Title: Working Title: Enterprise, Part One
Rating: PG-13, for some fake gore, sexual hints, and the boys' dirty mouths.
Pairing/Character(s): Kirk/McCoy, mentions of Chekov/Sulu and Spock/Uhura.
Word Count: ~30,000
Warnings/Spoilers: AU like nobody's business.
Disclaimer: I don't have any claim over the Star Trek universe or characters therein. I also don't own any of the various pop culture items/companies/movies mentioned. I'm not making any money off of this. I don't own the sandbox, I just like playing with my Tonka trunks in it every one in awhile.
Summary: '“Kirk, this here is the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy. He’ll be playing the medic, Bones.” McCoy slips off his shades, pulls down his hood, and flashes a wide, sarcastic grin. Jim doesn’t realize it then, but that’s the exact moment his life goes to shit.'
Author's Note(s): 1. Awesome beta work done by the wonderful
roseandheather. 2. Thanks to all of the amazing individuals who originally commented when this was posted on the Kink Meme. You guys rock my socks off! 3. Response to this prompt on the Kink Meme: 'James T. Kirk is a very successful young actor who primarily stars in high box-office earning action movies.
He's currently filming his newest project, but the only problem is that he and the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy, have so much sizzling chemistry that it completely overshadows any chemistry he has with the female lead, Nyota Uhura.
The various lots of Enterprise Studios are as familiar to Jim as his own right hand. Well, perhaps that’s not a fitting enough simile. He often finds new scars leaving white lines across his palms from various accidental injuries or the occasional stunt mishap. It would be more fitting to say that the layout of Enterprise Studios are as familiar to him as the sensation of orgasm. He smirks dirtily to himself, picking up his pace a little and shoving his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. Oh yes, he is very familiar with orgasms.
The point of the simile is that he’s a common fixture of the Enterprise lots, and he’s well-schooled in the various uses and hideouts of each and every one. He knows how to work the stunt equipment and strobe lights in DNI-9016, is privy to all of the contents of the storage lot STL-8054, and can navigate his way through the maze of fake tanks and trenches in NCC-1701, the lot generally designated for any and all war takes. Of course, the Enterprise is always changing to accommodate the various movies taking place on their sets, so there has been more than one time that Jim has accidentally stumbled onto the set of a romantic comedy or horror movie thinking it would be empty (the latter had ended up with his outfit getting splattered in fake intestines, causing the wardrobe people to bitch for a month despite Jim’s numerous apologies). He’s also come across some frankly awesome things, which is why he now gets free whiskey from Scotty the technical director’s still by threatening to reveal its location to one of the producers. Hey, he’s an actor, not a saint, and sometimes you need some hard liquor after a particularly draining day (though he learned the hard way to hold off until after they’d wrapped for the day—one sip of the stuff and he can’t see straight).
Still, one feature of the studio that never changes despite all of the equipment being moved in and out is a small corner at the southeast end. The whole studio is surrounded by a chain link fence, and the small corner is no exception, allowing a diamond-shaped view of the world beyond the set. This world is composed of a long, parched field that continues on endlessly, not a mountain rearing up or a building cluttering the view. It’s California scrub, not Iowa wheat fields, but it’s as good a place as any when he’s looking for somewhere to relax and face his demons. There’s also a small block of concrete, cemented into the ground permanently; at one time it was probably a step for a trailer parked beside it but now it stands alone forlornly, and it makes for a perfect stoop to sit on. It’s Jim’s favorite place on the set, where he often retreats when things become unreal and he asks himself the the fuck he’s doing here, a fuck-up from Iowa turned world-famous movie star.
Today, however, he’s not looking for any soul-baring moments – he just needs a place to… relax. Yeah, relax. Most definitely not to hide out from Gaila of hair and make-up, who has some sort of obsession with smearing make-up on his face that results in an outbreak of hives or causes his tongue to swell up. It’s happened twice before, and she’s just gotten in a new supply of cover-up and body make-up pencils and she has a certain gleam in her eye that bodes ill for the fate of Jim’s skin and his ability to breathe. But he is most definitely not hiding out. He is James T. Kirk, actor extraordinaire, and he does not hide from women with flaming orange hair and unhealthy fascination for seeing him with hives. He shivers and quickens his pace, but he most certainly does not duck behind one of the various trailers when he sees a flash of vibrant orange hair to his left. Does not. Nor does he take off at a jog when the person in question frowns and turns away, muttering to herself and twirling a make-up pencil contemplatively. Not at all.
He slows down to a walk as he nears the edge of the set, knowing that it’s secluded and blocked from view by a few strategically placed, unoccupied trailers and a large dumpster. Not that he cares if anybody finds him, of course, but it’s nice to have some privacy every once in a while. Enterprise is a wonderful movie-maker, but the crew has no sense of personal space. It’s kind of lost to a group of people who have to get up in somebody’s face and apply make-up anyway, or position their bodies for a certain scene, or fuss with the lapels of their costume so they rest just so. Privacy is hard to come by, and if it means he gets to avoid Gaila for a good half an hour, well, all the better.
Jim rounds the large green dumpster with a spring in his step, assured in the knowledge that he is home free, at least for a little while. The sound of his sandals (very manly and very expensive, thank you very much) slapping against the pavement is the only noise he hears as he revels in his victory. And reveling in his victory does not involve ‘swinging his hips and strutting like a goddamn peacock,’ no matter what Uhura might say. He pouts for a second at the memory and subtly checks to make sure his hips aren’t swinging more than usual (and they aren’t, take that!) before quickly brightening as his stoop comes into view.
This lasts for the whole three seconds it takes for his brain to acknowledge that someone is sitting on the stoop. It then quickly malfunctions because this doesn’t fit into the Rules of the Universe, as written by Jim Kirk. These rules go something like this: sex is always awesome, there isn’t a single thing of value left in Iowa, and the stoop is forever to be empty unless occupied by one James T. Kirk. Except the last one has been grossly violated, because there is a person—a man, by the looks of it—sitting curled up on the stoop, arms wrapped around his folded legs and chin resting on his kneecaps. He either hasn’t heard Jim’s approach (unlikely, with the way his sandals slap the ground) or is just refusing to acknowledge him in hopes Jim will lose interest and continue on. What he doesn’t count on is Jim’s possessiveness over things he considers his own, mainly the stoop the man is sitting on. Jim walks the last few feet, stomping to emphasize his annoyance, and stops in front of the man, folding his arms across his chest stubbornly.
“That’s my spot.” He says, voice holding just a bit of a whine. He’s well aware of the fact he sounds like a petulant child and he doesn’t really care. Jim eyes the man wearily, before deciding he looks homeless. The man is wearing a pair of ratty old denim shorts, cut off asymmetrically at the knees in a way that indicates that they were once jeans, and a stained dark gray sweatshirt hoodie. He’s pulled the hood up over his head and slipped on a pair of cheap-looking sunglasses, so the only part of his face visible is his jaw, covered in scruffy five o’clock shadow, and a set of rather impressive eyebrows. Which are currently twitching up towards his unseen hairline as he regards Jim.
“…I don’t see your name on it.” He finally says, somehow managing to convey his inability to believe Jim’s childish behavior in one sentence. He also spits out ‘name’ in the same way one might utter a swear word, and the whole sentence is layered in the very tone of ‘fuck off.’ It’s a lot to convey without actually saying anything. Jim might be impressed except he’s the one that’s being insulted here.
He huffs grumpily and shoves his aviators (much cooler than this guy’s dollar store shades) up into his hair—wincing, because Gaila just got done with that and now she’s going to kill him—so he can squint at the man in a way that he hopes says ‘well, fuck you and fuck your mother.’ Judging by the man’s expression, it falls short of its target and probably only makes him appear constipated. “Well, of course not.” Jim grumbles, kicking at a rock. “That would be called vandalism and Pike would kick my ass, even if it’s a stupid stoop and nobody cares.” He would, too. And if Jim pointed this out, he’d get another lecture about it not being the act itself, but the principle of the act. Which basically means this: if Pike caught him messing around with a candy cigarette, he’d chew him out so Jim didn’t somehow end up doing cocaine and ruining his career. It’s happened before.
The man just snorts and unfolds his legs, reclining back and resting his weight on his arms. “Well, if you don’t care, why are you bugging me?” He asks logically. Jim decisively hates logic. It reminds him of Spock, whose job he still doesn’t know the technical name for but it involves making sure all films are historically accurate and all stunts could actually take place. Which Jim hates because it means he takes out all of the cooler jokes because they aren’t ‘era-appropriate’ and blacklists many explosions because ‘an explosion of such a size isn’t logically possible without obtaining a nuclear bomb, something many governments, including our own, frown upon.’
He frowns at the man, who has the nerve to look amused at Jim’s frustration. “Because it does matter to me. It just does.” Jim insists, illogically (take that, Spock! That’s for the Viagra joke!). The man’s lips twitch and he nods sagely, before turning his attention towards the brush beyond the chain link fence. Jim, not to be outdone, huffs and turns his head away so he can scowl at the dumpster, determined not to be the first one who breaks and talks. There’s a minute of silence (during which Jim fidgets and the man… doesn’t) before he finally can’t take it anymore.
“Well?” he grates out, glaring at the stranger. The stranger turns his head to look at him, cocking an eyebrow, and damn. His face is mostly concealed by the sunglasses and the hood, but the eyebrow is hot and the man has potential. Jim knows this well; he’s number two on People’s Sexiest Men Alive list for a reason (and fuck you anyway, Matt Damon).
“Well what?” Potentially Sexy asks innocently. Jim gesticulates wildly.
“Aren’t you gonna move?!” He hisses, remembering to keep his voice down in case anyone’s nearby. They might come running and then everybody would know about the stoop, not just the homeless model sitting on it currently.
Said model just tilts his head considerately, before shrugging. “No.”
Jim gapes, used to getting his way. “No?!”
“No.” The man says agreeably, digging out novel from the pouch at the front of his hoodie and cracking it open, obviously having lost interest in Jim. Jim doesn’t know what surprises him more—the denial or the fact he’s being ignored. It’s not a familiar emotion, hasn’t been since he struck puberty.
“Do you know who I am?” He asks, placing his hands on his hips and scowling full force now.
“A brattish manchild with emotional attachment issues when it comes to inanimate objects?” He guesses, not looking up from his book. There’s a pause before he amends himself. “Oh, excuse me, that’s what you are, not who. My mistake. Please carry on.” The man waves his hand dismissively, eyes not leaving the page.
“I’m James T. Kirk.” He snaps authoritatively, waiting for the man to jump to attention. He remains slouched over his book. Jim doesn’t sulk. Not at all.
“And…?” He inquires, distracted, frowning at an apparently interesting portion of his book.
Before Jim can launch into a rant about all the reasons his being James T. Kirk is important and deserves some recognition (mainly in the act of the man moving his ass off his stoop), there’s a shrill whistle from behind him. It saves him from acting more irritating and ass-like than usual, but it also leaves a ringing in his ears and deafens pretty much every dog in the area. If there are any dogs in the area, that is. Jim winces and sets his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable.
“Kirk!” There it is. The man on the stoop might be good at conveying things in a few sentences, but Pike is the king of taking one word and making it sound like a threat and a cuss all wrapped into one. He turns around slowly and is met with one very angry Christopher Pike. The thing about Pike is that, despite being as irritating as Kirk on some days, he’s a legend. He’s the best director Enterprise has ever seen, and was a noteworthy actor in his day. His prowess when it comes to movie-making and hard-nosed practices have earned him the joking nickname of ‘Captain,’ often muttered behind his back after a stressful day of shooting. All of the movies he directs are certain to, if not become box office gold, at least rake in a few Academy Awards. The man takes movies and makes them into an art form. Spielberg has nothing on Christopher Pike. He’s the god of movies. However, this does not mean Pike practices any heavenly virtues, and the main one lacking is patience. Especially when it comes to Jim. When it comes to Jim, he’s more than ready to exert some sadistic torture methods.
“Where the hell have you been?!” he fumes, somehow managing to look dignified even though Jim can see a vein pounding at his temple. Shit, he’s really pissed. “You were supposed to be finished with hair and make-up ten minutes ago and on your way to wardrobe.”
Jim does what he does best (besides acting, that is): avoid awkward questions by being a smartass. “See, that didn’t make sense to me though,” he begins, wearily eyeing the way Pike’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I mean, why do hair first when it’s going to get messed up when I pull a shirt over?”
“Because, Kirk,” Pike begins, somehow restraining himself from shouting. “The costume today is a button-up. There’s nothing to pull over your head.” Jim opens his mouth, scrambling for a retort, and Pike just sighs and glares. “Save it, Kirk. Just get your ass over to Gaila.”
He turns and notices the stranger, who had been silent the whole time, reading his book. Instead of chewing out the homeless guy as Jim expect him to, he grins wanly when the man finally looks up. “Ah, I see you’ve had the questionable fortune of meeting Kirk.”
The man snorts, (finally) pulling himself off the stoop and into a standing position. “We didn’t exchange pleasantries.”
Pike rolls his eyes. “How am I not surprised.” He gestures Jim over. Jim’s about to make some smartass comment about being unable to ‘get his ass over to Gaila’ while also being beckoned over to Pike when the man introduces them.
“Kirk, this here is the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy. He’ll be playing the medic, Bones.” McCoy slips off his shades, pulls down his hood, and flashes a wide, sarcastic grin. Jim doesn’t realize it then, but that’s the exact moment his life goes to shit.
*************************
The scoop on Leonard McCoy, as gathered from various, highly trusted information outposts (namely Google) goes something like this: the man’s a divorcee with a kid to boot, he’s pulled in one or two Oscars and a surprising number of indie film festival awards, and he’s ranked lucky number thirteen on People’s Sexiest Men Alive list (this is from Jim’s own memory banks—he knows that list intimately). Apparently, he was discovered in New York, and the only reason he began acting as a bit part in some off-Broadway show was because he had nothing else to turn to. He was just dicking around with the idea of acting to pull in some heavily-needed cash. Then he got cast as Mark (and that made Jim snort the iced tea he’d been drinking—it was hard to picture the stoop-perching grouch as a wide-eyed bohemian filmmaker with an affinity for scarves) in another off-Broadway production of Rent. Apparently he’d been fantastic, because from there his career had skyrocketed to the point Enterprise picked him up as one of their golden boys.
Truth is, McCoy could be as famous as Jim if he bothered to take parts in the well-known blockbusters that were thrown his way. But apparently McCoy only takes roles he deems important and thought-provoking, parts in lesser-known indie films that are fantastic but somehow never flounder their way to the mainstream audience. Still, he’s done enough well-known movies to make him a recognizable face in the Hollywood elite, if an enigmatic one. Jim manages to find out he was an old country doctor before he hit stardom (which made his casting as a World War Two medic, as Spock would say, logical) but the reason he left the medical career to bum it in New York, the same reason why his marriage fell apart, is shrouded in mystery.
Jim frowns at his laptop, palming his Lipton iced tea, and exits out of the tabloid website. He tips back on his chair and drums his fingers on the wood-substitute table that takes up one corner of his terribly cramped trailer (Enterprise throws money by the barrels to purchase era-appropriate fabrics for their costumes, shells out the big bucks so people like Spock can scrutinize the film for logical inconsistencies, and pays fortunes to get their hands on realistic fake tanks. But when it comes to the quality of trailers, they refuse to drop a few extra benjamins for novelties like real wood). It’s really rather shocking that he and McCoy haven’t met before, seeing as McCoy’s one of the Enterprise’s other favorites. When they can get him to pick up the parts they throw his way, that is.
Well, he’s met him now, and Jim is fully set on learning more about the guy. He’s going to need some sort of project to get him through the more mindless days of simple line-reading while the war set is being constructed on lot NCC-1701. And McCoy intrigues him, if only because the bastard refused to get up off his stoop. It’s not often people say no to James T. Kirk, and when they do, they usually end up seeing a lot more of him than they might want to.
*************************
Jim doesn’t see much of McCoy the next few days, which is expected but still annoying. He’s either filming scenes with Uhura, the female lead (and another one of those few people who find it within themselves to deny Jim what he wants, and who still hasn’t told him her first name. He could look it up on Google, but that just ruins the fun) or running lines with her. The real clusterfuck about Enterprise’s sense of movie-making is this: they like to make some of their sets before filming begins and some while it’s in the process. He’s not sure the logic behind this, if it saves them money or if it’s so one movie can finish up on the other set without putting a different movie on hold until the space becomes available, but that’s what happens and Jim’s learned to accept it. So while the little white picket fence house Jim’s character lives in before and after the war is all ready to go, as is the more slummy area Uhura’s character resides in, the war set is on hold until Scotty and his red-shirted technical assistants take out all of the last movie’s synchronized fake explosions and replace them with a new explosion network for War Dove. Jim had always figured the king of red tape would be the legal business, but since he’s started his cinematic career he’s learned the movie-making business makes it a fucking art form.
So Jim runs lines with Uhura or films portions on the ready-made sets and doesn’t see anything of McCoy, who he figures is probably off somewhere doing the same with Chekov. Chekov is a Russian actor with an accent to match his origin, and while he can’t master the subtle differences between the pronunciation of ‘v’ and ‘w’ and pass as an American, he can somehow manage to fake a German accent seamlessly. This lands him the role of an injured German private who McCoy, the medic, refuses to leave behind after discovering him alive and left to die on a battlefield. Jim has long given up on making sense of all the quirks of actors and directors and production crews, and has just learned to go with it.
*************************
He finally sees McCoy again a week after their initial meeting. He’s sitting in one of the customary sling back chairs with the name of his character stitched into the fabric, in the shade of a trailer Jim figures must be his own. Jim’s a master of body language from many grueling acting classes, but it doesn’t take an expert to come to the conclusion McCoy’s having a piss poor day. He’s wearing the same hoodie he had on the day they met, hood up once more. He’s slouched forward kind of pathetically and his head’s resting in his hands, palms over his eyes and the tips of his fingers rubbing furiously at his temples in a way Jim recognizes as an attempt to relieve the Mother of All Migraines. And because Jim isn’t a heartless bastard, he pulls up one of the sling backs himself (Chekov’s, apparently, if the ridiculously German name is to be believed) and plops down beside him.
McCoy removes his hands long enough to glance over and see who’s sidled up to him, straightening and turning his head to blink blearily at Jim. He must recognize him, because a second later his face falls into a scowl and Jim smiles comically wide. McCoy goes back to his slouch.
“What the fuck do you want?” It comes out muffled by his hands, and Jim’s about to reply when it hits him.
“What’s with the Southern accent?” He asks before his brain catches up. McCoy drags his hands down far enough so that he can raise his eyebrows at Jim.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” There’s a resigned tone in his voice, like a horse who’s just too damn tired to flick its tail at a pesky mosquito that’s landed on its rump. Jim counts this as a victory.
“Do you?” He shoots back, and McCoy snorts, which makes Jim grin in a pleased manner. “So, the accent…?”
“I’m from Georgia, originally.” He offers, sounding only slightly reluctant. Jim nods as if he didn’t already know that from skimming through articles on Google and McCoy’s wikipedia page.
“You didn’t have an accent when we met.” He points out. McCoy gives him a look, one that Jim can tell is probably reserved for misbehaving children and incompetent personal assistants. It’s kind of hot, really. His brain catalogs the look away for future use.
“Ever heard of getting into character?” He asks slowly. The man really can convey a lot in his tone. Right now he’s telling Jim he has an outstandingly low opinion of Jim’s intelligence level. Jim just grins and hums a little, foregoing thinking up a comeback to watch one of Scotty’s minions stagger by carrying some sort of technical gizmo. He bounces his knee a couple of times and waits.
McCoy breaks first, this time. “Why are youhere?” He grinds out, throwing in a glare for good measure. Lesser men might crumble under it, but Jim’s not turned off in the slightest.
He’s also not one for beating around the bush. “Because I’m gonna be your friend.” He says simply, as if it’s as much a fact as the sky being blue or that a punch to the gut hurts. “And friends help friends when they’re having a bad day. You look like shit, McCoy.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes, straightening in his chair resting his hands in his lap before eying Jim curiously. “And here all of the tabloids say you’re ever so charming.” He grumbles sarcastically. “The only way you could help me, kid, is if you have some hard liquor hidden away somewhere on this godawful set.”
Jim smirks and launches himself out of his—er, Chekov’s—chair, turning to a slightly startled McCoy. “Well, come on then.” He thrusts out a hand and McCoy looks doubtful, but in the end he takes it and lets Jim pull him up, so that’s all that really matters.
*************************
“We’re lost.” Jim’s surprised it’s taken McCoy this long to lose his patience. He subtly pulls out his iPhone and checks the time. Twenty-eight minutes since they started off. Not bad. Anyone else Jim pulls into his harebrained schemes are usually complaining within the first few minutes. Of course, McCoy had been grumbling about anything from the sky looking like rain to the color of Jim’s shoes, but Jim’s learning this is a constant and he hasn’t raised his voice enough to make it sound like it’s directed at Jim personally. So it doesn’t really count.
“We are not lost.” Jim insists cheerfully, frowning at pale blue Victorian ball gown being worn by a dummy as he tries to get his bearings. “They’ve just moved things around since the last time I’ve been here, is all.”
McCoy huffs and folds his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes towards the lofty ceiling of the storage building. Jim’s dragged him into the underbelly of STL-8054, the lot mainly used for the storage of reusable props, costumes, and what have you. It also holds Scotty’s infamous still and a few already prepared bottles, hidden behind a fake marble statue of a witch in a cluster of other such fake statues, ranging from gargoyles to angels and everything in between. It’s the most constant portion of the huge storage building, because people just drop the statues at the edges and never bother to venture further. This makes it the least likely place for the still to be discovered.
While the surrounding location of the still never changes, the storage building at large does, and apparently a Victorian movie just wrapped and they decided to move around a few things in order to accommodate the leftover props. It’s screwed up Jim’s usual path towards the still, because he’s pretty sure a 1900’s carnival booth used to take up residence in the space the Victorian dress now occupies. He hazards a guess and turns right like he would if it was the carnival booth. McCoy lets out a loud groan but follows him anyway.
“So in other words, we’re lost.” He deadpans. Jim rolls his eyes and scrutinizes a rather elaborate vanity set and hopes it took the place of a pair of trashcans, turning left as he does so.
“No, I’m just not completely sure I know where I’m going.” Jim says simply, trying to put more confidence into his step while passing the mast of a pirate ship. McCoy is unimpressed.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the dictionary definition of ‘lost,’ Jim.” He still follows him through a mass of fake rain forest, ducking under the plastic leaves and shoving aside felt vines.
“Now, where’s your sense of adventure, McCoy?” Jim calls back, and grins (most definitely not in relief) when he recognizes a Chinese painting of a dragon and takes a more confident left turn.
“Left it in an airport in Georgia. Baggage claim still hasn’t gotten back to me.” He drawls, and Jim lets out an unexpected bark of laughter because he didn’t realize McCoy could be funny.
A few steps later and the cluster of statues comes into view, and Jim quickens his pace, McCoy following as he comes up behind the witch statue. “Ah, here we are!” Jim says enthusiastically, grabbing a bottle of the whiskey sitting next to the still. He unscrews the top and hands it over to McCoy, who takes a cautious whiff before handing it back. “Told you we weren’t lost.”
“Miraculously.” McCoy grumbles under his breath while Jim grabs two plastic cups from a stack besides the still. He wanders over to a marble bench imposter and flops down. Jim ignores him as he pours some of the whiskey into the two cups before joining McCoy on the bench.
“Is this Scotty’s?” The man asks, picking up his cup and staring at the whiskey as if it might grow legs and start to tap dance. “I heard he had a still lurking around here.”
“Yup, it’s his alright. Came across it a year back and he lets me have some whenever I want so I don’t go running to Pike.” He takes a long swig of his cup and coughs at the unexpected burn and the way the world suddenly turns black. Jim knows that alcohol generally incapacitates the basic motor skills and causes a speech impediment, but Scotty’s brew is the only liquor he’s come across that actually causes momentary blindness. It should worry him, but the world usually comes back into focus a few seconds later so Jim isn’t really bothered. “Oh my gosh, I can’t see.” This does not stop him from whining dramatically to McCoy, of course, who snorts and mutters something about ‘youth’ and ‘pretty boy actors who can’t hold their liquor.’ He then takes a tentative sip and Jim smirks as he sputters.
“Jesus, what the hell is in this shit?” Jim’s vision comes back online in time to see McCoy cough, cheeks flushed as he slams the cup back on the bench. Jim, rather unhelpfully, slaps sloppily at his back.
“Dunno.” He responds, taking another sip cautiously and feeling relieved that the world doesn’t turn pitch again. “Scotty should sell this to the army as a weapon of mass destruction.” He suggests. McCoy raises his eyebrows, amused as Jim takes a hearty swig, polishing off the small cup.
“Give it to NASA to be used as rocket fuel.” He banters back. Jim nods enthusiastically and opens his mouth to supply a clever comeback.
“Do…something.” He frowns and gestures vaguely, his brain already going sluggish. McCoy snorts and takes another sip of his whiskey, scowling at the taste as if it’s just offended him personally while Jim eagerly pours himself another cupful.
Eyes slightly crossed as he grins woozily at McCoy, he thinks this is probably the start of a beautiful friendship – wasting their breaks drinking questionable booze in a storage building with various fake statues glaring disapprovingly.
*************************
Jim isn’t sure how long has passed before the bottle goes empty. He shakes it morosely, as if a few more drops will reappear if he pouts and shakes it violently enough. “Guess we’re o…owww….owwttt,” he sulks, and observes with childish wonder the shape of his mouth when he pronounces ‘out.’
“Looks like it.” McCoy stands up easily, and Jim shoots up in an attempt to do likewise. Except the bench somehow ends up curled around his legs and his face attempts to become intimately familiar with the concrete floor of the storage building. McCoy manages to grab him and yank him up before that happens.
“Good god man, can you walk?” He grumbles, and Jim nods enthusiastically, but attempts to bury his head into the crook of McCoy’s neck instead of displaying his mastery of basic movement.
“Ooh smell nic’.” He says into McCoy’s hoodie, and can practically feel the other man rolling his eyes.
“Well, I’m glad I get the Jim Kirk stamp of approval.” McCoy deadpans, before prodding a whining Jim away from him so that he can throw one of Jim’s arms over his shoulders. McCoy wraps one of his arms around Jim’s waist and half walks, half drags him through the labyrinth that is the storage building.
“Where we goin’?” Jim asks dumbly after a few minutes have passed. McCoy ignores him. Jim’s alcohol-addled mind somehow registers this and he sulks for the next handful of minutes. In the end, McCoy stops before one of the huge stunt mats, gently untangling himself from Jim and lowering him onto the mat. Jim sighs in contentment because these mats are the most comfortable things on the studio lots, and Jim has snuck away here for a nap once or twice during a long day of shooting. Apparently McCoy has, too.
“Do you sleep on your left or right side?” McCoy asks, and it sounds like he’s speaking through layers of cloth as Jim stares at him. And wow, he didn’t realize he was this tired before.
“West.” He answers sleepily, closing his eyes. He makes an objecting noise when McCoy shakes him roughly, forcing Jim to open his eyes.
“Damnit Jim, I’m an actor, not a compass,” he fumes, and Jim thinks he’s kind of hot when he’s mad, not for the first time. “I’m not going to let you fall asleep on your back so you drown in your own vomit. Left or right?”
Somewhere his brain’s able to register the question. “Righ’.” He yawns, and McCoy dutifully turns him onto his right sight, pushing him back slightly so he’s not at risk of falling off the mat in his sleep. He frowns when he realizes something.
“’Ey, yer not druuu…nn…kk.” Jim slurs, and McCoy rolls his eyes at him.
“I only drank one cup.” He admits, locating a leather jacket from an area of ‘50s themed clothing and throwing it haphazardly over Jim’s shoulders.
“Why? Yer the one ooh wanted tah get druunk.” McCoy’s straightening the jacket and doesn't bother to look at him.
“Someone had to take care of your drunk ass.” He says simply, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but it just kind of makes sense and Jim nods and shuts his eyes.
It might be part of his dream when a disembodied, distinctly Southern voice says, “don’t die in your sleep, kid. Pike will kick my ass.” Not a declaration of friendship in any regards, but Jim figures it will do for now.
*************************
McCoy is too mature for dumping a jug of ice water on Jim, but apparently he finds slapping harshly at his cheek a completely acceptable method of waking him up. Jim comes to with a stinging cheek and the worst migraine of his entire life. Also, the world apparently has started spinning at a more noticeable rate since he fell asleep.
“Ohmygod, stop the ride I wanna get off.” He garbles, which just earns a harsh laugh from McCoy, who finally retracts his hand.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He says sarcastically.
“You think I’m beautiful?” Jim replies dazedly, too dizzy to layer the question with the right amount of ego or attempt a cocky wink.
“Sure, kid. It takes all my willpower not to swoon in your very presence.” Jim can hardly make him out, but he’s pretty sure from McCoy’s tone that he’s rolling his eyes. He pulls himself into a sitting position, cursing as his stomach lurches as the sudden movement.
“Don’t worry, it’s a very common ailment. They’re working on a cure now.” He shoots back, but it sounds kind of pathetic even to his ears and McCoy’s decent enough that he doesn’t reply, only shakes his head. A battle of wits can commence later, when Jim’s head doesn’t feel like the breeding ground for massive, skull-shattering explosions.
He blinks blearily and waits for the world to come into focus. It’s gone dark in the storage building, only weak shafts of light penetrating the massive room from windows located high up along the walls. McCoy’s barely an outline against a gray background, but Jim knows from experience that if it were nighttime, it would be completely impossible to navigate the building without a flashlight or turning on the huge overhead lights. With the migraine, it takes him longer, but he eventually comes to the conclusion that it’s probably evening. It also takes a ridiculously long time to figure out why the little voice in his head (one that sounds mysteriously like Pike) is freaking out about it being evening. Then he groans, because fuck.
“Shit, I was supposed to film some more scenes with Uhura.” He fights the urge to just lay back down and tell McCoy to go away, so he can see how long it takes for Pike to find him and scalp him alive. The man’s probably after his blood for not even bothering to show up for his scenes. Pike can deal with tardiness, even though his way of ‘dealing’ involves a lot of shouting and insulting Jim’s intelligence level, but he does not accept actors who completely skip out on filming. Back in Jim’s early days, one of the leads decided to pull that stunt and Pike threw him out of the studio on his ass. Last Jim heard, he was doing bit parts in a few soaps.
“I covered for you.” McCoy says nonchalantly. Jim knows he’s gaping, but he doesn’t care because it’s an acceptable expression for conveying his massive amount of shock. No one can get things past Pike. Jim’s pretty sure he even knows about the still, but lets it slide because Scotty's one of the best technical directors in the business. McCoy ignores his obvious disbelief. “Think you can walk?” He asks instead, eying Jim critically when he finally manages to shut his mouth with the definitive ‘click’ of two rows of teeth clashing together.
“You covered for me?” He says, in a sort of awe. “And Pike believed you.”
McCoy is completely unimpressed. “The man isn’t omnipresent, you know.” He replies, sighing heavily. It must have occurred to him he wasn’t getting Jim off the stunt mat without explaining himself. “I told him you came down with stomach flu and you were running a high fever. Took your keys and locked your trailer so he couldn’t get in unless he bothered going to Scotty for a spare key. I also grabbed your cell phone and said you’d left it when you went to lay down so you had an excuse not to answer it.” He throws the items in question to Jim, who miraculously manages to catch them even in his hungover state. It’s a bit of a lunge for his iPhone, because he’s freakishly protective of it and his brain doesn’t seem to realize even if he missed, it would land relatively unharmed on the stunt mat. McCoy cocks an eyebrow. “He was a bit pissed but I said there was no way you could act when you were ridding your stomach of its contents. He bought it, far as I know.”
Jim will kind of maybe probably develop a bit of hero worship for McCoy if he continuously pulls stunts like this. He has half a mind to say this out loud, but his brain is just too damned tired to attempt the syntax involved so instead he blurts out an impressed “McCoy, you’re a fuckin’ evil genius.” Then he cocks his head and considers it. “Well, maybe not evil. Since you’re using your ridiculously scheming brain for good.”
McCoy lets out a rough laugh. “I don’t think Pike would see it that way.” He gives Jim an impatient look that should not be that ridiculously hot. It’s just not fair. “Now, can you walk? Because as fun as it is to use my fantastically evil brain to cover for drunken actors, I need it so I can devise creative new ways to kick puppies and steal candy from children.” The absolutely awesome thing about this statement is that McCoy keeps his tone flat and his face serious the whole time. And yeah. Hero worship is definitely a possibility.
“Pike won’t like to hear you’ve been abusing Chekov.” He replies, and smirks when he sees the corners of McCoy’s lips twitch upwards faintly even as he rolls his eyes. He isn’t fooling Jim.
McCoy gets his revenge by unexpectedly yanking Jim to his feet, which makes Jim blanch and curse the other man’s maternal relatives as the world suddenly speeds up again and his head pounds furiously. McCoy would probably deny it, but Jim is sure the slight upturn of his lips turns into a full blown smile at his outburst. It would be just his luck to develop hero worship for such a sadistic bastard.
“You shouldn’t do this to me.” He complains as he half staggers and is half dragged towards the entrance of the storage building. “I’m James T. Kirk.”
“You keep saying that like it’s some kind of excuse or something, being him.” McCoy mutters. “I’m actually pretty sure he’s kind of a cocky little shit.”
Jim snorts and nods in agreement. “Not as bad as that McCoy guy, though.” He replies. “That man’s a mean son of a bitch. Kicks puppies and everything.”
McCoy’s laugh bounces off the tin walls of the storage building.
Part Two
Rating: PG-13, for some fake gore, sexual hints, and the boys' dirty mouths.
Pairing/Character(s): Kirk/McCoy, mentions of Chekov/Sulu and Spock/Uhura.
Word Count: ~30,000
Warnings/Spoilers: AU like nobody's business.
Disclaimer: I don't have any claim over the Star Trek universe or characters therein. I also don't own any of the various pop culture items/companies/movies mentioned. I'm not making any money off of this. I don't own the sandbox, I just like playing with my Tonka trunks in it every one in awhile.
Summary: '“Kirk, this here is the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy. He’ll be playing the medic, Bones.” McCoy slips off his shades, pulls down his hood, and flashes a wide, sarcastic grin. Jim doesn’t realize it then, but that’s the exact moment his life goes to shit.'
Author's Note(s): 1. Awesome beta work done by the wonderful
roseandheather. 2. Thanks to all of the amazing individuals who originally commented when this was posted on the Kink Meme. You guys rock my socks off! 3. Response to this prompt on the Kink Meme: 'James T. Kirk is a very successful young actor who primarily stars in high box-office earning action movies.He's currently filming his newest project, but the only problem is that he and the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy, have so much sizzling chemistry that it completely overshadows any chemistry he has with the female lead, Nyota Uhura.
The various lots of Enterprise Studios are as familiar to Jim as his own right hand. Well, perhaps that’s not a fitting enough simile. He often finds new scars leaving white lines across his palms from various accidental injuries or the occasional stunt mishap. It would be more fitting to say that the layout of Enterprise Studios are as familiar to him as the sensation of orgasm. He smirks dirtily to himself, picking up his pace a little and shoving his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. Oh yes, he is very familiar with orgasms.
The point of the simile is that he’s a common fixture of the Enterprise lots, and he’s well-schooled in the various uses and hideouts of each and every one. He knows how to work the stunt equipment and strobe lights in DNI-9016, is privy to all of the contents of the storage lot STL-8054, and can navigate his way through the maze of fake tanks and trenches in NCC-1701, the lot generally designated for any and all war takes. Of course, the Enterprise is always changing to accommodate the various movies taking place on their sets, so there has been more than one time that Jim has accidentally stumbled onto the set of a romantic comedy or horror movie thinking it would be empty (the latter had ended up with his outfit getting splattered in fake intestines, causing the wardrobe people to bitch for a month despite Jim’s numerous apologies). He’s also come across some frankly awesome things, which is why he now gets free whiskey from Scotty the technical director’s still by threatening to reveal its location to one of the producers. Hey, he’s an actor, not a saint, and sometimes you need some hard liquor after a particularly draining day (though he learned the hard way to hold off until after they’d wrapped for the day—one sip of the stuff and he can’t see straight).
Still, one feature of the studio that never changes despite all of the equipment being moved in and out is a small corner at the southeast end. The whole studio is surrounded by a chain link fence, and the small corner is no exception, allowing a diamond-shaped view of the world beyond the set. This world is composed of a long, parched field that continues on endlessly, not a mountain rearing up or a building cluttering the view. It’s California scrub, not Iowa wheat fields, but it’s as good a place as any when he’s looking for somewhere to relax and face his demons. There’s also a small block of concrete, cemented into the ground permanently; at one time it was probably a step for a trailer parked beside it but now it stands alone forlornly, and it makes for a perfect stoop to sit on. It’s Jim’s favorite place on the set, where he often retreats when things become unreal and he asks himself the the fuck he’s doing here, a fuck-up from Iowa turned world-famous movie star.
Today, however, he’s not looking for any soul-baring moments – he just needs a place to… relax. Yeah, relax. Most definitely not to hide out from Gaila of hair and make-up, who has some sort of obsession with smearing make-up on his face that results in an outbreak of hives or causes his tongue to swell up. It’s happened twice before, and she’s just gotten in a new supply of cover-up and body make-up pencils and she has a certain gleam in her eye that bodes ill for the fate of Jim’s skin and his ability to breathe. But he is most definitely not hiding out. He is James T. Kirk, actor extraordinaire, and he does not hide from women with flaming orange hair and unhealthy fascination for seeing him with hives. He shivers and quickens his pace, but he most certainly does not duck behind one of the various trailers when he sees a flash of vibrant orange hair to his left. Does not. Nor does he take off at a jog when the person in question frowns and turns away, muttering to herself and twirling a make-up pencil contemplatively. Not at all.
He slows down to a walk as he nears the edge of the set, knowing that it’s secluded and blocked from view by a few strategically placed, unoccupied trailers and a large dumpster. Not that he cares if anybody finds him, of course, but it’s nice to have some privacy every once in a while. Enterprise is a wonderful movie-maker, but the crew has no sense of personal space. It’s kind of lost to a group of people who have to get up in somebody’s face and apply make-up anyway, or position their bodies for a certain scene, or fuss with the lapels of their costume so they rest just so. Privacy is hard to come by, and if it means he gets to avoid Gaila for a good half an hour, well, all the better.
Jim rounds the large green dumpster with a spring in his step, assured in the knowledge that he is home free, at least for a little while. The sound of his sandals (very manly and very expensive, thank you very much) slapping against the pavement is the only noise he hears as he revels in his victory. And reveling in his victory does not involve ‘swinging his hips and strutting like a goddamn peacock,’ no matter what Uhura might say. He pouts for a second at the memory and subtly checks to make sure his hips aren’t swinging more than usual (and they aren’t, take that!) before quickly brightening as his stoop comes into view.
This lasts for the whole three seconds it takes for his brain to acknowledge that someone is sitting on the stoop. It then quickly malfunctions because this doesn’t fit into the Rules of the Universe, as written by Jim Kirk. These rules go something like this: sex is always awesome, there isn’t a single thing of value left in Iowa, and the stoop is forever to be empty unless occupied by one James T. Kirk. Except the last one has been grossly violated, because there is a person—a man, by the looks of it—sitting curled up on the stoop, arms wrapped around his folded legs and chin resting on his kneecaps. He either hasn’t heard Jim’s approach (unlikely, with the way his sandals slap the ground) or is just refusing to acknowledge him in hopes Jim will lose interest and continue on. What he doesn’t count on is Jim’s possessiveness over things he considers his own, mainly the stoop the man is sitting on. Jim walks the last few feet, stomping to emphasize his annoyance, and stops in front of the man, folding his arms across his chest stubbornly.
“That’s my spot.” He says, voice holding just a bit of a whine. He’s well aware of the fact he sounds like a petulant child and he doesn’t really care. Jim eyes the man wearily, before deciding he looks homeless. The man is wearing a pair of ratty old denim shorts, cut off asymmetrically at the knees in a way that indicates that they were once jeans, and a stained dark gray sweatshirt hoodie. He’s pulled the hood up over his head and slipped on a pair of cheap-looking sunglasses, so the only part of his face visible is his jaw, covered in scruffy five o’clock shadow, and a set of rather impressive eyebrows. Which are currently twitching up towards his unseen hairline as he regards Jim.
“…I don’t see your name on it.” He finally says, somehow managing to convey his inability to believe Jim’s childish behavior in one sentence. He also spits out ‘name’ in the same way one might utter a swear word, and the whole sentence is layered in the very tone of ‘fuck off.’ It’s a lot to convey without actually saying anything. Jim might be impressed except he’s the one that’s being insulted here.
He huffs grumpily and shoves his aviators (much cooler than this guy’s dollar store shades) up into his hair—wincing, because Gaila just got done with that and now she’s going to kill him—so he can squint at the man in a way that he hopes says ‘well, fuck you and fuck your mother.’ Judging by the man’s expression, it falls short of its target and probably only makes him appear constipated. “Well, of course not.” Jim grumbles, kicking at a rock. “That would be called vandalism and Pike would kick my ass, even if it’s a stupid stoop and nobody cares.” He would, too. And if Jim pointed this out, he’d get another lecture about it not being the act itself, but the principle of the act. Which basically means this: if Pike caught him messing around with a candy cigarette, he’d chew him out so Jim didn’t somehow end up doing cocaine and ruining his career. It’s happened before.
The man just snorts and unfolds his legs, reclining back and resting his weight on his arms. “Well, if you don’t care, why are you bugging me?” He asks logically. Jim decisively hates logic. It reminds him of Spock, whose job he still doesn’t know the technical name for but it involves making sure all films are historically accurate and all stunts could actually take place. Which Jim hates because it means he takes out all of the cooler jokes because they aren’t ‘era-appropriate’ and blacklists many explosions because ‘an explosion of such a size isn’t logically possible without obtaining a nuclear bomb, something many governments, including our own, frown upon.’
He frowns at the man, who has the nerve to look amused at Jim’s frustration. “Because it does matter to me. It just does.” Jim insists, illogically (take that, Spock! That’s for the Viagra joke!). The man’s lips twitch and he nods sagely, before turning his attention towards the brush beyond the chain link fence. Jim, not to be outdone, huffs and turns his head away so he can scowl at the dumpster, determined not to be the first one who breaks and talks. There’s a minute of silence (during which Jim fidgets and the man… doesn’t) before he finally can’t take it anymore.
“Well?” he grates out, glaring at the stranger. The stranger turns his head to look at him, cocking an eyebrow, and damn. His face is mostly concealed by the sunglasses and the hood, but the eyebrow is hot and the man has potential. Jim knows this well; he’s number two on People’s Sexiest Men Alive list for a reason (and fuck you anyway, Matt Damon).
“Well what?” Potentially Sexy asks innocently. Jim gesticulates wildly.
“Aren’t you gonna move?!” He hisses, remembering to keep his voice down in case anyone’s nearby. They might come running and then everybody would know about the stoop, not just the homeless model sitting on it currently.
Said model just tilts his head considerately, before shrugging. “No.”
Jim gapes, used to getting his way. “No?!”
“No.” The man says agreeably, digging out novel from the pouch at the front of his hoodie and cracking it open, obviously having lost interest in Jim. Jim doesn’t know what surprises him more—the denial or the fact he’s being ignored. It’s not a familiar emotion, hasn’t been since he struck puberty.
“Do you know who I am?” He asks, placing his hands on his hips and scowling full force now.
“A brattish manchild with emotional attachment issues when it comes to inanimate objects?” He guesses, not looking up from his book. There’s a pause before he amends himself. “Oh, excuse me, that’s what you are, not who. My mistake. Please carry on.” The man waves his hand dismissively, eyes not leaving the page.
“I’m James T. Kirk.” He snaps authoritatively, waiting for the man to jump to attention. He remains slouched over his book. Jim doesn’t sulk. Not at all.
“And…?” He inquires, distracted, frowning at an apparently interesting portion of his book.
Before Jim can launch into a rant about all the reasons his being James T. Kirk is important and deserves some recognition (mainly in the act of the man moving his ass off his stoop), there’s a shrill whistle from behind him. It saves him from acting more irritating and ass-like than usual, but it also leaves a ringing in his ears and deafens pretty much every dog in the area. If there are any dogs in the area, that is. Jim winces and sets his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable.
“Kirk!” There it is. The man on the stoop might be good at conveying things in a few sentences, but Pike is the king of taking one word and making it sound like a threat and a cuss all wrapped into one. He turns around slowly and is met with one very angry Christopher Pike. The thing about Pike is that, despite being as irritating as Kirk on some days, he’s a legend. He’s the best director Enterprise has ever seen, and was a noteworthy actor in his day. His prowess when it comes to movie-making and hard-nosed practices have earned him the joking nickname of ‘Captain,’ often muttered behind his back after a stressful day of shooting. All of the movies he directs are certain to, if not become box office gold, at least rake in a few Academy Awards. The man takes movies and makes them into an art form. Spielberg has nothing on Christopher Pike. He’s the god of movies. However, this does not mean Pike practices any heavenly virtues, and the main one lacking is patience. Especially when it comes to Jim. When it comes to Jim, he’s more than ready to exert some sadistic torture methods.
“Where the hell have you been?!” he fumes, somehow managing to look dignified even though Jim can see a vein pounding at his temple. Shit, he’s really pissed. “You were supposed to be finished with hair and make-up ten minutes ago and on your way to wardrobe.”
Jim does what he does best (besides acting, that is): avoid awkward questions by being a smartass. “See, that didn’t make sense to me though,” he begins, wearily eyeing the way Pike’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I mean, why do hair first when it’s going to get messed up when I pull a shirt over?”
“Because, Kirk,” Pike begins, somehow restraining himself from shouting. “The costume today is a button-up. There’s nothing to pull over your head.” Jim opens his mouth, scrambling for a retort, and Pike just sighs and glares. “Save it, Kirk. Just get your ass over to Gaila.”
He turns and notices the stranger, who had been silent the whole time, reading his book. Instead of chewing out the homeless guy as Jim expect him to, he grins wanly when the man finally looks up. “Ah, I see you’ve had the questionable fortune of meeting Kirk.”
The man snorts, (finally) pulling himself off the stoop and into a standing position. “We didn’t exchange pleasantries.”
Pike rolls his eyes. “How am I not surprised.” He gestures Jim over. Jim’s about to make some smartass comment about being unable to ‘get his ass over to Gaila’ while also being beckoned over to Pike when the man introduces them.
“Kirk, this here is the supporting male lead, Leonard McCoy. He’ll be playing the medic, Bones.” McCoy slips off his shades, pulls down his hood, and flashes a wide, sarcastic grin. Jim doesn’t realize it then, but that’s the exact moment his life goes to shit.
*************************
The scoop on Leonard McCoy, as gathered from various, highly trusted information outposts (namely Google) goes something like this: the man’s a divorcee with a kid to boot, he’s pulled in one or two Oscars and a surprising number of indie film festival awards, and he’s ranked lucky number thirteen on People’s Sexiest Men Alive list (this is from Jim’s own memory banks—he knows that list intimately). Apparently, he was discovered in New York, and the only reason he began acting as a bit part in some off-Broadway show was because he had nothing else to turn to. He was just dicking around with the idea of acting to pull in some heavily-needed cash. Then he got cast as Mark (and that made Jim snort the iced tea he’d been drinking—it was hard to picture the stoop-perching grouch as a wide-eyed bohemian filmmaker with an affinity for scarves) in another off-Broadway production of Rent. Apparently he’d been fantastic, because from there his career had skyrocketed to the point Enterprise picked him up as one of their golden boys.
Truth is, McCoy could be as famous as Jim if he bothered to take parts in the well-known blockbusters that were thrown his way. But apparently McCoy only takes roles he deems important and thought-provoking, parts in lesser-known indie films that are fantastic but somehow never flounder their way to the mainstream audience. Still, he’s done enough well-known movies to make him a recognizable face in the Hollywood elite, if an enigmatic one. Jim manages to find out he was an old country doctor before he hit stardom (which made his casting as a World War Two medic, as Spock would say, logical) but the reason he left the medical career to bum it in New York, the same reason why his marriage fell apart, is shrouded in mystery.
Jim frowns at his laptop, palming his Lipton iced tea, and exits out of the tabloid website. He tips back on his chair and drums his fingers on the wood-substitute table that takes up one corner of his terribly cramped trailer (Enterprise throws money by the barrels to purchase era-appropriate fabrics for their costumes, shells out the big bucks so people like Spock can scrutinize the film for logical inconsistencies, and pays fortunes to get their hands on realistic fake tanks. But when it comes to the quality of trailers, they refuse to drop a few extra benjamins for novelties like real wood). It’s really rather shocking that he and McCoy haven’t met before, seeing as McCoy’s one of the Enterprise’s other favorites. When they can get him to pick up the parts they throw his way, that is.
Well, he’s met him now, and Jim is fully set on learning more about the guy. He’s going to need some sort of project to get him through the more mindless days of simple line-reading while the war set is being constructed on lot NCC-1701. And McCoy intrigues him, if only because the bastard refused to get up off his stoop. It’s not often people say no to James T. Kirk, and when they do, they usually end up seeing a lot more of him than they might want to.
*************************
Jim doesn’t see much of McCoy the next few days, which is expected but still annoying. He’s either filming scenes with Uhura, the female lead (and another one of those few people who find it within themselves to deny Jim what he wants, and who still hasn’t told him her first name. He could look it up on Google, but that just ruins the fun) or running lines with her. The real clusterfuck about Enterprise’s sense of movie-making is this: they like to make some of their sets before filming begins and some while it’s in the process. He’s not sure the logic behind this, if it saves them money or if it’s so one movie can finish up on the other set without putting a different movie on hold until the space becomes available, but that’s what happens and Jim’s learned to accept it. So while the little white picket fence house Jim’s character lives in before and after the war is all ready to go, as is the more slummy area Uhura’s character resides in, the war set is on hold until Scotty and his red-shirted technical assistants take out all of the last movie’s synchronized fake explosions and replace them with a new explosion network for War Dove. Jim had always figured the king of red tape would be the legal business, but since he’s started his cinematic career he’s learned the movie-making business makes it a fucking art form.
So Jim runs lines with Uhura or films portions on the ready-made sets and doesn’t see anything of McCoy, who he figures is probably off somewhere doing the same with Chekov. Chekov is a Russian actor with an accent to match his origin, and while he can’t master the subtle differences between the pronunciation of ‘v’ and ‘w’ and pass as an American, he can somehow manage to fake a German accent seamlessly. This lands him the role of an injured German private who McCoy, the medic, refuses to leave behind after discovering him alive and left to die on a battlefield. Jim has long given up on making sense of all the quirks of actors and directors and production crews, and has just learned to go with it.
*************************
He finally sees McCoy again a week after their initial meeting. He’s sitting in one of the customary sling back chairs with the name of his character stitched into the fabric, in the shade of a trailer Jim figures must be his own. Jim’s a master of body language from many grueling acting classes, but it doesn’t take an expert to come to the conclusion McCoy’s having a piss poor day. He’s wearing the same hoodie he had on the day they met, hood up once more. He’s slouched forward kind of pathetically and his head’s resting in his hands, palms over his eyes and the tips of his fingers rubbing furiously at his temples in a way Jim recognizes as an attempt to relieve the Mother of All Migraines. And because Jim isn’t a heartless bastard, he pulls up one of the sling backs himself (Chekov’s, apparently, if the ridiculously German name is to be believed) and plops down beside him.
McCoy removes his hands long enough to glance over and see who’s sidled up to him, straightening and turning his head to blink blearily at Jim. He must recognize him, because a second later his face falls into a scowl and Jim smiles comically wide. McCoy goes back to his slouch.
“What the fuck do you want?” It comes out muffled by his hands, and Jim’s about to reply when it hits him.
“What’s with the Southern accent?” He asks before his brain catches up. McCoy drags his hands down far enough so that he can raise his eyebrows at Jim.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” There’s a resigned tone in his voice, like a horse who’s just too damn tired to flick its tail at a pesky mosquito that’s landed on its rump. Jim counts this as a victory.
“Do you?” He shoots back, and McCoy snorts, which makes Jim grin in a pleased manner. “So, the accent…?”
“I’m from Georgia, originally.” He offers, sounding only slightly reluctant. Jim nods as if he didn’t already know that from skimming through articles on Google and McCoy’s wikipedia page.
“You didn’t have an accent when we met.” He points out. McCoy gives him a look, one that Jim can tell is probably reserved for misbehaving children and incompetent personal assistants. It’s kind of hot, really. His brain catalogs the look away for future use.
“Ever heard of getting into character?” He asks slowly. The man really can convey a lot in his tone. Right now he’s telling Jim he has an outstandingly low opinion of Jim’s intelligence level. Jim just grins and hums a little, foregoing thinking up a comeback to watch one of Scotty’s minions stagger by carrying some sort of technical gizmo. He bounces his knee a couple of times and waits.
McCoy breaks first, this time. “Why are youhere?” He grinds out, throwing in a glare for good measure. Lesser men might crumble under it, but Jim’s not turned off in the slightest.
He’s also not one for beating around the bush. “Because I’m gonna be your friend.” He says simply, as if it’s as much a fact as the sky being blue or that a punch to the gut hurts. “And friends help friends when they’re having a bad day. You look like shit, McCoy.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes, straightening in his chair resting his hands in his lap before eying Jim curiously. “And here all of the tabloids say you’re ever so charming.” He grumbles sarcastically. “The only way you could help me, kid, is if you have some hard liquor hidden away somewhere on this godawful set.”
Jim smirks and launches himself out of his—er, Chekov’s—chair, turning to a slightly startled McCoy. “Well, come on then.” He thrusts out a hand and McCoy looks doubtful, but in the end he takes it and lets Jim pull him up, so that’s all that really matters.
*************************
“We’re lost.” Jim’s surprised it’s taken McCoy this long to lose his patience. He subtly pulls out his iPhone and checks the time. Twenty-eight minutes since they started off. Not bad. Anyone else Jim pulls into his harebrained schemes are usually complaining within the first few minutes. Of course, McCoy had been grumbling about anything from the sky looking like rain to the color of Jim’s shoes, but Jim’s learning this is a constant and he hasn’t raised his voice enough to make it sound like it’s directed at Jim personally. So it doesn’t really count.
“We are not lost.” Jim insists cheerfully, frowning at pale blue Victorian ball gown being worn by a dummy as he tries to get his bearings. “They’ve just moved things around since the last time I’ve been here, is all.”
McCoy huffs and folds his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes towards the lofty ceiling of the storage building. Jim’s dragged him into the underbelly of STL-8054, the lot mainly used for the storage of reusable props, costumes, and what have you. It also holds Scotty’s infamous still and a few already prepared bottles, hidden behind a fake marble statue of a witch in a cluster of other such fake statues, ranging from gargoyles to angels and everything in between. It’s the most constant portion of the huge storage building, because people just drop the statues at the edges and never bother to venture further. This makes it the least likely place for the still to be discovered.
While the surrounding location of the still never changes, the storage building at large does, and apparently a Victorian movie just wrapped and they decided to move around a few things in order to accommodate the leftover props. It’s screwed up Jim’s usual path towards the still, because he’s pretty sure a 1900’s carnival booth used to take up residence in the space the Victorian dress now occupies. He hazards a guess and turns right like he would if it was the carnival booth. McCoy lets out a loud groan but follows him anyway.
“So in other words, we’re lost.” He deadpans. Jim rolls his eyes and scrutinizes a rather elaborate vanity set and hopes it took the place of a pair of trashcans, turning left as he does so.
“No, I’m just not completely sure I know where I’m going.” Jim says simply, trying to put more confidence into his step while passing the mast of a pirate ship. McCoy is unimpressed.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the dictionary definition of ‘lost,’ Jim.” He still follows him through a mass of fake rain forest, ducking under the plastic leaves and shoving aside felt vines.
“Now, where’s your sense of adventure, McCoy?” Jim calls back, and grins (most definitely not in relief) when he recognizes a Chinese painting of a dragon and takes a more confident left turn.
“Left it in an airport in Georgia. Baggage claim still hasn’t gotten back to me.” He drawls, and Jim lets out an unexpected bark of laughter because he didn’t realize McCoy could be funny.
A few steps later and the cluster of statues comes into view, and Jim quickens his pace, McCoy following as he comes up behind the witch statue. “Ah, here we are!” Jim says enthusiastically, grabbing a bottle of the whiskey sitting next to the still. He unscrews the top and hands it over to McCoy, who takes a cautious whiff before handing it back. “Told you we weren’t lost.”
“Miraculously.” McCoy grumbles under his breath while Jim grabs two plastic cups from a stack besides the still. He wanders over to a marble bench imposter and flops down. Jim ignores him as he pours some of the whiskey into the two cups before joining McCoy on the bench.
“Is this Scotty’s?” The man asks, picking up his cup and staring at the whiskey as if it might grow legs and start to tap dance. “I heard he had a still lurking around here.”
“Yup, it’s his alright. Came across it a year back and he lets me have some whenever I want so I don’t go running to Pike.” He takes a long swig of his cup and coughs at the unexpected burn and the way the world suddenly turns black. Jim knows that alcohol generally incapacitates the basic motor skills and causes a speech impediment, but Scotty’s brew is the only liquor he’s come across that actually causes momentary blindness. It should worry him, but the world usually comes back into focus a few seconds later so Jim isn’t really bothered. “Oh my gosh, I can’t see.” This does not stop him from whining dramatically to McCoy, of course, who snorts and mutters something about ‘youth’ and ‘pretty boy actors who can’t hold their liquor.’ He then takes a tentative sip and Jim smirks as he sputters.
“Jesus, what the hell is in this shit?” Jim’s vision comes back online in time to see McCoy cough, cheeks flushed as he slams the cup back on the bench. Jim, rather unhelpfully, slaps sloppily at his back.
“Dunno.” He responds, taking another sip cautiously and feeling relieved that the world doesn’t turn pitch again. “Scotty should sell this to the army as a weapon of mass destruction.” He suggests. McCoy raises his eyebrows, amused as Jim takes a hearty swig, polishing off the small cup.
“Give it to NASA to be used as rocket fuel.” He banters back. Jim nods enthusiastically and opens his mouth to supply a clever comeback.
“Do…something.” He frowns and gestures vaguely, his brain already going sluggish. McCoy snorts and takes another sip of his whiskey, scowling at the taste as if it’s just offended him personally while Jim eagerly pours himself another cupful.
Eyes slightly crossed as he grins woozily at McCoy, he thinks this is probably the start of a beautiful friendship – wasting their breaks drinking questionable booze in a storage building with various fake statues glaring disapprovingly.
*************************
Jim isn’t sure how long has passed before the bottle goes empty. He shakes it morosely, as if a few more drops will reappear if he pouts and shakes it violently enough. “Guess we’re o…owww….owwttt,” he sulks, and observes with childish wonder the shape of his mouth when he pronounces ‘out.’
“Looks like it.” McCoy stands up easily, and Jim shoots up in an attempt to do likewise. Except the bench somehow ends up curled around his legs and his face attempts to become intimately familiar with the concrete floor of the storage building. McCoy manages to grab him and yank him up before that happens.
“Good god man, can you walk?” He grumbles, and Jim nods enthusiastically, but attempts to bury his head into the crook of McCoy’s neck instead of displaying his mastery of basic movement.
“Ooh smell nic’.” He says into McCoy’s hoodie, and can practically feel the other man rolling his eyes.
“Well, I’m glad I get the Jim Kirk stamp of approval.” McCoy deadpans, before prodding a whining Jim away from him so that he can throw one of Jim’s arms over his shoulders. McCoy wraps one of his arms around Jim’s waist and half walks, half drags him through the labyrinth that is the storage building.
“Where we goin’?” Jim asks dumbly after a few minutes have passed. McCoy ignores him. Jim’s alcohol-addled mind somehow registers this and he sulks for the next handful of minutes. In the end, McCoy stops before one of the huge stunt mats, gently untangling himself from Jim and lowering him onto the mat. Jim sighs in contentment because these mats are the most comfortable things on the studio lots, and Jim has snuck away here for a nap once or twice during a long day of shooting. Apparently McCoy has, too.
“Do you sleep on your left or right side?” McCoy asks, and it sounds like he’s speaking through layers of cloth as Jim stares at him. And wow, he didn’t realize he was this tired before.
“West.” He answers sleepily, closing his eyes. He makes an objecting noise when McCoy shakes him roughly, forcing Jim to open his eyes.
“Damnit Jim, I’m an actor, not a compass,” he fumes, and Jim thinks he’s kind of hot when he’s mad, not for the first time. “I’m not going to let you fall asleep on your back so you drown in your own vomit. Left or right?”
Somewhere his brain’s able to register the question. “Righ’.” He yawns, and McCoy dutifully turns him onto his right sight, pushing him back slightly so he’s not at risk of falling off the mat in his sleep. He frowns when he realizes something.
“’Ey, yer not druuu…nn…kk.” Jim slurs, and McCoy rolls his eyes at him.
“I only drank one cup.” He admits, locating a leather jacket from an area of ‘50s themed clothing and throwing it haphazardly over Jim’s shoulders.
“Why? Yer the one ooh wanted tah get druunk.” McCoy’s straightening the jacket and doesn't bother to look at him.
“Someone had to take care of your drunk ass.” He says simply, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but it just kind of makes sense and Jim nods and shuts his eyes.
It might be part of his dream when a disembodied, distinctly Southern voice says, “don’t die in your sleep, kid. Pike will kick my ass.” Not a declaration of friendship in any regards, but Jim figures it will do for now.
*************************
McCoy is too mature for dumping a jug of ice water on Jim, but apparently he finds slapping harshly at his cheek a completely acceptable method of waking him up. Jim comes to with a stinging cheek and the worst migraine of his entire life. Also, the world apparently has started spinning at a more noticeable rate since he fell asleep.
“Ohmygod, stop the ride I wanna get off.” He garbles, which just earns a harsh laugh from McCoy, who finally retracts his hand.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He says sarcastically.
“You think I’m beautiful?” Jim replies dazedly, too dizzy to layer the question with the right amount of ego or attempt a cocky wink.
“Sure, kid. It takes all my willpower not to swoon in your very presence.” Jim can hardly make him out, but he’s pretty sure from McCoy’s tone that he’s rolling his eyes. He pulls himself into a sitting position, cursing as his stomach lurches as the sudden movement.
“Don’t worry, it’s a very common ailment. They’re working on a cure now.” He shoots back, but it sounds kind of pathetic even to his ears and McCoy’s decent enough that he doesn’t reply, only shakes his head. A battle of wits can commence later, when Jim’s head doesn’t feel like the breeding ground for massive, skull-shattering explosions.
He blinks blearily and waits for the world to come into focus. It’s gone dark in the storage building, only weak shafts of light penetrating the massive room from windows located high up along the walls. McCoy’s barely an outline against a gray background, but Jim knows from experience that if it were nighttime, it would be completely impossible to navigate the building without a flashlight or turning on the huge overhead lights. With the migraine, it takes him longer, but he eventually comes to the conclusion that it’s probably evening. It also takes a ridiculously long time to figure out why the little voice in his head (one that sounds mysteriously like Pike) is freaking out about it being evening. Then he groans, because fuck.
“Shit, I was supposed to film some more scenes with Uhura.” He fights the urge to just lay back down and tell McCoy to go away, so he can see how long it takes for Pike to find him and scalp him alive. The man’s probably after his blood for not even bothering to show up for his scenes. Pike can deal with tardiness, even though his way of ‘dealing’ involves a lot of shouting and insulting Jim’s intelligence level, but he does not accept actors who completely skip out on filming. Back in Jim’s early days, one of the leads decided to pull that stunt and Pike threw him out of the studio on his ass. Last Jim heard, he was doing bit parts in a few soaps.
“I covered for you.” McCoy says nonchalantly. Jim knows he’s gaping, but he doesn’t care because it’s an acceptable expression for conveying his massive amount of shock. No one can get things past Pike. Jim’s pretty sure he even knows about the still, but lets it slide because Scotty's one of the best technical directors in the business. McCoy ignores his obvious disbelief. “Think you can walk?” He asks instead, eying Jim critically when he finally manages to shut his mouth with the definitive ‘click’ of two rows of teeth clashing together.
“You covered for me?” He says, in a sort of awe. “And Pike believed you.”
McCoy is completely unimpressed. “The man isn’t omnipresent, you know.” He replies, sighing heavily. It must have occurred to him he wasn’t getting Jim off the stunt mat without explaining himself. “I told him you came down with stomach flu and you were running a high fever. Took your keys and locked your trailer so he couldn’t get in unless he bothered going to Scotty for a spare key. I also grabbed your cell phone and said you’d left it when you went to lay down so you had an excuse not to answer it.” He throws the items in question to Jim, who miraculously manages to catch them even in his hungover state. It’s a bit of a lunge for his iPhone, because he’s freakishly protective of it and his brain doesn’t seem to realize even if he missed, it would land relatively unharmed on the stunt mat. McCoy cocks an eyebrow. “He was a bit pissed but I said there was no way you could act when you were ridding your stomach of its contents. He bought it, far as I know.”
Jim will kind of maybe probably develop a bit of hero worship for McCoy if he continuously pulls stunts like this. He has half a mind to say this out loud, but his brain is just too damned tired to attempt the syntax involved so instead he blurts out an impressed “McCoy, you’re a fuckin’ evil genius.” Then he cocks his head and considers it. “Well, maybe not evil. Since you’re using your ridiculously scheming brain for good.”
McCoy lets out a rough laugh. “I don’t think Pike would see it that way.” He gives Jim an impatient look that should not be that ridiculously hot. It’s just not fair. “Now, can you walk? Because as fun as it is to use my fantastically evil brain to cover for drunken actors, I need it so I can devise creative new ways to kick puppies and steal candy from children.” The absolutely awesome thing about this statement is that McCoy keeps his tone flat and his face serious the whole time. And yeah. Hero worship is definitely a possibility.
“Pike won’t like to hear you’ve been abusing Chekov.” He replies, and smirks when he sees the corners of McCoy’s lips twitch upwards faintly even as he rolls his eyes. He isn’t fooling Jim.
McCoy gets his revenge by unexpectedly yanking Jim to his feet, which makes Jim blanch and curse the other man’s maternal relatives as the world suddenly speeds up again and his head pounds furiously. McCoy would probably deny it, but Jim is sure the slight upturn of his lips turns into a full blown smile at his outburst. It would be just his luck to develop hero worship for such a sadistic bastard.
“You shouldn’t do this to me.” He complains as he half staggers and is half dragged towards the entrance of the storage building. “I’m James T. Kirk.”
“You keep saying that like it’s some kind of excuse or something, being him.” McCoy mutters. “I’m actually pretty sure he’s kind of a cocky little shit.”
Jim snorts and nods in agreement. “Not as bad as that McCoy guy, though.” He replies. “That man’s a mean son of a bitch. Kicks puppies and everything.”
McCoy’s laugh bounces off the tin walls of the storage building.
Part Two
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