0Title: Difficulty Engaged (5/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: During leave, trouble thwarts a good plan and causes Kirk and Spock to accelerate the timeline of their McCoy-centric agenda. But true to form, McCoy is already playing by a set of rules they don’t understand.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2| 3 | 4
There is a common misconception about the telepathic, that they prefer each other’s company to any other. In fact, the opposite is true: unless of the same species with similar training and complementary strengths, telepaths are generally wary of each other—with good reason. One slip, one clumsy or careless burst of emotion or thought, from a telepath can lead to the obliteration of the other’s shield, forcing them both into raw, crippling exposure. Worse, should they in those hectic moments be unable to prevent their powers from crashing together, the result is certain destruction for any nearby individuals with little-to-no mental defense against the backlash.
But despite knowing of the risks and having studied specific incidents in history as a mandatory course of his early tutelage, Spock feels less afraid and more curious. The telepath near McCoy (and now Kirk) is of a race he does not recognize. But she must be strong, that much he can discern. While the physical eye may see her, her presence is entirely absent to his extrasensory perception.
Yes, a curiosity indeed.
From a vantage point that affords him a decent view of the proceedings and is within his hearing range if he concentrates (yet seems to offend the nearby market staff for he shows no interest in spending any money on their superfluous products), his attention turns to his shipmates. The mere sight of them rekindles an aftertaste of their presence, as real as the warmth of the air and as harmlessly normal. It seems a condition he could easily become accustomed to, but perhaps this is not an observation to mention to either Kirk or McCoy. Most humans are naturally hesitant of the notion of connected minds because they cannot comprehend it as a normal—and in some cases, pleasant—state of existence. As may be expected, there needs to be some education made available to assuage their apprehension.
This is when Spock realizes that errant training of thought has broken his concentration; for several minutes past, he knows not what has been said between Jim and the others. The group is preparing to vacate the premises of the supermarket, however, with no indication of hostility or coercion. But Spock has not verified their heading due to his distraction. Were he still in school, he might be shamed by his elders for the mistake. Conversely, his mother would simply call the act “daydreaming” and inquire as to the nature of his thoughts.
Which, Spock determines, most assuredly imagining his tie to bondmates would not be a suitable subject matter to share with one’s mother.
Spock opens his communicator, thankful he had previously discussed a rough outline of the plan with his captain. “Spock to Enterprise,” he calls.
Uhura answers immediately, “Enterprise here. Mr. Spock, Mr. Giotto confirms his understanding of the Captain’s orders. Security just now boarded the port. I will connect your comm to their channel.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. The Captain appears to have successfully engaged the party. I shall proceed to follow them. An update, please, on Mr. Chekov’s preparations.”
“Ready to go, sir!” pipes in the officer in question.
“Mr. Chekov, I estimate you have approximately twenty-one minutes to assume your position.”
“On my way now, sir,” comes the response, already fading out as Chekov undoubtedly jumps into the bridge’s lift.
A new voice comes online. “Mr. Spock!”
“Yes, Mr. Scott?”
“Be careful doun there, the lot of you. I don’t fancy sitting in this captain’s chair permanently.”
“Nor I, Mr. Scott. If Captain Kirk’s plan is sound, it will not become an issue.”
“Sulu,” Spock hears Scott say, “has Pavel reached the transporter yet?”
Satisfied with everything he has heard, Spock informs them, “Maintain regular check-ins with Security. I will contact you as the situation develops. Spock out.”
Tucking away the communicator, he glides around a stand of holographic postcards in time to catch the final flashes of Kirk’s tourist outfit and McCoy’s uniform across the store, moments later hidden from sight by the opaque entrance sliding shut upon their exit. A seller tries to intercepts Spock on the way out, shaking two handfuls of accessories uncomfortably close to his face.
“Sir,” the man half cries, half demands, “you can’t leave empty-handed! Not even a souvenir?! Come this way, my fellow—I have an entire section just for you, both pleasing to the eyes and the palate!”
“Unlikely,” replies Spock. “That which pleases me has already left the building, and I must hurry to catch them.”
He leaves the gawking man in his wake.
This will work, thinks Kirk, his jovial facade at odds with the churning of an uneasy stomach and a slight case of nerves. This has to work.
From beneath the sun visor now pulled low over his face, he glances at McCoy walking beside him, wishing he could say something that will make both of them feel more hopeful. But he cannot, and so McCoy will simply have to trust him to know what he’s doing.
Unless… Yes, maybe there is a way to give Bones a sign.
He casually slips his hand into McCoy’s, managing to squeeze it before McCoy’s second of hesitation passes and the man shakes off Jim’s hand as unwanted attention.
Feeling a bit impish, Jim suppresses a smile, reaching again for the doctor’s hand. This time, McCoy flings it back at him in clear agitation, followed by a scathing look.
“Knock it off,” warns the doctor.
Jim does smile now. “I’ve missed you so much!”
McCoy stops walking. So does the remainder of their party.
The man eyes Jim briefly before saying in a calm, careful tone of voice, “Look, the only reason I’m going along with you is because you seem to have something important to tell me.” The doctor’s gaze flicks over to a staring Ruti and Chee. “I’m kind of pressed for time, Jim, so if you want your chance, stop pissing me off and let’s get to where you want us to go.”
Jim understands the message. Wherever Ruti and Chee had planned to take McCoy, the reason behind it—and likely the kidnapping itself—comes with a short deadline. Usually, the reason to operate under a time-constraint at a port like this one involves making a scheduled departure. So, that implies these two had planned to stow his doctor away on some ship and leave with him.
Jim’s never going to let that happen.
As he calms a sudden urge to grab McCoy and run, he considers why McCoy’s unwanted company would agree to a leisurely stop for drinks with an unexpected guest. Maybe he is of use to them as well?
“Well?” McCoy demands, cutting into Kirk’s thoughts.
Well, decides Jim, he just has to be careful. And he always is. Most of the time.
Some of the time.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, because realistically being careful is a poor possibility for both of them. “You’re right—and I swear I’ll make my point soon.” For some reason that promise flusters McCoy, so Jim adds for good measure, “Trust me,” low enough that only McCoy can hear him.
Saying nothing and looking at no one, McCoy resumes walking. Jim catches up to him.
It’s going to go wrong, so very wrong. Leonard has been in the thick of Jim’s plans before and despite what his captain wants him to believe, Leonard is certain of at some point everything will go sideways. It always does.
A funny sensation starts in the pit of McCoy’s stomach when Kirk finally branches off the gangway to the entrance of an establishment just at the border the entertainment district. McCoy’s early visit had been during an hour when the local bars and lounges were shut down; now the entire strip is slowly coming awake, one by one opening their doors to longtime patrons and curious bypassers. It’s still too early for the nightlife crowd to arrive, so by all accounts, Kirk has picked the perfect time and place: somewhere not yet overrun by civilians and where fights don’t attract more attention than usual; and being on the farthest port edge, the escape route is one-way, back to the main thoroughfare.
Leonard wipes sweat from his forehead. If he’s nervous, he imagines Ruti and Chee must be extremely paranoid by now.
But Chee takes one look at the flashing Open sign of the lounge, makes a grunt that almost seems satisfied, and loudly bangs through the doorway. Jim follows next, McCoy in the middle, and lastly Ruti.
Leonard’s eyes adjust slowly to the dim interior, and he bumps into Jim, half-blind, tensing on instinct. He takes in Kirk’s stance. “Something the matter, Jim?”
It isn’t until the doctor speaks that Kirk seems to realize he has stopped moving, the words startling Jim into continuing his path forward.
“It’s nothing,” Jim replies. “Just thought I recognized someone, that’s all.”
That’s an answer McCoy will not contradict publicly, especially now with his heart knocking against his ribs as they approach a curved bar. The smiling man standing on the other side of it is the reason for his heart palpitations.
Pavel Chekov raises a hand in innocent greeting before resuming the routine motion of wiping down a row of shot glasses. His outfit isn’t quite that of a bartender’s but in the low lighting, no one will likely question the standard-issue black undershirt and pants.
McCoy’s heart starts to pound harder as Jim sails up to a stool, slaps a hand down on the countertop, and declares, “Bartender, service!”
Leonard’s forward momentum is stalled by a hand lightly landing on his arm. He swallows and stills under Ruti’s scrutiny. Chee abandons his surveillance of the lounge at large to stand opposite them.
“Empty,” the alien mutters.
Ruti says quietly to McCoy, “You are of use to us. He is not. Do not forget that.”
Jim has turned away from Chekov to observe their group in measured silence. Leonard can hear the cognitive wheels turning in Kirk’s head as the man watches them.
Ruti’s hand leaves Leonard’s arm. Feeling as though he is stepping on very thin ice where one wrong step can lead to disaster, Leonard delicately takes a seat next to Kirk.
Jim faces the bartender again. “Recommendations?”
Chekov beams. “I have a special zat will put hair on a bald man.”
Of course it would be Pavel, decides Leonard with a bit of dismay. The young fool probably volunteered for this part of the adventure. “We’ll pass,” he interjects.
Since Chekov seems momentarily disappointed, his offer must have been sincere. After all, the lieutenant is quite talented at mixing drinks—even if in all likelihood Chekov learned the art of bartending before he could legally imbibe his own concoctions.
Jim leans toward Leonard, hooking an arm around his waist. “Three Moonrock Twists and—” Here, he pats Leonard’s side fondly. “Something plainer for this old country doctor.”
McCoy snorts.
Chekov nods. “Moonrock Twist—da, everyone wants zat,” and begins pulling bottle after bottle off the shelves behind him.
With the sneaking suspicion this “fantastic” local drink is more fiction than fact, as Jim does love to embellish his cover when in disguise, Leonard has to ask, “What’s in this amazing drink, Jim?”
Jim winks. “Not even I know that, Leonard.”
Yes, definitely fiction. No matter, Chekov likes a good challenge just like the captain he works for, and indeed the young man is already laser-focused on inventing a Moonrock Twist right before their very eyes.
“Double whiskey,” he calls to Chekov’s back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”
McCoy’s comment makes Jim want to laugh out loud. Quelling that urge, he turns instead to their companions who remain at a significant distance.
“Sit down,” he coaxes them. When no one reacts to that, his gaze lands on the larger of the two. “Hey, you’re kind of cute. What’s your name?”
Cute growls.
“Is he always so friendly?” Jim asks of the female.
“You would not want to see his unfriendly side,” she says.
Her deliver is mild, but the threat is heartfelt. Jim offers her a thin-lipped smile. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
The slam of a tumbler onto the countertop gains everyone’s attention. Chekov crows proudly, “Ze Moonrock Twist! My finest creation!”
“Your creation?” Ruti questions sharply.
Jim tenses, but Chekov recovers quickly. “Not mine exactly,” the bartender explains, “but all Twists were invented in Russia and carefully preserved through ze generations.” At Ruti and Chee’s blank looks, he goes on a little too eagerly, “Russian tsars were of the highest nobility on Old Earth—and here, obviously.”
McCoy grumbles for someone to give him his whiskey.
Jim’s willing to play along. “How many Russians have settled on this spaceport?”
Chekov blinks. “We own it.”
Kirk rubs his forehead. McCoy covers his eyes.
The ridiculousness of the conversation appears to have tempered some response in the others, for the female makes her way to the bar and studies the glass with an iridescent sheen to it before holding it out to her companion. “Drink,” she orders him.
Chee drinks the concoction, grimacing fiercely afterward. “It is disgusting.”
Chekov snaps to attention, his normally cheerful demeanor darkening considerably.
Chee tosses out. “And weak!”
Something skitters down Jim’s spine at the fire sparking to life in Chekov’s eyes. He’s never seen Chekov engage in a brawl with someone over petty remarks, but there is a first time for everything.
Letting go of McCoy immediately, Jim drops the appearance of good humor. “Hey,” he says, palms out in a conciliatory manner but his tone sharp as he addresses their adversary. “You’re entitled to an opinion.” His gaze flicks again to Chekov, who is twisting a hand towel into a rope. “But don’t make it an insult.”
The female sits down. “I believe my friend means to say we would prefer a different beverage.”
Chekov crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, another drink. A better one!”
Kirk lays his hand on the counter when it seems like Chekov might jump over it to throttle the oversized fool and says lightly, “McCoy hasn’t had his whiskey. Pour us all one, my good fellow.”
A moment passes, and at last the tension breaks as Chekov caves to the subtle command to stand down, though the young man mutters under his breath as he makes a show of studying various labeled bottles of whiskey.
Jim sighs through his nose. Now, the second act should begin.
Leonard sighs in conjunction with Jim, relieved that a moment of disaster has been averted. He cannot imagine that the whole of Kirk’s plan is to attack Chee with only Chekov for backup.
“You wanted to talk to me about something,” he reminds Jim, hoping for some clue of what he should be doing to help their ruse along.
“Yes,” jumps Ruti, watching Kirk rather McCoy. “Make good use of your time.”
“What about our time?” growls Chee, alternating his glower between all three humans in the room. “It is more precious than theirs!”
“Humans keep closer ties than we do, Chee. They are persistent in their pursuits, even when considering one another as nuisances. I believe the term for this is… family.”
McCoy spins to face her, shocked.
It’s true, Kirk has been his family for years now. Ruti has guessed that accurately, despite the blustering and harsh words and Leonard pretending his relationship with Jim is inconsequential.
Good lord, how far has she read into his mind? Into his heart?
This can only mean the ruse is coming to an end. He needs to do something. Push Kirk away, or just tell Ruti to just drag him to that damned ship already. There has to be something he can do before it all goes to hell.
Damn it, Leonard should have never left Spock’s side. Even if Ruti had been watching him, following him, long before he got lost, the moment he separated himself from Spock, he unknowingly played into her hands. While he cannot change that fact now, he can make certain no one else suffers for it.
The door to the lounge swings inward then, a newcomer casting a long, thin shadow across the floor.
Chee swings in that direction, visibly coiling as if to attack. Ruti soundlessly positions herself so Chee is in between her and the rest of them.
The new arrival is the picture of calm: steady stride, hands tucked behind him, expression bland. Spock approaches the bar as if there is nothing in the galaxy to be upset about. But he does stop midway to turn his dark gaze onto McCoy.
“Good evening, Leonard.”
Leonard chokes, frozen like the others around him. Even Chekov barely moves, holding out a shot glass full of whiskey that no one tries to take.
Then Kirk reacts, his stance softening, relaxing, as the man himself leans back against the edge of the bar. Pulling the shot glass from Chekov’s hand, Jim downs it in one go, his gaze never wavering from the Vulcan in the Starfleet uniform.
“Leonard,” Jim questions mildly, “who’s he?”
McCoy still can’t think of a suitable response, but he doesn’t need to because Spock answers for him.
“I am Spock, Dr. McCoy’s partner.”
Kirk’s tone grows ever lazier. “I take it you don’t mean colleague?”
“I am that as well.”
“Hm,” murmurs Kirk. “I guess you’ve heard of me. I’m Jim, Leonard’s first partner.”
The Vulcan raises an eyebrow. “I recall no mention of you.”
Kirk sets the shot glass down none-too-gently. “That so? Well he’s never mentioned you.”
Leonard rubs a hand across his mouth, frankly marveling at the audacity of his idiot friends. It’s only because he notices Chee’s expression wavering between confusion and suspicion that he accepts that may be bigger idiots than Spock and Kirk who will believe this ridiculous byplay.
Kirk and Spock turn as one to McCoy as if awaiting his decision of who’s better than whom, and Leonard wants to smack them both. So they expect him to play his part in this little three-person soap opera…?
Hell no.
Leonard stands up and looks to Ruti instead. “We’ve got a problem.”
“And that problem is?” she asks softly.
“I don’t think either of these fellas deserves me.” Leonard hikes a thumb at Spock. “This one likes his work better than he likes me, and that one—” He doesn’t even bother to point to Kirk. “—never could honestly express his feelings.”
Kirk’s mouth opens and closes. “But I married you!”
“Sham marriage if you ask me,” Leonard says sardonically, ignoring the fizzling noise Kirk makes. “So you see my conundrum,” he tells Ruti. “If I let them fight over me, the victor might actually believe he has won something.”
“Interesting,” announces Spock. “Then how should we proceed?”
Chee wants to know of his telepathic co-conspirator, “Do they have a brain illness?”
“No,” she confirms, clearly much to Chee’s dismay, shifting her attention as she addresses Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. “You all speak the truth—but it matters not that you are in love with each other. Dr. McCoy’s services are required to save a life,” she informs Kirk and Spock, “and your interference is not welcome.”
“Do you think you can stop us?” Jim demands, moving to stand in front of Leonard with Spock joining him.
“Jim!” McCoy warns, recognizing the ruthless quality to Ruti’s gaze.
“Is that a challenge, Captain Kirk?”
Leonard feels it then, an odd sensation like a tickle in his mind, deep inside. Before he can decide how to react, the view in front of him bursts into red: Security officers pouring through the front entrance and a side door Leonard hadn’t noticed before now, their attack as erratic as ants swarming out of a hill on high alert to protect and defend their territory. Alongside them, a nearly blinding light from outside pierces the darkened lounge, causing Leonard to throw up an arm to shield his eyes.
Hell has come, he thinks. Dear god, I hope we survive it.
Inside his head, a voice whispers back, There is no god here, Dr. McCoy.
He stumbles sideways, sitting something hard and unyielding. A cloud is descending, obscuring what he is aware of. There’s fighting—Kirk and Chekov had pounced on Chee in the moment of inattention; the large alien heaves them off much like bear shaking away two vaguely irritating gnats—elegantly long fingers find his face—Spock?—someone yells—there should be pain but the cloud is relentless, an intrusion, a force driving his will down, down, down until, finally, there is simply silence.
After a time, Leonard opens his eyes to find himself propped against the side of the bar. Silence still prevails, a sea of it stretching out across body after body of fallen comrades. In the middle of that sea, only a slight figure remains standing.
Ruti holds her hand out to him and, helpless, McCoy climbs to his feet and staggers to her. He tries to call for help but who exists in this silence to hear his cry except her?
You will feel no pain, she promises as her hand grasps his. No fear. No anguish.
He looks around, certain he ought to be experiencing all of those things. She’s hurt everyone, the lives he cares for more than himself. He tries to spin away from her to see all that she took from him, to desperately determine how much of his heart has been destroyed in the blink of an eye, but the grip on him is too tight, too strong.
She tugs him toward an exit, navigating them around the unmoving bodies, while he ponders why he cannot dig in his heels to stop their flight. If it’s bad inside, yes, but beyond this place is something worse. Leonard can sense a menace, waiting.
He is near, the voice—Ruti’s—whispers, not needing to give a name. Strangely Leonard can guess it because while he feels nothing, Ruti feels everything, most especially fear.
The cousin, full of vengeance, has arrived at the station.
Related Posts:
- Difficulty Engaged (11/11) – from June 29, 2020
- Difficulty Engaged (10/11) – from June 28, 2020
- Difficulty Engaged (9/10) – from June 21, 2020
- Difficulty Engaged (8/10) – from June 12, 2020
- Difficulty Engaged (7/10) – from November 29, 2019
