Hello, everyone! After reading a lot of my old (and really, really embarrasingly-written) Star Trek: 2009 fanfiction, I decided to write a reboot of my own...western AU, because who doesn't love western AUs? Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: 2009 (but damn, I wish I did...) or any associated characters.
Chapter One
Darkness fell around the outpost before eight o'clock, a bloody sun sinking behind the low, scrubby foothills. With nightfall came a temporary reprieve from the arid weather; it had been a dry summer, the languid heat broken only by occasional thunderstorms of biblical proportions.
Such was life in Enterprise Springs, Nevada.
"Buffalo gals, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight..."
Montgomery Scott sings, raspy and tuneless, under his breath as he swipes a damp rag across the bar. Another long day, business slow in this stagnant heat. Thunderheads on the horizon, flat-bottomed, heavy and steely, promise rain tomorrow. Soon, at least.
The saloon's slatted half-doors swing open suddenly, violently, and Scotty's hands twitch—a practiced, automatic gesture—towards the shotgun behind the bar.
"Oh, don't shoot me yet, you old bastard."
Scotty retrieves the damp rag and commences swiping at the bar. "Doctor."
"You could shoot me tomorrow, maybe," Leonard "Bones" McCoy removes his black Stetson, drops it onto the bar. A thin gray cloud of dust rises, billows. "Tomorrow I'm headed out to the Lynch's place."
The two men share a grimace. Louisa Lynch is well into her seventies now, is always coughing or aching or can't walk, and in her eyes Bones can do nothing right. Unfortunately, he's the only doctor within a hundred miles, so for now, she's stuck with him.
While Scotty sweats silently, passing a hand across his pale face, Bones appears to be thriving in the dry heat. Maybe it's his stone-cold cynicism warding off the heat (Scotty certainly thinks so), but there is a decidedly unperturbed look in the man's dark eyes.
"Well, you've got mah sympathy, doc."
"I feel better already," Bones says drily. He slides onto a barstool. "Got any whisky back there?"
"No." Scotty lobs the rag onto the back counter, fishing out a glass and a bottle. "Hope this goddamn weather breaks soon, though."
"You and me both." How the hell is the doctor not dying in that stupid black duster? The evening is cool, but nowhere near cold.
They make smalltalk for a while, the bartender and the good doctor. There isn't much to talk about—a fight between two of the ladies at the boarding house: Nyota and that pretty girl Mollie Cox—a brush fire north of town, stamped out quickly because there's a lot to burn out there, in the dry flatlands.
"Stolen horse out of Willow Flats. Took it right off the hitching post, middle of the day."
"Well, shit, Scotty, I sure as hell hope it's not horse thieves." Bones takes a long swig of whisky, and Scotty reminds himself that the doctor carries a six shooter in a side holster and is probably itching to use it.
"Didn't hear much about it. Bartender's gossip, you ken?" Scotty waves an airy hand, indicating that he's heard it all here—everything. "So, Nyota and this girl, Mollie, they..."
At the sound of Nyota's name, Bones' gaze flicks downward, and he's suddenly very interested in the bottom of his glass. Yeah, Scotty has his suspicions, but hell if he's going to say anything, because Bones is a friend and Nyota is a damn fine looking lady, and he's feeling uneasy already with all of this dry, pressing heat.
They need a damn storm already.
Oh, yes, it's dark out here.
Really damn dark.
Jim squints through the heavy blackness, blackness like pine pitch, like syrup. If he looks up, tilting his head back far enough, he can see the stars. They're dizzying. So bright. The sky was like this in Iowa: a huge bowl over the farmland, and out here it's the same, except that out here it's scrubby desert instead of farmland, and there's no fields underfoot, but rocks and gullies and low hills.
In the distance—the near distance, and Jim's skin crawl—a coyote yelps.
He's got a shotgun slung across his back, but hell if that will ward off a starving animal. Not out here. Out here, only the toughest survive.
With nightfall has come coolness, and Jim's glad of his long brown jacket, but the fact that he's on foot and therefore very, very vulnerable is making him incredibly uneasy. There are strange things out here, in the desert, at night: big cats with glowing eyes and all manner of nasty critters that would sooner bite or claw you than skitter into hiding at your approach.
A storm's been brewing all day, into the evening (thunderheads, at least, poised to drop their dampness upon the thirsty land), but it's far off. Jim wishes sorely for a horse, a mule...hell, even an ill-mannered donkey would make better time than him.
There's a town somewhere out here, he knows—and Jim is yearning for it when he crests a low hill and sees the humble collection of buildings, the lights glowing and flickering in the darkness, and he knows that he's found it.
Okay, his motives aren't entirely innocent—really, he just wants to find an unattended horse and maybe a pretty lady to sweep off her feet and accompany him to California—but this town, rising out of the desert, is like a blessing.
"...and I say, 'if ye ain't happy with her, I'll take 'er, lad'!"
Bones forces a laugh. Scotty's grin is wide, and the hour is getting on late, and Bones should really be heading home now, but he doesn't particularly feel like facing an empty room above the mercantile right now. He tells himself that it's been a long day, long and hot, and he's tired and it'll be cooler weather soon, but he knows that that's not it. That it would be different if he were riding home from a surely patient to his loving wife, his daughter.
Suddenly, Bones doesn't feel much like laughing.
"But that's not the half of it—this smarmy little bastar—"
Scotty breaks off abruptly, falling silent.
"Didja hear that, Bones?"
"Yeah." Bones is already on his feet. "Yeah, I heard it, Scott."
They share a swift, wordless glance, and in the next instant they are bursting through the saloon's doors, guns drawn.
Well, shit.
The man's already untied Bones' horse, swung himself into the saddle. In the dim lamplight, Bones catches sight of a young, thin face, eyes agleam with something that might be madness. He's wearing a long coat, boots.
"Now, I'd very kindly suggest dismounting my horse, kid." Bones gestures with his six shooter. "Because I am in a very poor mood right now, and I find myself becoming increasingly liable to shoot."
The kid smirks.
Damn. What nerve.
"I'd listen to him, if I was ye, lad." Scotty has the rifle to his shoulder. "Strap on yer boots and get walking, you kin?"
"I don't think so." He's got one hand on the black mare's reins, is ready to wheel her around and gallop for the hills. Bones feels a rush of anger, protection. Damn, he really likes that mare. She's fast and surefooted and always reliable out on the trail. He swears to God almighty, if this smirking little bastard tries to make a run for it...
"Get down, kid." Bones says, and suddenly he feels tired. "What do you think you're doing? Gonna outrun our bullets? We'll shoot you down, kid. You won't make it ten yards."
He stares the kid down, recognizes the flighty, nervous look on his face: I can try. Bones is ready to...not shoot, no, he wouldn't—but maybe try something just as drastic and possibly just as painful, when someone cocks a gun behind them. The sharp click resonates in the still, cool air.
"We having a little altercation here, boys?"
Bones does not turn. Scotty twitches his head backwards, sounds relieved when he says,
"Sheriff Pike! Just the man I hoped to see."
"Do I recognize that mare, Doctor McCoy?"
"I believe so." Bones watches the kid silently try to work his way out of this—behind those eyes is some kind of sharp intelligence, he can tell.
"Well, then. We about to catch ourselves a horse thief, gentlemen?" Pike drawls, staring down the barrel of his gun.
Bones can see the fear in the kid's eyes: three guns trained on him, nowhere to run. Hell, he can taste it.
"Get off the damned horse." Pike says. "Let's settle this on the ground, alright?"
"Right. Right. Sounds good. Good plan." The kid dismounts stiffly, stands beside the mare. He quirks a smile. "Sorry, boys. Didn't mean to stir up any...trouble."
"Where you coming from, anyways?"
"Iowa." Is that grin for real? Is the kid smiling with three gun-toting men staring him down? "Pretty damn shitty place, if I do say so myself."
"You steal that horse from Willow Flats?"
Real surprise registers on the kid's face. "No, sir. Not me. I half wish I had—I'm just kidding pleasedon'tshootme. Ha. Ha."
He's young. Bones feels a flash of pity until he steps forward to collect his mare.
"I've half a mind to shoot you," He mutters darkly, seizing the reins and pulling his horse forward. Sheriff Pike grabs the kid by the coat collar and hauls him onto the saloon's porch to have a little talk. Bones pets his mare's head and tells her that it'll be alright, she ain't going anywhere on his watch.
Then Pike grabs the back of the kid's neck and steers him over to Bones and Scotty and says,
"Jim here is gonna spend the night with you, doc."
"Excuse me? I must have misheard you, Sheriff."
Pike wears his leather vest like a coat of armor, his steel badge like a shield. He's not kidding around.
"Right." Bones stares down the kid. "Any reason for this turnaround, Pike? One minute we're gonna shoot 'im, the next he's kipping with me?"
"Seems there's just been a misunderstanding." That's all Pike will say.
Bones rolls his eyes. "Come with me, kid. And try not to steal anything while you're at it."
So, I hope that you guys liked this chapter! I'll try to post another one soon—please review and tell me what you think!