War Games

[madimpossibledreamer]

I kept trying to think of a way to finish this one, where they save Finnegan and the rest, but it’s plenty long already and it’s not actually necessary for the story, so posting this as is, instead.

Main Points:
Star Trek (the 2009!movie verse)
Summary: Kirk has leadership potential, even if he's a little...unconventional.
Word Count: 3427
Rating: Teen
warnings: implied Tarsus though it doesn't go into detail

         McCoy didn’t think this day could get any worse. Bad enough that they dragged him out here at an ungodly hour to pretend he’s on an away mission (which means that either the higher-ups are outrageously optimistic or need a good strong dose of reality, that they think they’re ever getting him on a starship besides on the way to a ground assignment) and that this awful cup of coffee is probably the last he’s going to have for a week. He’s a healer, not a killer. Unlike some, he takes his oaths damn seriously.
         And then his seat buddy from the shuttle shows up, all wide grins and leering looks and far too chipper for this tomfoolery.
         “Bones! You’re looking a little less hungover! That’s good.” He claps the doctor on the back, way too hard; Leonard sways a little, scowl firmly in place, and barely manages not to spill the precious coffee. It tastes like the back end of a cow, which he wishes wasn’t a comparison he could actually make thanks to a stupid dare in his youth, but it’s his only source of caffeine for days so he’ll guard it with his life. He’d rather have a good bourbon, but while Starfleet might look a blind eye as long as he drinks in his own room and it doesn’t interfere with the stitch-up work they assign him with at the clinic, they definitely wouldn’t on a test like this.
         “Not sure I agree with you, and I’m too old for a nickname, kid.” He’s been avoiding the excitable, flirtatious recruit since he sobered up, but somehow, the idiot had yet to stop following him around like a puppy anyway.
         Unfortunately, the cadet’s been buzzing around enough on the edges of his vision that he immediately notes the way the cheer falters, just slightly, before becoming even more enthusiastic. “You’re only as old as you let yourself be. I’m personally aiming to never grow up.”
         “That shouldn’t be hard,” one of their fellow cadets sneers as he walks up, then reaches out a hand for McCoy to shake. “Finnegan. I’ll be Captain for the purposes of this exercise.”
         Leonard tells himself it’s because he’d have to let go of his caffeine lifeline to reciprocate that he doesn’t. He does grunt and doesn’t bother to try to put any meaning behind it.
         “I’m glad we got a doctor I know is good,” Kirk continues brightly, making his way over to examine the shuttle (which McCoy is desperately trying not to think about).
         “Why, ‘cause you’ll be the first ‘wounded’?” the Acting Captain sneers, and the doctor finds himself distracted from impending doom by trying to figure out whether Finnegan or Kirk will hurt each other first.
         Kirk smiles a grin that says butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth (which is complete and utter bullshit). “Because I’d want to know any of the command staff I serve under is competent. Captain.”
         And if Leonard takes a mental step back, and, detached, looks at the situation like it’s a raging forest fire with no one in the path of destruction, it’s actually quite pretty. Kirk is a master at provocation, choosing his words so it’s only the intent and tone behind them that makes them an act of insubordination.
         Fortunately, before anything else can be said, the rest of the cadets arrive. McCoy’s relief disappears instantly when he realizes this is the moment when they’ll actually have to get on that godforsaken metal death trap, and swallows the rest of his coffee in one gulp.
         He has the briefest of hopes that maybe he can share seat companions with the kid again, because as much as the fool is a supernova waiting to happen, he’d served as a distraction so the ride to Starfleet was the least miserable of any shuttle ride he’d ever had. Unfortunately, prayers go unanswered, which is par for the course as far as Leonard’s concerned. Kirk attaches himself like a barnacle to a young, petite woman, who’s (at first) nervous, especially about the attention. By the time they’re finding their seats, Finnegan is glaring at the blatant display of unprofessionalism, and McCoy’s downgraded his expectations to ‘please, let me die in the least painful way possible when this all goes wrong’.
         Even worse, Kirk steers the woman right next to Leonard (which, if he’s trying to act as wingman for a broken divorcee, McCoy’s going to pull him aside after the mission and rip him a new one) and then sits down opposite them.
         “So, I hear your mom’s doing research on radiation vaccinations,” he says casually, and the girl lights up, and Leonard—
         Well, it’s an interesting idea, to say the least. Getting an injection before exposure to protect against the effects of radiation. If this is what he thinks, he’s read every article by the woman. Kid’s got some shoes to fill.
         Suddenly the shy cadet is off, voice running like a bubbling, cheerful brook, about the different trials (which is fascinating) and about using Tribbles as test subjects and how therapeutic the animals are.
         Finnegan is even more annoyed. It’s probably difficult for someone in command to realize that control has been taken from you so thoroughly, but he’s also not heartless enough to shut her down, so they spend the flight learning about new scientific discoveries.
         Jean flinches from him, the first time he interjects gruffly with a question or objection, but by the second or third time she seems to have realized that he’s not out to be mean and is genuinely interested, and it’s been long enough since he’s had a good conversation about research it feels like a breath of fresh air.
         At some point, Kirk flashes him a wink. Bewildered, he frowns, and the kid glances at his hands. Which are not white-knuckled, holding on to anything within reach.
         A few emotions flash through him. Sudden, overwhelming terror, the realization that Jim Kirk is a lot more manipulative than McCoy would give him credit for, a touch of happiness he hasn’t felt in a long time that anyone would care enough to help a grouchy old country doctor through his issues.
         But then Jean’s saying something about spaceship experiments, since it’s the perfect environment to examine low exposure to radiation, and he lets go. It’s a bit of a surprise when Finnegan announces they’ve touched down.
         “I’m the Captain,” he announces. Again. Probably some sort of posturing to reassert his dominance. “Doctor McCoy is our CMO. That’s Chief Medical Officer, for those who haven’t bothered to glance at the manual.” He glares at Kirk, who just smiles, eyebrows raised. “Beltran is our Chief Science Officer. Ch’kethis is our Security Chief. We’ve got a few Ensigns, namely Cuevas, Vargas, and Dawson.” He pauses, and then, as if with surprise, he adds, “Oh, yeah, and Kirk.”
         For once, Kirk doesn’t rise to the bait. He just looks at them all and says, “I’m looking forward to working with all of you,” without a trace of irony in his voice.
         They all share an awkward moment of not knowing what to say before Vargas agrees awkwardly, “Y-yeah, we’ll be great.”
         Dawson interrupts. “What’s the chain of command? Captain, then who?”
         Finnegan frowns, but not as much as when he was looking at Kirk. “Ch’kethis for First Officer, Beltran for Second Officer.” She squeaks, and he very almost rolls his eyes, aborting it only last minute and managing to look like an fool. “As I’ll be here the whole time, you don’t have to worry about that.”
         Kirk goes and grabs one of the heavier packs from the pile and rejoins them quickly enough. The Acting Captain narrows his eyes but doesn’t comment. “We’ve beamed down on a world that we’ve found and it’s a hostile one. Some of our people are still on-planet, and they can’t be beamed out, so this is a rescue mission. Any questions?”
         Kirk actually raises his hand, and Finnegan ignores him for a few moments until it’s clear no one else is going to ask. “What?” he spits, and the edge of Kirk’s mouth twitches.
         “Sir, how many people are we looking for? What do we know of the enemy and terrain?” He’s…still not being the snide, hates-authority person McCoy’s come to expect, and it’s a little shocking.
         Even Finnegan’s taken aback, because he takes a few seconds to answer. “Four. We didn’t get much on the preliminary planetary scans. It’s a Class M planet and rocky. The natives are using twentieth century style projectile weapons.”
         “And I’m guessing something in the atmosphere is interfering with the communicators, so we’re on our own,” Kirk muses, almost more to himself than to anyone else.
         “Well, everyone grab a pack and we’ll head out.” He glances at Kirk. He tries to be stern, but he’s too confused to pull it off. “No complaining. We’ll be hiking for a while.”
         “It’ll keep us all in shape and looking good, Captain,” Kirk responds, with a trace of his usual personality but still no hint of his earlier attitude.
         McCoy snorts at that. “Let me know if anything starts to seriously hurt or you can’t breathe. I mean it. No toughing it through ‘being a hero’. I’m here to make sure you make it through this in one piece, and by God, I’ll do that even if I have to sling you over my shoulder myself.”
         That, at last, gets a more normal reaction out of the kid. A slow, amused smile even as he starts to walk to get them all going. “I kind of like that image, Bones.”
         Of course, he’d have to flirt and use that ridiculous nickname with witnesses.
         They walk for a few hours over rocky, steep ground before Finnegan calls a break. It’s not long before they’re met with a desert heat, all dry and skin-cracking. It’s better than the cold, McCoy supposes, but as things go that’s not a resounding recommendation. He hasn’t died in the shuttle, but that leaves heat exhaustion. Andorians are strong, but he’s keeping an extra careful eye on the Acting Security Officer, just in case. And, unfortunately, he doesn’t have the breath for a running commentary, but he manages well enough in his head, about Finnegan’s lack of leadership (not that there’s much to do on a hike, but even if Kirk’s an ass you get plenty of assholes in space and any leader worth his salt should know how to deal with that) and Kirk (seriously, what was wrong with that man) and about shuttles and things doctors did and did not need to know about how to do, and space and starships and the whole idea of Starfleet. And then, once he’s gotten to that point, to Jocelyn and his own shortcomings, because if his life is rotten it’s every bit his fault as that she-witch. She was actually probably just a lady that’d reached the limits of her ability to cope, but it makes him feel better to complain about it even in his own head, so he does.
         “Everyone get some food.” It takes a few minutes, and McCoy’s trying to break through the exhaustion and early morning, so he doesn’t notice immediately. “That includes you, Kirk. If you’re waiting for an invitation, you’ve got one.”
         There’s something closed off, suddenly, almost cold, in Kirk’s eyes and stance. “What, are you offering to feed me, sweetheart?”
         “I’m ordering you to eat,” Finnegan repeats. “This is harsh terrain. You’ll need your strength, cadet, so eat.”
         “I can manage—and that’s not just empty bragging, or me thinking I’m invincible or something,” Kirk snarls as quietly as his inexplicable anger allows. “We don’t know how long we’ll be out here, and we don’t want to be starving at the end of this. If I can, I will. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll have a feast when I get back, but right now…” He shrugs, helpless and furious. “Right now, I’m well within my capabilities.”
         “What’s wrong with you, Kirk?” the Acting Captain asks, and it’s, for the first time, the slightest bit concerned. Frustrated, confused. McCoy would desperately like to know the answer to that as well, but he knows better than to push right now.
         Kirk lets out a bark of laughter. “You wanna take it up with the Admirals, go ahead. Otherwise, this is me, this is how I live. This is what you have to work with.”
         Finnegan’s eyes narrow. “Fine. You want to be treated like a tool. I’ll treat you like a tool.”
         Rather than being angry or insulted, Kirk’s stiff stance loosens out instantly. “You want to use me, use me. I could scout ahead.”
         “Fine,” Finnegan agrees, glancing at Dawson. “You go with him.”
         Kirk winces but doesn’t argue, walks away on quiet feet. He comes back even quieter, with odd glances at Dawson, and if the kid showed even the slightest hint of limping, he’d be after the cadet for bullying. And Kirk, probably, for being an damn fool. “We’re losing all our shade pretty soon. There’s a canyon maybe sixty meters off.”
         “Good. We’ll go through there and give ourselves a break,” Finnegan decides, and Kirk’s eyes flash.
         “I wasn’t done. It’s the perfect place for an ambush,” Kirk continues with a hint of irritation.
         The Acting Captain snorts. “If you’re scared, cadet, you can stay here, with whoever you want to.”
         The kid grinds his teeth and takes several deep breaths to calm down. “If you’re treating me as a tool, you should listen to me. You don’t use a tricorder on someone just to ignore what it says.”
         “I think someone is mad the computer didn’t give them the position of Captain. Bet you’d love to be barking orders,” Finnegan responds, deliberately invading Kirk’s space. The kid doesn’t back down.
         “I’d love to listen to those orders if they weren’t going to get us all killed,” Kirk hisses.
         Instantly the Acting Captain is out of the cadet’s space, probably more as a tool to stop himself from punching his fellow cadet than anything. He’s smiling dangerously. “I’m putting Kirk down as mutiny. Anyone that wants to, stay here with him and take the same marks.” He glances at McCoy dismissively, as if this grumpy old country doctor’s just going to fall in line.
         It’s that, that easy taking him for granted, that pisses him off the most. “You haven’t asked for the input of your senior staff before. Why should now be any different?”
         “McCoy, mutiny. Anyone else?” He’s livid now.
         Jean shrinks where she is. She looks between them, unable to choose—she’ll hopefully learn decision-making skills along the line but right now she’s too worried about the ramifications to actually say anything. Not that she’s probably wrong. McCoy and Kirk are probably burning yet another bridge before they’ve even crossed it, but if their conversation on the shuttle, the first time, was any indication that’s nothing new.
         Dawson sighs. “I happen to agree with them, but I’ve got to go with the chain of command.” He glances over. “Sorry, Kirk.”
         “No hard feelings,” the cadet responds easily.
         Lucia joins them silently and just grins a little when Kirk slaps her on the back.
         Eshyv also appears torn. “Ignoring intel or the strengths of one’s warriors is a bad trait in a leader.”
         “Go!” Finnegan yells, waving the Andorian off, and grabs his pack and hurries off almost before any of the others can catch up.
         “Now that we’ve failed this, what are your bright plans, kid?” Leonard growls.
         The cadet just grins at him brightly. “We haven’t failed. Yet. Though the mutiny thing probably won’t look good.” He sighs. “Call me Jim. Also, I really despair for the guy when he’s command track and hasn’t read classics like Romance of the Three Kingdoms. This setup is pretty much the same, down to the, well. In their case, a few seemingly helpless and fleeing warriors were used to lure them into the trap. Here, it’s more like we’ve seen nothing, so we’re letting our defenses down thinking that there’s nothing out here.”
         He waves toward the Andorian. “Your people are really good at fighting, right? Come here and help me with this.”
         Eshyv is definitely pleased at that one. Maybe Jim—dammit, he’s already starting to fall into the trap, although as long as he doesn’t say it out loud, maybe he’ll still manage to get through this easily. But—no, the kid’s persistent enough he could get even someone who wasn’t interested to be friends with him through sheer determination. Not that he’s going to admit that without a fight. One that the kid would probably welcome. Dammit.
         Kirk pulls out a PADD and starts sketching the canyon. “I saw glints here, here, here, here, here, and here,” he finally says, marking the spots with red X’s on the map. “They said projectile weapons, so I’m thinking snipers. This one—” he pats the spot closest to them, to the right, “…didn’t quite get into position. If he’d been at the top, he’d have a much better view of everything, and they could probably all cover each others’ blind spots. We’d be, what’s the early Earth phrase, Bones? Sitting ducks?”
         “I don’t say that,” he growls. His language might be a little older, but seriously, it’s not that old.
         Jim pats him on the shoulder, like he’s reassuring a kid. It’s annoying, but the motion is distracted. “As it is, if we could somehow get above him, we’d have him, and if we’ve got one, we can get the others.”
         “I’ll come with you,” Eshyv decides.
         “If we do this quick, we can save our reckless Captain. It’ll probably be pretty steep, but I’ve gone free climbing before,” Jim says with a reassuring smile that doesn’t reassure at all. All McCoy can imagine is the bright-eyed boy missing one handhold and falling and breaking his fool head open. “Cuevas, McCoy, opinions?”
         “Sounds good,” Lucia responds quietly.
         “Kirk,” he says slowly, as if the kid just isn’t catching on, “It’s just a war game.”
         “Oh, I know,” the cadet agrees easily, eyes still far too bright like those dolls with glass eyes Grandma still owns. “If it wasn’t, the rifle scopes would be real, and we’d be in deep shit because Starfleet doesn’t issue bulletproof vests.” He acts like he doesn’t see the way McCoy is staring at him, gobstruck. “Be right back. Keep the kettle on.”
         “And he says I’m bad about using ancient English phrases,” McCoy growls and tries to concentrate on anything other than an image of that blond head cracking like an egg.
         To his shock, the kid manages to pull off a miracle by not breaking his head open. He returns with a scratch on his arm, but is otherwise very smiley. “I left Ch’kethis with one of the rifles. We took out all the snipers we saw, but they probably have more than just snipers.”
         “That’s great,” McCoy grumbles. Trying to keep this kid in one place is like trying to keep down a hyperactive poodle. Even holding on to him isn’t doing much. “Now wouldya just sit still for a minute? I’m tryin’ to close this up.”
         “Ehhhhhh,” Jim waves it off.
         “It could get infected. I’d prefer to save myself the trouble later,” he continues, and that finally gets the man to sit still long enough. He doesn’t stop running his mouth, though.
         “I’d like to use the terrain. Drop some rocks on their heads or something. But I can’t guarantee we wouldn’t seriously injure our friendly actors, and this, as you pointed out, is just a war game.” He sighs and stretches his neck.
         “You’re taking this really seriously, kid,” the doctor points out. Maybe it’s chickening out, but he understands pain.
         “Isn’t that the point?” Jim asks. He purposefully sounds bright and clueless, the doctor’s sure. He does glance up, though, and his eyes are serious. Yes, and I understand your pain, the expression says. “…Maybe we could block off the canyon, instead. Though we’d have to be careful.”
         Leonard finishes up. He doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes for once. He’s pretty sure Kirk’s not going to tattle. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ve ever been careful in your life.”
         That earns a bright smile. “There’s a first time for everything,” he points out, and it’s not fake-cheerful either. For whatever reason, that had made his mood better.