Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Leonard "Bones" McCoy went about as if his existence was everyone else's problem. Bones was loud, paranoid, and opinionated – he lived to complain - and he was absolutely, without a doubt, James T. Kirk's best friend. Pike liked to say McCoy was Kirk's only friend, and yes, maybe there was a little bit of truth in those words.

Jim smothered a yawn as he skimmed over another chapter of required reading for his accelerated 'fleet courses. He was sprawled in his dormitory desk chair, boots up, wearing a lopsided grin as he listened to his roommate chug down another coffee. It was McCoy's second mug in so many minutes; the first one had disappeared in a way that frankly defied the laws of physics.

"Bones, your masochism is showing," Kirk remarked, wiggling his brows suggestively. He'd tilted his head back over the chair, craning his neck to see the upside-down profile of his roommate. Even from his awkward positioning, Jim could see lines of tiredness etched into the doctor's face. They'd been a permanent fixture since the start of the new term, as the fresh intake of cadets always brought trouble to McCoy's metaphorical door, i.e. Starfleet Medical.

Jim rolled his eyes at the moody scowl Bones sent his way. He'd seen through Bones' cranky-old-man routine in the space of one shuttle ride over a year ago: anyone who shared a flask of good bourbon with a complete stranger couldn't be all that bad. 

Getting dizzy from the blood rushing to his head, Jim sat back up. He made a valiant effort to return to his studies (about five seconds), but teasing McCoy was second nature by this point. "Don't be a grump - you remember you voluntarily signed up for late shifts over the weekend?"

The doctor replied with an unintelligible grunt, something that probably translated to 'I'm not too old to kick your ass'.

Undeterred by Bones' grouchiness, Jim continued to poke fun at his walking-dead roommate. "Just let me know when you start hallucinating Klingons in the quad, and I'll put you out of your misery."

The slap of a mug being set down heavily clapped through the room.

"Park yourself in front of a mirror before you go throwing stones, kid. I've seen more alive-looking roadkill than you," Bones snapped back, almost bordering on vicious, which was enough for Jim to know the doctor must have had one hell of a shift at the clinic. That, and the fact that Bones had previously been clutching at his coffee like a lifeline, staring into its black, bitter depths as if the liquid held all the universe's secrets. 

Jim glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow at the unusual show of aggression. McCoy sighed, visibly deflating a few inches. Bones could bluster and bitch until he was blue in the face, but it was rare that his emotions ever manifested physically.

Knowing he wasn't the source or intended target of McCoy's ire, Jim let Bones' frustration roll off like water on a duck's back. The doctor's blunt attitude had never fazed him; it had been a refreshing change of pace from the idiots who otherwise fawned over the legacy of George Kirk. Usually, Jim would gladly give back as good as he got, and bickering with Bones made up about 90% of their friendship anyway. He wasn't a complete jerk, though, so he tried to be less of a brat when Bones was in a genuinely foul mood... Then again, trying didn't always mean succeeding.

Hmm, speaking of ducks.

"Last week you were comparing me to frogs and pigs in the same breath, and now I've been downgraded to roadkill? Seriously, Bones, you're gonna give me a complex," Jim complained loudly, throwing a suitably dramatic look of hurt in the doctor's direction. It earned him an exasperated scoff from his roommate.

"Don't twist it, kid. I was explaining to your Orion 'friend' that you're damn slipperier than a greased pig and fine as frog hair, so 'course you're a heartbreaker." His roommate's Georgia drawl was thick as ever, made even gruffer and more endearing in the early hours. The doctor downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, grimacing as he rolled his shoulder to work out a persistent kink. "Saved you from another broken nose, didn't I? Ingrate."

Bones' southern charm always slipped out more when he was tired or pissed off, and Kirk had secretly challenged himself to draw out the accent as often as possible. Jim grinned to himself, but sent his roommate a mock glare. He sniffed, putting on his best woe-is-me face.

Bones didn't buy it for a second. "You ain't fooling me with crocodile tears, sweetheart."

Jim shrugged. "It was worth a shot." Kirk tossed his PADD onto the desk and stretched his arms overhead, his back popping in protest after being seated too long in one position. Bones held his tongue but looked deeply offended at the sound.

"You got back late this morning; it was already past six. Your shift should have finished at two…" Jim prodded lightly.

Bones huffed, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, well, that would've been the case if a group of first years hadn't lost a bet and tried to tackle the foreign terrain course in the dark – about three sheets to the wind, those dumbass kids. I got stuck working overtime patching up everything from a minor impalement to sprained ankles and bruised egos."

Kirk's eyes lit up at that juicy bit of gossip - a perk of living with the doctor. "Impalement, how-no, where?" Jim stumbled over his questions, curiosity trumping caution... Until he suddenly remembered that tired McCoy was a doctor without a filter, and he didn't fancy losing his appetite so early in the morning. That was a lesson he'd lived and learned the hard way. "Actually, you know what, I don't need to know."

Jim stood and graciously began to fix them a light breakfast – or dinner, in Bones' case. "You should take it easy with the all-nighters. Why don't you skip your first classes and take a nap?" Jim suggested with a half-hearted attempt at sympathy, offering McCoy a plate of fruit he'd shaped into a wonky but colourful smiley face.

Bones shook his head, lips twitching at the childish breakfast offering. "Would if I could. Not all of us are geniuses like you who can skip straight to the exams."

"Flatterer." Jim rolled his eyes. McCoy loved playing the washed-up hick card, but Philip Boyce didn't take a personal interest in any old medical cadet. Jim knew Bones was selling himself short, but chose to play along with their usual banter.

"As long as you don't start sleep-drawing biochemical diagrams on the walls again," he added, snorting at the memory. Even Bones barked out a soft scoff, launching a blueberry at Jim's head. Kirk let his voice drop low and sultry, "Now anatomical diagrams on the other hand..."

Their budding good mood was interrupted by the sharp trill of Jim's communicator. He languidly glanced at the screen, expecting another reminder about his upcoming coursework. Instead, a devilish smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He read the message aloud for Bones' benefit, "Cadet Kirk, report to RA Simmons' office, presently."

Bones let out a groan, fixing Kirk with a long-suffering scowl that usually preceded a whole lot of griping and moaning. The doctor was doing his best impression of a responsible, fully-functional adult telling off a misbehaving child. "Two weeks, Jim. The semester started two weeks ago. I told you to keep your head down, so why'd you have to go piss off the rear admiral again?"

Jim bristled, closing the fridge with a bit more force than necessary. The contents rattled but quickly settled, unlike his emotions. "Yeesh, lighten up, Bones."

He pointedly took his time pouring a glass of juice as McCoy stared him down. "Simmons is old news. He hasn't been in the field in decades, and everyone knows the guy should have retired years ago," Jim explained, pausing to sip at the drink with calculated nonchalance. Despite what the summons had said, Jim planned to take his sweet time traversing to the administration offices. "Even you can admit the guy's an A-grade bastard."

McCoy didn't deny the claim.

Rear Admiral Grant Simmons exemplified some of the worst traits of military authoritarianism that could be found in present-day Starfleet. He was a firm believer that progress couldn't be made without breaking a few bones, and he was known to single out mild-mannered cadets for the sake of 'building character'. Once upon a time, the rear admiral had been commended for developing several aggressive command tactics during his early career.

Jim was well aware that Simmons had rubbed the right shoulders to brush any less than savoury rumours of his glory days under the carpet, until he'd eventually climbed the ranks to become supervisor of curriculum for the command track cadets at the Academy.

During their first year, Jim had locked horns with Simmons on occasion, but Pike had stepped in to smooth over the rear admiral's snubbed ego. Chris had cautioned Jim to back off, but like a red rag to a bull, Kirk couldn't resist a challenge. He'd kicked off the new semester with a public exposition on the Trevulong conflict resolution – one of Simmons' most lauded achievements during his captaincy years.

It had been a work of art and educational to boot.

Jim had systematically decimated Simmons' past tactical assessments and leadership decisions, brandishing captain logs and witness statements to back up his claims (information that, by all rights, should have been highly classified—but hey, that had never stopped him before). Luckily, the unredacted mission reports had been 'archived in the wrong database', allowing any cadet to stumble upon them.

Simmons had been red-faced and furious when word got back to him. Someone had even recorded Jim's presentation and shared it across campus, despite the Academy administrators trying to hush everything up.

Unsurprisingly, there had been a formal investigation into Kirk's conduct, but there had been no evidence that suggested a clerical error hadn't allowed all cadets access to the Trevulong files. Feeling victorious, Jim had ridden on the resultant high for days, right up until the inevitable moment Simmons retaliated. 

In hindsight, Pike had given Jim fair warning.

The core problem was that Jim's presentation wasn't only a good way to show up the rear admiral. Trevulong was the topic Kirk had chosen for a pre-req assignment, which, if passed, allowed him to test out of attending a good portion of the second-year conflict resolution course. Despite any hidden agenda, Kirk had worked his ass off preparing the presentation, and his tutor had loosely confirmed that Jim was set to achieve an excellent score.

Reality came crashing down shortly thereafter, when Jim was informed that his assignment had been given a big fat zero. Because the Trevulong records shouldn't have been available to cadets, Jim's source material was considered ineligible for submission.

It was obvious that Simmons had applied pressure on Jim's professor to force this outcome, and Kirk had promised to enact swift vengeance. Bones had nagged at him to not rise to the bait, so Jim simply didn't tell his friend that he'd spent the weekend hacking into Simmons' PADD. It was totally worth the hours of lost sleep on his part, as Jim had hit the jackpot...

With his back currently turned to Bones, Jim couldn't see the look of reproach being drilled into the back of his head, but he could feel the heat of it. Jim weathered the glare and kept his hands busy puttering around the kitchenette, "Don't wig out, Bones. They won't find anything to pin on me."

"Jim," Bones pushed, calling for his roommate's attention.

Kirk eventually turned to face the doctor. Looking like he already regretted it, McCoy reluctantly asked the most pertinent question. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing much," Jim shrugged, the lie so blatant it begged to be challenged. Sure, it would have been easy to explain himself, but he preferred to make Bones work for it.

"Bullshit, kid." McCoy fixed him with a fierce look, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The doctor constantly complained that Kirk's propensity for stirring up trouble was going to give him an ulcer one day. 

Jim's leisurely demeanour didn't falter as he watched the aggravation build and bubble over Bones' expression. No one could press McCoy's buttons quite like Jim.

Bones broke eye contact first, slumping his head down to rest against the countertop. He let out a muffled curse, "Too damn early for this... Kid, how bad of a fallout are we looking at here?"

Having won some sort of unspoken game, Jim finally gave McCoy a nudge in the right direction. "You sound stressed, Bones. Why don't you take a load off and read this week's newsletter? I hear there's an article on page three worth reading."

With visible trepidation, Bones pulled the newsletter up on his PADD, flicking immediately to the third page. McCoy sat in stunned silence as the tension stretched taut in the space between them.

"Every day I ask myself how you passed the psych evals to get into Starfleet," Bones said flatly, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen, "'cause, I'm telling you, as a medical professional, there is something seriously wrong with your mental function."

While the doctor started off the rant with his usual dry, slow drawl, he soon unleashed onto Jim a much more vibrant symphony of bitching. "In fact, I should probably scan that thick skull of yours to see if the damn thing just up and walked out. Did you take one too many hits to the head in combat class last week? Have you been infected with Binordinam brain worms? Lord knows you've done some stupid things, but by god, I think this is fighting to place in the top five of your dumbest ideas yet."

McCoy dropped his PADD onto the kitchen counter with a clatter, the display still showing the Academy's weekly bulletin. Today's issue featured an article written by Grant Simmons on the virtues of professionalism and dignity in leadership, which should have been accompanied by a half-page spread of the rear admiral's official mugshot. Except, instead of a grim-faced portrait of their senior officer, Bones (and the rest of campus) was now intimately aware of what Simmons looked like in a blazing-red thong bathing suit.

Tan lines, am I right?

As Bones took a breath in the middle of his tirade, Jim used the opportunity to cut in. "Yeah, on that note, I'd best be off to the principal's office," Jim said jovially, flinging a casual arm around the doctor's shoulders in goodbye. The gesture prompted McCoy to yank him to a halt before Jim could escape.

"Bones, I know you're itching to lecture me until my ears bleed, but I actually do need to go before a student administrator comes barging in."

The doctor stood with a heavy exhale, shaking his head in exasperation. He gave Kirk a once-over before steady hands reached out to straighten Jim's uniform with a quick tug, "Christ, I hope you know what you're doing, Jim."

"Where's the fun in that?" Jim shot back with a wry grin. He'd made it all of two steps from their dorm before his feet swung around.

"I've changed my mind," he announced as the door swished open once more. Jim sauntered back in, beelining for Bones. "You said the magic word 'impalement' - how am I meant to walk away from that?"

Bones predictably threw a fit. "Jim!"

"Please. You know it's going to drive me nuts all day otherwise," Kirk whined and wheedled until McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose and threw his hands up in surrender.

In the most professional tone the doctor could muster, he offered a clipped explanation, "I had to extract a rather sizeable splinter of bark from a cadet's gluteal region."

"Ugh, it's seven in the morning. In English, Bones." Jim insisted.

McCoy firmly shoved Jim back toward the door, patience all but gone. "I had to pull a stick from his damn ass, okay?"

A brief pause filled the room as Jim stopped dead in his tracks... "Wait, what?!"

Chapter Text

As expected, McCoy’s morning classes were buzzing with gossip; an incessant hum of noise that grated against the doctor’s thinning patience.

It had taken the administration over an hour to take down the photo – no doubt by Jim’s design – at which point the scandal had already spread like a wildfire across campus.

Consequently, McCoy was one of the few cadets actually taking notes in Interstellar Ethology; the rest were too busy sneaking glances at their PADDs, sniggering amongst themselves. Bones purposefully shied away from engaging with any of his juvenile classmates, not that he was known for being social in the first place, but right now, he didn’t need to be reminded about Jim’s apparent abandonment of any good sense.  

Since kicking Jim out of their dorm this morning, a persistent knot of unease had sat tight in McCoy’s stomach. He’d spent all morning on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For all of Kirk’s vendettas, ploys and schemes, the kid had managed to avoid any serious consequences thus far – a feat of luck, a bit of skill, and the backing of Christopher Pike. Jim certainly excelled at skirting the line between harmless pranks and raising anarchy… but the latest incident with Simmons had crossed a line, shifting the dynamic into something personal.

Jim wasn’t just flouting regulations to push back against Starfleet politics; he’d effectively made an open declaration of war against a rear admiral. So, yes, Bones was nervous.

He resolved to keep his head down and soldier on, regretting that he hadn’t taken up Jim’s suggestion to skip class when he’d had the chance. McCoy had admittedly worn himself a bit thin over the weekend, but he planned to take a power nap during his lunch break to get him through the rest of the day.

The doctor exhaled with relief when the bell finally rang to dismiss them, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. “About damn time,” he muttered to himself as he shoved his notes away.

Bones was barely out of his seat when his comm chirped, and it took a significant amount of restraint not to snap the stupid thing in half. He flipped it open with a scowl.

The official summons was brief and to the point: report to RA Simmons’ office, presently.

“Wonderful,” he grumbled sarcastically. It was the same message Jim had received a few hours ago, which couldn’t be a coincidence. His first instinct was to check whether the kid was okay, but he didn't want to take the chance that his comm was being monitored. It might be suspicious for him to reach out immediately after receiving a summons, and Bones silently prayed Kirk wasn’t relying on him for some sort of alibi.

McCoy spent a minute tidying up his uniform and fixing his hair – as if that might make him less conspicuous. There wasn’t much he could do about the two days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jaw, or the dark circles around his eyes, so he left it at that.

The corridors felt longer than usual and livelier too, punctuated with raucous cadets all smacking lips about the same thing. More than once, Bones overheard Jim’s name being mentioned and winced. If the student body had already decided on the culprit, then there would likely be another conduct investigation in Jim’s future.

A few minutes later, McCoy braced himself and knocked on Simmons’ office door.

“Enter.”

The doctor stepped inside and held himself at attention, knowing the rear admiral would be slighted by any other course of action.

Simmons was standing—pacing the width of his immaculate office—the skin above his collar a shade too red to be healthy. Bones was half-tempted to check the man’s blood pressure; he was the right age to suffer a stroke or heart attack. However, unlike Jim, McCoy was fortunately born with a semblance of self-restraint.

Simmons stabbed a finger at a nearby screen where the newsletter was displayed, now missing the infamous photo.

“Cadet McCoy,” he snapped, purposefully ignoring Bones’ title as a doctor, “I’d like you to explain this.”

Bones swallowed, keeping his expression neutral. There was no point pretending that he was entirely unaware of the swimsuit saga when it was all the student population could talk about. “I understand there was a communications error this morning, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Simmons thundered. “I’ve put up with enough of this nonsense.”

The tension in the room was building by the second as the rear admiral began to pace again, his words gathering momentum. “Starfleet Academy used to carry prestige,” he barked, voice rising with every step. “Standards, discipline, respect - none of it seems to matter anymore!”

“This outrageous show of insolence stems from a culture of insubordination spreading through you snivelling cadets. It’s a goddamn epidemic, and I know that George Kirk’s bastard son is at the centre of it all.” He shot McCoy a venomous glare, not waiting for a response. “And you, McCoy, are Kirk’s physician, roommate and friend,” he spat the word like an insult, “I doubt that boy can wipe his own ass without you knowing about it, so spit it out.”

Bones schooled his features carefully; this wasn’t the first time he’d been unwittingly dragged into one of Kirk’s schemes. Jim was like the sun, radiating an energy that drew people into his orbit. The apt comparison brought the story of Icarus to mind; James T. Kirk should come with a warning label - proximity may cause casualties.

Jim was bold, headstrong, and impulsive—he thrived on pushing boundaries and doing the impossible. And for some reason, that bundle of sunshine had taken one look at a recently divorced, drunk mess of a doctor and decided to give McCoy a chance anyway. 

The kid certainly made Bones’ life at Starfleet more chaotic, but he also made it bearable. So as far as Bones was concerned, Simmons could take a nosedive off the science block. 

McCoy cleared his throat. “Sir, with all due respect, Kirk had nothing to do with this. As you say, if he had, I’d probably be the first to know.”

Simmons’ eyes narrowed into slits. “You expect me to believe that? Don’t take me to be a fool, cadet. This sort of trick has Kirk’s filthy mitts all over it.”

Bones straightened, anger hardening his voice. “Sir, if there was evidence of misconduct on Kirk’s part, I’m not sure why I’ve been called here?”

Simmons stepped closer, lowering his voice to a hush. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, McCoy. Your continued presence at Starfleet depends on your cooperation. If you withhold information, if you protect Kirk, not even your medical credentials will save your commission. One word from me, and you’ll be out by sunset.” He gave Bones a cold, measured look.

“Pike’s interference and Kirk’s bloodlines might have kept him in the clear so far, but you don’t have the same patronage,” Simmons sneered. “I’ve read your file, McCoy, so unless you want to be stuck bartending on some backwater colony on the edge of the neutral zone, I suggest you reconsider your loyalties. Do I make myself clear?”

McCoy felt a chill run down his spine despite the recycled warmth heating the office. His future was now balanced on a knife’s edge, but more importantly, so was Jim’s. Men like Simmons were hardly a novelty - prideful fools drunk on power – and he knew the rear admiral’s threats were sincere.

“Crystal, sir.” Bones met Simmons’ unblinking stare, his pulse thundering in his ears. Whatever the rear admiral threw at him, he could take it.

Simmons studied him for a long, tense moment - an expectation hanging unspoken in the air. Yet Bones held his tongue, letting the static quiet build in the room. He kept all the nasty words he wanted to say bottled behind a cool mask of indifference.

“Wrong choice, McCoy,” Simmons said at last. “But since you might have some sense between your ears, I’ll give you time to change your mind. You know where to find me when you do.”

Bones glared at Simmons, jaw clenched, but kept mum, refusing to give the rear admiral the satisfaction of a reaction. He would not be baited, no matter how hard Simmons pushed.

“Dismissed.”

The door slid shut behind him with a finality that pressed the air from his lungs. For a moment, the doctor lingered, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought to steady himself.

Bones was no stranger to threats. For example, he was perfectly aware of the horrifyingly grim statistics that accompanied life and death in space. Disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence. But Simmons’ brand of intimidation was far more familiar. It was like dealing with his ex-father-in-law and Jocelyn’s divorce lawyers all over again – a fight that he’d ultimately lost.

Forcing his shoulders back, Bones strode out of the administrative building with his head high. He kept his face impassive, nodding curtly at passing officials until he finally stepped into the open air.

He pulled out his communicator, Meet me at the dorms? We need to talk.

McCoy’s thumb hovered over the send button for a beat too long. He could already imagine how the conversation with Jim would go; it would be the spark that lit the fuse of an explosive reaction.

Bones shook his head, deleting the message. Jim would be under strict scrutiny for the foreseeable, and Simmons probably believed his threats against McCoy would end up playing Kirk right into the bastard's hands. Bones would be handing Simmons the ammunition he needed, and Jim would land himself in a disciplinary hearing before the doctor could blink.

Tucking his comm away, Bones sloped back to the quad, searching out a quiet bench beneath the wide umbrella of a bowing willow tree. Today could have been a good day; a pleasant autumn sunlight speckled the ground. Except even in the warmth, a chill lingered in his bones.

McCoy sat with his elbows braced on his knees, letting the peace settle while he still had the time to enjoy it. Despite his ever-growing list of complaints about Starfleet (and space in general), if Simmons got his way, Bones knew he would miss the few meaningful relationships he’d built over the last year - and no one more than the kid.

Quietly, Bones resolved to drag out the stalemate with Simmons as long as possible. He wouldn’t be one of the many people who had given Jim Kirk up without a fight. Not to mention Starfleet Medical, which was always in need of more skilled staff. Bones didn't want to think about how his sudden departure would go down with his team of nurses; Chapel was bound to throw a fit.

A heavy gloom settled over him, shadows creeping in as his mood darkened.

McCoy could weather Simmons. He already knew what it was like to lose a game stacked against him; Jocelyn had seen to that.

All I have left are my bones.

The rear admiral had all but admitted he had nothing concrete on Jim, and the doctor intended to keep things that way...

Any desire to sleep away his afternoon had disappeared. Instead, Bones found himself sourly watching the ebb and flow of students, half expecting Kirk’s bright personality to appear among them. He didn’t have to wait long. Jim’s approach was as subtle as a red alert – loud and impossible to ignore.

“Bones! There you are.” Jim dropped onto the bench beside him, oblivious to the new weight carried in his friend’s posture. Kirk barely took a breath before he launched into an animated tale of his own run-in with Simmons that morning, grinning as he recalled, “Bones, you should’ve seen the look on his face. Priceless.”

“Nice work, Jim,” the doctor answered, trying to push enough dry irritation into his tone to pass for normal. “You sure straightened him out.”

Jim flinched, the most subtle twitch of his jaw, but it was there. Maybe he'd unleashed a little too much irritation.

Bones felt a stab of guilt. He’d been particularly cagey and morose since starting the new term, and Jim had borne the brunt of it. Looking back, he was self-aware enough to recognise he’d been carrying around a new anxiety about starting the introductory piloting course in a few months. Somehow, Jim had convinced him to sign up at the end of last term (copious amounts of alcohol were involved at the time). Still, perhaps it was a silver lining that he was unlikely to ever step foot in another shuttle once Simmons was finished kicking him to the kerb.

The doctor clamped down on his negative thoughts and bad attitude, nudging his shoulder against Jim’s. “Ignore me. I should have taken that nap,” he sighed. After a moment of uncertainty, Jim smirked, always too quick to forgive McCoy.

“My wisdom knows no bounds,” Kirk joked, scraping his heels against the pavement as he leaned back to soak up the sun. “Let me worry about Simmons, Bones. I can handle it.”

Kirk then entertained the doctor with a story about wiping the floor with Mitchell in advanced flight training, and McCoy let himself be drawn in, grateful for the distraction. He’d already decided to keep Simmons’ threat to himself.

Jim had enough battles to fight.

Chapter Text

For a brief stretch, campus life settled back into a rhythm that felt almost normal.

Bones found his bunched-up nerves loosening as his lectures and clinic shifts passed without incident. He spent any scraps of free time in the company of Jim or his loose circle of other friends (really, more like colleagues, but he'd at least had coffee a few times with Chapel outside of clinic hours) while he still could.

Second year at the Academy was twice as demanding as the first, and Bones briefly allowed his work and studies to distract him from the threat Simmons had issued. It was tempting to believe the rear admiral had forgotten all about the existence of Leonard McCoy.

That illusion shattered abruptly one Thursday afternoon.

Bones strode into Starfleet Medical, intent on quickly catching up with Boyce on his latest research paper before his rounds, and was greeted by a wall of confusion.

"Doctor, you're not on shift until tonight."

McCoy frowned, almost certain he hadn't been notified that his evening shift hours had been changed. He grabbed a PADD and pulled up the day's duty roster, surprised to find that he was indeed marked down for a 2200 to 0800 hours shift, not the 1600 to 0200 hours shift. It didn't make a lick of sense—he knew he had an Organic Chemistry class that started at eight sharp tomorrow morning, and it was rare for the administration to let his course schedule and clinic hours overlap. A sinking feeling rolled through his stomach as Bones accessed his shift rota for the next month.

Sure enough, McCoy's name had been scattered across the most punishing shifts: nights back-to-back, switching to days for a long weekend stint in the emergency trauma unit, all without warning.

Bones felt a heat rise along the back of his neck. Evidently, Simmons wasn't all bark; that old junkyard dog had a nasty bite.

McCoy told himself it would be fine. Bones had run his own ER department back in the heart of Atlanta, so he was perfectly equipped to deal with Simmons' bullshit. He even considered asking Boyce to change his shifts back, but he didn't want his mentor to get caught up in a dogfight between him and the rear admiral.

On that note, Bones had reported early for the first of many brutal shifts with a stubborn set to his mouth, determined that he could outlast Simmons' threats…

McCoy's sheer stubbornness worked until it didn't.

Ten gruelling days went by before the strain began to show elsewhere. Bones' exam scores, which had always been solid, started to slip. The problem worsened until he began to draw concern from his professors.

At first, McCoy had chalked it up to exhaustion and the relentless shifts, convinced that he just needed to put more effort into studying and spend less time pretending to have a social life. Things were tense between him and Jim, which was probably to be expected, what with Bones constantly trying to cover up the extent of his problems. He could barely scrape together a few hours a week to spend with his roommate – too often their schedules were out of synch – and their friendship was taking a hit as a result.

Just when Bones thought he'd got on top of his grades again, the pattern repeated itself, but this time a gnawing suspicion took root. The answers he remembered writing on his exams didn't always match what appeared in the marked papers, as if someone had tampered with them after submission.

The thought chilled him, but Bones kept quiet. Simmons had McCoy backed into a corner, and who was going to believe the word of a cadet over a rear admiral?

He started double and triple-checking his work, copying down answers on duplicate paper and keeping his own records, but it made no difference. The marks continued to drop, the discrepancies in shift assignments continued, and every attempt to clarify matters with the administration was met with deflection or polite dismissal.

After a month had passed, Bones could admit he was barely holding it together. Each day seemed to wear down his resolve until even the most minor tasks felt insurmountable. The pressure weighed on him, and he found himself biting at colleagues and stumbling through basic routines with uncharacteristic sloppiness.

The only area of his life he wouldn't let Simmons affect was his surgeries. McCoy would rather take a long walk off a short pier than put the lives of his patients at risk.

Speaking of patients, Friday nights at the clinic were one of the busiest. Bones had been halfway down the surgical wing corridor, intending to grab a hypo of stimulant to keep his senses sharp for the last few hours of his shift, when a familiar voice called for him.

"Doctor McCoy, in here a moment." Philip Boyce stood at his office door, dark eyes tracking Bones' movements. McCoy hesitated, brain misfiring at the sudden change in objective, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The office was cluttered but inviting, wrapped in the familiar smell of parchment and old leather, a welcome contrast to the sterile hospital outside these four walls.

Boyce gestured for the doctor to sit in the chair opposite his own, folding his arms to lean forward against the desk. He silently observed McCoy for a moment, and Bones struggled to stop himself from tensing up under the scrutiny. He glanced away, pretending a stack of nearby medical journals had caught his interest rather than meeting Boyce's gaze.

"You look like you've been through the wringer, McCoy. I've seen plenty of cadets hit burnout before, but not quite like this." Phil paused, drumming his fingers against the dark-stained wood. "To be honest, I've noticed something's been off for a while now, but I suppose I let myself get too wrapped up in my work again. You're not normally a cadet I need to worry about."

Bones opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how much to reveal and what lie to spin. He was so goddamn tired.

Boyce spared him the trouble of replying. "Earlier this evening, someone brought your shift rota to my attention."

McCoy startled at that, his heart lurching with a sharp jolt. The sudden attention to his clinic hours sent a prickle of shame through his gut, though he couldn't explain why. He hadn't done anything wrong—he had, in fact, tried to make things right with the administration... yet now that Boyce had found out the truth on his own, it felt as though Bones had somehow failed an unspoken test.

"At first, I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing, so I decided to compare your rota schedule with the records from your clinic shifts." Boyce absently tapped at the PADD before him, then fixed Bones with a look of genuine concern. "Honestly, I'm amazed you're sitting in front of me," he admitted, shaking his head slightly. "Most would have cracked under the pressure weeks ago."

Truthfully, Bones had already bowed under the strain of his work, just not in the way Boyce seemed to realise. His friendship with Jim had frayed at the edges over recent weeks, to the point where Kirk had stormed out of their dorm more than once. Without any reprieve from Simmons' harassment, McCoy's days at the Academy were dwindling - it was only a matter of time before his fragile house of cards came crashing down.

"Leonard, what on earth is going on?"

Bones realised, not for the first time, that Phil was probably the only person who ever called him by his given name. To everyone else, he was always 'Doctor McCoy' or some variant thereof, and for a long while, he'd been convinced that Jocelyn had irreparably tainted the name 'Leonard' from all the years she had wielded it like a weapon.

In moments like these, when it was just the two doctors without an audience, Boyce often chose to use his name, and McCoy found he couldn't ask Phil to stop.

"Just a roster reshuffling," Bones replied, just about managing to keep the bitterness from his tone. He was pleasantly surprised that he'd actually come up with a coherent response, given that the simple act of sitting upright was becoming unfathomably draining.

Boyce's expression grew more intent. "Leonard, you cannot tell me that you didn't notice something was wrong. No one ends up working such ridiculous hours by accident. Starfleet doesn't grind its doctors into the ground - at least, not unless something's slipped through the cracks, or someone's turned a blind eye."

Bones hesitated, rubbing at the bridge of his nose until stars danced in his vision. "I did question it with admin, Phil," he conceded sullenly. His stewing anger at Simmons wasn't enough to drown out the fatigue in his voice. "They told me it was all above board, just temporary, and brushed me off when I pressed for details."

Boyce's brows drew together in a frown; his lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed Bones' statement. "I wished you'd come to me about this, son."

The word son landed with unexpected force. Even with his mother still alive, McCoy hadn't been anyone's son in a long time. He swallowed, gaze dropping to his own hands as if they might anchor him. You must have the steadiest hands in the fleet, Bones – Jim had once boasted.

"I didn't want to bother you over a clerical issue," he grumbled, the admission leaking out before he could stop it.

Phil let out a slow, frustrated breath, clearly troubled by the situation despite not knowing the half of it. "That's not good enough," Boyce protested, his words edged with disappointment and concern. "You shouldn't have been left in the lurch like this, Leonard. It's not how things ought to be done. You'd never allow any of your own staff to be treated this way."

McCoy's exhaustion twisted into something close to guilt; Bones couldn't argue, and he didn't want to.

"I'm officially signing you off duty for at least forty-eight hours," Boyce stated firmly. "You need proper rest, not another round on the wards. I'll handle the rota issue myself."

Bones' sluggish thoughts spat out a list of unfinished tasks and clinic obligations, a brief panic clutching at his chest. "I'm in the middle of a shift, Phil. You can't-"

Boyce leaned forward, posture shifting from trusted mentor to the chief of surgery. He cut Bones off sharply, "I can, and I am. Don't push me, McCoy, unless you want us to move this conversation onto the concerns also raised about your academic grades?"

Bones folded; the weight of his exhaustion caught up with him all at once. Any argument to see out his shift caught in his throat and faded.

In reality, he was relieved not to have to keep up the pretence any longer. He managed a weary nod of assent, and Boyce's gaze softened.

"Go home, son. Get some rest."

Chapter Text

Jim liked to think he had a knack for reading people. It wasn't just a trick to him; it was a matter of survival, especially at the Academy, where everyone had their own agendas.

And that's not to say he didn't enjoy reading people for fun, too. He liked figuring out puzzles, and understanding body language and speech inflexion were all pieces that, if placed correctly, revealed the bigger picture of a person.

Yet, lately, when Jim looked at Bones, it felt wrong. The doctor's edges were worn, corners a little bent; a puzzle picture not matching the box. 

McCoy no longer seemed to laugh quite as brightly; that was one of the first things Jim had noticed. A subtle change.

Then the differences became glaringly obvious. Bones began to stare off at nothing between sentences, his eyes lost any spark of life. The cracks in Bones' routine kept Jim up at night: a bed that never seemed slept in, missed meals... the way he sometimes blinked as though he was surprised to find Kirk beside him. Jim had tried to draw an explanation out of McCoy, but their friendship had suddenly lost its rhythm.

Bones insisted on brushing off Jim's concerns with half-hearted excuses, and when the doctor was too tired to deal with his roommate, his gentle digs quickly turned into thorny jabs. Sometimes Jim apologised for overstepping, and sometimes he bit back with sharp words of his own. Occasionally, after their worst fights, Jim would leave the dorm and not return for days at a time.

McCoy was always the one who reached out again first. The extended olive branch would usually be disguised as a grumbled complaint that Bones had bought too much crap at the commissary, and it would be a waste if Jim didn't return for his share of the goods.

Like an addict, Kirk always came back. No matter how heated the argument, he eventually found himself returning to their dorm – not only because Pike quickly tired of Jim sulking in his quarters, but because Bones had become the anchor he never expected to catch.

Almost imperceptibly, the doctor had wormed his way past Jim's defences and proven to be reliable. McCoy, even at his most irritable, was someone Kirk wanted to trust, so watching the man self-destruct hurt like hell.

It was only a matter of time before Jim finally snapped.

On a Friday evening, when he could have been out drinking and dancing with Gaila, Jim was once again breaking into Pike's on-base apartment.

"Son, you look like crap," were the first words out of Chris' mouth as Jim entered the room. The captain was stretched out on his regulation-issued couch, PADD in hand and condensation still forming on the glass of scotch nearby. Without hesitation, Pike dropped his legs to the floor and gestured for Jim to take a seat.

Jim lingered by the door for a moment, doubt creeping in. Then he remembered the slight tremor in Bones' hands before he'd left for his shift a few hours ago, and Kirk dropped with a thud next to Chris.

The act of sitting still had never come naturally to Jim, and right now his body was rigid with nervous energy as he perched on the edge of the seat. His knee bounced restlessly, and he shot it a frustrated look, willing himself to stop fidgeting.

Pike placed a hand on Jim's leg, steadying the frantic pace. He took a measured swallow of his scotch, letting Jim settle for a moment, before passing the glass over with a nod of encouragement. "Not a lot gets you worked up like this… McCoy?" he asked knowingly.

Jim nodded, taking a long swig of the alcohol as he collected his composure. "Something's wrong. I just… I don't know how to help him." He ran a hand through his hair before continuing, "He's not himself lately. He barely sleeps, skips meals, and I swear his clinic hours must have tripled this semester."

Pike hummed in acknowledgement, "You're both in second year now, Jim. It's not like your own coursework has left you with much breathing room."

"I know, but I have this feeling, like I'm missing something." Jim's gaze dropped to his hands, knuckles white where he gripped the crystal tumbler. "Hell, I'm scared, Chris. If someone gets hurt..." he trailed off. Telling the truth felt a lot like throwing Bones under the bus.

Pike fixed Jim with a serious, searching look. As a senior officer, there was no way he could brush off what Jim had just insinuated.

"Okay." Chris' short response wasn't exactly reassuring.

Jim couldn't mask his apprehension, "Okay?"

"Yes, okay. I'll look into it, Jim. I don't have much say over the medical track cadets, but I know who does."

Kirk let out a shaky breath, managing a faint, appreciative smile. "Thanks, seriously." He hesitated, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of rueful humour. "You know I would've hacked into Bones' schedule myself if Simmons wasn't monitoring me like a hawk these days."

Pike rolled his eyes. "Good to see you're actually trying to stay off his radar, Kirk."

Jim knocked the rest of the scotch back. "Could you check on Bones tonight? I know it's late, but-"

Chris grunted his agreement. "I'll see what I can do, kid. Now stop drinking all my good booze and get out of here so I can make some calls."

A few hours later, Jim woke abruptly at the quiet swish of the dormitory door. His stomach swooped, and he blearily forced the nearby clock into focus. The red numbers winked 0433 in the early morning gloom; not quite light out, but a promise that the sun was soon on its way.

Jim registered the shuffling movement of his roommate. He'd become weirdly hyperaware of Bones' presence - or more often lately, the lack thereof.

Chris was right that second year for all cadets was more difficult. Jim's own workload was borderline overwhelming, fitting four years of study into three (because screw you, Pike, I'll see your dare and raise you). Other students called him crazy when they watched Kirk sprint across campus to keep up with his packed schedule, and McCoy was normally on the front lines, trying to get Jim to take a break. Now that the tables had turned, the situation might have been funny if Jim wasn't terrified of the potential consequences.

Even during their first semester, he had been surprised that Bones could function as well as he did on so little sleep. The fact that McCoy could sit through a three-hour lecture on early Starfleet history after spending eight hours rearranging someone's guts (and not in the fun way) was actually impressive… more so when Jim had realised that Bones was basically fuelled by spite alone.

McCoy's trademark ire had all but sputtered out nowadays.

Jim shifted upright in the shadows of his half of the room, blanket pooling around his waist. After his conversation with Pike, he was torn between checking on Bones and not wanting his head bitten off by a sleep-deprived doctor.

Deciding not to say anything yet, Jim quietly observed as Bones moved slowly through their dorm. There was a heaviness to McCoy's gait that unsettled him, and Jim felt the familiar tingle of anxiety prickle over his skin.

It hit him again just how much he missed his friend. He missed their old banter and easy companionship. Jim wasn't sure he could call what McCoy was doing as living when the man had practically become a ghost.

And Jim could honestly say that he'd tried waiting out this rough patch, hoping things would settle on their own. It's what Pike had recommended the first time Jim had stormed into the captain's quarters, furious after a fight with Bones and panicked that their friendship was ruined. But it wasn't like Kirk was known for sitting back and twiddling his thumbs.

As McCoy began stripping out of his uniform, Jim awkwardly cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"Hey, you're back early. I thought you had night shift again?" Jim secretly hoped that the doctor's unexpected arrival was evidence that Chris had indeed intervened with Bones' endless clinic hours. Still, he kept his tone neutral, not wanting to provoke McCoy if he was in a foul mood from any fallout at SFM... He hated walking on eggshells around Bones; that this was what their friendship had been reduced to.

Bones finally spoke up, voice rough but for once lacking his usual acerbic edge. "Boyce kicked me off duty for forty-eight hours," he answered, letting out a tired sigh. For the first time in weeks, there wasn't a trace of bitterness in McCoy's expression. If anything, he looked relieved to have a break in his shift pattern.

"So, uh, since you're off duty, have you got any plans for today? It's Saturday, after all," Jim pressed casually, hoping he didn't come across like he was starved for attention.

Bones shrugged, rubbing his eyes. "Frankly? I plan to sleep and do absolutely nothing for as long as I can get away with it," he groaned. After a moment, McCoy glanced over at Jim, suddenly uncertain. "You got anything going on? If you're planning to have people over or whatever, just say the word. I can find somewhere else to crash, or I could spend some time at the library," he added tentatively.

Jim's chest tightened at the suggestion, a pang of sadness flickering through him - at what point had things gone so spectacularly wrong between them? Watching Bones retreat into himself over the last month had been painful. Jim couldn't help but wonder if this was how McCoy had acted during the final days of his marriage - withdrawn, worn out, and barely present. The thought made Kirk's stomach twist uncomfortably; he hated to admit it, but the parallels were hard to ignore.

"Jim?"

Kirk shook his head. "Nah, nothing going on today. I'll go for a run later, like usual, but that's about it." He tried to sound as relaxed about his plans as possible, wanting to make it clear that Bones was more than welcome to stay and sleep in his own damn bed. "We could hang out, if you don't mind the company."

Bones managed a faint smirk, some of their old camaraderie resurfacing. "That sounds good, kid, but god willing, unless the building is burning down, don't expect me to be awake for the next eight to twelve," he replied, already eyeing his bed with longing. "In fact, even if the entire campus is set upon by fire-breathing demons from Jupiter, don't bother waking me."

Jim laughed, and the tangled ball of anxiety finally loosened an inch under his skin. "Sure thing, Bones."

Chapter Text

"Ugh, you carry on, I'm taking five," Bones panted, disappearing from Jim's side from the sudden difference in their pace. Kirk slowed, jogging on the spot to keep his muscles from cramping.

Before Bones had gone AWOL on their friendship, Kirk made sure his roommate joined him on the athletics track at least once a week. Starfleet's required physical qualifications for shipboard crew were more stringent than for ground assignments.... and if Bones was going to be Kirk's CMO (he was, he just didn't know it yet), Jim had to ensure the doctor could meet the higher standard. 

Not that Bones was unfit – Kirk had seen him near-naked enough times to know McCoy had a surprising amount of brawn to match his brilliant brain – but the guy hated track running with a passion usually reserved for watered-down bourbon. Jim could still remember the complaints McCoy had raised after their first session together:

"I've spent half my life running around hospitals, Jim. And now I spend the other half chasing down you."

"You know who likes to run around in circles? A dog, chasing its own damn tail."

"If I wanted to punish myself, I'd call my ex-wife."

A glance at his wrist indicated they'd barely crept over the 2km mark, which was less than half their usual goal. Jim had an old-man insult on the tip of his tongue before he'd even looked over at his best friend.

And then he turned around.

Bones was bent in half, muscles quaking as he gripped his knees. The doctor had given Kirk plenty of tongue-lashings in the past when Jim tried to push beyond his body's limits, and he had a feeling McCoy was about to prove himself a massive hypocrite.

He eyed Bones carefully, noting the man had gone from a little pale to a much sicklier complexion in the half-hour they'd been outdoors. "It's fine, we can both call it quits for today," Jim replied easily, not hesitating to ditch his 5km target. He'd only invited Bones to the training fields to be polite; Jim never thought he'd see the day McCoy would voluntarily come running with him... Perhaps they'd been too eager to get back to 'their' normal - now Kirk wasn't sure whether his roommate could make it back to their dorm without help. "You didn't have to come with me if you needed to rest more."

If the doctor felt like he was being pandered to, he'd normally bitch and moan until Jim relented and kicked their training up a notch. Today, Bones just nodded. He was looking really pale now, and Kirk lingered a stride behind as they drifted toward the dorms.

The first few steps McCoy took were steady, and then Jim was launching forward as Bones overbalanced, diving straight for the floor. With a hair's breadth to spare, Jim cushioned the fall with his own body, catching the doctor's head before it could hit the ground.

He patted his friend's cheek once, twice, and then, harder for a third time. Bones' eyes were closed, face drained of colour. Anxiety crawled up Jim's throat. He took a breath and quickly ran through his ABCs. McCoy's resp's were high and slightly shallow, but from what Jim could tell, the doctor wasn't experiencing a severe medical episode.

There was no way Bones should have fainted from such a short run. Kirk frowned. His suspicions surrounding McCoy's recent behaviour came to the forefront of his thoughts; it wasn't pleasant to be proven right at the cost of the man's health.

"Bones, hey," he urged, rubbing the doctor's sternum insistently, "come on, wake up."

McCoy grunted at the new sensation, blinking his way back into a confused state of consciousness. "… Jim?"

"You passed out," Jim said, blunt and unimpressed, though he attempted to snuff out the worst of his anger until he was sure Bones wasn't in any grave danger. Kirk drifted a hand over his communicator, "Do I need to call medical?"

Bones winced, seeming to finally register that he was sprawled over his friend's lap. "Why? Most of those infants are about as useful as tits on a bull," the doctor grouched, warily pulling himself from their awkward embrace to sit on his ass beside Kirk instead.

"Bones," Jim bit back harshly, "You just hit the deck without warning. If our roles were reversed-"

The doctor had the decency to look a little chastised. He rubbed at his eyes, as if staving off a killer headache. "I'll be fine. I overdid it today is all."

It wasn't fine. Jim was done being played for a fool.

"No, enough. Bones, what the hell is going on?" he demanded, grabbing onto his friend's wrist before McCoy could try to escape.

"It's nothing, leave it alone, Jim." The doctor stiffened, a flicker of anger shadowing his face in response to Jim's own. "I didn't eat before we left, and it's screwing with my blood pressure."

"And how often has that been happening?" Jim pressed, their arguments from weeks prior resurfacing once more. "Because I can barely remember the last time we sat and ate a proper meal together. I swear all you do is drink coffee and dose yourself up on stims."

The intonation was accidental. Jim was worried about Bones, but he didn't actually mean to accuse him of anything. A doctor misusing stimulants was a serious offence, and Jim believed that McCoy was smart enough not to have crossed that line.

Bones pulled back sharply, "I don't-"

"I know, I know," Jim cut off the protest, "But this isn't like you!"

"Yes, because between the two of us, I'm not the one with an eating dis–"

"Don't." Jim didn't snarl, but it was a near thing. He hadn't confided in Bones about the worst period in his life just so it could be hurled back at him when he was genuinely trying to help the sorry bastard.

Kirk stood and stalked off to the nearby locker rooms on his own. A white-hot fury thrummed through his muscles, and he had to force himself to take a steadying breath before he did something reckless - like punching a hole through the wall.

A sickening swirl of emotions battered his chest; anger twisted with embarrassment and shame. "Fuck you, McCoy," he muttered under his breath, bracing himself against the cool glass of the nutrition dispenser. If anyone else had hinted about Tarsus IV in such a manner, Jim would have decked them without a second thought and walked away for good... He wasn't ignorant; Bones had lashed out to make Kirk back off (and, in truth, Jim had probably done the same to others more times than he cared to admit), but it still stung.

Bones and Pike were the only ones who knew even half of what had happened during his teenage years, and Jim had never imagined either of them would try to use that knowledge against him. McCoy had taken a swing at him from a blind spot.

Still seething, Jim almost broke the machine as he punched in the code for a bottle of neon blue electrolytes. Yanking the drink from the dispenser, Jim spun and stormed out of the lockers, making a cluster of first-year cadets scatter like startled zebras. He ignored their alarmed glances as he strode across the athletics grounds, coming to an abrupt halt beside Bones, who hadn't moved an inch. The doctor was still sitting on the ground, head bowed between his knees, looking as though he might keel over again at any moment.

Jim pressed the cool bottle into Bones' grip. "Drink," he ordered crisply, leaving no room for discussion. His foot tapped impatiently on the red soil while Bones took small sips, the silence frigid between them.

Kirk waited until Bones was at least halfway finished before speaking again. "I'm only going to give you one chance to tell me the truth, or I walk away, and we're done," Jim said, his voice flat with resolve.

"Jim-"

"Leonard," Kirk cracked back like a whip. His satisfaction was short-lived when Bones visibly braced, shoulders tensing and jaw clenched, expecting a physical blow. The doctor's grip tightened on the bottle until the plastic creaked, gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Jim had no doubt that Jocelyn had taught McCoy to flinch at the sound of his own name, conditioned to anticipate nothing but harsh words or harsher hands.

His jaw tightened, anger stirring again for a different reason.

This was the dangerous side of their friendship - they both knew the other's scars and how to press on them if pushed. It was a twisted sort of intimacy to know just how to hurt and just how to heal someone.

"You're an ass, McCoy," Jim said quietly, "Probably the most sanctimonious bastard I'll ever have the displeasure of meeting – but somehow, you're the best friend I've ever had. So, you can either choose to trust me, right now, or you'll need to find yourself another broken toy to fix."

"You're not a toy or something that needs fixing, Jim." Bones admonished, accidentally crushing the bottle in his grip. A spurt of electric blue liquid spilt over the rusty soil, staining it purple as it seeped into the ground.

Eventually, Bones looked up and met Jim's eyes. He sighed, words heavy as they sank into the space between them, "And for what it's worth, I do trust you."

Kirk threw his hands up in frustration, "Then act like it! Talk to me."

Resignation slipped into the doctor's posture. Another long silence dragged between them as Jim's patience waned.

Bones broke first. "Simmons knows."

Jim's gut clenched, uncertainty crawling like ice up his spine. He'd played out a lot of scenarios in his head on what this conversation might look like, yet not a single one of them had involved the rear admiral. A stupid oversight on his part.

Kirk searched his friend's face for any signs of deceit, but all he found was exhaustion and a trace of fear. "Knows what?" he asked snappily.

"About the picture, Jim," the doctor retorted, as if stating an obvious fact. "About you hacking the Academy database and fucking with the communications system."

"Of course, he knows, but without evidence, he can't do anything." Jim paused, an unsettling thought sitting on his chest. "Unless he does have proof now?" Jim asked, not exactly accusing Bones, but the pointed question was close enough.

Bones sputtered, "No, I haven't- I wouldn't."

Kirk wanted to believe him. "Then…"

Bones chewed over his words for a moment, "I wouldn't, but Simmons thinks I would, if he can give me the right push. He's been messing with my shift schedule, and even with my test scores, trying to force me to give you up or drop out."

Jim's expression shuttered. He crossed his arms tightly, burying his fingers into the muscles of his biceps. The idea that Bones had been quietly enduring Simmons' harassment made him queasy. And the fact that he'd allowed himself to be ignorant of Simmons' actions left him both furious and helpless. His voice was tight, emotions barely under control as he pushed for more answers. "But you don't know how I did it. How are you supposed to prove anything?"

Bones scoffed, but instead of anger, he sounded weary. Defeated. "I doubt Simmons cares about the details. You made a mockery of a rear admiral, Jim. There are consequences."

Kirk scrubbed a hand through his hair, mind racing like a starship at warp. "Shit. Bones, that was weeks ago. Why didn't you just say something?"

"To protect you! Because I know you've already got a dozen hairbrained schemes in mind to get back at him, and I won't be responsible for you getting kicked out of the academy." McCoy's words tumbled out in a raw rush of emotion. "There are eighty-two weeks left until graduation, so either Simmons gets bored of tormenting me and moves on, or... or it doesn't matter and I'm out anyway."

Jim struggled to find the right words to fix this, torn between overwhelming fury and guilt. He forced himself to take another steadying breath against the rage singing through his blood. "Absolutely no fucking way, Bones. Simmons has you so strung out, you just collapsed. I won't stand by while he pushes you into retirement, or worse, an early grave."

McCoy opened his mouth to protest, but Kirk silenced him with a look. Jim wouldn't be swayed on this. "Simmons crossed a line, Bones. It's one thing to mess with me, but you're off-limits."

Bones stared pensively at the horizon, his stubbornness clearly at war with his exhaustion. He eyed Jim warily. "So, what's your plan then, kid? Because I know that look—you're not going to let this slide, but you can't afford to go nuclear. You're going to be a captain, Jim. Think about what you're risking."

You're going to be a captain. Bones always said the words like it was a done deal. As if the doctor hadn't a shred of doubt that Jim had what it took to reach the stars. That kind of faith was intoxicating and dangerous; it went straight to Kirk's head.

Jim paused. There were a hundred things he wanted to throw back in Bones' face, like how the doctor had already risked a whole lot more than his career in recent weeks. But he bit back his retort, knowing it would only start off another argument between them, when instead they needed to focus on the villain of this story, Simmons.

"We need to talk to Pike," he concluded, as if saying it aloud made the decision final. "He's the only one I trust will listen to us, and he might be able to do something about Simmons without breaking several Starfleet and human rights conventions."

Jim finally drew a small smile from the doctor. "I'm not letting this go, Bones," Kirk said firmly, his resolve unwavering.

"Yeah, okay," the doctor acquiesced. His expression flickered, a dark shadow of guilt crossing his waxen features as he looked away.

"You're right that I'm an ass, Jim. Heaven only knows why you put up with me..." McCoy took a shaky breath, then found Kirk's gaze again. "I'm sorry, I really am."

Kirk tensed. Bones' apology wasn't just about the weeks of lies and keeping secrets - it was for hurting Jim in a way that only he could. There was a lot still unsaid between them, and he could read the regret written all over his friend's face, but bringing up Tarsus was a particularly callous move. He wasn't sure he was ready to forgive Bones for that yet.

Jim broke eye contact first, physically turning away from the trust lying broken between them. "Finish your electrolytes, then we'll visit Pike."

Chapter Text

The journey to Pike's office was unnerving.

Though Bones had tried to insist he was fine now, Jim frequently shot him wary glances as if he expected the man to collapse at any moment. And yes, maybe a few hours of fitful sleep and a bottle of electrolytes weren't the cure-all to weeks of running on fumes, but McCoy absolutely refused to pass out again. Pride, if nothing else, would keep him upright.

Whilst Jim was making an effort to match McCoy's slower pace, his spine was rigid, a mask of command firmly in place. It struck Bones, jarringly, that this was what Captain Kirk looked like. Fearless and in control. Jim was born amongst the stars, and anyone with half a brain could see that's where the kid belonged. And if that meant one day Kirk was destined to leave his sorry ass behind planetside, then that's all there was to it.

As they walked, Bones stewed in his thoughts, replaying the last few weeks with a hint of melancholy. Things had spiralled too far with Simmons… McCoy was so intent on outlasting the rear admiral's retaliation, regardless of the cost, that Jim had still ended up with the short end of the stick. 

Even if the kid chose to forgive him, Bones knew how that kind of distance could linger, gradually eroding away at a relationship until it broke apart. The unexpected grief hit him like a punch to the stomach, and something must have shown on his face, because for a moment Jim opened his mouth to break the silence between them. Then his jaw snapped shut, the mask fell back in place, and Bones quietly harboured the fear that this was only the start of the end for them.

They paused outside an office door, the gold plaque reading Capt. Christopher Pike in bold lettering. "Relax, you can trust Chris," Jim murmured, side-eyeing the way Bones had squared his shoulders, ready to meet a firing squad. Kirk rapped firmly against the wood.

A calm, authoritative voice called out for them to enter, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. No rest for the wicked: despite it being a Saturday afternoon, inside, Pike looked up from a stack of reports. The captain studied them for a moment, his gaze lingering on McCoy for longer than was comfortable, before he turned back to Kirk. "Fine, I can see your point."

Pike's meaning was lost on Bones, but neither man bothered to fill him in. Jim simply gave the captain a grim nod; a conversation carried out without words. Feeling out of place, McCoy lingered a step behind his roommate.

The captain tapped his desk comm, "Captain Pike to Medical. Chief Boyce, report to my office, please." Another message was silently tapped out on his personal device.

Bones flushed, almost dizzy from the rush of blood. Any hope that Boyce wouldn't get further dragged into this mess was dashed as Pike put out the call. He hated the shame that roiled low in his gut; the last thing he wanted was to pull the chief of surgery away from his official duties.

"You look like you've been put through the wringer," Pike said bluntly, though there might have been an undercurrent of concern aimed in McCoy's direction. "Both of you sit down. When Phil gets here, I expect a full explanation of whatever the hell's been going on."

Bones cautiously sat on the edge of a chair and dutifully pretended he wasn't a stiff breeze away from falling over. He gripped the armrests, fighting the urge to fidget under the intense scrutiny being sent his way like a bug under a microscope.

Jim stewed in his own silence a short distance away.

Fortunately, or perhaps not, it didn't take long for Boyce to arrive. He strode in without knocking and immediately closed in on his top student. "I know I didn't strictly give you orders for bed rest, but I thought it was heavily implied, Doctor McCoy."

Without ceremony, Phil produced a medical tricorder and ran a preliminary scan. The output display flickered as Boyce parsed the readings, his brow furrowing at so many red-flagged vitals. It was perfectly humiliating, being the subject of such concern, especially in front of Jim and Pike, let alone his own mentor.

Boyce turned to Pike with a shake of his head. "He's exhausted, dehydrated, and I'd wager he hasn't eaten anything worth calling a meal in days. Colour's all wrong, probably from a lack of Vit D." Phil didn't bother softening his tone; he was never one for coddling. "And that's before we get to the low blood sugar. I'm surprised you made it this far from the dorms without fainting, McCoy."

Kirk let out a strained laugh. "He didn't. We went for a run earlier, and he dropped halfway round the track," Jim supplied, the words clipped.

"Jim." Bones shot his friend a glare as Boyce stiffened beside him. A hand rested on McCoy's shoulder and pushed him back to sit properly in his seat.

"No more bullshit, Bones," Jim answered coolly. "Do you want to tell the doc how often you've been taking stims, or shall I?"

The atmosphere in the room grew noticeably more charged. McCoy was suddenly hyperaware of the sweat cooling along his neck, as his heart rate spiked and a new wave of shame made him sick to the stomach. Damn, he really didn't want to hurl on Pike's fancy rug.

"I don't need to explain why that was a terrible idea," Boyce's gaze sharpened, worry flaring beneath the gruffness. "Relying on stims for any period is a slippery slope. I know you know better, Leonard."

The older doctor sighed, his grip tightening. Bones almost shuddered at the touch; the point of contact was secretly helping to keep him grounded as his control over the situation slipped further out of reach. "I'll need you to come back with me to Medical, because lord knows what your bloodwork is going to look like, and I want to run a full panel." Phil glanced at Chris. "As his primary, I'm taking McCoy off duty until I say otherwise, both from the clinic and classes."

Bones prickled, but the fight drained out of him almost as quickly as it sparked. He really had nothing left to give; the doctor felt hollowed out inside, all used up.

Pike's expression pinched. "Let's hear it then."

Bones flashed Jim a look of uncertainty. After all he'd endured over the past month, it seemed counterproductive to throw Jim in the deep end about the stupid stunt he'd pulled on Simmons.

Jim caught the flicker of hesitation in Bones' eyes and let out a genuine laugh, the sound unexpected in the tense room. "It's fine, Pike knows about the whole affair with Simmons. Even if I hadn't owned up to it, Chris knows me too well – and if he trusts Boyce, then I guess I do too."

Bones blinked. Jim's easy admission stole the wind from his sails. "Right."

He blinked again, ignoring the sting of a nameless emotion that flittered through his chest. Trying to pull together his composure, Bones sought out the headspace he often retreated to when stepping into a surgical suite, where all his emotions could be locked away until the crisis at hand was resolved.

When McCoy spoke, his voice was steady. "I received the summons to Simmons' office a few hours after Jim."

Any mirth in his friend's eyes disappeared, replaced by the return of a simmering anger. The doctor forced himself to look away, determined to give a detached account of recent weeks.

"His threats weren't exactly subtle: I could either provide evidence that Jim broke Starfleet protocol, or I'm out. When I refused, Simmons changed his approach."

He paused to swallow back the dryness in his mouth. "A few days later, all my clinic shifts were rescheduled without warning. He's kept me constantly bouncing between days and nights, or pulling doubles across weekends... Hell, I can't remember the last time I had a day off duty."

Boyce was noticeably unsettled, his hand shifting higher to work at a knot of tension in the base of McCoy's neck. Thankfully, he didn't otherwise interrupt as Bones finally laid out the extent of Simmons' harassment.

"When I still didn't give in, he started interfering with my coursework. Though I'm not sure when exactly that fun began... I was convinced I was just going stupid at first." Bones confessed, the tips of his ears dusting red with embarrassment. "I'm not exactly in the prime of my youth anymore."

The comment drew funny looks from everyone in the room, but McCoy was too busy staring at the bleak, grey office walls to notice.

"Eventually, I realised that Simmons must have been tampering with my exam results. I was dropping points across all subjects, and twice now entire assignments have gotten mysteriously 'lost' in the system, marked as automatic fails for incompletion."

Pike's features hardened as McCoy spoke, perturbed at the blatant abuse of position by a ranking officer.

"Administration didn't want to hear excuses, and I didn't have the spare energy to argue. It's been difficult enough to find the time to eat, let alone sleep more for more than a few hours at a time." Bones exhaled shakily, shoulders hunching forward. "I didn't report it sooner because I thought I could handle it, and in any case, I can't prove that Simmons is responsible."

Bones wasn't proud of the way his voice cracked after his lungs choked on a bitter laugh. "On the bright side, I'm well experienced in hitting rock bottom… putting a bullet between my eyes would probably be a mercy; there's not exactly a lot more Simmons can do to make my life worse."

The room fell worryingly silent at the grim confession.

Bones had wondered if it might feel better to have everything out in the open, but the hollow feeling lingered. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the seconds ticked by.

"We're not finished discussing this, Leonard," Boyce announced, stern but surprisingly gentle. "But I'll spare you the lecture for now. As for Grant, if he wants to fight dirty, then that's what he'll get."

Pike rumbled a low warning at his former CMO, "Phil."

"What, Chris? Did you expect me to just let this go?" Boyce bit back, full of restrained anger on Bones' behalf.

Jim launched out of his chair, jaw set, eyes blazing with similar outrage. "Obviously, we're not letting Simmons get away with this," he snapped.

"Cadet," Pike clapped back, a clear warning for Jim to check his attitude. Bones winced in sympathy as Kirk bit his tongue, body stiffening to attention.

Boyce waved off the insubordination, focused on more pressing matters. "I've been working on the issue with McCoy's clinic hours; Grant's been a clever bastard. Per Article 41-J, all qualified medical staff are required to have a minimum of twelve hours off between shifts, unless a state of crisis has been declared or there is a prudent threat of loss of life."

Bones knew this; he'd checked the rules himself weeks ago.

"Leonard's shift pattern is the work of the devil, but the administration hasn't technically broken regulation. There have always been at least 12-hour breaks provided – but only because the rules don't account for the fact that a post-grad cadet also needs time off between shifts for academic courses. It's an egregious oversight, but it's never been an issue before now. Our duty rota had always taken academic schedules into consideration anyway."

"We can make a case to update the regulation, but that could take months," Chris noted.

Phil hummed in agreement, "I'll personally handle all of Leonard's shift assignments for now - Simmons won't have more sway than me on that. I know I can get Admiral Nguyen to back me too; the Surgeon General has been keeping an eye on McCoy's axonal pathways and neural grafting thesis, so it won't be calling in much of a favour for his sake."

Bones was momentarily thrown. An admiral taking a personal interest in his research was the last thing he'd expected - he'd assumed his thesis would be just another drop in the academic ocean. It was as daunting as it was validating, but if Simmons got his way, then his work would never get published regardless.

Pike's scepticism was palpable. He didn't look convinced that Boyce's plan would truly shift the tides against Simmons. "It's a good start, but the cadet examinations are a whole different ball game. If we take away Grant's play on the SFM side of things, he's only going to go after McCoy harder at the Academy."

From the dark expression on his face, Boyce wasn't pleased with the captain's lack of encouragement. "So, we'll find a solution for that, too. Leonard might be an easier target for now, but second year is also when the command track get issued their first off-base assignments. You can bet Simmons is going to use the opportunity to make a move against Kirk, too."

"I know, Phil. I've already taken steps to mitigate the shitstorm heading Jim's way," Chris disclosed, shooting Jim a sideways glance. Something passed between them, and Kirk dropped his head, angrily staring at the floor.

The older doctor scoffed, irate. "Well, as long as your boy's all right, I guess that's okay then."

Chris' rising shoulders betrayed his mounting frustration, though he tried to keep his tone measured and professional. "Don't put words in my mouth, Phil, it's not as simple as that. You already have more weight than me when it comes to the medical team, but Grant has too many friends in the admiralty to go kicking the hornet's nest with unfounded accusations."

Boyce looked like he'd been sucking on lemons, but he didn't argue the point any further.

"McCoy is right about the burden of proof," Chris explained, though he didn't seem happy about the admission either. "Simmons is generally well respected, so if anyone here was hoping the simple word of a cadet was going to be enough to topple him, you'll be sorely disappointed."

The captain sighed, leaning back into his seat. "It might not be fair, but that's the truth of it. We need evidence against Simmons that can't be buried or twisted."

Pike purposely directed the weight of his following words at Jim, "And before you foolishly decide to hack into the Starfleet database again, the same way you got caught up in this mess, we need to obtain everything above board."

Jim was clearly struggling to keep his composure, frustrated that he didn't have an easy answer to their problems. His lips pressed into a thin, grim line as he seemed to brace himself. "What if I turn myself in?"

"No." Chris and Bones spoke at the same time.

Kirk stubbornly ignored their protests. "If I report myself to Simmons, what happens?"

"You're out." Pike's glare could rival a Klingon warlord. "I've used up all my goodwill with the admiralty, so if you admit to this - admit to breaking about a hundred 'fleet protocols - that's it."

Before Jim could get a word in, Bones rounded on him, voice hard. "Don't even think about it, Jim," he said, fire burning through his southern blood. "You keep your trap shut, you hear me? That's never going to be an option."

Trying to order Kirk around was always asking for trouble.

Jim's thread of control snapped. "No, screw that! You don't get to make that call, it's my decision. It's my stupid fuck-up that started all this, Bones, why in the hell should I let you get caught in the crossfire?"

McCoy leapt from his chair fast enough to send it skittering backwards, the scrape echoing sharply through the cramped room. He ignored the way his vision greyed out from the sudden change in position, too busy grabbing a hold of Jim's shirt in his fist. "Because if you get kicked out, we all lose."

After all the shit he'd been through, McCoy didn't have much room in his heart for faith - but he believed in Jim Kirk.

Bones fixed his friend with a furious, almost desperate stare. Jim returned the look with just as much heat, nostrils flared as he failed to control the short, sharp puffs of breath that overtook the sudden silence. For a moment, neither seemed willing to give an inch, both too stubborn for their own good.

Boyce cleared his throat, and suddenly, the world outside of the charged space between the two cadets came back into focus. McCoy took a step back, uncurling his hand from the fabric of Jim's shirt.

The older doctor diplomatically ignored their theatrics, continuing on as if nothing had happened. "Surely, with all the brainpower in this room, we can find a solution that doesn't cost me my best doctor or see Chris part with his favourite cadet," he said dryly.

The attempt at humour finally eased the unbearable tension in the room.

"You'd think so, Phil," Pike responded, a smile now curling at the corners of his mouth.

Bones carefully ignored the flush rising on the back of his neck at the off-hand praise, though he was pleased to note Jim was suffering from a similar affliction.

Kirk quickly directed their attention back to the main problem, "If I'm not allowed to hack Simmons' records,-"

"You're not," Pike reiterated strongly.

Mature as ever, Jim rolled his eyes, "Right, then surely our only solution is for him to confess?"

"Easier said than done. Simmons is a tricky son of a bitch," Phil remarked.

Bones pinched his nose against the headache encasing his skull in cement. He was already regretting the impulsive move to stand on his own two feet again, straining his flimsy grasp on consciousness.

There was an obvious plan in front of them, and the fact that Jim hadn't pointed it out yet could only mean he wasn't happy with the risk involved. Tough.

"We need bait," he said, resigned. "And I'm the obvious choice."

"I agree," Chris cut in before Jim could start off another argument. "All high-ranking officials have scramblers in their offices to prevent unauthorised recordings, so if we want a confession, we need to draw Simmons out."

Swallowing his returning nausea, Bones pondered the problem. "I can tell Simmons that I've got evidence - something that proves Jim hacked into Starfleet's communications system. If I offer him a juicy enough lead, maybe he'll come to see me directly, off the record."

Pike nodded thoughtfully. "Grant wouldn't risk his reputation by having someone else handle this."

"Then it's settled," Bones said, worriedly glancing at Jim, who had yet to offer any more protests. Kirk was instead burning yet another hole in the carpet.

Boyce frowned but didn't object. "Only if we're careful. If Simmons suspects a trap…"

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'll set up a meeting for tomorrow night," Bones decided. "There's no point dragging this out any longer."