Author's note- Hello people! I love academy fics- particularly ones that show the development of Jim's and Bones' relationship- but unfortunately, there isn't many of these types of fics available- and I have intensely scoured the internet. Soooo, I wanted to help anyone who was in the same position as me and attempt to write a fic myself. This is my first ever fanfiction, so please give me criticism but don't be too mean!
Chapter One: The Meeting of an Idiot Genius with a Genius Idiot
POV: JIM
Jim tried to ignore the hubbub echoing from his right on the otherwise silent spaceship. His better judgement quickly losing the battle against his compulsive urge to stick his nose into anything remotely interesting, he rearranged his position- biting his lip as the movement caused hot pain to radiate from his left fist- and craned his neck towards the commotion.
"You need to get back to your seat!" a tanned female lieutenant yelled, forcefully tugging a cadet at least a head taller than her (not to mention about ten years older) along the ship.
"I had one in the bathroom with no windows!" the man insisted, attempting -and failing- to scramble back to the safety of the toilet.
"You need to get back to your seat now!"
He finally wriggled free of the lieutenant's iron grip. "I suffer from aviophobia," he manically waved his hands around in the air, "It means fear of dying in something that flies!"
The woman did not stand down, right eye twitching slightly.
"Sir, for your own safety, sit down or I will make you sit down!" The woman's voice quivered with barely disguised resentment. Even Jim knew that this would be the appropriate time for the cadet to shut up before he got his ass handed to him by a 5'4 Latina.
Fortunately (or unfortunately- Jim wasn't opposed to a good bitch slap), the man finally admitted defeat, trained his eyes to on the floor, and sullenly slunk to the seat on Jim's left.
Jim curiously eyed the guy up. He couldn't help but notice that the man stood out like a sore thumb in comparison to the other straight-backed, nose-in-the-air cadets on board- even more than Jim probably did, bar fight injuries and all.
Firstly, the lines decorating his eyes and forehead hinted that he was a relative amount older than the average cadet on board. Not really that weird, considering Jim imagined that he, himself, was a couple years older than these fresh-out-of-high-school kids, but it was definitely different.
Secondly, he lacked the usual rigorously tailored, bright red uniform that the other cadets proudly adorned like a badge of honour, instead sporting some roughed-up civilian clothes, which in turn matched his thick stubble and unkempt brown hair.
Thirdly, and most significantly, the guy reeked of whiskey. As in, Jim wasn't sure whether he had simply drunk the alcohol, or somehow missed his mouth on numerous occasions and had an unintentional shower in the stuff. And, judging from his bloodshot eyes, he was dealing with one hell of a hangover.
Now, Jim wasn't one to judge others for scruffy appearances, or over the top alcohol consumption (he himself could feel an incessant pounding in his skull), but he had very much assumed that Starfleet would care, and that he would be the only exception to these strict standards, for reasons of which he was still not entirely certain. Maybe Starfleet was seriously low on its monthly recruiting quota.
A gruff Southern drawl interrupted his contemplation.
"I may throw up on you."
Not words he'd ever expected to hear but Jim found himself feeling a pang of sympathy for the man. Mainly, however, he wondered why the guy had decided to disclose this specifically disgusting piece of information to a complete stranger. There was no hint of potential apology or commiseration in his voice, and based on his body language, Jim was certain that the guy was not trying to make friends.
"I think these things are pretty safe," Jim cautiously responded.
The man snorted.
"Don't pander to me, kid. One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in 13 seconds. A solar flare might crop up, cook us in our seats. And wait till you're sitting pretty with a case of Andorian shingles. See if you're so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding." The pace of his words quickened as his little speech progressed, his eyes widening- revealing a slightly crazed glint- and his gesticulation becoming more and more wild, until Jim was sure he was going to be slapped in the face. That would do wonders for his growing headache.
"Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence," the guy finished off ominously and turned away.
Having lost what little patience he did have, Jim countered in a matter of fact tone, "Well I hate to break this to you, but Starfleet operates in space."
He held back an eye roll, sure that it would only earn him another manic haranguing.
To Jim's surprise the guy nodded slightly.
Defeatedly, he muttered, "Yeah, well, I got nowhere else to go."
Jim quirked his head to the side, imploring for more as, per usual, his curiosity got the better of him.
The man did not disappoint. "The ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is my bones." He lifted a flask to his lips and drank greedily.
Jim couldn't help but feel another twinge of sympathy. Against his better instincts, he felt drawn to the guy, although he wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe it was the container of alcohol that was offered to him.
"Jim Kirk." He raised the flask in a casual salute to his neighbour.
"McCoy. Leonard McCoy."
Jim handed the flask back, feeling the tension seep out of his bones as a soft warmth spread throughout his body, dulling the ache in his hand. He grinned at the rugged man next to him. Wary brown eyes smiled back.
They sat in silence for a semi-awkward moment.
Leonard coughed politely, "So, what happened to you?"
"Huh?"
"Your face. I'm presuming that those cuts aren't from a fall." McCoy repocketed his flask.
Jim shrugged. "You'd presume rightly."
Leonard raised an imploring eyebrow. Rolling his eyes, Jim carefully raised a non-injured hand and pointed at the shiny-headed, boulder-shaped cadet sitting a few metres away from them.
"Courtesy of Cupcake over there. And his three goons."
"4 vs 1? Doesn't seem very fair."
"It was a close fight."
McCoy's arched brow somehow managed to travelled further up his forehead.
"You should really get those cuts checked out; you know. The bruises too."
Jim snorted, "I'm good."
"Seriously, they could get infected. Who knows how contaminated Starfleet's facilities are?"
"They're probably just as clean as the rest of the world," Jim stared at the other man pointedly, in a gaze that usually made other men either walk away or punch him. This guy did neither.
"That's exactly my point," McCoy continued grumbling.
"Look, it's 2252, the bubonic plague no longer roams the streets, and the healthcare is top notch. Hell, if I die, I'll even receive a top notch funeral. I'm good."
Despite McCoy's lack of response, Jim could feel persisting eyes analysing his body. He tried not to show his discomfort despite feeling as though the man's hard stare was penetrating his skin, studying the bones beneath. A shiver tingled down his spine.
"For god's sake man, could you stop inspecting me?!"
"Your hand's broken." McCoy hadn't directly answered Jim's question, but his lips were turned downward at the corners slightly and his eyes shone with harsh exasperation. Jim knew the answer was a "hard no."
But still, what gave this man the right to threaten using Jim's lap a human sick bowl and then to grossly disregard Jim's personal boundaries?
"What? No, it's just sprained!"
"Since when were you a doctor?"
"Since when were you?"
"For about 10 years now. Your hand's broken."
That would explain the guy's strangely intuitive and experienced attitude when it came to Jim's injuries. And, probably, why Jim's initial instincts were to run far away from the guy and not turn back. Doctors. Damn his nosiness.
Jim crossed his arms (pretending not to wince as he folded his sprained hand under the other) and looked away from the guy. He was starting to regret accepting his alcohol.
"I hate doctors," he groaned.
"Suck it up, you infant. Give me your hand."
"Why?"
"Because I need a distraction from this flying tin can. Give."
Jim didn't budge.
"Give it!"
Jim let out a breath. This guy was weird. One second, he was explaining the dangers of space (whilst
on a spaceship, of course), and the next he was ordering Jim with this sort of kindly yet intense passion, to give over an already injured hand, so the hungover 'doctor' could examine it.
"C'mon, humour me."
Reluctantly, Jim unfolded his arms- grumbling something about needing to listen to his gut more often- and allowed his hand to be scrutinised. With a surprisingly light touch, McCoy fluttered nimble fingers up and down Jim's fist repeatedly asking, "Does that hurt?" The only responses he received were eye rolls and mutterings until-
"Ouch!" Jim wasn't quick enough to bite back his sudden exclamation.
"Does that hurt?"
"Obviously, you old Sawbones!"
"Sawbones? That the best you got? And less of the old, kid."
McCoy pulled a little black box from his inner jacket pocket, pressed a few buttons, and steadily positioned it above Jim's hand as it whirred to life and emitted a bold blue light.
The tricorder. A doctor's best friend.
"Yup. It's broken." The haggard man looked up at Jim, his lips curled into an annoyingly satisfied smirk.
Jim huffed.
"Don't be a baby. Look, just come around my dorm after initiation. It's only a small fracture and I have all the stuff I need in my bag. I'll fix it up nicely. I'll clean up those abrasions too."
Jim gasped, "To your dorm?" He clapped his hand against his chest in mock indignation, "Wow, Bones take me out to dinner first!"
"Oh, zip it."
Jim obeyed. He prided himself in knowing just how to push people's buttons and, sometimes that was doing the very thing that the person least expected. Even if that was exactly what said person said they wanted.
The silence was deafening. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim peeped at McCoy- no 'Bones'- grinning when he noticed the pale green colour of his face and the sheen of cold sweat that had broken out upon his forehead. Never before had Jim felt such satisfaction at the sight of a man on the verge of puking his guts up.
Bones' voice was shaky, "You will come to my room, right?"
Jim made eye contact with him, pointed a finger at his chest and gave him his best and most wide-eyed "are you talking to me?" expression, fluttering his eyelashes innocently.
Bones growled, a dab of pink now accompanying the greenish hue of his skin, "You swear to come to my room?"
"Am I allowed to talk now, oh great Doctor McCoy?"
"Do. You. Swear. Yes or no, kid."
"Fine. I swear."
They lapsed back into quietude; until Bones (who was clearly an awful judge of character) asked-
"Can I trust you?"
"Your doubt wounds me, Bones!"
"Can I trust you?" Bones repeated stonily.
For a split second, Jim's brows drew close, and he bit his lip, before regaining his composure and cracking a wide smile.
"Scout's honour."
Notes: So that's chapter 1! Hope you enjoyed!