Chapter Text
The mirror in the ‘fresher was cracked at the top right corner, a long, sharp, jagged line through the glass. McCoy stared at it as he washed his hands, the motion soothing, hypnotic, and familiar.
Their little ship wasn’t exactly designed to house a sickbay much larger than the inside of his own quarters, but it was enough for the small crew that resided there. McCoy mainly just patched people up when something inevitably stupid happened and occasionally performed a larger operation as necessary. He replenished his supplies when they made their raids, typically on transport ships or other, less experienced pirates out in the black. They avoided ‘fleet ships like the plague and generally tried to keep under the radar.
McCoy didn’t really think of himself as a pirate by nature, a thief or a robber at heart. He was meant to help people, not hurt them. But Kirk was persuasive and there hadn’t appeared to be any better options following the divorce.
His one stipulation had been that he refused to injure or kill anyone unless in the name of self-defense. It was a flimsy rule, poorly worded by design to encompass a variety of situations he might find (and had found) himself in, but it still served its purpose: to make him feel as though he’d not totally turned his back on all the values he’d held before.
Some days, McCoy felt like the crack in the mirror: wrong, broken, out of place, and more liable to hurt than to heal.
And some days, he didn’t mind that so much.
* * *
Joanna’s eyes were almost the same hazel as his, with just a little more green from her mother ringing the outer edges of her irises. Her sweet face was filled with childlike joy, her tiny, pudgy fingers always struggling to wrap around one of his own. When she laughed, his heart swelled with a giddiness he’d never felt before.
Holding her in his arms and coaxing her to sleep quickly became the best part of his day. He couldn’t imagine life without this little person he loved more than anything, couldn’t fathom a better way to spend his time than with her.
He still remembered the last moment he’d seen Joanna, still happy, still smiling, still reaching out for him like he’d always be there.
But Jocelyn’s betrayal hadn’t been the cheating, hadn’t been the divorce papers, hadn’t even been the vicious rumors she’d spread about him following all of that.
It was the note on the counter of the empty house, his child stolen from him by the very woman who’d birthed her, the final nail in the coffin of their life together.
McCoy burned that piece of paper first, then set the house itself on fire. He’d watched it with the grim satisfaction of a man who had nothing left to lose before he was walking away with the bag he’d packed and nothing else but the clothes on his back.
* * *
“What’s this I hear about a Vulcan coming aboard, Jim?”
Kirk smiled, a quick flash of teeth before he glanced away again to stare out the viewer. McCoy could practically hear the gears spinning in his brain. Typical that he wouldn’t have bothered to come up with a good reason to bring an enemy of the Federation onto their ship before he’d actually done it.
“Jim.”
“Relax, Sawbones, it’ll be fun.”
“Bullshit. Our chances of getting caught just multiplied by about—”
“It’s Spock,” Kirk said simply.
McCoy felt himself freeze, horror slowly creeping through him, turning his blood to ice.
“The son of the diplomat?” He asked faintly.
“Yeah. Remember that Fed starbase that was sabotaged the other month?” Kirk's tone was full of glee, but McCoy could hardly see what could’ve been good about any of this. “That was him. He’s been going around, screwing up their shit, and we’ve been reaping the benefits. Why not return the favor for a few days?”
“What does he want?”
“Safe passage, I guess.”
“Sounds like a ruse.”
“Yeah, but imagine how much fun it’ll be.”
“Jim, we already have a giant target on our backs for bein’ pirates. You wanna add to that with a fucking Vulcan, of all things? This Vulcan?”
“Bones.” When Kirk turned back around, McCoy knew he’d already lost the argument. His eyes were alight with danger and excitement, meeting McCoy’s gaze with all the intensity of a star on the brink of supernova. “Trust me.”
Instead of feeling reassured, even more foreboding formed heavy in the pit of McCoy’s stomach. He pursed his lips with silent anger and gave up on trying to be the reasonable one.
* * *
A ring sat in the palm of his hand, glinting silver in the light of the setting sun. It was simple, made of a common metal, well-worn. If he’d been standing on the shore of an ocean, he would’ve thrown it to the waves.
But Iowa didn’t offer many options in the way of dramatically tossing small objects into large bodies of water. Best he could do was bury it somewhere and then drown his feelings in alcohol.
So he did.
Under some tree in some field, McCoy dug a barely passable hole, buried the damn thing, and left without a backwards glance.
So much for forever.
* * *
The ship shuddered as it entered the atmosphere of the barren planet below, speeding towards the rendezvous with the Vulcan where he was supposedly waiting for them.
McCoy gripped the guardrail in front of him so tightly his knuckles pressed white against the skin of his hands, trying to regain control of his breathing as his stomach was left somewhere back in orbit.
Kirk seemed perfectly relaxed where he sat in the Captain’s chair, although he shot an annoyed look at Sulu when the ship made a sudden violent jerk to the right after he briefly miscalculated the current speed and direction of one of the planet’s airstreams, which nearly sent McCoy flying across the bridge.
“Sorry, doc,” Sulu called, correcting their trajectory.
“Don’t throw up,” Kirk added helpfully. “And Chekov, I saw that. Quit playing games while you’re on the clock.”
Chekov closed out of whatever old school arcade game he’d been distracted with on his console, looking simultaneously guilty and annoyed.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, refocusing on the task at hand.
McCoy swallowed his bile and tried to think about anything but the hard, unforgiving ground they were hurtling towards.
* * *
"So, what do you say?" The kid asked, his stance where he leaned against the bar more than cocky enough to back up his words. "It'd be mutually beneficial and probably a hell of a lot more interesting than whatever you're doing here."
McCoy was drunk, but not that drunk.
The thought of it tickled him, though. Joining this idiot and his crew. Being a pirate. Flipping the bird to the Federation. Leaving everything behind.
Not that there was much of anything to leave behind to begin with. The writing had been on the wall a long time ago, if he'd only had the guts to see it then.
"I'm just a country doctor, kid," he slurred in response, spilling his drink when he tried to gesture vaguely with the hand holding it. "Ya don't need an old sawbones like me on your ship."
Kirk laughed, the sound full of delight. He snatched the glass away from McCoy and finished the whisky in it, grinning when McCoy let out a sound of protest.
"At least see the ship before you say no."
"I have avi—avio—” McCoy stuttered, struggling to form the word with his heavy, alcohol-laden tongue. "Aviophobia."
Kirk shrugged. "So? You'll get over that eventually."
"No, I won't."
"Who cares? Do it anyway."
McCoy eyed him with suspicion. "You aways this pushy with people you've just met?"
"Pushier, usually."
McCoy sighed and glanced forlornly at the empty glass now sitting on the counter. "Great."
* * *
“Mr. Spock!” Kirk said cheerfully the moment the shuttle bay doors opened to reveal a cloaked, shadowy figure standing there motionless. “We finally meet.”
McCoy let his hand rest on the phaser at his hip, trepidation over the whole situation only making him more tense. Outside, the breeze picked up the loose dirt and created small dust devils that swirled against the backdrop of the blood-red sun as it set on the horizon, framing the Vulcan like a bad omen.
Uhura stepped forward to whisper something McCoy didn’t catch into Kirk's ear. He nodded and lifted his hand, splitting the middle finger from the ring finger into a V in what looked to be a greeting of some sort. McCoy didn’t bother trying to imitate him, nor did anyone else.
“Na'shaya, katravahsu. I’m a big fan of your work.”
There was no way for McCoy to tell if Kirk had fumbled the pronunciation of whatever he’d said, but he’d sounded confident and Uhura nodded approvingly, so it must’ve been good enough.
The dark figure moved then, stepping onto the ship, now just feet away, and McCoy gripped the hilt of his phaser a little more tightly.
“Though I appreciate the gesture, there is no need for formalities, Captain Kirk.” The Vulcan’s voice was deep and smooth. It made McCoy uncomfortable.
“Didn’t think so. This is my comms officer, Nyota Uhura, my pilot, Hikaru Sulu, my navigator, Pavel Chekov, and my engineer, Montgomery Scott,” Kirk said, gesturing to each person in turn.
They all nodded at the Vulcan when Kirk spoke their names, serious looks on their faces. It was hardly serious enough for the obvious security threat they were just letting waltz into their shuttle bay, in McCoy’s opinion.
“And my personal favorite, Leonard McCoy.” Kirk nudged him in the ribs with a pointy elbow and McCoy scowled, not taking his gaze off the Vulcan for a moment.
A pale hand snuck out from under the robes and quick as lightning, the hood was thrown away from his face to reveal the pointy-eared bastard himself, eyebrows arched, hair shaggy and unkempt, dark eyes unreadable and pinned to McCoy.
“And what is his function aboard your ship?” He asked condescendingly.
“I’m a doctor, hobgoblin,” McCoy hissed.
“Sawbones, play nice,” Kirk said, turning back to Spock with something almost apologetic in his tone, even though his eyes held only amusement. “Sorry about him. He’s just grumpy ‘cause he’s tired of getting shot at.”
“Well, what’s your damn function aboard this ship? I thought you were too busy proving to the universe that you’re different from your Vulcan daddy," McCoy bit out, letting the venom he felt drip from every word.
Spock’s gaze sharpened to something borderline malevolent as he stared at him. “It is none of your business,” he said coldly.
"I don't believe for a second you just want safe—”
“McCoy,” Kirk interrupted, sharp and authoritative. “That’s enough.”
With great reluctance, he managed to shut his mouth. But he didn’t try to stop the daggers he glared at the Vulcan, filled as he was with distrust and unease towards him.
“Mr. Spock, if you’ll follow me.”
* * *
McCoy’s arm was growing numb with pins and needles, but he was too tired, or perhaps too lazy, to care. He left it folded under his head like a makeshift pillow, fidgeting with the thin chain around his neck with the other hand.
His quarters were dimmed and it was late. He should’ve been able to sleep, but restless thoughts of their new passenger made it feel far out of reach.
McCoy wasn’t biased against Vulcans as a rule. It was an unpopular opinion, particularly in Federation space, that Vulcans weren’t their enemies. Not their true enemies, anyway. McCoy was far more suspicious of the UFP itself, their promises and mottos and pretenses.
No, it was Spock he could admit to himself he was biased against. His reputation preceded him in every way. A traitor to his kind, they said. Rumors of him killing his own father abounded, of his mother rejecting him and demanding he never returned to their planet, and as a result, Spock’s fury, spent against the Feds and anyone who crossed him.
If even half of what McCoy had heard was true, he was dangerous at best. At worst, it was practically suicidal to be anywhere near him. At this very moment, he could’ve been sneaking around the ship, sabotaging whatever he found for his own amusement or out of revenge if he felt they’d wronged him somehow.
Spock had to be insane. It was the only thing that really made sense to McCoy, unless everything about him had been fabricated for some reason, but he couldn’t see that being the case.
Either way, McCoy’s guard was fully up. Just because Kirk didn’t care whether they all died because of the Vulcan’s—
There was a knock at the door, short and insistent.
In the next moment, McCoy had swiped his knife from the bedside table and was on his feet, eyeing it warily.
“Who’s there?” He called, forcing his voice to come out calm and steady.
There was a long moment of silence, fear and uncertainty making his heart thump in his chest as he waited. Images of Spock coming to kill him out of spite flashed through his mind, his blood splattering against the bulkhead as he tried in vain to defend himself against the Vulcan’s strength, the look in dark brown eyes victorious and arrogant while he choked him out.
Then, “It’s just me, Bones. Put your damn knife away.”
McCoy practically sagged in relief and let out the breath he’d been holding, retracting the switchblade before he tucked it into the pocket of his pants.
“Open door,” he ordered and it swished aside to reveal his night owl friend, a bottle of something alcoholic and two glasses carefully balanced in his arms.
Kirk smirked and immediately made himself at home in McCoy’s quarters, shoving the things he'd brought at McCoy and flopping backwards onto his bed.
"Why's your mattress so much more comfortable than mine?" He complained. "It's like, way softer."
McCoy rolled his eyes and set the glasses and the bottle on the small table, uncorking it with a satisfying pop.
"You barely sleep anyway," McCoy pointed out.
"Yeah, but I still like to lie down sometimes. Helps me think."
"What is this, brandy?" McCoy took a whiff of the strong aroma floating from the open bottle, blinking in surprise at the unfamiliar bouquet.
"Try it," Kirk encouraged.
"You didn't poison it, right?"
He laughed. "No, not today."
"Today, my ass," McCoy muttered as he poured. The liquid was dark red, a bit like wine, but with a slightly thicker consistency. He swirled it in the glass for a moment as he examined it some more, then took a small, quick swallow.
"Well? Is it any good?"
"Ooh, Lordy. It is," he said appreciatively.
The bed creaked behind him and then Kirk was at his side, grabbing the bottle and the empty glass to try for himself.
"Where'd you get it?" McCoy asked, taking another, larger sip and letting it sit on his tongue for a moment longer before swallowing.
"Spock, actually. Some Vulcan thing, I guess," Kirk said nonchalantly, taking a sip of his own.
McCoy choked.
"What? You stole it from him?" He got out hoarsely, coughing and immediately shoving the glass as far away from himself as possible.
"No, he gave it to me. Wow, this is good." Kirk held the glass up, studying the liquid in the light.
"That's even worse, Jim! What if he poisoned it?"
"Well, you're a doctor. Why don't you just scan it?"
McCoy internally kicked himself for his lack of forethought. Kirk was right, he should've checked it before trusting the very questionable word of his captain or the Vulcan who’d given it to him.
A preliminary pass of his tricorder revealed nothing out of the ordinary, though the device didn't recognize all of its contents. Despite that, it detected no elements of anything potentially harmful to humans. By the time McCoy put away the device, Kirk was already well on his way to finishing his second helping of it, back to lounging on McCoy's bed.
"What do you have against Spock, anyway? It's not like he's ever done anything to you personally," Kirk said with an appraising, slightly tipsy air about him as he watched McCoy.
"I dunno, Jim, maybe it's the stories we hear about him committing patricide that have me so on edge," he replied sardonically, sitting at the table. "Or maybe it's the one about him stealing a Fed shuttle, setting it on autopilot, and rigging it to explode right next to one of their major shield generators. Or the one where he escaped Fed custody by killing a bunch of people and blowing up some more shit. Or hey, how about—”
"Alright, alright. I think I get the idea," Kirk interjected, waving an irritated hand about. "He's a big, bad villain and you don't approve."
McCoy shrugged. "Not necessarily. It's the fact that he's just as likely to turn that behavior on us as he is to do it to someone else."
Kirk hummed. "Maybe. I don't think he will, though."
"Why?"
"You gonna finish that?" He asked instead, nodding at the glass McCoy had left untouched since his minor panic attack over the possibility of dying because of it.
"Well, you seem fine. I guess I will."
"Pass me the bottle then, will you?"
When McCoy did, Kirk finished his thought as he poured again with, "Doesn't seem like the cold-blooded killer type. Some of the stories are probably overexaggerated, honestly."
"Of course. But every rumor comes from somewhere."
"Sure," Kirk agreed. "And I do admire him for the shit I know he's actually done."
"Naturally. You worship chaos."
Kirk let out a hiccup that turned into a giggle. "Yeah, I do."
McCoy shook his head, almost feeling fond, and reached for his glass again.
* * *
Kirk had apparently returned to his own quarters after their late night conversation and drinking session, but McCoy wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't just passed out somewhere in the hallways. Regardless, he seemed downright chipper when he greeted McCoy on his way to the bridge.
McCoy chose not to join him, heading for the dining area to get some food before hiding out in his quarters or the sickbay again. Tired, hungover, and lost in his thoughts, he entirely missed the fact that someone was already there until it was too late to turn back without being seen.
Spock’s eyes flicked upwards to meet his own, just as dark and dangerous as the day before, hypnotizing in the way a snake’s were before it struck. McCoy suppressed the shiver that threatened to run through his whole body and met the Vulcan’s gaze stubbornly.
“Doctor McCoy,” Spock intoned. McCoy failed to keep the hairs on the back of his neck from standing on end at the sound of his voice, but whether from fear or anticipation of some sort, he couldn’t tell.