Title: Outsider
Characters: McCoy, Kirk
Rating: K+
Word Count: 2434
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Amok Time, interpretive license on the kal-if-fee scene.
Summary: Inspired by the st_tos_kink prompt of Anon has a friendship kink, of all things, and also h/c, and would adore ANYTHING AT ALL involving Kirk and/or Spock having to comfort Bones. I don't care why. Maybe he lost a few too many patients. Maybe it's after the Empath, or City on the Edge of Forever, or just anytime. But I want crying and hugs. PLEASE.
A/N: Takes place just after the beam-up at the end of Amok Time (the missing Sickbay scene). Technically the hug and crying is in there but it's not overt, so I don't consider it a real answer since the anon probably had something more drastic in mind. This has sat unfinished on my hard drive for weeks, and I ended up completely rewriting it into Kirk's POV. Betaed less than my usual, because I need to get these WIPs done while I still have a couple of days off. Also, I think this is the first time I've written more than a drabble that doesn't involve Spock. o.O

Jim Kirk can tell immediately upon waking where in his ship he is, no matter the time or day, and without needing to open his eyes.

No one except Engineer Scott memorizes the Enterprise like he has, every passage and duct and storage unit of her, and he knows well every centimeter of his silver lady. Now, he doesn't need the smell of a sterile field, the hum of a dermal regenerator, or a cranky voice barking orders, to know that he's waking up in Sickbay.

Wait, waking up in Sickbay?

His eyes fly open, and though the rest of him is moving sluggishly the tingling sensation is welcome to him, because it means he's not dead.

A moment later, he almost wishes he were, because he's never seen Bones look so angry in his entire life.

"Do I want to know how you pulled this one over?" he manages to ask through stiff throat and jaw muscles, as the physician more hurls than hands a clean command tunic to him.

"Neural paralyzer, Captain," McCoy spits at him, and the icy fire in those blue eyes shocks his sleepy system into wakefulness with the full realization of what just – almost – happened.

He tries to concentrate, which isn't overly successful for various reasons; the chief three being that his career has been shot to pieces now with this going-against-Starfleet-Command trick, that Spock is still on Vulcan and no one knows if he's even still alive or if he's marrying that worthless woman to produce one perfectly logical mostly-Vulcan honeymoon baby, and that his CMO looks close to exploding in his face over something probably related to the first two.

He's been given back his life, but that's probably all he'll have by the time this mess is cleared up. He'll be lucky to escape without a court-martial, because he's been on thin ice with Komack for months now, and he can just see the styluses and paperwork and the desk waiting for him back on Terra looming in the distance. The only light at the end of the tunnel is that of a train, about to run him and his career and his life over, tossed mercilessly under the rails.

If he weren't so glad to be alive, he might just curl up on the bed and cry.

But he doesn't, because he's the captain and he can't afford to. Instead he flashes McCoy a weak grin; the Kirk bravado is always his weapon of choice and he wields it like a master of the arts. "Neat trick, Bones. I owe you one."

Blue eyes smolder at him in hostile silence.

He can feel the sensation returning to his extremities at last, and he struggles to a sitting position on the biobed. Bones doesn't move a muscle to help him, all icy distance where he would usually be hovering gentleness; he must truly be upset.

He doesn't have time for this. "All right, Doctor, spit it out," he snaps more irritably than he means to, because he needs to figure out where Spock is and if there's any way he can dig himself out of trouble with the Admiralty before they hand his ship over to someone else. "It's not like I knew the stupid thing was a fight to the death – Spock conveniently forgot to mention the possibility of that challenge and it's not like the rest of them were going to specify details to outworlders!"

And with that denial, McCoy snaps, cleanly as a dry stick being broken for kindling. He recoils slightly from the barely-restrained fury. "I'm more angry with you than with Spock or the rest of his precious family," Bones spits the words out as if they're weapons he can use to drive his point home, and he winces instinctively.

Worse, he has the sinking feeling that he knows just the reason for his friend's fury, but he has to play along in hopes he isn't right. "For heaven's sake, why?"

Bones shoots him a withering look, and slams the dermal regenerator down on the table. "Oh, I dunno, Jim…maybe because you just about got yourself killed down there?"

"It wasn't my fault," he protests again.

He jumps, and Chapel sticks her head into the room worriedly, when Bones swears roundly at him. The nurse is wise enough to retreat before things are thrown at her, but he's a bit trapped between the wall and the physician and can't follow her.

Finally the man winds down, and impales him on the end of an icy look. "Captain," and the word is infused with as much anger as it can hold without further explosions, "I've a good mind to place you on medical report for suicidal tendencies!"

He recoils as if physically slapped, struck momentarily speechless. Then a wave of anger floods his still-awakening nerves, and he folds his arms over his chest, meets the physician's fury with the defiance of his own.

"And on what grounds do you possibly think you could make that charge stick, McCoy?" His voice is cold, deadly even to his own ears, and some half-hysterical part of him wonders why he's even bothering; he's going to be relieved of command anyhow, and whatever report McCoy wants to make is only going to expedite the process.

"Because I know you, Captain," the doctor snaps out through his teeth, "and I know Spock – and I know the physical limitations of each of you this afternoon."

"Your point?"

"My point, sir," and he'd be dead if the word could physically shoot venom as well as it does metaphorically, "is that you weren't fighting that battle to win."

The anger disappears for a moment under a wash of shock and slight panic.

"The fact that you can't truthfully deny it proves it," McCoy continues, glaring at him. "You were fighting to lose, Captain; actually you weren't really fighting at all, were you now?"

He isn't about to answer that, partly because it would be damning and partly because his motives aren't really clear even to himself. But his mouth keeps moving, because the dead space has to be filled with something other than awkward breathing.

"If you intend to file medical charges against my capability to command due to psychological imbalance, Doctor, then you will need to provide proof of such."

A mirthless, bitter smile twists the older man's lips. "Proof, Jim? All right, if you insist, I'll start with these facts."

He sits back, waits for the physician to lower the boom in true McCoy style.

"Fact Number One: James Kirk knows six separate forms of self-defense outside the usual methods taught in Starfleet training. He packs far more muscle mass into that compact body than you'd think from lookin' at his size. He has no objections to 'fighting dirty' if it suits his purpose. His greatest combat strength is finding weakness in his opponent and using any method and weapon available to plunge into that exact chink in the armor."

Cold sweat drenches the neck of his clean tunic, for this physician knows him better than he knows himself – and he's right on every particular. The case against him is steadily growing more condemning with each word.

McCoy continues, pressing on with all the ruthlessness of a snake striking for the kill. "Captain James Tiberius Kirk has before taken out as many as seven men at a time in a brawl when the situation demanded; he will not give up until he's down for the count, and that count takes a heck of a lot longer to reach than most people's. His pain tolerance is off the charts – enough to be borderline-masochistic to a psychiatrist's eye – and when his deepest temper and drive are released he transforms into a small tornado that is perfectly capable of wreaking havoc on an unprepared world."

He gulps, and wishes he had Spock's ability to lie to Sickbay scanners and psyche profile tests through sheer force of will.

"He also spars twice a week with a Vulcan," McCoy adds coolly, "knows said Vulcan better than Spock knows himself, is precisely aware of the weaknesses and strengths of the being who seemingly is all but attached at the hip to his human captain. Add to this," and the doctor shoots him a glare of pure death over the top of a medical scanner, "that by the time we beamed down there Spock was about two hours from dying outright from sheer hormonal adrenaline overdose, out of his mind with the blood-fever, severely dehydrated, and weakened from eight days of malnutrition and insomnia. We even talked about it before the challenge began, Jim! Spock would never have stood up to Stonn for longer than ten minutes, and we both knew it."

"And you draw from these facts, that I decided to let Spock kill me?" he asks directly when McCoy is finished.

"Unless you have an explanation to the contrary, Captain, then yes; I believe you saw it as the best way out – the only win in a no-win situation. Your command was already jeopardized, and you've never been able to tolerate the thought of anything happening to Spock. You could have taken him out by fighting dirty and with just a bit of effort, Jim, and we both know it." McCoy's voice has lost its animosity, regret and sadness replacing the former quality, and he can't stand the change any more than he can look the man in the eye right now. "You could have killed him, and he probably would have thanked you for the release from the blood-fever. Yet you let him choke you to death, because you were fighting defensively instead of offensively."

He is silent, for he cannot in good faith deny it, not all of it at least. While he had no intention of killing Spock, neither did he intend to die as he had; he had simply seen no solution open to him and in consequence had not acted with any sort of plan other than to prolong the conflict, without seriously injuring either of them, until he had one. It was pure bad luck that he'd lost his focus enough for Spock to stop the dance they were performing and move in for the kill. Literally.

Shuddering, he rubs his arms absently. He has no idea what to say, what to do, that will help rather than make matters worse; and he's startled when McCoy flings the scanner down on the table in one last fit of anger, and then turns back to meet his gaze.

The physician's eyes are suddenly old, weary – and he can't tell if they're just glassy with exhaustion or if the dear old grump is actually close to crying.

"Bones…"

"Jim…someday you're not gonna have me around with a mini-miracle in my kit to save you or Spock, or maybe both of you." The voice breaks slightly, a small hitch in the last few syllables, and his heart clenches, twists deep within him. "Someday one of you's gonna do somethin' I can't fix, and there's not gonna be anybody who can pick up the pieces for you and put 'em back together."

And in an instant he sees here what's really at the heart of the reaction he's gotten, and he understands it completely. Though it hadn't been in his game plan, he'd basically been willing to die if absolutely necessary so that Spock could live, and he hadn't given Bones a second thought, hadn't thought about what it would mean to him to watch him die at the hand of their closest friend, insanity or not. Hadn't thought about the fact that yet again he and Spock were leaving Bones behind in their plans and actions, without even thinking of their consequences on the best friend both of them had.

And now the poor guy was scared that next time there wouldn't be any pieces to pick up, that he'd really be alone at the end, knowing he couldn't do anything due to his COs' foolishness.

His arms are still stiff from the minor miracle Bones gave him, but not stiff enough that he can't lift them and, throwing propriety and decorum out the airlock, hugs his CMO – his friend – as hard as he can, murmuring insanities into the blue-veloured shoulder as he does, trying in desperation to say he's sorry and knowing he's miserably failing.

They're both sniffling (that sparkly dust from Vulcan's surface coats everything, of course) when they jump away from each other, as the comm screeches that Spock is on his way down to Sickbay.

He watches as Bones drags his sleeve across his eyes, and then the physician begins to grin, slowly and evilly.

"…Bones?"

The grin is a smirk now, and he's just a little afraid of what it indicates – then he realizes, and he gapes at his friend. "He doesn't know?"

"Nobody knows, Captain," is the retort, and he can hear Bones's accent become more pronounced as he relaxes visibly from the trembling tension of the last few minutes. "I didn't feel it necessareh that the whole ship knows its First Officer just tried to choke his captain to death, did you?"

"You mean Spock thinks he really did kill me?"

"Mmhm," the physician replies, smirking. "And now you're gonna keep your backside sittin' in that bed, Captain, until I've had a bit of fun."

"But –"

"Sit," McCoy growls, and he knows better than to disobey if he wishes to remain forgiven for his thoughtless stunt. "Serves you both right for puttin' this gray in my hair," the man tosses grumpily over his shoulder as he leaves. "Fool idiots, the both of you... NURSE!"

He hears Chapel's hasty steps outside as the bellow rattles the instrument-trays, and sits back with a sigh. He and Spock have some talking to do, of course – lots of it – but he sees now that he is going to have to spend some quality time with his CMO in the near future, so that McCoy does not feel excluded from the special something he and Spock share. Bones deserves better than he's gotten in the past, because he's not just someone who excels at picking up the pieces; he is a friend, a darn good one and a far too patient one, and he's been understated and excluded without either of them meaning to do so.

Perhaps he and Spock should take it up as a personal effort, to include the physician more in their conversation and activities.

After all, they both owe him everything now.