Title: A Series of Laughs – 9
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy
Summary: Drabble fill for trek_crackbingo prompts: cowboys/BAMF!ery.
Previous Fills: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

My brain likes the prompt but not the add crack part. Three different snapshots, the first of which is a “prequel” to the sixteenth drabble written eons ago for the drabble collection The Odds Are Better Together.

“Spock, try this one!”

Leonard McCoy’s head pops out from between a billowy dress and an armored chest plate hanging on a clothes rack in the back corner of the Requisitions department. With unnatural glee, he thrusts an outfit in the direction of his Vulcan friend. When no one relieves McCoy of his burden, the man glares. “Take it! I haven’t got all day to play dress up with you. This one will do fine.”

“The garment is unsuitable.”

McCoy purses his lips. “Mr. Spock, everybody wants to be a cowboy.”

“I shall attend the gathering, Doctor, but I find it illogical to pose as someone I am not.”

With a roll of his eyes and a long-suffering sigh, the doctor gives up. “Fine, be a stubborn hobgoblin. Ain’t no skin off my nose!” He eyes the black vest and little red necktie in his hand and grins. “I still say it’s a great idea. Maybe there’s a pair of boots in my size somewhere…”

Spock knows that a response is unnecessary. The Vulcan clasps his hands behind his back and waits for the doctor to finish his strange (and undoubtedly human) pursuit of “the perfect costume.”

~~~

”Don’t make this any harder than need be, fellas. Lay down your weapons nice ‘n slow—and no one gets hurt.”

The Captain and his First Officer consider the seriousness of McCoy’s slow drawl, then follow the order. Kirk’s phaser dangles from his fingers for a heartbeat of a moment before it drops to the ground to join Spock’s phaser.

“Bones,” he tries again, calm despite the bow-tight muscles in his shoulders.

“I said my name ain’t Bones,” answers the man with heat. “That’s a thing you call a man before you send him to the grave, mister, and it ain’t time for that kind of talk. You understand?” He takes one step forward, phaser leveled at both of the officers. “Not unless you’re ready to be six feet under.”

“Captain, it seems this is not the doctor.”

The man dressed as Chief Medical Officer, with McCoy’s body but not his mannerisms, turns his attention to Spock. “What are you? I’ve seen Apaches with faces that’ll turn their mothers’ milk sour but you—you’re the devil himself.”

Kirk tamps down on an inappropriate urge to laugh. He stage-whispers to the Vulcan, “I think he finds your ears disturbing, Mr. Spock.”

Spock responds only with a lift of his eyebrow.

“No more talkin’!” The wary man circles them, no visible sign of nerves. “I’ll ask the questions and you’ll give me straight answers. If I don’t like an answer, I’ll shoot.”

Kirk can recognize a man who bluffs—and this doppelganger is not the bluffing type. “Okay,” he agrees mildly as he lowers his hands. “You ask, we answer. And then we will ask you a question.”

The man nods. “Fair enough. What is this place?” How did I get here? remains unsaid but understood.

“You are on the starship Enterprise,” answers Jim. “I am Captain Kirk and this is my First Officer, Mr. Spock.”

“Star—ship. Ha!” The man’s laugh is McCoy’s too. “What kinda fool do you think I am, son? There’s the sea and there’s the stars and there ain’t no way to combine the two. Ship. Starship.” The man snorts, props a boot on the low bottom edge of the transporter console and leans forward to rest his elbow on his thigh. He gestures with the phaser in his hand. “This place smells clean. Don’t know many clean places where I’m from, except on rich folks’ land. Someone here has got money.” Those bright blue eyes linger on Kirk’s uniform insignia. “Military?”

“Something like that, Bones.” Kirk grins. “Sorry. You look too much like my Chief Medical Officer—you could be his twin.”

“If your friend is an honest man, then he ain’t no kin of mine.”

“Captain.”

Spock says his name in a way that means this man is unknown to us, potentially dangerous and be careful. Jim is not always careful, but he knows how to turn a situation to his advantage when necessary.

“Look, I don’t want a fight,” Captain Kirk tells the stranger. “As far as I’m concerned, you are a welcome guest on my ship. We don’t treat guests with hostility—and we expect the same courtesy in return.”

The man is quiet for a minute, eyes locked on Jim’s. Then with exaggerated care, the McCoy look-a-like places his phaser on top of the console. His words are rueful. “I wasn’t sure I could work that thing anyway. It looks enough like a gun but I wouldn’t place a bet that it shoots like one.”

“The weapon is similar to an old Earth-style gun. Deadlier, though.”

“That so?” drawls the stranger. “A bullet’s mighty dangerous, depending on where it hits.”

Jim walks over and brushes a hand against the abandoned phaser. Watching the man watch him, Kirk comes to a decision. “Here,” he says as he flips it around to demonstrate the settings and how they work. “It will stun an enemy at this level.”

The man lifts a hand to point at the other extreme on the phaser’s handle. That hand is an eerie replica of McCoy’s, with long fingers but dirty nailbeds and a dark tan. Kirk recalls how often Bones insists that clean hands are a prerequisite for doctoring.

Not-McCoy is saying, “And this kills?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “It will disintegrate the target.”

Those blue eyes lift to his. The stranger’s silence is as striking as a cry of denial. Finally, the man asks, “What did you say this place was called?”

“Enterprise.”

“A… starship.”

Spock steps into the conversation, hands clasped behind his back. “Affirmative.”

“You have proof?” The stranger’s eyes dart around the room, observing the metal, soft glowing lights of the computers and the raised platform of the transporter.

Jim wants to say you’ll be okay, this is a safe place but it is not his job to sugarcoat reality. He offers honesty and no less. “Follow me. I do have proof.”

Spock walks in the rear as Kirk leads. One or two crewmen turn to watch as the trio transverses the corridors or to nod deferentially with “Captain” by the lift as they stand aside.

One young man bumps shoulders with their guest upon exiting the lift and murmurs, “Sorry, Doctor McCoy.”

The man stills. When the lift doors close again and it resumes its ascent, he tells them softly, “I’m not a doctor.”

“What is your trade?” Jim asks politely. Small talk may ease the tension choking them.

He receives a sharp look. “Hired gun.”

The Vulcan, always curious, asks the man to clarify that title. Before Kirk can think of a way to explain the slang, their companion laughs shortly. “Means my only loyalty is to the money I’m offered for a job.”

Spock remarks, “I infer that ‘hired guns’ perform work which necessitates the use of a weapon.”

“On the mark, pal. He’s a sharp one,” the man says to the Captain with a sarcastic edge.

“Spock is not human.” Kirk’s voice is coldly displeased at the insult aimed at his friend and colleague. He purposefully suppresses the more appropriate truth that Spock is half-human. The Vulcan does not correct his statement.

That face pinches, a quick breath drawn in, and Jim sighs. He repeats the expressed sentiment from the transporter room. “No one here will harm you.”

The man gives no indication of accepting Jim’s vow, simply places himself so that Captain Kirk is closest to Spock. Spock inclines his head in understanding to Jim, whose face has a touch of sorrow.

As the lift states “Observation Deck,” Jim thinks of McCoy. If this man is here, where is Bones?

They enter the Observation Deck. Kirk and Spock remain at the entrance in silence, watching as that familiar face turns in wonder to the brilliant display of stars. The man walks as far as the wide navigational wheel, a hand automatically anchoring to one of its handles. After some time, words are quietly spoken: “The heavens are full of stars. Is this where I am—Heaven?”

It’s close enough, Jim thinks.

At Kirk’s side, Spock says, “You are in space. If you will provide your name and your origins, we may begin an investigation into your return.”

He looks in their direction, then, silhouetted by starlight. “My name’s Leonard Horatio McCoy.”

If Spock is as surprised as Kirk, then the Vulcan’s body does not betray his reaction. “Your birthplace, Mr. McCoy,” the Vulcan reminds softly. An almost-command.

“Where I’m from is where I’m needed most.”

Jim’s mind follows with the inevitable question. Then what need has brought you to us?

~~~

“Damn it, Scotty! Beam me to the ship! BEAM ME TO THE SHIP!”

McCoy’s communicator crackles unhappily and dies. Leonard tucks it into his belt with a curse rather than tossing the useless device into the dirt. Spock would hound McCoy for ages if a native of this planet picked it up. (Leonard hasn’t forgotten the long-winded lecture from that time he accidentally left behind his “heater” in the impressionable hands of the Iotians.)

He is hunkered down by a short, wide post of a broken fence. Another spat of gunfire chips at the wood around him.

“Come out, you yellow-bellied hog swill!”

Leonard bristles. He damn well isn’t a coward! He is a doctor with a heathly sense of preservation and an excellent understanding of what kind of damage bullet shrapnel can do to a man’s innards.

The jingle of spurs cut ominously through the air as McCoy’s tormentor approaches. “I promise not to put too many holes through you, old man.”

“I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake!” he cries back. “I’m unarmed!”

“If you was a smart doctor, you woulda brought a gun. Only fools walk into this town and don’t expect trouble.”

Stupid Starfleet exploratory expeditions. Stupid races with penchants for behaving like crazies in a Western film. “For the sake of knowledge, my ass,” he mutters to himself. Where’s that damn curious Vulcan and his nerve-pinching fingers anyway? Hasn’t McCoy told Spock many, many times that curiosity killed the cat?

Oh, that’s right. Spock had said, “I am not feline, Doctor McCoy.”

He spends a few seconds cursing a literal-minded half-Vulcan who must enjoy making Leonard’s life pure hell. Between Spock and Jim, McCoy is surprised that he hasn’t considered resignation or early retirement.

A voice says from above his head, “You a praying man, Doc?”

Leonard is tired of being someone’s target practice while the townspeople ignore the maniac chasing him or hoot and holler in entertainment. He stands up, brushing the dirt from his pants. “Well now, son, let me consider that…”

The man grins at him from the other side of the fence.

Leonard’s fist is backed by enough temper to break the man’s nose. Then he steals the swaggering idiot’s gun, cocks it and blasts a hole into the dirt beside the man’s right temple.

“I may be old, but I can still knock a tin can off a fence post at a hundred yards.”

The man on the ground groans.

McCoy finishes in a low drawl, “Be thankful I’m a doctor, not a cowboy.” He tucks the gun into his belt next to the communicator. Pausing to consider the prone man, Leonard stoops, pulls off the man’s hat and slaps it against his thigh before placing it firmly on his head. There is no protest of the theft. Then Leonard goes in search of an errant hobgoblin and captain.

He finds them in front of a tavern, Jim grinning brightly at a lady in a low-cut gown. Spock has his nose pointed at his tricorder, the Vulcan’s brain apparently preoccupied with fascinating numbers and stats.

Kirk notices the doctor first.

“Bones!”

“Jim,” he replies. “I see you were… getting around to noticin’ my absence.”

When Kirk reaches for the black cowboy hat perched on McCoy’s head, a finger goes up in warning. “Uh uh, Jim-boy. You’d be wise not to touch that.”

“Going native, Bones?” Jim says with a hint of teasing.

He makes sure to look as serious (and deadly) as possible. “You never know.”

Spock seems to realize that he and his data have company. “Captain.” The Vulcan looks over to McCoy. “Doctor.” Then, “Doctor, might I ask where you acquired that weapon?”

Leonard pats the gun with satisfaction as he saunters past Jim and Spock. “Why, in the same place I got the hat, Mr. Spock. In a gunfight.”

Let his friends stew over that!

He tips his hat at the woman lazily waving a fan and offers her a wink, a “Ma’am” and then his arm for escort. With his prize—all of his prizes—the only thing Leonard presents to his fellow officers is his retreating back.

10

Related Posts:

• A Series of Laughs – 8 – from January 16, 2011
• A Series of Laughs – 7 – from December 11, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 6 – from December 10, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 5 – from December 8, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 4 – from December 3, 2010