Title: The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 3 (#27, J ‘N B Series)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: McCoy, Kirk
Summary: Comment!fic inspired by jim_and_bones; AU. Continuation of the park bench series. Between Kirk and McCoy, who wins?
Previous Parts: Another Day, Another Dollar, and a Daily Show? | Fight the Good Fight | Don’t Touch the Rock | A Tear Worth Gold | Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 2 | Pirates Read Too | The Case of the Mondays | Today’s Topic -Helmets! | The Case of the Mondays, Part 2 | Marked | Awesome Ideas Come from Awesome Brains | In the Keeping of a Spirit | The Case of the Mondays, Part 3 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 4 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 5 | Forewarned is Forearmed | The Case of the Mondays, Part 6 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 7 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 8 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 9 | Serenade | Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 3 | Tied to You | The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher | The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 2 | The Art of Beginnings

Maybe he had been hasty to label the rookie cop as a sad example of today’s city police enforcement. Truth be told, the young man is as tenacious as a bulldog—a bulldog which seems to have latched onto McCoy’s trousers and won’t let go even if McCoy beats him with a stick. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Leonard hasn’t been stupid enough to get anywhere near the cop since he realized he had become the idiot’s suspect Numero Uno for drug-dealing.

Which isn’t exactly an un-truth, either.

McCoy lingers outside the decorative iron-wrought gate separating the city block between street and park with a coffee cup in hand and chewing at his bottom lip. Every day for the past two weeks, he hasn’t been able to make a run. At first he thought the cop would have enough sense to give up, so he laid low and sent out the word that business would be postponed for a few days. But it turns out that the fool has decided to set up camp in the park on a day-to-night basis that has Leonard pulling at his hair in frustration.

Doesn’t the cop work?

Doesn’t he realize the precinct won’t pay him to shirk his other duties in order to catch somebody on a hunch?

Ah, Kirk, McCoy thinks. You are twice the fool I was when I used to believe in the system.

James T. Kirk—somehow the name fits the man, fake glasses, sharp blue eyes and all. When Leonard had come to the conclusion he was now the young man’s new obsession, he had done a little obsessive detective work of his own. Walking into the downtown police station was not difficult; flirting with the receptionist at the front even less so. He told the pretty woman some man in blue had been kind enough to pay for his lunch at a hotdog stand (why does the idiot eat only hotdogs for lunch anyway? The medic in Leonard is disgusted by the thought) when he had forgotten his wallet and he’d like to pay the cop back. She asked for a name. He said he didn’t know and described the guy.

“Oh, that’s Jim for sure,” she had said, smiling brightly. “He’s a cutie pie!”

He pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked it, and placed an envelope on the counter. “Jim…?”

“James T. Kirk,” she supplied readily, less interested in watching him write and more interested in the visible patch of his chest, which he had purposely left exposed by unbuttoning a third of his shirt buttons before approaching her.

Leonard slid the sealed envelope across the open window (it was empty inside, wouldn’t that make Jim crazy with questions?) and upped the wattage of his charming grin and his slow Southern drawl. “Could you be a sweetheart and drop this on his desk, darling?”

She took it with a gleam in her eyes. “You wanna come to the back?”

He considered that for a moment. It was clearly an invitation to do more than play escort. They’d probably end up in a closet somewhere along the way. He was tempted but, alas, not the kind of man to take the risk. What would happen if Jim—Kirk, he means—happened to be inside the station? Leonard might as well walk himself straight to the jailblock. He’d be up shit creek.

“‘Fraid I can’t,” he said with real disappointment. “I’m late for work.”

“Oh…” Her expression fell and her fingers stopped toying with a lock of her hair. “Maybe later?” she asked hopefully.

“For you, darlin’,” he drawled, “that’s a distinct possibility.” Especially if I need to find out more about this Kirk stalker of mine.

Thus ended his short visit to the city precinct which, sadly, doesn’t help him out on the streets at all. He has a name to put with a face, but no inkling of how to make Kirk stop circling his park bench like a hound on a hot scent.

Damn but Leonard is close to losing his entire setup! He’d had things down to an art and, more importantly, convinced his best customer that they were safe making the exchange in a public place. Spock is going to turn tail and cut their contact in another day or two. Leonard can feel it in his bones. And that makes him furious.

…Furious at that nosy son-of-a-bitch Jim Kirk!

Jaw working from his flash of temper, he decides in that instant what he is going to do. What better way to get rid of a cur than to knock some sense into it and send it running? He lifts his coffee cup to his mouth, then thinks better of the motion, and lowers it back to his side. With a steady march, McCoy steps past the park gate and takes his usual path. Kirk is going to get a hell of a surprise today, he thinks triumphantly.

Jim’s leg has developed an annoying habit of bouncing incessantly. It could be from the copious amounts of energy drinks he consumes all day, but he has to stay awake or he’s going to miss his chance. Working night shifts and forgoing sleep so he can scout the park in the daytime is making his body hate him fiercely. But then again, his body has hated him since he turned thirteen and decided black coffee was his best friend. Then the coffee, which stopped giving him the kick he needed, became shots of espresso topped with sweet whipped cream. Unfortunately he acclimated to that by the age of nineteen and now he’s stuck with the monster-sized cans of liquid, legal speed. One day of these he might take to injecting a mix of adrenaline and caffeine straight into his veins.

The irony is not lost Jim, given what he is trying to accomplish by his crazy crusade.

He puts a firm hand on his knee to still his leg. It twitches unhappily but quiets for the time being.

Yesterday he had been close to calling it quits. The landlady to his apartment complex had screamed her head off at him after she heard the racket in his one-bedroom apartment—which was Jim kicking things around in a slightly wild anger because he had had two hours of sleep in six days and nothing to show for it. The dealer wasn’t going to come back. Jim had, in his stupidity and his inexperience, scared the man off. Of course criminals switch their home ground with regularity, especially when cops start sniffing around! he berated his image in a dirty bathroom mirror. So close, so close, and yet Jim had hamstrung himself from the very beginning.

Then he called in sick to the station, not that that was a lie since he thought he was going to pass out once his anger was fully spent, and slept for eight hours. In the morning, things seemed less dismal and, even better, he woke up to the feeling he would be seeing the guy at last. And, as Jim has learned through the years, his gut instinct is rarely wrong.

It’s a risk but he took a seat on McCoy’s park bench. Glasses in place and magazine at hand (but unopened), he waits.

It’s ridiculous how hard his heart beats when he spies the familiar face trailing along the eastern sidewalk. It’s more ridiculous how his hands shake when he finally peels back the first page on the magazine and looks down at it, pretending to read the table of contents but seeing nothing at all. As casually as he can manage, he stretches an arm along the top of the bench.

His mind fires off questions at a lightning speed: Is McCoy simply going to pass by? Should he have chosen the other bench? Did he remember his handcuffs? What if McCoy isn’t who Jim thinks he is? What then?

Jim’s muscles are the tautest they’ve ever been, like strings pulled so tightly they could snap at the slightest pressure, when Leonard McCoy does the unthinkable and, as if invited, sits down next to Jim. A long, wordless moment passes by the two occupants of the bench until McCoy breaks it with an easy, amiable “Mornin’.”

Jim swallows and sets aside his magazine. He fixes his gaze on the rolling green grass where a small dog plays with two children. Dog. What had that mutt’s name been?

Words just fall out of his mouth, unbidden. “Good morning, Leonard. How’s Bones?”

He can feel eyes on him.

“Bones?” Leonard chuckles. “How would I even know? You’re asking me about somebody else’s dog?”

Suddenly the tension is gone. Jim adjusts the angle of his glasses and turns to look at McCoy, smiling a little. “You seemed pretty friendly with him—and his owner. I figured you were neighbors or something.”

Leonard returns his smile and accepts the lie easily. “Or something.” His eyes narrow as he takes in Jim’s appearance. “You look like shit, kid.”

“I’ve been better,” he agrees mildly. Where have you been?

“Huh, I can imagine. Weather’s nice today,” Leonard says, switching subjects as he sips from his coffee cup and looks away. Don’t blame me.

Jim’s leg begins to bounce, up-down, up-down. He’s barely aware of it. “Yeah, great weather.” Jim asks, without thinking, “Want to feed the birds?”

Immediately he wishes he could retract his question. It sounds like… like an invitation for a date, and a clumsy one at that. Mortified, Jim fumbles for his magazine again and mumbles, “Never mind.” His glasses slip down his nose and he jerks them off, irritated, and stuffs them inside his jacket pocket.

Holy fuck. Where is his brain? His supposedly brilliant brain? Obviously it’s not attached to his mouth.

Criminal, Jim, he reminds himself with a mental slap. The man’s a criminal, probably selling crack to housewives and teenagers. Jesus, now he knows you’re incompetent!

There is the sound of crinkling paper then a gruff “Here.” Jim is taken aback when McCoy shoves a quarter of a Danish under his nose.

What can he do but take it?

Leonard tosses the first crumbs to the ground, saying nothing to Jim. Within seconds, there is a huddle of grey-breasted pigeons pecking around their feet. They coo at Leonard for more food. Jim glances at the man focused on the birds before he throws some of his newly gifted Danish onto the sidewalk. More pigeons appear, eager to snap up the offerings.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says.

“You’re the one who asked.” A short, flat response. What is McCoy thinking? Jim wonders.

He takes a breath and decides he has been playing around too long. “Want to tell me what it is you come to the park for, McCoy?” He uses his policeman’s voice, even though he hasn’t yet cultivated it to the point where it scares perps. Still, he thinks it has a nice unyielding quality to it.

Leonard simply laughs. “I’d ask what business it is of yours, kid, but something tells me you’re looking at me through a cop’s eyes. So I’ll ask you: why the interest?”

It’s a game, Jim realizes. McCoy is testing him. And Jim has never declined a challenge in his life. He sheds the rest of the crumbs from his hands by rubbing them together, not caring that a pigeon climbs onto his foot to find the last bits of Danish, and leans back against the bench with his eyes fixed on McCoy.

“Just curious,” he counters. “What’re you selling?”

An eyebrow lifts. “Excuse me?”

“I saw you,” he lies, “make the switch with that dog owner. What’s the market value of your product these days?”

“Oh, Jim, Jim,” the man murmurs, amused. “I hate to break it to you, but you didn’t see anything. There wasn’t anything to see. The dog got loose. I did my civic duty and tried to help catch it.”

Oh, he’s not getting away that easily! “Liar.”

“Liar?” McCoy scoffs. “Now who’s telling the big ones? Is this how you rookies get your training nowadays, by accusing perfectly innocent people of wrongdoing? Whoever came up with that plan is an idiot!” McCoy stands up, brushing off his pants, and picks up his coffee cup. “Remind me not to re-elect the city commissioner.”

Jim springs away from the bench and blocks the man’s path. The flock of pigeons part for them and then close ranks again, tripping over their own tiny feet to figure out where the food has gone. He almost snaps, suddenly realizing his chance could be walking away from him, “Where are you going?”

“That sounded like a demand,” Leonard warns Jim softly. “I don’t like demands. Now move, unless you plan to arrest me.”

“The cup,” Jim says, pointing at it. “Give me the cup.”

“What?”

“It’s how you’re transporting the drugs. I’m not a fool, McCoy. Hand it over!” It either has to be the ever-present coffee cup or a slight-of-hand exchange. Jim isn’t certain which but he is grasping at what he can to prevent the man from getting away.

Perhaps he’s right, he decides when Leonard’s hand tightens possessively on the white cup. “Get your own!” McCoy snarls at him.

Jim steps into his personal space. “Are you defying a direct order?”

“You got a warrant, officer?” counters the brown-haired man. “‘Cause I’m thinking this is harassment.”

Jim, against his common sense, reaches out and wraps his hand over McCoy’s holding onto the article in question. “Are you afraid,” he asks softly, “of what I will find?”

Those eyes (why hadn’t Jim noticed they are vivid green when caught by sunlight?) don’t budge from his, even as Leonard relents and says “Suit yourself” and lets Jim take his coffee cup. Snapping off its lid, Jim looks down into it—and stares at dark liquid. As a hint of the coffee’s aroma overtakes the smell of grass and fresh air, Jim’s heart sinks, settling to join the pigeons on the sidewalk.

When he looks up again, McCoy is walking away. Jim secures the lid in place again and jogs to catch up to him.

“I made a mistake,” he says, suppressing a grimace while he tries to hand the cup back to McCoy.

Leonard won’t take it. “Just throw it away.”

“Look, I’m sorry…”

“Hey, enough!” the man snaps, turning on him. “I don’t have time for play cop games with you. I’m late to work already.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “And a word of advice? Don’t come back to my bench.”

It’s a hard punch. Jim, not certain if he deserves it or not, stiffens automatically. “I think I told you this before, Leonard McCoy, you can’t own public property.”

“And you can’t accost people with crazy allegations. Guess that makes us even.”

Jim shoves fingers through his short hair. “Fine. I’ll back off.”

Leonard watches him for a moment, a silent survey of Jim’s sincerity. “Okay then,” he says, temper soothed and somewhat appeased. “I’m going now.”

But Jim can’t let it go at that, not until he knows he hasn’t completely botched his mission. “You’ll come back?”

A snort of amusement from Leonard. “I might,” the man tells Jim. “It depends on you.”

Jim doesn’t question that and stands alone in the middle of the park path, watching Leonard McCoy walk away, an easy, confident figure of a man.

Somehow, he lost this round. Jim’s eyes drop to the coffee cup. He finds the nearest trash bin and disposes of it. Disappointed but not feeling defeated, Jim abandons his morning’s watch at the park and goes home to mull over his plans.

Later, on a night patrol with a partner, someone will say over the radio Jim’s name. It’s almost a drawl, distorted by static, and for a moment Jim thinks it’s Leonard’s voice until the operator identifies himself as another rookie at the police station. Then it dawns on Jim why he shouldn’t have mistaken that voice for McCoy’s but did—and he scares his partner by whooping loudly and slamming his fist down onto the car’s dashboard.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s up with you, Kirk?”

Jim grins like a wolf and turns glinting eyes to the wide-eyed man next to him. “That fucking sneaky bastard. He knew my name!“

“Uh, yeah?”

Jim laughs, the sluggish feeling which had been weighing down his limbs suddenly transforming into a fire of energy.

Leonard McCoy, Jim thinks, rocking forward in his seat in anticipation, goes back on his list of suspicious persons. Thank. Fucking. God! Now there’s plausible reason to survey the park again and, more importantly, to return to a particular bench he can’t seem to put from of his mind.

Mr. McCoy will be missing him by now, no doubt; and Jim would not disappoint a perp waiting to be caught… no, he would not!

-Fini

Two Birds of a Feather

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• Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 4 (#40, J ‘N B Series) (40/40) – from March 29, 2013
• The Light In Which We’re Cast (#39, J ‘N B Series) – from March 20, 2013
• Playing Life to Win (#38, J ‘N B Series) – from March 14, 2013
• An Intergalactic Fandom (#37, J ‘N B Series) – from January 15, 2013
• We Fight to Win (#36, J ‘N B Series) – from January 4, 2013