Could be read as ST:TOS, or STXI. Though despite DeForest Kelly's utter and undeniable awesomeness, I can't deny that it is Karl Uban is who I see in my brain. Because DeForest Kelly seems too familial to me to imagine him wanting the sex.Characters/Pairings
: Leonard "Bones" McCoy, references to Sulu/ChekovRating/Warnings:
This one is teen for language, drinking, and angst. Contains NON-EXPLICIT slash.Spoilers:
None, really. Just vague references for the universe. Again, could be read as ST:TOS, or STXI.Disclaimer:
I so totally own all forms and incarnations of Star Trek. For reals. So Bow Down! *Doctor's Note: Patient exhibits delusions of grandeur and any claims of ownership are pure fantasy. No harm is meant. Seriously, it's better than her throwing rocks at people.*Disclaimer:
I so totally own these works. Bow Down! *Doctor's Note: Patient exhibits delusions of grandeur and any claims of ownership toward Star Trek are pure fantasy. No harm is meant. Seriously, it's better than her throwing rocks at people.*Real Disclaimer:
I make no money from this, and claim no ownership over the to any of the copyrighted material of "Star Trek." Those works belong to their creators.Beta:
Thanks for the betaing and cheerleading of _beetle_! Dedication:
Written for my dear friend _beetle_ who is my cross-country brain twin. Seriously, together, we are Beetman! Yes, she did beta my story for her. I'm a baaad monkey.
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McCoy had grouched his way through the weeks leading up to Sulu and Chekov's wedding. He'd rolled his eyes and muttered through the preparations and the bachelor parties he'd attended. He'd even forced the smile onto his face for the ceremony. But as the newlyweds left the mess hall, he could feel his smile shattering. It was only through sheer force of will that he kept the smile in place before leaving, fists clenched at his sides.
Mumbling his excuses, McCoy fled, stomach churning further with each step he took. He moved quickly, getting to his quarters in record time. The door whooshed shut, and McCoy turned to viciously punch the keypad, locking his room. His hands trembled, rage surging though him. Before he could consider his actions, he lashed out, punching his door. He punched it again and again, a choked roar slipping past the knot in his throat and his clenched teeth.
"Enough enough enough," he muttered, stepping away from the door. He didn't want to stop, ever, but a small part of his mind whispered that the only thing he really had left was his work. Broken fingers would take even that. He turned from the door and buried his hands in his hair before tugging on it, willing the pain to overcome everything else. He could feel it, the pricks behind his eyes that signaled tears. But he hadn't cried when his marriage ended; he sure as hell wouldn't cry over a slip of a boy. Young man. He took deep breaths, trying to beat back every emotion. Dropping his head, he surveyed his empty room. Save a few pictures of Joanna and one of his parents, there was nothing of him in this room.
He stalked across the room to cupboard. He yanked the door open and pulled out a bottle of bourbon he'd been saving for Jim's birthday. He twisted the bottle open and took a long drink. It burned on the way down, searing his throat until he momentarily forgot. When he broke his drink to gasp in air, the hurt returned.
He reached into his desk drawer. Inside sat various emergency hypos; he pulled out a nutrient and dehydration hypo, used for treating malnutrition, but it also worked wonders on hangovers. He used it, then grabbed a bottle of water and staggered over to his bed. He took a deep drink of the water, followed by a swig of alcohol.
Bastards like him rarely got second chances, and never thirds. Chekov had been his second chance, bright and smiling as he'd joined McCoy for meals. He'd drop by his office to talk, and ask questions about the medical equipment that McCoy couldn't answer. His smile had been... well, nothing so plebeian or common as sunlight. It has been life itself, that vital something that McCoy couldn't
control on the operating table, that spark of life. Chekov had smiled, hope shining in his eyes. Instead, McCoy'd hidden like a coward. He avoided it, avoiding Chekov for this exact reason, to avoid this
feeling of dying, of withering from the inside out as your heart shatters. Soon, that shine had faded whenever Chekov faced him. And McCoy had watched, pain bubbling up as that shine had returned for Sulu.
Slumped against the headboard, he took another drink. McCoy had to pace himself.
His bourbon had to outlast the pain.