Author's Notes: I'm kind of wishing I had something amusing to say here, but alas, my brain is drawing a giant blank. The point of chapter one was really supposed to be a teaser. This is the real meat of the story (well, if you can call this crack fic 'meat' that is). I've had to make some changes to this chapter from the original version to make sure that this fic doesn't get zapped from existence by the site's admins. I would kind of…hate that. So, the song McCoy's happy drunk is singing in the back of the police car is Queen's classic Bohemian Rhapsody, which, for those of you who haven't heard it (seriously? There are people who haven't heard Queen? Blasphemy!), here is the YouTube link: watch?v=jHbCE53s9hQ. (Obviously, you all need to put the 'YouTube' part in there first, lol.)
Additionally, kilala10 over on Livejournal has drawn some brilliant fanart to compliment this story, so the link for it is at the bottom of the chapter. Thank you, my dear! Words cannot describe how amused I am by your talents. Enjoy, everyone! As always, comments are loved but most definitely not required.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, nor do I own Queen's brilliant Bohemian Rhapsody, which is referenced in this chapter. I do this for my own amusement, though not necessarily as a benefit to my sanity.
Chapter 2
Twelve years earlier
Chris Pike forgot his keys.
And because he was a good partner (read: the new guy thought pranks were bad), Len McCoy sighed and agreed to drive them over when he had a spare moment or two. And after the latest casualty of law in his cruiser, Len was under the distinct impression he'd need a break once he brought the happiest streaker in all of Iowa City to jail.
"Fucking Halloween," McCoy muttered as the twenty-something man in the back began to belt out a very loud, very out of tune version of Bohemian Rhapsody. He never understood why the majority of the populous used Halloween as an excuse to act like five year old children. Len was convinced that there was something in the air that made people positively insane. Shaking his head, he brought his right hand up and slapped his palm flat against the barrier dividing the front and back of the car. The cage rattled and then settled while McCoy turned his head slightly and hollered, "Hey! Would you shut up already? Stop defiling Queen!"
"What's wrong with Queen? Oh wait. I'll bet you're one of those country guys," the man laughed back, smirking stupidity while he kept singing.
"Freddie Mercury should be allowed to come back from the dead to slap you for that," Len shot snarkily back. "It's a disgrace."
It was if his words weren't even heard or registered, and his streaker kept right on signing. McCoy grimaced, wondering if he'd remembered to replace the bottle of Ibuprofen he kept stashed in his locker for emergencies just like this one. He took a couple of deep, calming breaths while his latest guest screeched his way through the ballad section of the song. Growling lowly over the terrible "singing", the patrol cop corrected, "There is nothing wrong with Queen. What's wrong is the sound that's coming out of your mouth."
"You," McCoy's latest captive started, pointing one slightly unsteady finger in the patrolman's direction, "Are kind of uptight. Just chillax, man. With music!" Using the mental handcuffs to tap out quarter notes on the plastic seat of the cruiser. He cleared his throat in order to find the appropriate pitch as the song's tempo changed from slow and languid to staccato and serious. Dramatically, he sang the bridge at the top of his lungs while properly alternating voices.
Well, at least he was a happy drunk, though that didn't console Len's abused ears. The horrid sound bounced off the very contained interior of the cruiser, and he knew his blood pressure was rising faster than it ought to have been. Unable to help it, McCoy chimed in, "All right, let's get two things straight. One: you're not signing yourself to freedom, and two: you are damned lucky my partner's off tonight. You're a crime against music, and he'd take exception."
A mischievous expression passed the young, slightly inebriated man happily singing away in the back seat. He raised the volume of his voice (if that was actually possible) while he practically shouted, "LET ME GO! Will not let you go. LET ME GO!"
"Mama Mia let me go," Len muttered to himself while he thought about happy things like butterflies and rainbows. The half-assed attempts at distraction weren't working, and McCoy's hands gripped the steering wheel of the car, knuckles white against the raw, red skin. Finally conceding the need to preserve what was left of his sanity after his very long night, McCoy slammed on the brakes in the middle of the deserted street. The inertia from the sudden stop threw both men forward in their restraints. The cop twisted in his seat while he stuck one finger up against the bars. In a deadly serious voice, he warned, "You try for that high note, and I'm gonna gag you."
The young man's happy face finally fell. Studying the cop for a long few seconds, he finally asked, "God, really? What crawled up your ass and died? Are all cops this boring?"
McCoy didn't dignify the comment with a response; instead, he eased the car none-too-gently over the speed bumps in the station's parking lot. He killed the engine, got out and strolled to the jail's receiving area to snag a couple of pairs of sanitary gloves. McCoy motioned for one of the corrections officers to join him at the back door of the car before he threw the partition open.
"Oh, haaappy Halloween!" corrections officer Marcy Jordan exclaimed as she stuck her head into the car. The blanket that Len used to half-assedly cover his catch earlier slipped from the man's shoulders during the ride over, exposing every bit of the exhibitionist to the jailer. The tall, borderline heavyset, dark-haired woman cocked her head to the side and simply rolled her eyes. "Where'd you find this one, McCoy?"
"Frat party," was the patrol officer's flat, annoyed reply. "Meet Marcus Wilson, the most annoying streaker I've ever met. Genius here was running through the yards of the neighborhood in his birthday suit. By the time I got there, he was up on the roof of a house, singing at the top of his lungs. Hasn't shut up since I put him in cuffs."
"You should be familiar with that last part," she said as she nudged McCoy in the ribs with the point of her elbow. Jordan smirked and gloved up, pulling the purple non-latex coverings on with a dramatic snap. She reached into the cruiser and grabbed an arm, dragging the young man from McCoy's cruiser. His bare feet hit the pavement, and the sandy-haired blonde man shifted from foot to foot as the cold cement permeated the bottoms of his feet. Finally, the pair of law enforcement personnel led him into central booking before they dropped him on the 'waiting to be processed' bench. Jordan handcuffed Wilson to the restraint bar tacked to the bottom of the bench while she peeked up at McCoy.
"Where's Pike tonight?" she asked, straightening to face the cop.
"Off. He's spending the night with his son," McCoy answered with a sigh while he meandered over to the biohazard bin. He chucked the gloves with a curl of his lips before he went straight to the sink to wash his hands.
The jail veteran snapped her fingers. "That's right! It's Ethan's first real Halloween, isn't it? I forgot about that. Haven't seen Chris this excited in a very long time."
"I'm not surprised," McCoy muttered under his breath as he shook off the excess water from his hands and reached for a towel. "The man's got the maturity of his six year old."
"You're too generous, McCoy. I'd say four, but I've known him longer," Jordan snickered while she signed the proper forms, accepting Wilson into the jail from the police. She held the clipboard out to the patrol officer and waited for him to add his signature to the bottom. Furrowing her thin, perfectly manicured dark brows, she asked, "Wait. How long have you been on? I saw you before I came on duty tonight, and what it is it? 1800 now?"
"I'm pulling a double. It's the only way my partner got the entire night off," McCoy answered with very little fanfare.
Jordan's face melted into an expression of adoration, mixed with a little squee of joy the department often heard when someone brought in a lost dog or cat. Despite a no-bullshit, tough as nails exterior from working nearly twenty years in the jail, Marcy was a sucker for a cute face. Apparently, that extended to Pike's new-ish partner, and she made no secrets about it. She laid one hand on his arm and said, "Aww! That's so nice of you."
McCoy did his best to hide the blush creeping up past his collar. He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes. "I didn't do it because I like the guy, Jordan. I did it because now he owes me one," he insisted.
"Whatever, McCoy. Keep telling yourself that," she replied with a smile while she led her newest charge off to the fingerprinting area. Over her shoulder, she waved a little goodbye to the patrol officer while he made his way down the hall. "Have a good night!"
He grunted and reciprocated the wave, picking up the blanket from the ground where it dropped off Wilson's shoulders. After he folded it back up and stowed it in the trunk of the car, McCoy did the appropriate paperwork for the call, cleared himself for his dinner break and drove out of the garage. He never thought paying his partner a visit would wind up serving as his refuge, but it was looking more and more like his only respite from the night's insanity would be found at Casa de Pike. McCoy rolled the cruiser's windows down as far as they would go and allowed the brisk October air to steam through the inside of the car. The fresh, crisp scent was almost rejuvenating, just so long as he didn't look at his watch to know how much time was left on his shift.
McCoy slowed to a slow, careful pace when he entered Chris' neighborhood, mindful of all the kids probably running all over creation in search of candy. He made it through the darkened streets relatively unscathed, though Len did suspect he stopped an egging when he shot a murderous glare at some teenagers loaded down with a few cases of toilet paper and about a dozen cartons of eggs. He made a mental note to figure out to whom they belonged and to have a nice chat with their parents, right after he finished with Pike.
He would have raised his hand to knock on the front door, but before Len could make contact with the white metal, the barrier swung open with a whoosh of warm air. McCoy set his face to glare at his partner, but instead, he was met with the sight of an empty hallway. Brows furrowing, the patrol cop was momentarily confused until a small voice from about his waist's level grabbed his attention.
"You're too old to be trick-or-treating!"
Dropping his gaze, McCoy's jaw opened and closed a couple of times, though no sound came forth. Finally, he managed to say, "I'm not here for that. I'm looking for your dad. Where is he?"
The young boy hesitated. "Dad says I'm not supposed to let strangers in to our house."
Len was trying to figure out how to get past a pint-sized bouncer to gain entry to the Pike home when a familiar, smooth voice cut through the hallway. "Ethan? Did you just answer the door like I told you not to do?"
"No," he answered quickly, digging the heel of one of his little black boots into the rug in front of the door. Nibbling on his lip, he dropped his head and amended guiltily, "Okay, yes?"
Chris came up behind his son and pulled the miniature Wyatt Earp style hat off his head. Ruffling his hair, Pike squatted down to Ethan's level and pointed up to the cop standing in the doorway. "Ethan, you remember this guy, right?"
The youngest Pike shook his head to the negative. He looked at his father for confirmation and asked, "Do I know him?"
"He's my partner, silly. Remember? He's been over for dinner more than a few times. You've used him as a human jungle gym," Chris said, looking up at McCoy with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Maybe this will help," McCoy replied, clearing his throat. He pulled the black Iowa City PD toque-style knit hat from his head and ran a couple of futile hands through his messy hair before he lowered his gaze back to Ethan's level. "How about now?"
The young boy's blue eyes lit up. His mouth opened in a wide 'O' before he announced, "Oh yeah! Now I remember you! Okay, you can come in. I know you."
McCoy gave Ethan a little salute as he stepped through the threshold. The young boy ran off, down the hall and into his room before Len could say another word while Chris closed the door behind his partner. The smell of cinnamon and apples wafted through the house, and McCoy's stomach rumbled appropriately. "Smells good. What's Lynn got going tonight?"
"Apple cro- Apple crost-something," Pike replied lamely while he waved a hand through the air. "It's like apple pie, but better. More butter and less crust."
"Apple crostada, Chris," Lynn corrected as she walked by the entryway of her home. She smiled warmly at her husband's partner and pulled him into a hug. "How are you, Len?"
"I'm good, ma-Lynn," he replied, catching himself when she tossed one of her famous glares in his direction. Though Chris' wife had repeatedly instructed him to call her Lynn, the manners his grandmother drilled into his head made it next to impossible for McCoy to call her anything but ma'am.
"I'm glad And Len, thank you so much for doing this tonight for your partner. You didn't have to, especially since it involved working a double. If I'd known it that, I would have told you not to do it. You look exhausted," Lynn told McCoy succinctly while she tisked her tongue gently. She sent a none-too-subtle glare in her husband's direction, hoping that he'd at least remember to say thank you.
McCoy, at least, was oblivious to the daggers Lynn was glaring at his partner. "I didn't sleep very well last night, and it's been a long day," he admitted with a loud sigh, rubbing his hands on his face.
"Well, come in. The least we can do is feed you and make you some real coffee," Pike replied, much to Lynn's relief. He wrapped one arm around McCoy while he shepherded the young cop down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The prospect of real coffee lifted McCoy spirits exponentially. The flavored water the station purported to be coffee barely registered in Len's blood stream when he drank it. Pike preferred the stronger mix as well, so it'd become a tradition that they pitted at Starbucks or Caribou right before they went 10-8 for the night. Since he'd been pulling double duty all day by working two shifts without a partner, McCoy hadn't really had time to stop and replenish his supply of caffeine. It was running dangerously low, so the little pick-me-up would be nice.
Both Pikes breezed into the kitchen and silently divided to conquer the tasks at hand. McCoy followed the pair and hung a left right past the door, automatically reaching for the cupboard he knew held Chris' coffee stash.
"Len, what are you doing?" Lynn's stern voice stopped McCoy's hand in mid-motion. He froze momentarily, spun on one heel and gaped at her like a fish staring down his predator.
Pointing to the cupboard, he answered hesitantly, "Making coffee?"
Lynn made a shooing motion with her hands. "No, you're not. I am making coffee for you."
"I'm pretty sure I can handle using the coffee pot," he replied.
"Usually, yes. But not tonight," Lynn announced while she elbowed her way past the much bigger man and reached up for the bag situated on the top shelf of the pantry. Pulling it down with a grunt and a long stretch, Lynn turned toward McCoy. She put her hands on her hips and pointed toward the kitchen table. "You're going to go sit down. I'm pulling rank on this. You're working a double – no helping. That's the rules."
"You spoil me, Lynn," McCoy replied, ducking his head and accepting the kiss she laid gently on his cheek while he passed.
She chucked under her breath. "Someone has to. Now go, before I smack you with a spatula."
"Be careful, partner," Pike warned. "She'll do it."
"Talking from personal experience again, are you?" McCoy questioned with an amused grunt. He stopped in the middle of the kitchen and, with a shrug, added, "Though it's better than talking out of your ass."
"He knows all about that!" Lynn exclaimed, pulling out some of the leftovers from dinner as she talked. Her comment earned a shake of her husband's head, but no further words passed his lips. Satisfied, she watched while Chris started the coffee's percolation process. At the same time, she tore up a tortilla, spooned some meat and some of the sautéed veggies into a bowl and added some cheese before she stuck the entire thing into the microwave. When the appliance dinged, Lynn pulled the lot out and added the cold garnishments before she brought the overflowing bowl to the table. She set it, along with the steaming mug of coffee, on the surface. "There you go, Len. Enjoy."
McCoy's mouth began to water as soon as the savory smell of the burritos reached his nose. He took a big drink of water before he grabbed the fork Pike handed to him and wordlessly dug in. "This is really good," he said after swallowing most of what was in his mouth. "You make it?"
"Hell, no," was Chris' response. "You should know by now that you don't want to eat my cooking."
"Chris' idea of 'cooking' is calling ahead for it, and picking it up in the car. You should see the takeout menus I have to hide from him," Lynn added while she came to join the men at the table, grasping a mug of coffee between her petite hands. Pointing to the food, she said, "Is that warm enough for you?"
McCoy waved a hand while he shoveled another bite into his mouth. "Don't worry about it. It's food that didn't come from a drive through, and it's not wrapped in plastic. I don't care if it's warm."
"I wish Ethan was that easy to please," Pike grumbled.
Len's dark eyebrows descended straight down into a deep, canyon-esque furrow. He raised an eyebrow at his partner before he asked, "Yeah, about that. What, exactly, is he supposed to be?"
Chris shrugged and turned the palms of his hands upward. "My son couldn't decide if he wanted to be a vampire or a cowboy, so we compromised and let him be both."
McCoy harrumphed out a surprised grunt. "How…creative," he supplied, trying not to laugh.
"Hey! I thought the combination idea was pretty damned cool!" Chris replied with a laugh in his voice. "Lynn made him that costume from scratch. Took hours."
He nodded, taking another bite of the burrito salad. "I guess that explains the fangs, then."
"Ah, you saw those. I wasn't sure if you did," Pike said.
Len rolled his eyes. "I'm a cop, Pike. I get paid to notice things."
Over the good-natured bickering, Lynn decided to cut in with, "That was Ethan's request, and it was the whole reason why he looks like a possessed cowboy. He informed me vehemently that he needed to have fangs, or he wasn't going trick or treating."
Chris smiled fondly while he looked toward his son's room. He could hear Ethan playing with something, given the sounds of rocket ships and laser fire floated down the hallway. "His costume is all he's been talking about for the past week. He was so excited to get ready tonight that he even ate dinner with those things on his teeth."
"How did he manage that?" McCoy asked incredulously.
"I made mac and cheese with hot dogs for him. I don't think you actually have to have to chew to eat that stuff."
"Mmm," Len replied while he stifled a yawn. Leaning back from his empty plate, he stretched his back by twisting his torso left and right while he rolled his neck around to loosen it up. McCoy rubbed a particularly tender spot right under his collar bone and just to the side of shoulder in a vain attempt to work out the kinks he felt knotted in the pectoral muscle. When it didn't really help, he gave up with a disgusted grunt.
Pike couldn't help but feel for the young cop, since it was really his fault McCoy was so obviously beat. "How much longer are you on meal?"
He checked his watch. "I have another twenty minutes."
Lynn stood and excused herself form the table. Whispered something in Pike's ear before she disappeared down the hallway and into the laundry room, she gave Len a little hug before wishing him a good night. Chris nodded to his wife before he said to his partner, "Grab some couch, McCoy. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks," he replied, settling into the middle section of the plush couch in the Pike living room. He toed off his boots and propped his feet up on the ottoman off to his right. Len turned his radio down to a dull roar, titled his head back and let his body relax into the cushions. He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, satisfying breath. 'Just five minutes,' he told himself.
Pike smiled while he watched McCoy all but pass out the moment his head hit something fluffy and soft. He rattled around the kitchen for a few minutes, cleaning up after Len's impromptu meal. Chris kept a careful eye on the clock, knowing that McCoy was still technically on duty for another six hours. He gave his partner ten minutes before he queried gently, "Len?" in a normal, conversationally appropriate tone. When no answer came, Chris craned his neck toward the living room and tried again. "McCoy?"
Still no response. Pike tilted his head to the side and set the empty Tupperware container in the dishwasher. He closed it with his foot, padded over toward the living room, and smiled brightly when he reached the threshold. A year previous, what he saw would have been positively unfathomable, but now, the sight of Leonard McCoy out cold on his couch was…well, amusing. His FNG's eyes were closed, arms splayed over the backrest. Len's head was tipped back, and titled to the left just slightly. It was enough of an odd angle that, had he been able to sleep for more than a couple of minutes, would have given him a hell of sore neck in a few hours' time. A soft, light snore flittered past the young cop's lips, and Pike found himself biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud. For such a caustic man while he was awake, McCoy looked almost demure in sleep. It was more than odd, and it had the sergeant scratching his head.
As much as he would have liked to allow it, he knew that McCoy was just on his dinner break and therefore couldn't sleep forever. Chris had one foot in the air when a thought struck him. Smiling wickedly, he turned around headed toward his son's room instead. He passed his wife on the way there. Hissing out a, "Hey, Lynn!" he motioned for her to come towards him before she walked out his earshot.
Lynn narrowed her eyes. She was well versed in the mischievous look that would often shoot through his eyes right before he did something annoying, stupid or absolutely brilliant. Normally, his eyes lit up right before a little dopey grin made its way across her lips. Lynn also knew her husband's shoulders would tense in anticipation, and though he tried to control it, he fidgeted when something exciting was about to happen. Stepping around Chris' front, she closed one small hand around his bicep to keep him in place. "What are you dragging me into this time?"
"I need a favor," Chris said evasively. His eyes inadvertently slid toward the living room while she simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
"Oh, I know where this is going, and I'm not sure I'm going to like it. As happy as I am that you're finally getting along with that nice young man in our living room, you'd better not scare him too badly if you want to keep him as your permanent partner," Lynn scolded lightly, though the curious expression on her face betrayed her words of wisdom.
"You know me, Lynn. It'll be great."
"That's what I'm worried about. What are you going to do to Leonard?" she asked skeptically.
"I'm not going to do anything. Our son is," Chris answered as if what he was about to propose was the greatest idea since sliced bread. "Just trust me on this one, Lynn. Grab the camera, will you?" he said, pulling away from her.
"The camera? Why?" she replied, narrowing her eyes in abject suspicion. Her husband might be a sergeant and respected cop, but he was still as big of a practical joker as they came. Still, she was intrigued, so Lynn started digging through the desk positioned in the corner of their bedroom for the little camera Chris bought her for her birthday earlier in the year.
While he heard his wife searching for the camera, Pike made his way down the hall to his son's room. Poking his head in, he asked, "Ethan? Are you ready to go trick-or-treating?"
"Yeah!" the child replied, rocketing off the carpet and nearly out the door.
Chris' quick reflexes stopped his son from tearing down the hallway. Pike pulled the distressed and tattered hat from the hook on the back of Ethan's door, plopping it on the boy's head. He waited until his offspring stopped fidgeting before he said, "We're going to go trick or treating, but first, I need your help. Do you think you can do that?"
Ethan straightened his hat so the small divot missing from the edge of the brim lined up with a clear path for his right eye. He angled his chin down but looked up toward his father, just to make sure he had the right effect. Satisfied, he answered, "Yeah. What is it?"
"You know how you said you wished you could act like a real vampire? Well, I think I found way you can," Chris replied while he attempted to keep a straight face.
Ethan's eyes popped open wide before a grin danced across his face. "Really? How? HOW?" he shouted.
Pike gently shushed his son and grabbed him around the middle when he tried to squirm past the adult-sized roadblock. Seriously, Chris told Ethan, "If you want to do this, you're going to have to be really, really quiet. Do you think you can do that?"
Ethan caught his father's serious expression and sobered as much as a six year old could. He brought his hand up and made a zipping motion across his lips while his face took on a very stern air. "Yep," he answered.
Chris had to stifle a giggle, though with the animated nature of both himself and Lynn, the sergeant wasn't surprised that his son wasn't short of personality. Straightening to his full height, he reached for Ethan's hand while he led his son down the hallway. When they reached the kitchen, Pike reminded the boy of the need for quiet by placing a finger over his lips. "You ready?" he asked in a low rumble.
Ethan looked up questioningly toward his father. "For what?"
Chris stopped his son right next to the kitchen table and pointed. "See my partner over there? He told me that he would love to be a little vampire's first victim."
Ethan's eyes, nearly identical in shade to Pike's own, lit up and flared a bright, excited blue. He practically tore out of his father's grasp, and it was only another quick grab by Chris that prevented him from jumping on top of the sleeping McCoy.
"Ethan!" Chris exclaimed, grabbing the wriggling child while the boy's legs kicked through the air. Pike narrowly avoided rowel to the mouth (real riding spurs were not a smart idea) before he wrestled Ethan back to the ground. "Son, we have to wait!"
"Why?" he whined, looking pathetically impatient while he picked away at one of the fangs attached to his teeth.
"Because Len told me that he wanted to have a picture, and your mom's looking for the camera," Pike lied cheerfully to his son.
Ethan mulled over the logic of it in the best way a six year old could. He sat up, straightened his costume and adjusted his hat. "Okay, but can mom hurry? I want candy!"
Pike laughed, low and deep. "You and I will get plenty of candy, but right after we get this picture. Deal?"
"Deal," he said with a nod. Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
A couple of long minutes later, Lynn appeared silently from the bedroom with the camera in hand. She took her place opposite the couch while she smiled apologetically in the sleeping man's direction. She felt badly about what she suspected her husband was going to ask his son to do, but at the same time, she also knew McCoy's reaction would be completely worth it. Sighing, Lynn waved the small device triumphantly at her husband while she inserted a battery into the well. "It was dead. I don't think this has more than a couple of pictures in it for the flash, so you'd better make sure it's right the first time," she said to her husband while she settled into the armchair opposite the couch.
"Oh, we will," he replied. Chris dragged the small stepstool Lynn kept in the kitchen into the living room and set it flush against the back of the couch. Turning to his son, Pike instructed, "Ethan, that's for you. Climb up that stepstool and give my partner's neck a nice, hard bite, okay?"
The six year old licked his lips and slinked up to the stool. Ethan grabbed the back of the couch and hauled himself up, titling his little head to the side. Pike followed directly behind, just to be sure his son wasn't going to fall. The child zeroed in on his target – a nice, fleshy patch of exposed skin right below the collar of McCoy's shirt but above the scoop of his vest – and cackled nearly manically. When Ethan was securely kneeling on the top of the two step ladder, he looked questioningly up at his father. "Now?" he whispered.
Pike took a peek at Lynn, and when she lifted the camera and readied the shutter, he, nodded. "Now, son."
Ethan bared the long, sharp fangs attached securely to his teeth. He lifted his eyes up toward his mother, and draped his little arms around McCoy's neck. At the same time, he brought his head over Len's left shoulder and sank his bite down on to the man's neck. The needlelike points dug into the sensitive recesses of skin, causing divots the harder he pressed. A little high pitched growl floated from the child's mouth while he latched on, clearly thrilled.
The stab of pain jolted the cop from his doze, and a bright flash of light made him gasp out loud. Rocketing off the couch, Len yelped in surprise. The sudden movement started a chain reaction; his duty rig rattled, his radio catapulted out of the holder and his hand flew up to his neck. McCoy spun around a half circle, ready to pummel the daylights out of whoever was attacking him when his brain started to register where he was.
Of course, the rich, loud laughter from his partner helped serve as an additional reminder. Pike was down on one knee in the kitchen, right elbow resting on the table while he buried his face in the crook of his forearm. The patrol cop's eyes followed the path from his partner toward his partner's son, the latter looking entirely too smug for his own childlike good. Ethan's arms were crossed over his chest while he stared up at the man towering over his tiny frame. He expressed no fear whatsoever, instead reciprocating with a lift of his eyebrows and a mischievous glint to his eyes. With a satisfied half smile on his face, the fangs poked out from underneath his lip, enhancing the nearly feral grin.
With a deep sigh, McCoy spun around and looked across the room. He saw Lynn valiantly trying to cover her own squeaky amusement with the hand she held in front of her face. His eyes drifted downward to the small, square object in her hands. Len's posture deflated and he sunk back down on the couch. Working his jaw back and forth, McCoy muttered under his breath, "There are no words."
"Oh, I'm sure there are plenty, but I appreciate you not saying them in front of my six year old," Chris replied, finally pulling himself up off the floor. He flopped into the dining room chair next to McCoy's empty cup of coffee and laid his elbows on the table.
"Nothing he hasn't heard with you as his dad," McCoy fired back while he tried to find his dignity, somewhere attached to the ceiling.
"Oh, come on, Len. You actually taught me a thing or two about cursing, and I was in the Corps." Pike threw his hands up in the air, and even though he couldn't see it, he knew McCoy's eyes were rolling as he tried to cover his embarrassment.
Len cleared his throat while he accepted his radio from Lynn's outreached hand. He stuck it in the correct holder and resituated his gear. Settling back in on the couch, McCoy turned his glare from Chris over to Lynn and back to Chris. He watched as his partner and partner's wife as they tried valiantly to contain their giggles, though the snickers the floated through the air gave away the level of success.
McCoy tried to keep up the pretense of anger he was directing at both of the adults until he turned his attention to the child in the middle of the room. The boy was still wearing the same superior, impish and most importantly, proud expression all over his face. Swearing up and down that the western hat Ethan was wearing was fully supported by a pair of genetically inherited devil's horns, McCoy conceded defeat. He sighed, pursed his lips and nearly smiled. Rubbing his hands over his face, the cop spun a quarter of the way around on the couch and faced his tormentor. Len extended a hand over the backrest and softened his face, licking his lips. "Pretty good, kid."
"Thank you!" Ethan called out while he scrambled out of the kitchen. He pulled the old, western style trench coat from the hook by the door and practically bounced in place. "Can we go now, Dad?"
Pike sighed and shrugged while he stood up to grab his jacket and flashlight. "Just give me a couple of minutes. Okay, Ethan? Go find the pumpkin you were going to use for tonight."
"Okay!" Ethan answered before tearing off toward his room, the spurs on his boots rattling loudly against the floor. In a flash, the younger Pike was back in front of the door, all decked out in his costume and ready for a night on the town. He waved a happy goodbye to McCoy before he called, "Bye, Dad's partner!"
Chris bit his lip to keep from laughing too loudly while he shrugged his favorite worn, faded Carhartt jacket over his sweatshirt. "I guess this means we're leaving." He walked over to where McCoy sat, still rooted in place, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Len, I owe you for this. Thank you."
"Oh, you're damned right you owe me for this, and I'm not talking about the double!" McCoy said, accepting Pike's outstretched hand while he hopped to his feet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the set of keys Chris left at the station earlier and dropped them on the counter. Smiling genuinely, he said, "I'll see you at roll tomorrow."
Chris nodded and chased his six year old out the door. McCoy followed behind, pulling the door closed to the house before he waved a goodbye to both his partner and his partner's son. He slid easily into the car while he advised dispatch he was ready to be back on duty. Len sat in the driver's seat and chuckled to himself. Chris got him, and he got him good, and it was going to take some serious planning to repay the favor.
When he turned his head to make sure his path was clear, McCoy's collar brushed up against the sensitive pinch mark from the Ethan's fangs. Len suddenly wished that he didn't hate turtleneck shirts so much since a taller collar might have hidden the rather incriminating evidence. McCoy grimaced; even though they wouldn't be puncture marks, it was still going to be fun explaining the red splotches at the base of his neck to the other guys on the shift. 'Pike's son did it,' didn't quite have a convincing ring to it.
McCoy pulled out of Chris' neighborhood and back on to the quiet street, rubbing at the sore spot on his neck while he contemplated his next move. He wasn't mad at his partner, nor would he ever be able to bring himself to be angry with Ethan. He was simply irritated that he'd once again dropped his guard around Chris and was now paying the piper for it. Remembering the flash of light and the camera in her hand, Len groaned and sent a silent prayer heavenward that perhaps Lynn's finger got in the way of the lens when she depressed the button on the camera.
Right. When in his life had he ever been that lucky?
Next Up: McCoy doesn't know why, he doesn't know how, but he sure as hell knows who. How is he so sure? Because it's always Jim Kirk's fault. Always.