The Price to Pay (is respect)
Oct. 29th, 2017 10:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Main Points:
Star Trek (the 2009!movie verse)/Constantine crossover
Summary: Dr McCoy tries to piece together what happened the previous night and finds things don't quite add up. Then the handsome stranger falls into his hotel room's kitchen, dying.
Word Count: 1647
Rating: Teen
Warnings: McCoy was drunk (or drugged).
Star Trek (the 2009!movie verse)/Constantine crossover
Summary: Dr McCoy tries to piece together what happened the previous night and finds things don't quite add up. Then the handsome stranger falls into his hotel room's kitchen, dying.
Word Count: 1647
Rating: Teen
Warnings: McCoy was drunk (or drugged).
It always takes Leonard a while to wake up on his own. If he’d had a hospital shift, that was one thing. These days, there’s no real reason to do so.
Somewhere into his slow wake-up process, he sees a pair of brilliantly blue eyes in his mind, and instantly sits up, breathing heavily. He only remembers bits and pieces of the previous night. Was he drugged? He checks, but he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and he doesn’t feel sore.
Alcohol poisoning? But no, he doesn’t have the headache.
He’d thought it had been random, that he’d been merely one of several choices available. Thinking about it, there’d been something targeted about the way Jim had found him, had talked to him. Almost as if—
No. He concentrates on breathing, in, out, in, out, on not losing the entire contents of his stomach. He’d been careful about his condition. Jocelyn had no reason to think he was still alive, and, last he’d seen, she was enjoying being the attractive widow. Joanna was devastated, but he’d hurt her enough. Explaining that they’d made a mistake with the identification, messing around with the lawyers, having him and Joce at each other’s throats…nah, it was better just to leave well enough alone. When he’d woken up in the morgue, it was the middle of the night and no staff was around. It was a nightmare breaking out, but no one had been around to see, and he’d stolen some clothes left in one of the lockers and made a run for it.
Since then, he’s been careful. The few times he’s died, he’s done so, as far as he knows, alone, and it’s been a while since the last time, so what had prompted this? He doesn’t have any evidence that’s what this had been about, but his gut says it is, and his gut is rarely wrong. But if he’d let slip anything he shouldn’t, if he’d mentioned it, then why would Jim have stayed? What would his next move—
A crash, in the kitchenette of his modest hotel room. He grabs a hypo and runs. Maybe it’s not a traditional weapon, but it calms him, makes him feel more in control of the situation, and most people aren’t looking to protect themselves from a doctor’s tool, anyway.
And there’s the untrustworthy kid, trying desperately to push himself off the floor with all the strength of a newborn calf. He bursts into a coughing fit, wet and painful, and McCoy’s almost unsurprised to see the blood shining brightly on the tile as he bends down. “What the hell?” he mutters softly, running back into the other room to grab his bag with a few (stolen) essentials like his tricorder.
“Oh, hey Bones.” It’s nonchalant, and he grins, lopsided, like he’s not bleeding internally. He manages to prop himself up against the cabinets, breathing shallowly as blood slowly makes a trail down his face.
“What’d you call me?” the doctor barks almost as an afterthought. He’s busy reading the results—broken rib, punctured lung, numerous lacerations, stab wound on the right arm, and that’s not counting the mass of matted blood on the kid’s inner leg…
“Bones.” The blond swallows and starts coughing helplessly, coughs shaking his whole body and, no doubt, doing more damage. He’d probably swallowed his own blood. “’s what you’ve got left,” he manages eventually, whisper hoarse.
“Stop tryin’ to talk when you’re bleedin’ out on my floor,” McCoy growls, feeling around for the communicator in his bag.
“You’re cute when you get protective, you know that?” he responds, grinning that lopsided grin again. “Could you pull out what’s in my pocket? I don’t really want to move around.”
“’m getting you to a hospital,” he answers, refusing to listen to a patient who might be a lunatic or hallucinating, but a hand on his stops him.
“You can try, but it probably won’t work, and I’d really like to put off dying if you don’t mind. Believe me, it’s important.” This is the most serious he’s ever seen him. He still tries the communicator, but it doesn’t work, like Kirk said, so he goes for the kid’s pocket. He must brush up against some wound or another, because the blond winces.
“An iris and an hourglass?” McCoy officially admits he’s lost.
Kirk starts coughing, before asking in a hoarse voice, “Water?”
“You’ve got internal bleeding,” the doctor points out, somehow losing this fight.
“Please? You’ll need it to get the blood off anyway,” Jim answers, like it doesn’t matter, and he finds himself filling a glass and bringing it back.
“Thanks.” Those blue eyes close, briefly, like he’s gathering his strength, before Jim knocks the glass over deliberately. The pool starts to spread, parallel to the droplets of blood. As the doctor watches, aghast, Jim reverentially lets the hourglass run until half the sand is on either side, then places it on its side in the water, and after that the iris. “I call on Temperantia to intercede on my behalf between the temple of the gods and the flesh of a man. I reverentially ask for the scales at equilibrium until the balance of Sol and Luna.”
Leonard starts getting up to maybe get some help from some poor sap on hotel duty when there’s suddenly a woman in a toga in the kitchen. She doesn’t appear too pleased to see the idiot bleeding out on his floor.
He makes some sort of strangled sound, but it goes unnoticed by the two.
“You have some nerve, Kirk,” she says in an unearthly voice, and maybe it’s McCoy who’s hallucinating all of this. It would make so much more sense than what’s currently happening. “You pay me no mind until it’s convenient.”
Jim shrugs as casually as he can, considering he’s still bleeding and doesn’t have a lot of energy. “I’m willing to pay any price you name. I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you’re going to walk out, I’d prefer you do it sooner than later so I can figure out my next move.”
In a move so quick it’s inhuman, she’s suddenly kneeling by him, a finger in the stab wound as Jim keens at the pain. “You are impolite, Magician. Better men than you have died at such impertinence.”
“He’s hurt!” McCoy yells, because he doesn’t know what is happening but this is a patient that’s being deliberately injured under his watch and he refuses, refuses to just stand by and let that happen. “I don’t care what he’s done; he doesn’t deserve torture!”
She instantly turns toward him, unblinking. Her face has all the emotion of one of those ancient Roman statues. “Leonard Horatio McCoy. Also not one of my followers, I’m sad to say, though you showed more promise than this one.”
“I don’t know who you are, ma’am, but as a doctor it’s my duty to try to save lives. If you can help save his, I beg you to do what you can,” he says, as bravely as he can, looking her in the eyes.
She glances between them, narrowing her eyes. “Between the two of you, you might be able to achieve a balance,” she decides, voice still echoing oddly. “James Tiberius Kirk, you will honor me until Brumalia. I think abstaining from alcohol and sexual relations during that time should serve as enough payment.”
“That’s a month! And isn’t abstaining also kind of not—” Jim starts protesting weakly, but she cuts him off relentlessly.
“I believe you have already more than made up for your personal…what did the Christians call it, Lent? It means little to me if you bleed out here, but I admire the physician’s desire to help, even in a war he knows nothing about. He knows his own heart, which is an honesty a liar like you has yet to achieve. And, of course, it will be up to you to fix yourself before dawn.” She stares at Jim as if she’s looking through his soul.
“My usual magic. Am I allowed—” he asks quietly, seriously, trailing off into a cough.
“You are, for I could no more change your nature in that than I could switch the orbits of Luna and Gaia.” And she’s gone, as suddenly as she came.
Jim winces and slowly begins to stand, using the cabinets as support.
“What sort of fool—” McCoy growls, rushing to Jim’s side.
“Easy, Bones. Not bleeding anymore. Not until dawn.” Jim raises the stabbed arm slowly, then wiggles his fingers for emphasis. His voice sounds…well, not really any stronger than it had, but he’s also not coughing anymore.
“What the hell’s happening? Who are you?” he whispers.
Jim huffs a laugh. “Sure you want to follow that rabbit down the rabbit hole? You don’t want to go to Wonderland. Place sucks.”
Leonard sighs and makes a decision, throwing open his arms to encompass the hotel room. “What else do I have to live for?”
Kirk purses his lips. “Well, you still have more than your bones to lose. Your soul, your childhood innocence, the color magenta.”
McCoy blinks.
“Don’t ask. You’re better off not knowing. Any of this, really.” The blond breathes in carefully. “But you’re going to ask, anyway, aren’t you?”
The doctor frowns and crosses his arms, staring the stranger down. “You better damn well believe it.” He pauses, then adds, “Would she be angry if I did what I could?”
He’s got the stranger frowning, too. “I…yeah, probably, though if you’ve got any old instruments,” he shudders, “…she’d probably be okay with those.”
“Needle and thread it is,” Bones announces. “Couch. Shirt off. Talk.”
Kirk’s eyes roll skyward. “She’s really not being subtle about the temptation, is she?” he asks rhetorically, but he does what McCoy asks peacably enough.
Somewhere into his slow wake-up process, he sees a pair of brilliantly blue eyes in his mind, and instantly sits up, breathing heavily. He only remembers bits and pieces of the previous night. Was he drugged? He checks, but he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and he doesn’t feel sore.
Alcohol poisoning? But no, he doesn’t have the headache.
He’d thought it had been random, that he’d been merely one of several choices available. Thinking about it, there’d been something targeted about the way Jim had found him, had talked to him. Almost as if—
No. He concentrates on breathing, in, out, in, out, on not losing the entire contents of his stomach. He’d been careful about his condition. Jocelyn had no reason to think he was still alive, and, last he’d seen, she was enjoying being the attractive widow. Joanna was devastated, but he’d hurt her enough. Explaining that they’d made a mistake with the identification, messing around with the lawyers, having him and Joce at each other’s throats…nah, it was better just to leave well enough alone. When he’d woken up in the morgue, it was the middle of the night and no staff was around. It was a nightmare breaking out, but no one had been around to see, and he’d stolen some clothes left in one of the lockers and made a run for it.
Since then, he’s been careful. The few times he’s died, he’s done so, as far as he knows, alone, and it’s been a while since the last time, so what had prompted this? He doesn’t have any evidence that’s what this had been about, but his gut says it is, and his gut is rarely wrong. But if he’d let slip anything he shouldn’t, if he’d mentioned it, then why would Jim have stayed? What would his next move—
A crash, in the kitchenette of his modest hotel room. He grabs a hypo and runs. Maybe it’s not a traditional weapon, but it calms him, makes him feel more in control of the situation, and most people aren’t looking to protect themselves from a doctor’s tool, anyway.
And there’s the untrustworthy kid, trying desperately to push himself off the floor with all the strength of a newborn calf. He bursts into a coughing fit, wet and painful, and McCoy’s almost unsurprised to see the blood shining brightly on the tile as he bends down. “What the hell?” he mutters softly, running back into the other room to grab his bag with a few (stolen) essentials like his tricorder.
“Oh, hey Bones.” It’s nonchalant, and he grins, lopsided, like he’s not bleeding internally. He manages to prop himself up against the cabinets, breathing shallowly as blood slowly makes a trail down his face.
“What’d you call me?” the doctor barks almost as an afterthought. He’s busy reading the results—broken rib, punctured lung, numerous lacerations, stab wound on the right arm, and that’s not counting the mass of matted blood on the kid’s inner leg…
“Bones.” The blond swallows and starts coughing helplessly, coughs shaking his whole body and, no doubt, doing more damage. He’d probably swallowed his own blood. “’s what you’ve got left,” he manages eventually, whisper hoarse.
“Stop tryin’ to talk when you’re bleedin’ out on my floor,” McCoy growls, feeling around for the communicator in his bag.
“You’re cute when you get protective, you know that?” he responds, grinning that lopsided grin again. “Could you pull out what’s in my pocket? I don’t really want to move around.”
“’m getting you to a hospital,” he answers, refusing to listen to a patient who might be a lunatic or hallucinating, but a hand on his stops him.
“You can try, but it probably won’t work, and I’d really like to put off dying if you don’t mind. Believe me, it’s important.” This is the most serious he’s ever seen him. He still tries the communicator, but it doesn’t work, like Kirk said, so he goes for the kid’s pocket. He must brush up against some wound or another, because the blond winces.
“An iris and an hourglass?” McCoy officially admits he’s lost.
Kirk starts coughing, before asking in a hoarse voice, “Water?”
“You’ve got internal bleeding,” the doctor points out, somehow losing this fight.
“Please? You’ll need it to get the blood off anyway,” Jim answers, like it doesn’t matter, and he finds himself filling a glass and bringing it back.
“Thanks.” Those blue eyes close, briefly, like he’s gathering his strength, before Jim knocks the glass over deliberately. The pool starts to spread, parallel to the droplets of blood. As the doctor watches, aghast, Jim reverentially lets the hourglass run until half the sand is on either side, then places it on its side in the water, and after that the iris. “I call on Temperantia to intercede on my behalf between the temple of the gods and the flesh of a man. I reverentially ask for the scales at equilibrium until the balance of Sol and Luna.”
Leonard starts getting up to maybe get some help from some poor sap on hotel duty when there’s suddenly a woman in a toga in the kitchen. She doesn’t appear too pleased to see the idiot bleeding out on his floor.
He makes some sort of strangled sound, but it goes unnoticed by the two.
“You have some nerve, Kirk,” she says in an unearthly voice, and maybe it’s McCoy who’s hallucinating all of this. It would make so much more sense than what’s currently happening. “You pay me no mind until it’s convenient.”
Jim shrugs as casually as he can, considering he’s still bleeding and doesn’t have a lot of energy. “I’m willing to pay any price you name. I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you’re going to walk out, I’d prefer you do it sooner than later so I can figure out my next move.”
In a move so quick it’s inhuman, she’s suddenly kneeling by him, a finger in the stab wound as Jim keens at the pain. “You are impolite, Magician. Better men than you have died at such impertinence.”
“He’s hurt!” McCoy yells, because he doesn’t know what is happening but this is a patient that’s being deliberately injured under his watch and he refuses, refuses to just stand by and let that happen. “I don’t care what he’s done; he doesn’t deserve torture!”
She instantly turns toward him, unblinking. Her face has all the emotion of one of those ancient Roman statues. “Leonard Horatio McCoy. Also not one of my followers, I’m sad to say, though you showed more promise than this one.”
“I don’t know who you are, ma’am, but as a doctor it’s my duty to try to save lives. If you can help save his, I beg you to do what you can,” he says, as bravely as he can, looking her in the eyes.
She glances between them, narrowing her eyes. “Between the two of you, you might be able to achieve a balance,” she decides, voice still echoing oddly. “James Tiberius Kirk, you will honor me until Brumalia. I think abstaining from alcohol and sexual relations during that time should serve as enough payment.”
“That’s a month! And isn’t abstaining also kind of not—” Jim starts protesting weakly, but she cuts him off relentlessly.
“I believe you have already more than made up for your personal…what did the Christians call it, Lent? It means little to me if you bleed out here, but I admire the physician’s desire to help, even in a war he knows nothing about. He knows his own heart, which is an honesty a liar like you has yet to achieve. And, of course, it will be up to you to fix yourself before dawn.” She stares at Jim as if she’s looking through his soul.
“My usual magic. Am I allowed—” he asks quietly, seriously, trailing off into a cough.
“You are, for I could no more change your nature in that than I could switch the orbits of Luna and Gaia.” And she’s gone, as suddenly as she came.
Jim winces and slowly begins to stand, using the cabinets as support.
“What sort of fool—” McCoy growls, rushing to Jim’s side.
“Easy, Bones. Not bleeding anymore. Not until dawn.” Jim raises the stabbed arm slowly, then wiggles his fingers for emphasis. His voice sounds…well, not really any stronger than it had, but he’s also not coughing anymore.
“What the hell’s happening? Who are you?” he whispers.
Jim huffs a laugh. “Sure you want to follow that rabbit down the rabbit hole? You don’t want to go to Wonderland. Place sucks.”
Leonard sighs and makes a decision, throwing open his arms to encompass the hotel room. “What else do I have to live for?”
Kirk purses his lips. “Well, you still have more than your bones to lose. Your soul, your childhood innocence, the color magenta.”
McCoy blinks.
“Don’t ask. You’re better off not knowing. Any of this, really.” The blond breathes in carefully. “But you’re going to ask, anyway, aren’t you?”
The doctor frowns and crosses his arms, staring the stranger down. “You better damn well believe it.” He pauses, then adds, “Would she be angry if I did what I could?”
He’s got the stranger frowning, too. “I…yeah, probably, though if you’ve got any old instruments,” he shudders, “…she’d probably be okay with those.”
“Needle and thread it is,” Bones announces. “Couch. Shirt off. Talk.”
Kirk’s eyes roll skyward. “She’s really not being subtle about the temptation, is she?” he asks rhetorically, but he does what McCoy asks peacably enough.