Title: Barstool Mountain
Author: Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Their second year at the Academy completed, Kirk manages to convince McCoy to come imbibe in some celebratory drinks with a bunch of cadets. The one thing Bones forgot? He ain't as good as he once was, but he's as good once as he ever was.
Author's Notes: I thought my original Trek/Transformers crossover was total crack. Since that story has since demanded an actual plot with - gasp - drama, it appears that I lied. This one is total crack. Though it's related to "Matters of Medical Necessities, it's not even near a prerequisite to read that first to understand this story. This fic stands entirely on its whacked own, and is fully in the Star Trek reboot verse. No giant fighting robots here!
Anyway, a bit of background: I made up a reference in the third chapter of "Matters" of an incident Kirk spearheaded involving McCoy, some cadets, the Power Hour and a really stupid bet, and I had a feeling there'd be a few of you who'd want to see the whole thing as it played out in a full fic. Every adult seems to have one of these, "Oh my god, I was so drunk, I don't know why I did what I did," stories, and I figured even McCoy can't be immune to that. Well, having Kirk the Instigator as a roommate probably doesn't help matters, either.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or Toby Keith's brilliantly funny song, which I had nearly on repeat as I wrote this fic. Don't sue. That would really, really suck. (For me, I mean.) I also don't condone any underage drinking, or drinking to excess. Know your limits, people, that's all.
If asked, Leonard McCoy would fully confirm that life is a fickle wench and fate is an equally cold mistress. He'd really had little choice in the matter. His ex-wife took him to the figurative cleaners during their divorce, pilfering everything of tangible and more painfully, intangible value from him. Broken, bitter and lonely, the new divorcee found himself on a shuttle full of bright eyed and bushy tailed recruits, some nearly half his age, all the while wondering what in the hell he was thinking when he signed the enlistment papers.
'You were drunk when you signed up, you dumbass. You weren't thinking,' McCoy's inner monologue had scolded him time and time again.
When, exactly, he managed to lose the last shreds of control over his life he wasn't sure, but he thought it might have had something to do with a proclamation of probable regurgitating during the shuttle trip from Iowa. In retrospect, the first thing McCoy might have said to one James Tiberius Kirk probably should not have been, "I may throw up on you."
Perhaps, if he'd actually managed to puke all over Kirk during that fateful trip, the kid might have left him alone to his misery. Instead, the doctors somehow made it all the way to San Francisco without forcibly evacuating the contents of his stomach, and made himself a friend in the process. And when they'd arrived at Academy check-in, both men found that, magically, they were assigned as roommates.
McCoy mentally flipped off fate, that annoying bitch, and settled into his new, if somewhat forced, life.
Two years later, "Bones," as Kirk had taken to calling him, was a bit less angry, a tad less bitter and one very important step above the completely broken man who'd boarded the shuttle in Iowa. He was still jaded, grouchy and cantankerous, but he knew that in James Kirk he had a friend that actually understood him. Most importantly, Kirk accepted him fully, snark and all.
That wasn't to say having Jim Kirk as a roommate was easy. The man attracted trouble like a moth to a flame. Sometimes Bones thought the only reason Kirk kept him around as a roommate and friend was so Jim didn't have to go to the infirmary every time he got in a tussle with someone undoubtedly bigger, stronger and usually dumber. McCoy was used to being the voice of reason, the one that had the clear head. It's what made his friendship with Kirk work so well.
So when Kirk pestered him for an entire week during their second year to go unwind after finals, Bones adamantly refused. There was no way he was going to hang out with a bunch of rowdy kids when he could be relaxing after a tough class schedule and an even tougher work schedule. Not only did McCoy take the required credit load for Starfleet Medical's advanced placement track, he also worked part time at the campus hospital. It was downright exhausting, and the doctor wanted nothing more than to get some sleep and de-stress.
Unfortunately, McCoy had also come to learn in the past two years that, in another language, 'James Kirk' translated to 'annoyingly persistent.' The kid just wouldn't give up. He'd taken a special liking to the country doctor and insisted Bones have a little fun now and again. And though McCoy appreciated the effort, sometimes he just wanted to be that 'Boring Old Guy' all the younger cadets insisted he was.
"No, Jim. For the fortieth time, I don't have any desire to go out and watch you slobber all over some random girl and generally make an ass of yourself." McCoy sighed, shoving his History of Starfleet data PADD on the bookshelf next to his bed.
"Come on, Bones! You need to lighten up, live a little. You spend all your time cooped up in this tiny room, doing next to nothing." Kirk flipped a chair around backwards and sat down, his arms pillowed on top of the backrest.
"I do plenty, Jim. I spend all my free time, which is about five damned minutes a day, in this room because I'm a cadet here and I work at the hospital. I want to sleep when I actually can!" McCoy retorted.
Kirk did his best to look serious. "We've been here almost two years. In those two years, you've gone out with me exactly once. And during that one time, you spent the entire night brooding into your drink, which was a major turn off to the ladies who think you're quite dashing."
Any further comment Kirk might have made was cut off as McCoy launched his dirty PT sweats at his roommate. "I can get just as drunk right here, in this room. I don't see the point of having to go out in public to accomplish the same goal, Jim. I'm not going. I have no interest in going."
"Yes, you are. Now, we've taken up a petition on this." Kirk reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small PADD. "And we all think you need to get out and hit the town for a night."
Bones rolled his eyes. "A petition? Let me see that." McCoy made a swipe for the PADD, but Kirk's quick reflexes kept the device out of his reach.
Kirk tapped a couple of times on the screen, presumably bringing up the document. "I have 167 separate names, all from this dorm, who think that you need a night out. I mean, you think I'm wrong, but you can't really argue with 166 more, right?"
McCoy shook his head. Jim had been like this all week and Bones knew there was no way he was going to be left alone tonight, not when Kirk was hell bent on getting him out. Cursing liberally, he agreed. "Fine. I will go with you if it will shut you the hell up for the next two years. But, dammit, Jim, don't expect me to enjoy it!"
"Great!" Kirk popped up off his chair, pocketing the PADD with smooth efficiency. Giving his roommate a manly whack on the arm as he passed, Jim said, "You'll have fun, Bones. I promise."
"You are shameless, you know that?"
"Never denied it." Kirk reached the threshold of the door. "We're all leaving at 2000 hours. Be ready, old man." Before Bones could come up with an acceptably snarky response, Jim slammed the door shut and strolled casually down the hall.
In the dorm room, McCoy cursed under his breath and muttered, "Unbelievable." Bones knew he was going to regret this, but he had to figure out exactly how.
By 2100 hours, McCoy was really wondering how he'd allowed himself to be talked into this. With age was supposed to come maturity. He was the adult, the one that was supposed to be setting the example for all the young people around Starfleet Academy. He was the trusted doctor, the healer. He was the one that dragged everyone home safely and made sure they didn't die from alcohol poisoning during the night.
Belatedly, Bones wondered under what part of the job description of 'doctor' included bonging a beer in ten seconds or less.
Wiping his face with the back of his hand, McCoy walked a bit unsteadily toward the table his group was occupying, giving a couple of short nods to a few people who'd appreciated his drinking prowess. He was nowhere near drunk, though he had that nice, euphoric buzz around him. Though he'd never admit it publically, maybe Kirk was right. He did need to get out more.
The eclectic mishmash of cadets Kirk managed to round up was having a great time, chatting up patrons and making new friends. What started as a group of ten now was down to just six. Four of the cadets from engineering found themselves another party and told Kirk and Bones not to wait up. Jim smiled knowingly at the group and bade them good luck.
Two hours and a rainbow of different drinks later, Bones was ready to say he was good and drunk. Time no longer had the same meaning when he was sober, and things he'd found positively stupid just a few short hours ago were now incredibly funny. And on his somewhat frequent trips to the can, he'd found that walking in a straight line presented an equally different challenge to both stay upright and avoid crashing into any moving furniture scattered about the bar.
"Well, what do you think, party animal? Should we head back?" Jim asked, for once the nearly sober member manning the somewhat rowdy group. Kirk figured someone had to be responsible, and if that had to be his job this one time, he'd do it just to see his roommate loosen up a bit.
Bones tried to focus on Kirk's face. He wasn't sure which was the real Jim. One Kirk was bad enough, but two? The doctor stumbled into the table, righted by Jim. "Yeah. I suppose. 'S late."
Jim laughed and wrapped his right arm around McCoy's shoulders to steady the man. "No, it's not late. You're just drunk."
"Or that, too," Bones slurred.
The six cadets remaining hopped on a transport and made their way back to the campus. Walking across the parade grounds. Kirk noticed instantly that the dorms were louder than normal. It appeared the celebration of a semester done was already well under way and for once, the resident advisors were allowing the cadets to cut loose and party it up.
After dropping their jackets in their room, Kirk and McCoy ventured down the hall toward one of the dorm's communal recreation areas. On the way, Jim and Bones ran into their four bar companions. The group made its way into the rec room, finding it occupied by another half dozen cadets. Kirk's eyes lit up when saw the action taking place on the behind the large couches. Instead of the pool table being used for its intended purpose, the ridiculously expensive and donated felt table was being used to support none other than a beer pong tournament. By the look of pure excitement in Jim's eyes, it appeared he was well versed in the game. Conversely, by the expression of confusion plastered all over McCoy's face, it also appeared that the doctor was most decidedly unfamiliar.
"What's this, Jim?" Bones asked, gesturing toward the table.
Kirk looked at McCoy like he'd grown a second head and 'tsked' softly. "Bones, this is why we need to get you out more. We've been here two years, and I can't believe you've never played." Jim turned to put his entire body towards McCoy's. "Tell me you've at least heard of this game before."
"Nope."
"Not even in the ER?" Jim was flabbergasted.
Bones ran a hand through his hair. "When I'm pumping someone's stomach, I don't have time to get the specifics on whatever idiotic game they were playing. I'm trying to save their lives, not keep up with pop culture. Forgive me if I've never heard of it."
One of the cadets, Norwicki, looked flabbergasted. He twisted around from his seat on the couch and asked, "You've never played or heard of beer pong, McCoy? How is that possible? Didn't you go to college?" Though the young biologist was nowhere near as intoxicated as the doctor, the alcohol had managed to loosen his tongue a bit. "I mean, this game is almost as ancient as you are!"
"Of course I went to college, you idiot. I'm a doctor, but I spent my time studying instead of finding new and childish ways to get wasted."
"Must have been a boring school!" Norwicki shot back. "Damn glad I didn't go there!"
Without missing a beat, Bones countered with a snarky, "At least I never got lost in a Jefferies tube during training, panicked, and required a rescue."
Without a sufficient comeback, Norwicki shut his mouth and walked away. The young man was muttering under his breath about sadistic doctors and required physicals. McCoy just smirked triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Kirk watched Norwicki wander off. He turned back to the game and read McCoy's questioning expression. "Do you want to give it a shot, Bones?"
McCoy observed the game, feeling some more of the alcohol's kick. He shook his head. "No. It looksstupid anyway," he slurred.
A devious idea popped into Kirk's head. The night was still too young to go back to their dorm and listen to McCoy snore, which was exactly what would happen if the doctor went to bed. Kirk's goal for the evening all along had been for Bones to loosen up. The man was already drunk, but to get Bones to ditch the absurdly large pile of inhibitions he routinely hid behind, it was going to take more than just 'drunk' for Jim to accomplish that. If it took a drinking game to get McCoy well and truly sloshed, then so be it. They were done with classes, and Bones' next shift at the hospital wasn't for another three days. To the room Kirk asked, "How about we play a different game?"
Several nods and exclamations to the affirmative greeted his ears. Another cadet, Sanders, who had also been out with Kirk's group shouted, "What do you have in mind?"
"I was doing some reading about vintage customs in my history of Earth class, and I came across an old game. A drinking game." Kirk's eyes flashed mischievously. "Now, we all know how old beer pong is, but at the time of inception for that game, another, probably more entertaining game, was equally as popular."
"Which was?" Sanders asked.
"It was called the 'Power Hour'."
"The power hour? Never heard of it," Sanders replied.
Kirk threw the index fingers of each hand up the air near his face. "And that, gentlemen, is precisely why I'm going to teach you."
Bones rolled his eyes. "Great. Let me go load up my hypos. Wonder if Starfleet will ever give me a cure for stupidity."
Kirk grabbed his best friend by the shoulder when McCoy tried to beat a hasty exit and pushed his best friend into the conveniently placed chair. "Oh no. Park it right there, Bones. You're not going anywhere."
"And why the hell not?" McCoy barked, incensed.
Kirk internally fought the urge to laugh. He decided the best way to get McCoy to do what he wanted was to play a bit to his friend's ego. Dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Jim said, "Well, you can't very well be shown up by all these kids, now can you? If you don't play, then I'll just have to wipe the floor with someone else, and you'll still be that Boring Old Guy everyone thinks you are. Now, if you want to prove me wrong, I'd say you and I should to go first to let them know who's still in charge, because I know I could drink you under the table."
McCoy's dark brows furrowed, a 'V' forming between his eyes. He turned to glare at Jim. Now this was a challenge to his manly pride, and his father didn't raise him to allow the family name to be insulted. McCoy growled quietly and bit his lip, listening to Jim taunting him. Bones knew that he was heavier and taller than Kirk, and that could hypothetically be advantageous. It also didn't hurt that McCoy's liver was accustomed to a high level intake of alcohol on a semi-regular basis. And if, during the process of said game, he was able to take Jim Kirk's rather ubiquitous ego down a peg, well, that was just an extra perk.
Translation: it was on.
"All right. Explain this game to me, and then prepare to get your ass handed to you on a silver platter, Kid," McCoy growled from his chair.
Whoops and hollers rang out from the room. Sanchez and Sanders may have slipped out to go round up an audience, but McCoy wasn't really sure. Norwicki and another cadet whom Bones had never seen, cleared off a card table and moved it over to where Bones sat. Kirk grabbed a chair and set it opposite his friend.
"So, the power hour is pretty simple. It's one shot of beer, every minute for an hour," he said as much to McCoy as he did to the rapidly growing assembled group.
"One shot a minute? What is that?" McCoy paused, the booze buzzing through his veins slowing his mental computation. "About six beers?"
"Yeah, thereabout." Jim leaned back in his chair. "But, if you want to make it really exciting, we can go for the Century Club. It's one shot of beer every minute for 100 minutes."
"I'm going to kick your scrawny ass either way, so I'll let you pick," McCoy drawled confidently, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Oh, no. You're choosing the game, because when," Kirk said, stressing the word, "you lose, I don't want you to be able to bitch that, 'Dammit, Jim, you rigged the game in your favor'." Jim scrunched his face up into a surprisingly accurate depiction of the classic McCoy scowl and imitated the doctor's voice, earning several laughs and giggles from the assembled crowd.
One glare from Bones had all the present cadets clearing their throats and biting their respective lips. Contemplating, McCoy said, "Power hour. Let's do the vintage game the way it was meant to be played. That, and I don't want to have to clean up your puke when you spew all over the floor."
Kirk laughed. "I hold my liquor better than you do, Bones."
"Unlikely," McCoy fired back. "Now, can we get to this so I can show you how it's done?"
"Whatever you say, old man." Jim smirked triumphantly. He had to suppress a laugh when he heard McCoy's accent thicken considerably with the last sentence. Bones, in his two years at the Academy, had worked diabolically hard to soften his rather pronounced Georgian accent. It only came back in spades when the doctor was either very upset, or very drunk. Jim knew if he could literally hear McCoy's Southern drawl coagulating as the words left his mouth, it meant Bones was far more intoxicated than the realized.
McCoy reciprocated by rolling his eyes heartily. "Old, my ass."
"I'll go get the drinks. Don't bother to get up. You're going need all your strength to take on the great James T. Kirk." But before Jim could rise from his seat, he stopped. "You know what? I think this needs to be more interesting. What do you all think?"
Bones turned his head to take a quick peek behind him and was momentarily shocked to see roughly two dozen cadets parked on the couch and on the floor. A mighty chorus swelled in agreement from the peanut gallery. "Bring it on, Jim. I was beating kids at games like this before you were able to stand up unaided."
"I thought you said you never played!" Norwicki yelled out.
Bones turned and fixed the young cadet with a stare that might have stopped Stonewall Jackson in his tracks. "I lied."
Kirk sat back and watched the exchange, laughing silently to himself. His eyes bounced over the faces of the crowd. Behind Michael Hutton, Jim spied the diminutive MP in training, Mariah Ryan. Thankfully, she looked relatively sober. "Mariah!" Jim called over the din of the room.
The young Asian cadet narrowed her eyes in suspicion and put her hands on her hips. James Kirk's reputation preceded him, and where his healthy street cred didn't fly as currency, his ego would step right up in the vacant spot. Ryan, apparently, didn't buy it, and that was a bit which annoyed Jim to no end. Lip twitching, she snapped, "What the hell do you want, Kirk? I told you before I won't sleep with you." Flipping her hair, she muttered, "Pig."
Ignoring her insult, Kirk asked, "You're in the MP program, right?"
"I am," she answered. "I'm surprised you can pull your head out of your ass long enough to realize that."
McCoy chimed in. "I think I like this girl."
"Shut it, Bones." Back to Ryan, Kirk put on his best face. "So you know how to conduct a field sobriety test, right?"
"Of course I do. It's one the first things they teach us." Her response was nearly automatic, but her intense gaze bored holes in the back of Jim's head.
"Good. Don't go anywhere for the next hour." Kirk turned back to Bones. "At the end of the time, Ryan here administers a field sobriety test. The one that fails accepts a challenge from the other person, no questions asked."
"What if you both fail?" Ryan asked reflexively. It was, after all, a valid question and after looking at the state McCoy was in, it was apparently a necessary one as well.
"Good point. Let's say the loser is the one that does the worst, and leave it at that," Kirk amended.
Ryan rolled her eyes. "Men. I'll never know how humanity achieved warp drive with such immature heathens running the world." Pointing one manicured nail in Jim's direction, she said, "Fine. I'll stay for the purely intrinsic entertainment I know you're both going to provide. But, you owe me, Kirk. And if anyone pukes on me, I swear I'll tie your balls to your nose just for shits and giggles."
McCoy narrowed his eyes in suspicion but processed the information nonetheless, threats to his manhood and all. Ryan was a neutral third party, and neither he nor Kirk had dealings with her in the past. Or, at least he hoped Kirk hadn't gotten in her pants before, though based off Ryan's reaction, the prospect seemed highly unlikely. It seemed pretty fair. "You mean anything? So when I win, I get to tell you to do anything I can think of, and you have to do it right then?"
"Anything," Kirk parroted. "But, you have to actually beat me first."
"That won't be tough."
Kirk scoffed. "Famous last words. Now, don't pass out on me while I go get the beer."
"You do that, Jim." McCoy leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table.
Kirk whistled innocently as he walked back to his room. He really, really felt bad about what he was going to do. Truly, Jim did have a conscience, and from time to time, he did actually use it. It was just that he'd gotten quite proficient over the years at ignoring said conscience. Subsequently, Jim had also perfected the art of rationalization during those rare moments that his pesky ethical barriers did take a moment or two sit up and beg. In this particular instance, he'd surmised that the need to see McCoy unwind a little was worth whatever consequences karma may decide to bring down on him.
In his room, Jim raided the refrigerator, grabbing a twelve-pack of his beer of choice, classic Budweiser. As McCoy drank beer only as a desperate last resort when out of bourbon, the two 12 packs the doctor had purchased on a whim a while back were still collecting dust on the floor of the closet. Doubting his roommate would even remember what exactly he'd bought, Kirk grabbed a case from his personal stash of high octane beer and tucked both under his arms. Finally, Kirk grabbed four shot glasses, held them up to the light to inspect their somewhat dubious sanitation level, and shoved them in his pockets with a shrug, Exiting his room, Jim kicked his door shut and wandered back down the hall.
In the interim during which Kirk was running his errand, it appeared the capacity of the small recreation area had figuratively exploded. Sanchez and Sanders both somehow had started the telephone game in respect to the bet of all bets. Now, nearly every cadet still on campus wanted to see the epic showdown of Kirk versus McCoy for beer-chugging bragging rights.
"Got the poison," Kirk said, plopping both twelve packs down on the table.
When Kirk set down the beer, McCoy eyed it warily. His 'Don't Trust Jim Kirk' instinct was telling his something was off, but his alcohol-addled brain couldn't quite figure out what exactly that was. Bones' long fingers grasped one can. "Sam Adams Triple Bock. What's that?"
"It's good," Kirk replied automatically.
"God, I hate beer," McCoy muttered. Looking back at Jim, he questioned, "Why don't we have the same thing? 'S not fair."
"Oh yes it is. They're both beer, and that's all that counts," Jim replied. He prayed like hell McCoy was too drunk to think to check the alcohol content, because the disparity between the two was staggering. Nonchalantly, Kirk amended, "And unless you want to do sixty shots of Budweiser, I suggest you stop complaining. This was all we had left."
McCoy made a face that could only be described as disgust when Jim mentioned Budweiser. "No, I'll pass on the piss-water kid beer, thanks."
Kirk pulled three people out of the crowd: a person to time the minutes and two people to continually pour the shots. Sanchez and Sanders began lining up the shots with shot glasses that had magically appeared, now ten per side. Norwicki grabbed a stopwatch and counted down the time. "You two ready? In five, four, three, two, one…"
The tension in the room through the first five shots was palpable. Kirk and McCoy engaged in a stare down contest that would have made Captain Pike proud, neither man willing to yield. It took another five shots for Jim to get bored with that game, so he settled on a little idle chit-chat for the next twenty shots.
A half an hour into the power hour, McCoy was feeling the booze, and it really didn't have anything to do with the rapid intake of about six beers. No, Bones told himself it was because it had been some hours since he'd last eaten, and the doctor in him knew that food, protein especially, was helpful in the breakdown and digestion of alcohol by the body. But, he was never going to give Kirk the satisfaction of knowing that, and he'd pass out on the floor before he threw in the towel.
It was at forty-five minutes in that Bones realized the near dozen drinks he had at the bar earlier may not have been the best idea. The case of the dual Jim Kirks was back with a vengeance, and McCoy was having trouble focusing on his competition. Still, he'd been well more inebriated than his current state and still functioned to a varying degree after his divorce.
Norwicki called out the time to the final shot. The sober observers would agree that Jim looked buzzed, but not nearly as plastered as his roommate and friend. Both men toasted the final shot and threw it back, slamming the glasses down on the table with finality.
Ryan stepped up to the table as McCoy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It was show time. Mock-sweetly, she said, "Now, boys. Time for your test. McCoy, you're going first."
"Oh, thanks for the dubious honor," the doctor drawled, attempting to push himself up from his seat. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the edge of the table. "Now, what do I get to do? Stand on my head? Juggle flaming torches?"
"I was thinking something a little less injury-inducing, but if you'd like to juggle flaming balls of fire, McCoy, be my guest. It's no skin off my ass. But in the interest of all of our careers, how about we try something a little more simplistic, hmm?" Tilting her head, Ryan asked, "Doctor, I can assume you are familiar with your Standard alphabet, yes?"
McCoy fixed her with a stare that had, 'You've got to be kidding me,' plastered all over it. He snapped, "No. I just spell 'Plasmodium falciparum' by banging my head randomly and repeatedly on whatever data PADD is closest to my face and hope it comes out right. Of course I know my alphabet, Cadet."
Unruffled, Ryan countered, "It's certainly nice to see your snark isn't affected by the alcohol, McCoy. I just have to ask. It's part of our training. Now, if you'd kindly remove the stick from you ass and listen to what I'm going to instruct you to do, I'd greatly appreciate it." Ryan crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at the doctor. He may have been a good foot taller than her, but she wasn't intimidated.
Kirk laughed and rolled his eyes, watching the stare down. What was it with short women dressing McCoy down? It wasn't that McCoy's antics lack a certain amusement factor, but pissing off the new generation of security officers probably wasn't the wisest of choices the doctor could make. "Are you two done with your pissing contest? Because there's someone here that's going to owe me one embarrassing stunt in about ten minutes."
In a split second, Ryan's facial expression went from pissed off and glaring at McCoy to relaxed and nearly friendly with Kirk. With a few, very select exceptions, drunk people annoyed the hell out of her. And though she had no problem with Bones when he was sober, a drunken McCoy was just cruising for a fist to the face. Glancing back at Kirk, she said, "We're good. It's fine. Doctor, could I have you possibly recite the alphabet backwards for me? Start with 'Z', please."
McCoy's jaw hit the floor. "Are you nuts, woman? I can't do that sober!" he shrieked.
Ryan answered silently by raising her right eyebrow.
Bones, realizing the future MP was serious, sighed. Tentatively, he began. "Z, Y, X, uh, T--," McCoy sputtered, completely lost. Looking down at a smug, grinning Ryan, Bones exclaimed, "Fuck, I can't do this shit! Give me a different test."
A laugh escaped from Jim at the wild, confused look on McCoy's face. It was similar to the one he'd seen from the doctor on the shuttle from Iowa. The 'backwards alphabet' was not part of the standard field sobriety test, and Kirk was well aware of that. Ryan was toying with his friend simply because she could, and Jim was selfishly enjoying the moment.
"Shut it, Jim. You're next," Bones growled.
"Well, can you say it forward?" Ryan asked, the disdain dripping off her words like water from a leaky faucet.
Jim shook his head and put a hand gently over Ryan's arm. "You know what, Ryan? This is really just an impromptu thing here. We're not really seeing if he's sober enough to operate any kind of motor vehicle, because it's clear he's not. We just need to see who's more lit up."
Mariah didn't bother to take her gaze from McCoy. Nodding, she agreed. "You're right, Kirk, though it pains me in a way you can't imagine to say that. All right. We'll do something easier. Even the Neanderthal over there," she motioned to the seated McCoy, the latter reciprocating by flipping her off, "should be able to handle it."
Ryan walked to the center of the room. She picked her right foot up about a foot from the ground and held it up. Looking first Kirk and then McCoy in the eyes, she said, "Do this, gentlemen. Whichever leg you choose to use is fine, but put it up and hold it for as long as you can. Count out loud the seconds you hold it."
Jim picked up his right foot. He wobbled a bit at the top, but managed to steady himself by shooting his arms out to their sides. Concentrating, he counted to ten out loud without dropping his foot or doing a very good impression of a Mexican jumping bean.
When Kirk reached ten, Mariah motioned for Jim to put his foot down. 'Not bad,' she thought. She knew Jim had to be at least a little tipsy, though the full effect of the beer was likely to hit him a little later. Still, it was somewhat impressive that he'd been able to do the test with such relative ease. It also didn't hurt that Kirk was a natural athlete and had the balance and body control nearly unmatched at the Academy.
Ryan looked over at McCoy, Kirk's physically uncoordinated polar opposite, and harrumphed. This was going to be interesting. "McCoy! On your feet!"
McCoy hefted himself up and out of his chair, willing his body to behave when the world started to spin a bit. He would not give Ryan or Kirk any physical cues. "You want me to do that…foot thing?"
Mariah internally rolled her eyes. Displaying as little emotion as she could, she said, "Yeah. The 'foot' thing. Go."
Bones shakily picked his right leg from the ground. It made it about six inches up before the doctor lost his balance. Frowning, he tried again, but with worse results. Looking at Ryan, Bones realized he wasn't going to get any sympathy.
Hands on her hips, Mariah barked, "I haven't made it to 'one' yet, McCoy."
Growling with embarrassment, Bones yanked his right foot up off the ground, but his alcohol induced lack of fine motor skills caused him to overcompensate when he checked his balance. McCoy stumbled a couple of steps backwards but managed to say upright.
"I think it's plainly obvious who the winner of this contest is," Ryan said with a sweep of her hand around the room. Kirk beamed.
As much as he wanted to fight, McCoy knew it would be a futile battle. "Goddammit, Jim. You win."
Kirk clapped his hands and shouted an emphatic, "Yes!" into the air.
Bones plopped himself down into the chair he was using earlier. "And how do you plan on making my existence even more miserable tonight?"
"I have several ideas, but I think we should leave it up to fate," Jim said.
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Fate hates me."
"Well, I believe in fate." Addressing the group, Kirk asked, "What do you guys think?"
A loud roar rippled through the crowd, the size of which had somehow doubled during the time of the game. At present, there were probably fifty cadets crammed into the rec area, all expecting to see something grand play out.
"The masses have spoken."
"Apparently."
Again addressing the group, Kirk hollered, "I need six PADDs. Any one will do, and no, I will not break them."
Nearly instantaneously, six cadet-issued data PADDs landed at his feet. Jim picked them up and wrote a single word on each screen. He tossed them in a discarded jacket and shook them up. "We're going to do something called 'luck of the draw.' Each PADD has something written on it. You do whatever you pick." Kirk thrust the jacket in McCoy's face. "Choose."
Bones narrowed his eyes at his best friend and roommate. He stuck his hand warily in the jacket and felt around. Not wanting to pull out the first PADD he touched, he instead went for the second. Pulling it out, McCoy tapped the screen to activate it. A few of the assembled cadets behind Bones gasped and giggled. Instead of laughing with them, McCoy cursed.
Loudly.
For two straight minutes.
After he was through exhausting his surprisingly extensive and in-depth vocabulary of expletives, Bones sat back in his chair and stared at Jim. How a man could swear that much for that length of time without repeating himself once was a trick Kirk was going to have to get Bones to teach him when they were both sober again. It was truly impressive, and if Kirk was honest, slightly intimidating.
McCoy looked down at the PADD in his hands, thinking that perhaps if he shook the device, the words would be different. Nope. The words hadn't changed. It still said, "Streaking," in big, bold letters on the PADD in his hands. Bones was stuck between the figurative rock and hard place. In frustration, McCoy raked a hand through his already disheveled hair and sighed. "You're serious, Jim? This is extreme, even for you."
Without missing a beat, Kirk said, "I'm as serious as a heart attack."
"And what if I don't do it?"
"Don't get me wrong, Bones. No one's forcing you to do anything, especially go streaking across the Starfleet Academy campus," Jim started. Perhaps a little reverse psychology would work on the good doctor. "But, if you don't, you're going to give every one of these cadets here a good reason to keep on hazing you." Jim looked a couple of cadets in the eyes, knowing they were behind some of the most juvenile pranks played on the doctor.
"Well, I'm going to be that idiot you all know I am and say, 'no', Jim," Bones said after some thought.
The crowd literally deflated, and Jim noticed credits discreetly changing hands. The room began to clear, though it was apparent some of the cadets would be staying. Sighing, Kirk picked up the unused beer and motioned with his head. "Come on, Bones. Let's go."
"Yeah. Probably wise."
Back in their room, Kirk and McCoy both ditched their smelly bar clothes and plopped down on their respective beds. Bones snagged the half-full bottle of bourbon sitting on his desk and twisted off the cap with practiced ease. He took one long swallow, feeling the alcohol burn a path from his throat to his stomach. It was a familiar and welcome feeling.
Behind him, Jim yawned loudly. "I'm gonna hit the rack, Bones. I'm tired."
McCoy just grunted once in agreement and turned off the light. The room was suddenly plunged into total darkness and Bones went back to drinking. Lying on his back, the doctor started thinking about what Kirk had said earlier in the recreation room. Did the entire population of the school really think he was just some crazy, desperate old man who was here because no one else wanted him? Though it was technically the truth, it wasn't as if all the cadets needed to believe that. Taking another long pull from the bottle, McCoy contemplated.
Perhaps he really did need to do something unexpected, something so uniquely unlike him. Maybe then some of the students who'd been giving him trouble would leave him alone. It would be awfully nice, Bones thought, to be able to go about his day without worrying about what the next stunt would be from whoever was jealous of him that particular week.
What the hell? It was just his ego, anyway.
Before he could talk himself out of it, McCoy levered himself up out of bed. Tiptoeing in the dark to the closet, he rifled through it, finding the ratty old green jacket he'd been wearing on that fateful shuttle trip almost two years previous crammed in the very back recesses. Pulling it out, Bones shook it a couple of times to divest it of all the dust and dirt accumulated in the past two years. It was perfect. Just long enough to cover…everything until he got outside.
As silently as a man three sheets to the wind could manage, McCoy stripped his shirt and pants. Standing the dark in his underwear, he felt strangely self-conscious which was ridiculous, given what he was about to do. Hooking his fingers under the elastic band, McCoy took a deep breath and let thin fabric fall to the floor. Bones grabbed his discarded clothes, tossed them all haphazardly on his bed, and threw the coat around him. He zipped it securely and shoved his feet into his shower sandals. Resolutely, he made his way down out the door.
By 0200, the dorm had quieted considerably. Most of the cadets had either passed out, gone to bed, or had retired to a room to finish off their evening. The hallways were deserted, something Bones thought was a plus. McCoy took the back stairs down to the ground level and walked around to the front of the building.
Starfleet Academy's dorms were set like any major university. Set in the shape of the a square, they were within walking distance of the educational buildings, but far enough away as to discourage any deviant behavior from running over to the actual campus. In the middle of the square of dorm buildings was a quad area of sorts, a place where students often gathered to study. At this time of the night and with the semester over, it was deserted.
Bones took a hard look around. If he was going to do this, it was now or never. Looking back, he'd probably never be able to actively articulate why he did what he did. It simply wouldn't make sense. He may be able to blame the booze, blame Kirk, or blame that goddamn ridiculous drinking game, but when it came down to it, McCoy was tired of being predictable. Stepping down off the concrete and onto the cool grass, Bones unzipped his jacket. As he let it fall off his shoulders and puddle at his feet, he took a deep breath. Drawing in as much air into his chest as would fit, McCoy let out the loudest scream he could muster and went tearing across the lawn.
Up in the room, Jim heard a yell that sounded oddly like his best friend. But, as Kirk sat up and scratched his head, he mused, 'Bones doesn't yell. Bones growls and glares. He's sarcastic and snarky, but he doesn't straight-out scream.'
Jim turned his head and threw his dirty sock in the direction of McCoy's bed, knowing he'd hit the doctor squarely in the face if he were there. When no indignant cursing came from the lump of blankets across the room, Kirk got up and ordered the lights to thirty percent. Sure enough, there was no trace of McCoy in the bed on the adjacent side of the room.
Confusion was not a look that Jim Kirk wore well, but his brain would not process what he was hearing as an act directly correlated to the night's bet. But, as he heard the excited voices of a few cadets outside his door, curiosity got the better of him. Something was going down, and he wouldn't be Jim Kirk if he didn't at least go out to see what it was. Sliding his feet into his PT sneakers, Kirk grabbed his data recorder and walked outside to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, the majority of the cadets had the same idea, as most were nearly running toward the door.
"Where's the fire, man?" Jim asked to a passing cadet.
The excited young man practically dragged Kirk down the hall alongside. "Are you kidding me? Some medical cadet is streaking across campus!"
Kirk was thankful that his jaw was physically connected to his skull, for that that moment, it may have fallen completely off given the alternative. Putting up his hand, Jim pulled them both to a halt and clarified, "No, wait, wait, wait. Did you just say what I think you said?"
"Yeah, man! It's no joke!" the young man answered excitedly.
"Medical cadet, you said?" Jim confirmed.
"Yeah. Why, is that a big deal?"
Without waiting for a response, Kirk took off at a dead run for the nearest door.
The decibel level in the atrium was deafening. Laughter rang out, bouncing off the walls and off the ceiling. Kirk peeked over his shoulder long enough to see the assembled cadets doubled over in laughter, some even on the ground and the floor. Most people were crying, others hanging on to friends, acquaintances or random strangers for support. A handful pointed and gaped, but the entirety of the group had one thing in common: all of them were stunned silly by the night's developments.
The herd of cadets pushed and shoved their unruly way out the door, bottlenecking when they all got stuck at the threshold. Jim, stuck in the middle of the throng of humanity, was not moving anywhere because thirty cadets were definitely not supposed to go through one door at the same time. He was ready to say 'screw it' and head up back to bed when he caught a flash of familiar dark hair sprinting across the quad. in the quick glance, Jim took in the streaker's face shape, nose, mouth and unmistakably wild eyes. And, when his gaze inevitably traveled down, Kirk thought his eyeballs might pop out of his head.
Leonard McCoy, the student body elect Boring Old Guy, was sprinting, stark-ass naked, through campus.
Voluntarily.
And, he was apparently loving it.
For once in his life, Kirk was stunned into speechlessness. No smart-ass remark, witty comeback or even coherent thought managed to form in his brain as his eyes digested the information. But, while his cognitive speech patters had failed him, his muscle memory still managed to remember to pull out his data recorder and hit the 'capture' button in time to catch McCoy's image as he ran screaming in front of the main residence hall.
One by one, Jim saw the lights to the individual rooms lining this side of each respective dorms. A few audible shouts of annoyance could be heard raining down, but soon, most of the verbal votes of displeasure were drowned out by the laughter and gasps coming from the windows. As the surprise was replaced on every level of the dorm by admiration and laughter, hoots and hollers encouraging McCoy to continue floated through the quad. The doctor gave a couple of enthusiastic fist pumps to the cadets witnessing his act of bravery and continued his crazy parade.
Jim Kirk, resident troublemaker of Starfleet Academy, stood on the stoop of his residence hall, threw back his head and laughed. His evening's goal of loosening up his roommate had been stupendously accomplished, though Jim had never imagined it to be quite so spectacular in execution. How he'd managed to pull this stunt off was completely beyond his comprehension. Every dare Jim had written out on those six PADDs weren't anything he'd actually expected McCoy to do. They were just meant to get a hearty reaction out of the doctor in hopes of getting him to forget about death, disease and trauma, even if it was just for one night. Never in a million light years did Kirk expect his straight-laced roommate to actually agree to follow through on any of the most un-McCoy like dares.
Kirk happily snapped holopic after holopic and took a couple of videos for good measure. Reviewing his footage, Jim chuckled and hit 'save,' adding a password and dual deletion confirmations on top of it. He'd gotten some epically good footage, and he needed to make sure he never accidentally erased it. He pressed a couple more buttons to send it to his personal PADD.
Laughing loudly from his belly, Jim watched the MP security team, late to the party as usual, start to chase Bones around the quad in an utterly miserable example of cat and mouse. It appeared the security officers not only underestimated McCoy's strength, but forgot about his vast knowledge of the human body, for they were all fighting an uphill battle trying to subdue the man. Every instance in which one of the fun kills would get a fingernail on the man was a chance for the doctor to demonstrate just how much it can hurt when a certain amount of pressure is applied to the right spot.
The young cadet whistled innocently and turned to walk back up the steps to his room. For once, Jim didn't really want to be a party to the shenanigans. He was till on behavioral probation for that water balloon incident with Cupcake a few weeks earlier, and though Jim may have been a bit crazy, he wasn't suicidal enough to incur the Wrath of Pike twice in a month. When the door slid shut behind him, Kirk stowed his data recorder in a safe place and snagged his PADD off the corner of his desk. He flipped it on and accepted the upload from his recorder.
Jim threw back the covers to his bed and hopped in. He settled himself against the headboard as he reviewed and edited together some of the best bits of tape he was able to snap. As he was sifting through his list of music to add an appropriate song, the only thought on Kirk's mind was, 'Someday, when Bones is a CMO, that tape will be worth its weight in dilithium.' He tapped the 'save' button and contemplated momentarily, his stylus hovering over the 'send' button, with the recipient being McCoy's PADD. Jim thought the nice thing to do would be to wait and see exactly how much trouble Bones would be in before he sent him a reminder of the night's escapades.
Pillowing his head on his arms, Jim internally cringed as a final thought invaded his mind. 'And if he kills me in the process, maybe his lawyers can use it to form an acceptable defense.'
Laughing as he nodded off, Kirk decided that, death notwithstanding, whatever McCoy did to him in retaliation would be worth it in spades.
Next Up: Pike reads a report that damn near gives him a heart attack, and McCoy discovers the true meaning of the phrase 'mortified embarrassment.'