Title: It Could Happen to You
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Disclaimer: Love ST but don’t own it though.
Summary: If Kirk, Spock, and McCoy were trapped on a deserted island, who would crack first? Three different takes.
“Jim, what in the blazes are you doing?”
“Hey, Bones.” Kirk brushes off bits of smashed berries coating his skin. “You ever wondered what it would be like to be a different color?”
McCoy stares at the Captain like he’s grown an extra head. “No, Jim, can’t say that I have. But I’m guessing—” He eyes the naked man sitting under the palm tree, “—that you have. Hold on a second.” McCoy turns around and hollers, “SPOCK! Get your skinny, green butt over here!”
McCoy unstraps a recently filled container of fresh water from across his chest and gently places it on the ground near Kirk. Can’t leave him alone for a minute. Damn it! “It’s alright, Jim-boy, me and Spock are gonna get ya cleaned up.”
“But Bonesss…” Kirk whines, actually whines, like a little child that was enjoying a romp through the mud.
“Doctor—” Spock breaks off from whatever logical tidbit he’d planned to regale McCoy with, for which Leonard is sadly grateful. (Been on this island too damn long.) “Doctor, why is the Captain blue?”
McCoy wheels around to confront the mystified Vulcan. “I told you to watch him, you damn hobgoblin! Now look at this mess…”
Spock is calm in the face of McCoy’s blustering. “Jim is a mature, able adult—”
McCoy leans in and whispers harshly, “We talked about this, Spock. He’s going ’round the bend from boredom—” Spock raises his eyebrow. “—and we gotta keep a close eye on him. Understand?”
Spock observes their Captain, who is hunched over counting (and possibly naming) a row of marching ants. The Vulcan answers (with real regret), “I will comply with your request in the future.”
McCoy only sighs and gestures at the water jug with resignation. “So whose turn is it to wash him this time?”
“Spock, come down, okay?” Jim shades his eyes as he calls.
McCoy steps up beside Kirk and eyes the distance from the ground to the top of the tree with great apprehension. “Ya know, if Spock falls outta that thing, I ain’t got the tools to keep his bones from knitting back together all crooked.”
“I know that, Bones, you don’t have to remind me every day!” Jim snaps. He’s sick of listening to McCoy complain about his lack of medical supplies in the face of ‘adversity caused by two knuckle-heads.‘ “Let’s just focus on getting Spock down.”
McCoy crosses his arms and grumps. “Fine.” He kicks hard at the base of the palm tree. “Spock, come down here right now, or so help me God, I’m gonna shake you outta this tree like a coconut!”
“Doctor,” a merry voice drifts down to them, “I am studying the indigenous Bazooka leaf bug.”
Bazooka? Bones and Jim look at one another in confusion.
“Spock, how do you know what is it?”
A head pokes out between two frond leaves. Spock stares down at the two Humans in clear exasperation of their stupidity. “I am Science Officer. I retain the right to name all living creatures discovered upon this island.” His head disappears, and then a long, green arm pops out a moment later, waving around a small kicking black beetle between two fingers. “Behold,” the voice calls. “The Bazooka bug!”
“Jim, did Spock drink any of that stuff I keep hidden under the grey rocks?”
Jim turns to Bones, face brightening. “What stuff, Bones? Have you been holding out on me?” he demands.
“No, Hell no, Jim! Would you pay attention? It’s the last of the anti-depressant from my medikit.” When Jim just looks blankly at McCoy, he adds, “That brand always makes Spock kinda—” he twirls a finger at his head.
“Ah… Oh. No, I don’t think so.”
A loud diatribe is filtering from the top of the palm tree (disturbs the native birds). Apparently, Spock is communicating with his newly named specimen.
McCoy says, “Damn, I sure hope it is the medicine, ’cause otherwise—” He looks at Jim, who has the same expression.
“Otherwise, we’re screwed,” Jim concludes.
Spock spends the majority of his time observing the natural wildlife on the island; sadly, however, Kirk uses them as game. Often Spock will catch the Captain stalking silently through the brush as an innocent creature dwells nearby, minding its own business. Spock will just as silently approach from another direction and then accidentally begin making a racket of noise which alarms the animal and sends it scurrying off. Later, the Captain will eye Spock suspiciously over a dinner of nuts, berries and fruit while Spock feigns interest in the Doctor’s rambling conversation.
They spend the next few months repeating a similar scenario every other day or so until one particular evening when Kirk is sharpening a crudely made knife on a rock and Spock is reassembling his tricorder (for the sixtieth time) by firelight.
A branch snaps in the dark, and Jim is instantly on his feet, scanning the area. “Spock,” he hisses at the Vulcan. “Which direction did that come from?”
Spock, who has paused with a piece of tricorder shell in his left hand, cocks his head and listens. “From the Northeast, approximately twenty-two point nine feet—”
Two consecutive snaps sound in the night. Kirk makes a shush-ing motion his hand, and Spock complies. They circle around to the edge of the camp and crouch in the deep shadows, listening.
Suddenly, Kirk leans over and whispers, “Where’s Bones?”
“Location unknown, Captain.”
As a bush rustles a mere ten feet away, Kirk drops any forthcoming reply. He checks his knife at his side instead. “On my command, Mr. Spock.” Kirk doesn’t wait for Spock to affirm the order. Rather, he slithers on his belly for five feet and then leaps out of the shadows with a charging roar. Spock, who presumes this to be the command for attack, is right behind the Captain as they pounce into the bushes and land with a thump on a large creature that makes a high-pitched shriek.
Scrambling, kicking, and biting ensues. When the captive animal begins to curse in Standard, Spock has to re-adjust his assumptions. “Doctor?” he inquires.
“Yes, Spock, Goddamn it, it’s me! Jim, get that knife outta my face!”
Kirk rolls off of McCoy who (purposefully) lands one last kick to the Captain’s shin. “What the Hell, Bones!”
Spock sits back on his haunches, begins cataloguing the new tears in his uniform sleeve. Kirk sits up and tries to regain his breath (and not curse, obviously, at the pain in his leg). McCoy is flat on his back, spread-eagle and rubbing at his side with a scowl.
It’s then that the Vulcan notices McCoy’s attire. He is not dressed in the remnants of his blue uniform; Doctor McCoy is bare-chested except for a string of eye teeth hanging around his neck, and his lower half is covered in an oddly patched skirt of leaves and vines.
Kirk has too recovered his senses enough to notice the doctor’s outfit. His mouth drops open in shock.
McCoy raises his head and glares at them both. “What’s the matter? Never seen a man of nature before?” He turns his attention solely onto Kirk. “Jim, the spirits of the animals are mighty angry at you.”
Kirk utters a “Huh?“
“They told me to tell you to stop killing ’em and cutting ’em up for stew.” McCoy’s eyes are intense (and somewhat frightening).
“Doctor,” Spock begins. He has to address this madness before it takes over McCoy completely. “Perhaps—”
“Spock,” the doctor grins broadly at the Vulcan and sits up. “Thank you for trying to preserve those poor kindred souls from barbarians like—”
“Hey!” Kirk cries in indignation.
Spock blinks once. McCoy adds, “You are very wise, my Vulcan friend.”
Thus Spock decides that this illness may not be a detriment to McCoy after all. He responds with “You are welcome, Doctor.”