to one side. "You stay with Kevin; he'll take good care of you. I'll meet you at the clubhouse when we've got Nero sewed up."
McCoy grabbed Kirk by the biceps and pulled him in close. "Jim, you be careful. I don't want to have to go back to Pike and Uhura and tell them you got yourself and Spock killed by flying off the handle over this jingle-brained gonif. Be smart out there."
Kirk looked at him, then away. He hesitated, then glancing at him from the corner of his eye he offered, "Bones, I've never really had anything or anyone I wanted to come back to until now. As long as you wait for me, I'll be jake." With that, he leaned forward and laid a quick buss on McCoy before turning back towards Spock and making a gesture toward the waterfront. The two men left at a jog, heading for the police tug that had laid up next to the seawall. McCoy swallowed past the lump in his throat and turned back towards O'Riley's heap. It was going to be a long wait, no matter how quickly the affair got settled.
McCoy was relegated to the position of observer once more; a hell of a job for a man of more actions than words. "C'mon ya jobbie, we can watch from Navy Pier. Jimmy and I, we've been through more'n a few tight spots and I don't know much about this Spock fella, but he seems like a right guy." They drove the few blocks down Randolph Street and up Lake Shore Drive to the Pier and McCoy hung on for dear life. When they arrived, the place was crawling with beatniks and the kind of riffraff that hangs around a college campus. McCoy had done his time in academia and could easily pick out the serious students from the jaspers and janes just there to get smoked on jujus. He caught a whiff of reefer as he leaned against the bumper of the button's boiler and wondered if the carrot-top copper would bother taking them in. "Here, Doc, take this." O'Riley shoved a heater into his hand. McCoy hadn't ever held anything bigger than a six-shooter and looked at the gat with a raise of the eyebrow. "Better safe than sorry, eh, boyo?"
McCoy growled in acknowledgement as he watched the scene. A seaplane marked with the number 1701 flew low over the pier and McCoy spotted the blond-headed kid hanging out one side with a tommie as big as he was in one hand. They flew over what McCoy assumed was Nero's ship and the pop and crackle of an exchange of lead for lead echoed across the water. In the distance, a blue and black marked water pistol came speeding up and more gunfire was exchanged. McCoy was on the edge of the pier now, as close as he could get without jumping in the water, and he paced back and forth, feeling about as useful as a cigarette lighter on a motorbike. One of Nero's patsies jumped from the Narada to the police tub and struggled with Kirk. He looked like he had the bulge on the kid, but Kirk, the lucky bastard, grabbed the loogan's pistol and filled him full of lead. There was one of Nero's men, at least, that ended up in the drink.
The Narada sped away from the docks and out into the lake and the police tub gave chase. Soon, all he could see were two specks in the water, one racing toward the other as though they were going to collide.
McCoy watched with his heart in his throat as three figures dove off the deck of the water pistol into the choppy waters of Lake Michigan. The tub kept going, heading straight for Nero's transport. When they did hit, the boats seemed to disintegrate in a tremendous explosion of water and sound that reverberated across the harbor. The three figures in the water floundered around, eventually managing to reach each other over the swells and latch onto one another. As they floated in the water, the sea plane came in from the north and landed in a wash of water that nearly swamped the Enterprise crew. The young navigator, Chekov, opened the door and threw a life preserver out to the three men and carefully pulled them in one by one. As Kirk was being pulled onboard, he pointed out a figure floating in the water another hundred feet or so off to one side. The sea plane revved her engines and trundled in that direction.
When they reached the figure Kirk leaned down and spoke to the goon for a minute. He stuck out a mitt, but got it slapped away and while everyone watched, the body slowly sank beneath the surface of the lake. Kirk shook his head at the others, then climbed into the back seat of the bird with the two other waterlogged gents.
McCoy and O'Riley watched as the plane got up to speed and took off into the sky, again. It circled around, waggled its wings at the Pier and then headed off for the airport.
"C'mon," O'Riley pointed at his black and white, walking over to the jalopy at a fast clip. "Let's get down to the clubhouse, we'll wait for them there so they can make a report to the chief. Time to wrap this all up. The big boss will be happy to know that Nero's taking a dirt nap and won't be bothering us anymore."
McCoy nodded in agreement. "I gotta report back to my client. She'll be glad to know her cat appears to have more than nine lives. Ballsy move with that tin can out there. If they'd timed that wrong, they'd all be singing to St. Peter, now." He slapped O'Riley on the back with a smirk and slid into the passenger seat of the flattie's heap, relaxing back against the seat with a sigh of relief that Jim appeared to have made it out in one piece, too.
They all spent the better part of the evening pushing paper and answering questions down at the station, a manky kind of a place with all the charm of a government building. Miraculously, they were let off scot-free when the pilot came down to the station with some kind of a message, presumably from Pike. When he finally saw Kirk, the kid had been beat six ways to Sunday and McCoy couldn't decide whether to smack him for the goofy stunt they pulled out on the lake or to kiss him. He did neither, but instead patched him up, "You pull a stunt like that again, kid, and I'll kill ya myself." O'Riley took them to a place called the K-7 Pub on the South side and to McCoy's surprise, the whiskey was decent and the company was better than he'd had in a long time.
"I was gonna pull him into the plane, Bones," Kirk shook his head in disbelief, "but he refused my help. I guess he'd rather drown than spend the rest of his life in the slammer, but I just don't get it."
"Perhaps his death is only fitting. Nero is responsible," Spock spoke as he nursed a mug of black coffee, "for unspeakable crimes; not only the death of my mother, but that of hundreds of innocent people. You, of all people, Mr. Kirk should know this."
"I, of all people?" Kirk was annoyed and he let it show, his eyes sharp and blue, even in the pub's dim light.
"Your father, Lieutenant George Kirk was stationed aboard the Arizona, was he not?" The cat meant well, but had the emotional range of a rock and McCoy couldn't begin to guess what the dame back in San Francisco saw in him. "During the attack on Pearl Harbor, he assisted *Captain Van Valkenburgh in defending the ship while the survivors were evacuated, is that correct."
Kirk took a swig of his beer and sighed, "Yeah. My mom was aboard that morning, delivering medical supplies. She was pregnant with me at the time and she went into premature labor when the first blast hit. If it hadn't been for him and *Sam Fuqua, I wouldn't be here today. Are you telling me Nero's responsible for the Arizona?"
"Indeed I am," Spock continued, "Afterwards, Captain Nero was captured by the Red Army during the conflict in Manchuria and has been plotting revenge against my family ever since."
"I'm sorry we couldn't stop him in time to save your mother, Spock; she was one classy dame." Kirk looked at him with sympathy despite his own discomfort with the topic.
McCoy looked between the two of them questioningly. "I thought your father was a captain in the army, Jim. What was he doing on the Arizona?"
"He was actually one of the first men recruited by Wild Bill Donavon for the OSS, before it even had a name. Dad actually was an army captain who had been working on breaking the Japanese radio cipher, code-named Magic. Donavon sent him and another operative out to Pearl to save time on relaying messages back to Washington and have someone who had the authority to act on them instantaneously. He was placed on the Arizona under an alias, so he wouldn't be connected with his office back in DC. Dad wasn't on duty in the radio room the morning of the attack and the other agent was killed, also, so we don't know if they intercepted the order to attack or, if they did, why they failed to act. I'm only sorry I never knew it was Nero who was responsible." Kirk looked glumly at the label he was peeling off the beer bottle. He swirled the dregs around for a few moments before raising his hand to the barkeep for another.
Spock looked up from his cup of joe with an intense look at Kirk. "I had not known that about your father. He was a hero in more ways than one and I think he, too, would have been proud of you, today."
Kirk sighed. "I dunno. I got here purely by accident. Pike says I could do a heck of a lot better than be the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest. He's talking full pardon for me and an appointment to the Academy. He wants a decision from me by the time we get back to San Francisco and I'm not sure I want to take him up on the appointment. Guess I can sleep on it."
"Unless you're planning on sleeping on the plane, sir, my orders were to bring the lot of you back to The City ASAP. Mr. Pike doesn't like to be kept waiting." The dark-haired pilot had been teetotaling the whole night, but his partner had been hitting the vodka pretty hard. McCoy narrowed his eyes at the big-eyed kid as the pilot moved his hand under the table. He was unsubtle in his affection for the navigator. They looked into each other's eyes, letting touches last too long, sitting too close together.
The kid had to have some stones to let his affection show so easily in public and considering the stunts he pulled over the lake, he was either tough as nails or he was completely section eight."I never did catch your name, son," This was the first time he'd said more than a passing thanks to the fly-boy that had been ferrying him across the country for the past couple days. Of all the flights he'd ever taken, those two had been the smoothest and if McCoy had his druthers, if ever he had to get into a plane again, it'd be this kid flying it and no one else.
"Hikaru Sulu," they shook hands properly and he could tell this egg was no daisy. His partner was just as hard as any of Nero's trouble boys had been and twice as keen by the way he slung lead. They gave him hope that what he felt for Kirk didn't make him less of a man and when a cool hand touched his under the table, he couldn't bear to pull it away. He was dizzy with the guy and was never gonna let go again, not for all the mazuma in the world.
They bid farewell to O'Riley, thanking him for all he'd done, and hopped in a hack to the airport. Spock took the copilot's seat while the Russki kid snoozed in the front row. They touched down in San Francisco in the small hours of the morning and with Kirk by his side, McCoy even managed to catch a few winks on the way. They were greeted on the tarmac by the same broad that hired him, and a grey old bird in a wheelchair that could have been none other than Pike. Christine ran up, past all the rough-looking mugs he'd come with, and threw her arms around him. "I never thought I'd see you again, McCoy." There was a jealous glance from Kirk and McCoy could do nothing but shrug. She stepped back and her eyes became grey and stormy, "Never do a thing like that again, McCoy. You got people that care about you; people that don't want to see you killed."
Kirk stepped up and threw an arm over McCoy’s shoulders, baring his teeth in Chapel’s direction. “She’s got that right, Bones.” Chapel looked unimpressed with Kirk’s posturing, tucking her hand into the open elbow on McCoy’s other side and giving the kid a level stare. It didn’t so much say ‘back off’ as ‘you’re not the only one.’ His smile turned sweeter and he winked at her, teasing an answering smile out of her that surprised McCoy. He didn’t think she’d cotton on to Kirk so quickly--he could be a charmer--but was also a bit blatant about it and Chrissie was once burned, twice shy. His musings were interrupted by Mr. Pike’s voice.
“Dr. McCoy, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Phil Boyce. If the golden child over here makes up his mind to accept an appointment to the Academy, would you be willing to accept one, too?” He reached a hand up to shake McCoy’s. “We could use a doctor of your caliber on the team. You’d be done with training and out helping people again in only three years. Worth a shot?”
McCoy thought about it, then looked over at Kirk. “Whattaya say, Jim?”
Kirk looked smug. “If you can do it in three, so can I. Let’s go home, Bones. This is something to celebrate. We’re going to be together for a while.” So saying, he tucked one hand into the crook of McCoy’s elbow, dragged Chapel around behind him and tucked her hand into his free arm and started walking toward the parking lot where McCoy’s flivver was parked.
McCoy looked back at the tableau around Pike: Sulu and Chekov were standing too close, as usual, absorbed in each other to the exclusion of all else; Spock and Uhura stood side-by-side, barely touching-only the fingertips-but so at ease with each other they looked like they didn’t even need to speak to communicate. It had been a tumultuous three days, he thought he’d fallen into and out of a rabbit hole in that time, but he’d come out with a new perspective on life and someone he could care for and call his own.
As they slid into the car, Kirk behind the steering wheel, he was told in a gleeful tone, “Buckle up, Bones!” Whatever was to come might be scary, he thought, but damn, he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth.
A/N: *These men were stationed aboard the Arizona in real life and both were awarded the Medal of Honor. Captain Van Valkenburgh died on the bridge defending his ship and Lt. Cdr. Fuqua gave the final order to abandon ship, directing damage control and the escape of the surviving personnel, leaving with the last boat.
If you're having problems slinging the lingo, try out Miskatonic, it's a right savvy kind of joint.