A/N: One-shot McCoy backstory. Idk, a plot bunny. Before the Enterprise. After the death of his father- if you want details on that, watch The Final Frontier. Warnings for non-consensual drug and alcohol use. Angst and emotions in this one, guys. Enjoy!
No, he wasn't in a downward spiral. He was just in a rough patch.
At least, that's what he told himself. Dr. McCoy took another swig of the brandy and grimaced. This was just a rough patch. He'd had them before. And even if it was the prelude to a downward spiral, he wouldn't have long to enjoy it. He was only granted shore leave for two weeks. It sounded like a long time, but it wasn't a gift. He knew he'd been grating on the ship's nerves.
Hell, he couldn't blame Captain Everett for dumping him off here.
Maybe it was because he wouldn't talk to Dr. Garrison. The CMO had been hinting to him for weeks that he was available, should McCoy want to discuss anything. At first he had politely declined, but as his mood worsened at the pestering he finally told his superior to fuck off.
Even now, he cringed. Yeah, that probably hadn't been the smartest move.
So it really wasn't surprising that he was given time off on Opae, for crying out loud. It was the jigsaw puzzle of the galaxy. It'd started out as a small colony of the Chichian race, but quickly turned into a bustling Federation port. Now, its cities held a mix of species, and not to mention technologies. It had 20th century architecture with 23rd century technology and 19th century social behaviors with traditional Chichian clothing. Cars flew, drove, and swam alongside horse and buggies, trams, and steamcars. He smirked at the flickering image on the television over the bar. TV still existed- and all the stations were advertising the upcoming elections. The political candidate currently featured reeked of Boss Tweed… not that anyone would know who that was.
It was a melting pot and dumping point. Workers and drifters all faded in and out on the streets. Illicit drugs were bought and sold right alongside the fruits and vegetables. In this part of the city, people figured themselves out real quick… or messed up forever.
Dr. McCoy wondered if this was Garrison's idea of immersion therapy.
He knew he needed to get his act together. He was in Starfleet, for goodness sake, and they expected professionalism. This was kinder than a court martial. But he couldn't bounce back immediately just yet. His bones ached. He needed time.
Loss was always difficult. But it was ten times worse when it was by your own hand.
He'd been… okay. Earlier. He'd known he would survive. But then they found the cure. And wasn't that just the twist of the knife?
So he let himself fall and the ship noticed.
Two weeks. Just enough time to bury the pain in alcohol and flesh most of these crazy feelings out. Not nearly long enough to ease the ache that had taken up permanent residence in his core.
A figure sat down on the bar stool next to him. "You look like you've befallen some hard times, friend," a voice said.
McCoy barely glanced at the stranger. "You could say that."
The other man shrugged. "It takes one to know one." He signaled the bartender. "Let me buy you a drink."
McCoy looked up at that. The man smiled tightly. "Thank you," he replied.
"Don't," he said. "It's my treat."
The bartender was swift with their orders and McCoy quickly finished his own brandy. The man nudged his new one over to him.
"So you new here?" he asked, sipping his beer.
"Visiting," McCoy answered vaguely. He was enjoying the drink, but had no intention of spilling his backstory.
The man just nodded. "Some place to visit when you're down on your luck."
McCoy grunted. "I didn't really care what bar I walked in, so long as it served decent alcohol."
He accepted this. "So you're a man with a specific purpose, coming here."
McCoy swallowed. "Sure."
"You want to do something worthwhile?" the man asked softly, staring at his drink.
He felt a headache coming on. Please don't let this be a philosophical drunk. He did not want to deal with this right now. "Like what?"
The man shrugged. "Making a difference. Contributing to change. Pretty sure our economy would improve if Kistle gets elected."
McCoy frowned. His eyes flicked to the TV screen. Kistle. Oh, Boss Tweed. He groaned. "Don't tell me you're some kind of candidate lobbyist," he accused in annoyance.
The man held up his hands. "Not phrasing it that way."
"Doesn't matter," he slurred, feeling tired. "I'm not voting, anyway."
"Yes, you are," the man said. McCoy looked at him, but the image was blurrily splitting into two. "And you're voting for Hedrick Kistle."
In a snap McCoy's eyes widened as he put two and two together. His drink. The tiredness, headache and blurred vision.
"You son of a bitch," he growled. His left arm moved to throw the glass at the man. It was much heavier than he remembered. He sent the drink sailing as his vision tunneled on the rotating glass, dimming weakly as if fell down… short…
His eyes closed and consciousness fled.
He came to again and groaned. He was aware of movement and motion all around him. Over him, under him… where was he? The floor bounced and he grimaced. A truck? Okay, that explained the motion… what was going on?
He opened his eyes dazedly at the group of men busy overhead. They were fussing over something furry. McCoy looked down at himself and blinked, trying to clear his head. He was… shirtless? No, he was in a white shirt, but the buttons were open. And his pants were different. What the hell?
Someone bent across him to reach for something. Gasping, McCoy twisted and cracked his fist into the guy's jaw.
The truck exploded in action.
McCoy pushed the surprised man off of him and tried to sit up. Another person came at him and he threw another punch. It caught the guy on his temple, but then someone was pinning his arms down and yelling, and someone else was stuffing a cloth over his mouth and nose and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't breathe…
There were murmurings. He was aware of that first. There was the sound of hushed communication. He was lying on his back. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.
The room was dark. There was only dim lighting come from the cracks of the only door. He moved to sit up but found his left arm shackled to the bed. McCoy turned his head right and squinted about the room.
It was filled with other men. Some on the floor, some on beds, most also chained to their posts. The murmurings, he realized, weren't actually conversations. Several men were talking to themselves. One was babbling incoherently to the ceiling. A couple were praying, and a few were murmuring some sweet nothings to the air.
Half of them were silent.
Confused, he tried to study this more. Most of those on the floor weren't chained up- but almost everyone on a bed was. He met the eyes of a large man chained to a bed across the room. His eyes were bright and alert, and the storm coiling behind them signaled that the man knew –and didn't like- what was happening.
McCoy gave a nod of recognition to his sanity a moment before the door flew open.
It was the guy from the bar and two others. They stopped and observed the room's occupants for a moment before continuing their conversation.
"Yeah, most are pretty easy, at least at this point," Barman said. "Though a few of the new ones are tricky. That one," he pointed to the guy across the room. "Is pretty violent. Watch out for him- you'll want a team before you try anything." His finger shifted to McCoy. "And that one has a mean right hook."
The other men nodded, almost taking notes.
"You can normally wrangle five votes each," he continued. "Though some can stretch for seven. It just depends on tolerance and other factors." His foot nudged the babbling man. "Clear this one out."
The two men bent and lifted the scrawny fellow, whose babbling increased. It reached a violent crescendo before the door slammed shut and abruptly thrust the room back into dark silence.
McCoy found his voice. "What-?"
"Keep your head on straight," the large man growled. His chain clinked as he shifted. "It's the only way we're going to get out of here."
McCoy nodded faintly and laid back down. He stared at the ceiling, mind in turmoil. What was this? Who were those guys? What di d they want? Why was this happening?
Well, he could probably answer the last question.
He refocused his attention on tugging at the manacle. If he could at least unlock himself…
The door opened again and three guys moved swiftly for him. The large guy started shouting and McCoy tried to defend himself but his fist was blocked. Someone pinned it to the bed and then McCoy saw what they were holding.
He clamped his jaw shut.
They'd had practice with that, he could tell. Someone shoved their fingers against his cheeks and forced his jaw open. He gagged and fought but the pill was shoved past his lips. He tried to spit it out, or at least hide it with his tongue.
A bottle was forced in and he spluttered as the burning contents filled his mouth and throat. Someone pinched his nose and made him swallow.
Alcohol and pills? His doctor brain thought detachedly. That's so safe…
These guys apparently didn't know that, or didn't care, because they made him swallow another pill.
He was… standing. And sweating. A lot. A hand jostled his elbow and kept him upright. A certain name was whispered to him. He was… supposed to do something?
There were a lot of people. Was this a line? Someone else guided him to a booth. He looked down. What was he supposed to do? There was a name… that's the name.
He was sitting. In a car? Somebody said "good job." Was that for him or someone else? His shirt was unbuttoned. Something went over his head, no, not completely. Just the top of his head, like a hat.
He was in more lines. He was on the floor, pressed against other sweating bodies. He stared slack-jawed at the ceiling with them. Faces morphed in and out of the semi-darkness.
The name glared up from more papers. He was drawn to it, circling it.
More pills passed down his throat.
He was shivering, and far too hot. The faces on the ceiling morphed with his sense of time. He saw Captain Everett. He saw Garrison and Nancy and his ex-wife and Joanna…
"Jo," his voice croaked. "Jo, please… I didn't want to leave you Jo, I never meant for this to happen… never leave you, Jo." He reached out a trembling hand to touch her… but she stayed up on the ceiling, out of his reach.
The devil came for him.
He made him eat a funny-tasting liquid, and McCoy was so exhausted and thirsty that he lapped it up without resistance. Maybe he should have fought it a little… but he certainly couldn't fight now. He couldn't even twitch his arm. His head lolled limply to the side when they picked him up.
He might have been in a car again. He had to have been, otherwise how else did he end up lying here? They dumped him down on the corner of an alley and a sidewalk and left him. He lay on his side, facing the street, unable to move.
He was there for hours.
McCoy thought maybe someone would notice, in his clearer moments. The street held many passers-by. But only a few glanced at him. They swirled away like the wind, and the sidewalk fuzzed and he rested his head on the pavement.
The sky changed color. Maybe everything changed color, or maybe it was just his screwy vision. His bones ached deeper than ever. He shivered and twitched, coughing once. Light and sound blended and separated with no rhythm. A few drops fell on him as a light rain started. He managed to move his head enough to catch the precious liquid in his mouth… he was terribly thirsty.
The faces came again. As another set of feet walked away he saw familiar looks at his level again. Joanna came and went. Jim Kirk's face made a brief appearance. And then his father came.
That's when Leonard broke. "I'm so sorry, Dad," he whispered out to him. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you… I don't expect you to forgive me, I can't forgive myself… I miss you so much."
He couldn't tell if he was crying, or if that was just the rain.
His father was talking to him. Leonard closed his eyes, letting all the guilt and pain wash over him. He deserved this. Every bit of it. Maybe it was his penance for patricide. Whatever names David McCoy was calling him, they were true. He accepted all of it. His father had a right to hash things out.
His eyes snapped open when something shook him violently. David leaned into his face and shouted. "I didn't raise my son just so he could die in a gutter!"
McCoy gasped and took in air like a dying man. His adrenaline spiked and he brought his head up. The sidewalk, then the street, were before him. People ignored him in this alley. He couldn't stay here, he had to move.
He lurched forward as his adrenaline began to fade, either from exhaustion or the drugs still running rampant in his system. It got him fully on the sidewalk. The atmosphere was grey. Dim lighting, but with a sense of being brighter. His arms shook as he held himself up. A foot, just make it a foot.
Painfully, dizzyingly, he crawled inch by inch onto the road. One foot. You made it that far. Okay, now another foot.
He crawled until he collapsed in the middle of the asphalt. His head swam as he lay on his side. A pair of bright lights faced him down, growing larger. He closed his eyes, all his strength gone. Come what may…
There was a distant sound of screeches and slams. And some soft, warm hands picked him up as he floated away.
McCoy woke up gradually, but smoothly. His ears picked up familiar beeps and hums, and he relaxed. It was Sickbay, or at least a medical ward. So what if he was a patient?
Okay, maybe he wasn't fully recovered yet.
There was an IV in his arm and he took in everything at his leisure. He wasn't on the ship. The room was different and he was reclining comfortably on white sheets. To his right was a screen report measuring different toxicities. His eyes bugged when he finally focused on them. Good night, those combinations had potential to seriously mess him up.
A light flickered on over the entryway just before the door opened. Captain Everett walked in, and stood politely by the wall. He inclined his head. "Doctor."
"Captain," McCoy replied. He couldn't do much more than stare. He felt alert, however, and his head was clearer than it had been in a long time.
Everett glanced around the medical equipment. "How are you feeling?"
McCoy debated that topic. "I'm not sure," he confessed. "I don't really know what's happened."
The captain looked down at his boots and sighed. "I'll admit, I didn't have high hopes for you when Opae officials reported you'd been found overdosed on drugs and alcohol… I'd expected more from you." His eyes met McCoy's and stilled any rebuttal he'd had. "But," he continued. "An investigation had been launched and drugs were traced back to a cooping gang for Hedrick Kistle. As they compiled more data, it was confirmed that you were another unfortunate victim to that…" he trailed off and shook his head, unable to put words to the unspeakable group.
"Cooping gang?" McCoy asked. His throat felt a little dry, and his voice was hoarser than usual. But it wasn't too bad.
Everett went with the shift in topic. "A way of swinging votes. People are kidnapped off the streets- often drifters and exiles- and are drugged into submission so they can vote docilely for a certain person. Disguises are often employed so they can vote multiple times- and this would explain the Chichian attire you were found wearing."
McCoy hazily looked down, but he'd been changed into medical garments. "Oh."
There was a moment of silence, and then Everett's posture drooped and he walked over and stood by McCoy. "Leonard," he began, using his first name for the first time. He hesitated before continuing, but McCoy gave him his attention. "With all that's happened- now, and before, back on the ship- are you okay?"
Was he? What an interesting question. McCoy looked down at his hands- doctor's hands. Healing hands. The light glinted off his pinky ring. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah, actually," he said slowly. No, not perfect, but also not broken.
"I'm okay."