Title: Bones and The Hobgoblin
Series: Star Trek, TOS (pre academy)
Summary: Spock is driving a semi 18 wheeler truck (yes) from coast to coast on his way to enroll in Starfleet Academy, when he picks up a lone, mysterious hitch-hiker.
Author's Note PLEASE READ: A/U. pre-academy days. Features some 21st century-isms. I've labled this TOS, because I think it fits Kelley's version of McCoy better (imagine a young Kelley in a western), but it also fits Quinto's version of Spock, so it's kind of a mixture of Nimoy and Quinto Spock. But they are young. Features some trucker (CB) lingo. While this is A/U it does follow canon.
Warning: Adult themes. Over 16 only. Sex, attempted suicide, swearing.
Disclaimer: Star Trek is not mine.
BONES AND THE HOBGOBLIN (Part 1)
He's got his Peterbuilt T-387 tractor-trailer on a road just outside Atlanta. He is about to enter the on-ramp to the interstate when he spots the lone hitch-hiker, thumb struck out in the traditional pose. The hitchhiker is shirtless in the hot Georgia sun, thin hips attired in low slung, tight blue-jeans. A cowboy hat, aviator sun-glasses, and brown suede working man's cowboy boots complete the ensemble. There's a sign held up high and written on in heavy black ink: 'San Francisco!' He pulls his rig over and brings it to a stop on the side of the road.
The hitchhiker jogs up to the passenger side window. "Nice Pete," the man says approvingly, peering in. "Goin' my way?"
"Obviously, since I did indeed stop," the driver states, mildly. The hitch-hiker takes that as an invitation to get on in. He opens the up the passenger side door, clambers in, throws a black duffle bag behind him in the sleeper area, and gently drops a small leather case onto the floor in front of him, making himself right at home in the passenger seat. Red and white checked boxer shorts peak out of his waistband above the jeans. The stranger appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, though there are bags under his blue eyes, of which are unusual for a human of his age, along with a deeply furrowed brow.
"Afternoon," the stranger says affably.
"Been standing out there in the heat for hours. Nobody else's even slowed the fuck down for little ol' me," the stranger explains unnecessarily and the driver nods back, glances in his side-view mirror, checks that there is no traffic in the way and gets onto Interstate 20. After a few moments he looks over at his new passenger, seeing that the hitchhiker's been staring intently at him. "Just how far along you goin'?"
"I am headed to San Francisco," the driver replies.
"All the way, huh? Well, ain't I lucky."
"Thought you was a Kenworth at first," the man says. "But you just a 'T-2 me too', aint'ya." The hitch-hiker's laughing hysterically or nervously, with an undercurrent of bitterness. The driver raises a curious eyebrow. The stranger has a lilt to his voice, a cadence that appears to affect the most of the local residents of this locale, however this man's drawl is thicker than most.
"Does the make and model of my motor vehicle make a difference?"
"Not at all, friend." There is a tiny smile from the man as he pulls a silver flask from his pocket, drinks from it, puts it back into his pocket. "What'cha haulin'?"
"Didn't your mama ever tell you never to pick up hitch-hikers?"
"No. Should I not have?"
There's a long silence before the stranger offers his name: "McCoy."
"I am Spock," the driver returns.
"Well, it's mighty nice to meet ya," McCoy says, holding out his hand. The driver does not acknowledge the proffered hand so McCoy eventually drops it and clears his throat. "Spock, huh? Never heard that name before."
"Never-the-less, it is my name."
"Sho-nough is." After another long, awkward silence, McCoy says: "So...Just passing though 'Hot Lanner', huh?"
"Where you from?"
"Vulcan?" McCoy scratches the stubble on his jaw with slightly open lips. "Which one? Michigan, Missouri or Canada?"
"I am from the planet Vulcan. Near 40 Eridani."
"I know what star it is," McCoy replies. "So... you're one of those folks who doesn't have any emotions and follows logic exclusively."
"That is our aim," Spock replies faintly, does not elaborate. He does not wish to delve into further explanations at the moment, the operation of this motor vehicle takes up most of his attentions due to his newly acquired commercial lisence. Driving a land rig is more difficult than he had initially presumed due to the activity of other smaller land vehicles on the roadway, who insist on tailing him most dangerously (illogically) or whipping around to cut him off, or the annoyance of low clearance on some bridges.
As he drives, he is most uncomfortably aware of the stranger staring at his head. His black knitted beanie he has been wearing consistantly is pulled down to cover his ears and he pulls it down even further in a slightly protective gesture. McCoy is still staring hard at him, perhaps attempting to discern for himself if the ears are indeed pointed. "They are," Spock eventually finds himself telling him.
"Huh? What you on about?"
"My ears. They are pointed."
"Oh…right. Don't mean to stare." As Spock glances over, he notices that McCoy is raising an eyebrow in much the same way he does himself. "What the hell's a Vulcan doin' on Earth, driving a Peterbuilt land rig? Out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere?"
Spock sighs, hesitates before he answers. He does not know if he should share his personal life with this stranger he has just picked up. "I am working this route to acquire passage from New York to San Francisco. I did not have the funds to beam there directly, I took this job recently, the only available job there was to earn my own passage to the west coast."
"Oh..." McCoy says softly, takes a long swig out of his flask.
"Why are you headed to San Francisco?" Spock enquires politely.
"Just…am." McCoy says nothing more, looks out the window and periodically continues drinking out of his flask.
They hit Birmingham, Alabama where McCoy seems to perk up. "Rest stop round here somewhere."
"I am aware."
"Don'chya have to pee?"
"Well I do. Not good to sit for hours and hours without urinating like that."
"I am able to forgo many human bodily functions."
"Well, I can't."
"Very well, we shall make a brief stop. Sixty seconds maximum."
"Fine. Time me on my mark." McCoy removes his cowboy hat and tosses it over to Spock, pulls on a white button shirt and a leather jacket from his duffle bag. "Alright start it." McCoy races out then swiftly returns. They are on their way once again. "How long?"
"Seventy seven point two seconds."
"Took me a bit of time to button up my fly. Damn things are vintage 501's."
Spock rolls his eyes and does not answer.
McCoy is peering at the roadway suspiciously. "Kinda quiet round here. You gotcha ears on?"
"My ears?" Spock reaches up to touch his hat once again.
McCoy chuckles and clears his throat. "Your CB radio," he says much more clearly with much, much less of the regional drawl though it is still apparent. "Aren't you listenin' for bear reports?"
"There are ursus arctos on this stretch of highway?"
"No, no, no. Not real bears. Smokey Bears," McCoy explains to him. Spock still seems incredulous so he adds: "You are new at this, ain't ya? State Troopers. You see, the other drivers will be on the CB and on the lookout for them and they might give us a heads up. We are traveling rather fast, Spock, might-nigh on a hundred now. Troopers haunt these highways."
"We are only ten kilometers over the speed limit. I prefer the radio to remain off. I am certain we shall be--" There's a siren in the distance and Spock nearly frowns into his rear-view mirror at the sight of the red and blue lights.
"Let's see if you can't talk your way out of this bear-trap, Vulcan."
They pull over, stop and wait. A uniformed woman with a state trooper hat, strides up to the passenger side door. "License and registration and log PADD please," she says sternly. Spock reaches into the glove compartment, pulls them out and hands them over. "Alright, where's the fire?"
Spock begins to answer the trooper truthfully, that there is no fire in this vicinity, not that they would know of any-- as they are driving a semi truck, and not a fire truck, per se-- till McCoy cuts him off with a 'good ol' boy' thick Georgia drawl and a smile (as wide as Texas). "Only in those lovely blue eyes of yours. Ma'am."
Somehow-- and Spock does not understand the language used nor the lustful looks delivered between the two-- McCoy manages to talk the trooper out of giving them a citation.
Soon they are on their way once again.
"Well, shit," McCoy observes. "Didn't think sweet-talkin' a ladybear would work in this day and age."
"She obviously found you attractive."
"S'pose so. Though, I can't see why she would."
After a moment, McCoy goes onto the radio, once the ladybear has passed them by, and gleefully describes the avoidance of said traffic citation to other drivers conversing with him on the CB. Again, the language used by McCoy is indeed odd. The only thing Spock can actually understand is the name of McCoy's CB 'handle'. "Your CB name is 'Bones'?" Spock asks him.
"That's right." There's a slight hiccup from McCoy. "Bones. It's, uh, all I've got left...my bones."
"Ah…" Spock does not ask him further, and again, the man does not elaborate, falling into another sullen silence.
Eventually they roll into Jackson, Mississippi. "You don't wanna hit that rest stop. Place is crawling with lot lizards," McCoy warns him rather sternly.
Whatever McCoy is describing, it does not sound desirous. "Duly noted." Spock drives on.
"So...what's your handle?" McCoy asks him as they near Dallas, Texas.
"I do not possess a CB handle."
"You drive a rig and you don't have a CB handle? You for real?"
"I am a Vulcan. We do not have CB handles."
"Bullshit. We need to get you a handle," McCoy insists. It seems to be of some importance to him. "We'll think of somethin'." He sees the signs for Interstate 36 and reaches out to touch Spock's arm. "Hey, take that one, we'll get over to I-40 and go straight though Oklahoma City. Faster that way. Trust me."
Spock had initially plotted a course based on trajectory, variable speed and logic. He does not know how McCoy knows this is the better route, or if this is actually the case, however he ultimately decides to trust the stranger. There is something about this Human, something reassuring emanating from the man's touch. Spock quickly makes the change into the onboard computer.
They've now been traveling for thirty-three hours. He is able to drive for longer periods, specially cleared by his trucking company. McCoy has nodded off in the passenger seat. For the man's sake, he decides to hit the next truck stop, spying a 'Flying J Truck Stop' advertisement on the interstate. He reaches over to tap the dozing McCoy on the shoulder in the same manner the Human had done to him previously. McCoy wakes up, with a fearful, almost feral look in his eyes. The eyes are extremely bloodshot, dark circles running underneath them.
"I am stopping for the night," Spock explains, and McCoy relaxes at that. "We will be able to eat and perform our ablutions here."
McCoy shifts awkwardly in the seat, stretches and yawns. "You go ahead. I'll wait outside. I... uh... I actually don't have any credits on me."
Spock hands him a card. "Use this, you appear to be hungry."
McCoy nods gratefully and admits: "I could eat a horse. Could really use a shower, too."
Spock nods. "I noticed."
McCoy shoots him a look, heads into the sleeper to retrieve his small duffel bag. "You comin' or what?"
"I shall follow you in, shortly. I need to make a notation in my logs."
"See ya in a bit." McCoy opens the passenger door, jumps out, shuts the door.
As he is making a notation in his PADD, a ringing noise emanates from McCoy's black leather case left behind in the foot well of the cabin. It is merely a cell-phone, or other communications device. One does not need to bother. It shall eventually quiet on its own. However, the item in question keeps up it's insistent ringing. Spock hesitates about delving into the bag, doing so would be violating the man's privacy, but still it will not quiet.
He opens up the case, and as careful as he tries to be, the contents ultimately wind up spilling out onto the passenger seat. Locating the ringing cell-phone, he shuts it off and prepares to put the remainder of the objects back into the case. His fingers pause at the unusual objects.
A hypo spray. Vials of an unrecognizable drug. A medical scanner.
It appears, that most likely, McCoy is either ill, requiring regular dosages-- or quite possibly the man is a drug addict.
But there are two more objects remaining on the seat. He picks up a gold wedding band with a ruby stone in the center and places it gently back into the case, picks the final object up and studies it. It is a badge--a hospital badge, (University of Southern Georgia) with McCoy's image on it, and the man's name:
Leonard McCoy, M.D.
He spots the freshly showered McCoy in the cafe. After selecting a portion of vegetarian food for himself from the self-serve food bar, he rejoins the human half way though a huge steak and baked potato and green beans. The man was not exaggerating when he'd intimated he was famished. McCoy looks up, smiles as he sits down at the table across from him. "Evening, Spock."
He nods back. "Doctor."
Abruptly McCoy slaps his hand onto the table, a few other truckers look up from their meals, then back down again. McCoy hisses: "Don't ever call me that."
"It is a title of respect. You are a physician, are you not?"
"I don't deserve that title. Not anymore."
Spock raises an eyebrow. "Would you care to ellucidate?"
"No." There's another heavy silence as McCoy's appetite appears to wane and he stops eating.
"Please finish your dinner, Dr. McCoy."
"I am not hungry." The doctor's voice is much different now. There is not a trace of the earlier thick Georgia drawl, the tone is much more clipped--a harder edge to the consonants. "I will get it to go and finish it later."
"As you wish." There is a silence. "What is the medication in the vials?"
"Mind your own business. You just had to go snooping through my things, didn't you?"
Spock's eyes are downcast as he says: "My apologies."
McCoy stands up. "I'll meet you back at the truck."
Spock finishes his meal, takes a very quick sonic shower in the pay restroom, then makes his way back to where he is parked. McCoy is no where to be found. Perhaps he is inside the rig.
The black leather case that was sitting on the passenger seat is now missing, McCoy is also not here. Spock searches the vicinity of the parking lot, searches back inside the truck stop cafe. He finds himself searching the parking lot once again. It starts to pour down rain. Spock finds he must abandon the search and seek shelter inside the cabin. He sits in the driver seat, makes more notations into his log book, glances out of the window into the night sky.
Hours later the passenger door opens, McCoy hops up and in. "Cold as a witch's tit out there," he mutters.
"Where did you go?"
"Just out for a walk."
"You are soaking wet."
McCoy huffs and bristles once again. "Dammit! Told you to stop calling me that. I'm not… a doctor anymore."
Spock gets up and goes into the sleeper part of the cabin and retrieves a towel. "Regardless of what you may be at the moment, you must disrobe, and dry off."
Rather than argue further, McCoy nods, pulls off his white button down shirt, his white undershirt, his boots, jeans, and socks but hesitates at his boxer shorts, finally removes them too and drops the lot to the floor of the cabin. McCoy stands there naked with a challenge in his blue eyes. "If I would have known you were gonna stand there gaping at me while I strip, I'd a put on some music." There's a tired smile as McCoy dries his hair then pulls the towel around his waist. He sits down on the bed in the sleeper, with Spock still watching him, pulls on a fresh pair of boxer shorts from his duffle bag, a blue pair this time.
Spock bends down and picks up and deposits the wet clothing into a spin dryer in a compartment in the sleeper. "Do you possess an additional set of clothing?"
"Nope. What I had on is it." McCoy goes over to sit down in the passenger seat. "Pretty warm in here." He looks at the armrest of the seat. "This thing recline?"
"You may sleep on the bed," Spock offers.
"No, that's alright--you're the one driving. You need the bed more than I do."
"It is large enough, so that we may both share."
McCoy licks his lips, thinks for a moment, then gets up, comes back to the bed. "Alright. But I'm not giving you a blowjob in exchange for passage, so don't get any ideas."
Spock removes his black skinny trousers, his sneakers, his striped long sleeved shirt, but leaves his underwear and socks and hat on. He comes over to sit down on the bed next to the now reclining McCoy and wonders: "Blowjob?"
"Yeah, you don't what a blowjob is?"
"Is that a euphemism for sexual intercourse?"
"Oral sex. Specifically." McCoy clears his throat.
"So…uh, you look young. How old are you?"
"I have twenty-three Earth years."
"Oh now...you just a kid, ain't ya? How long you been here on Earth?"
"Approximately two standard earth weeks."
"Well, that explains a lot." McCoy scoots over on the bed to make room. "Goodnight."
It's stormy outside the cabin. Spock lies awake in the dark, listening to the rain's patter on the metal of the cabin wall above and watching over his bedmate's uneasy sleep. McCoy appears to be more comfortable huddled up against him. Spock finds himself allowing this physical contact but eventually lays a hand on him to wake up the man, who now appears to be suffering a nightmare.
"Sorry," McCoy says as he sits up and pulls away. "Didn't mean to cuddle with you."
"It is of no consequence."
The deluge outside appears to increase and with it comes thunder. "It's really coming down out there."
"Where is your wife?" Spock suddenly asks him.
"How'd ya know I was married?" It takes a minute to dawn on McCoy. "Oh, you were snooping--you saw my wedding ring."
"How long have you been estranged?"
"Estranged?" McCoy snorts. "Not long."
"Why did you leave her?"
"Look," McCoy snaps. "If it will get you to stop asking me so many fucking questions, maybe I'll go ahead and give you that blowjob."
There's an awkward silence after that and McCoy adds: "I was kidding."
"Why are you headed out to California, anyways?" McCoy demands.
"I wish to enter Starfleet Academy," Spock replies. "Why are you traveling to California?"
"No particular reason."
"You done with the interrogation, Spock?"
"As long as you are not a murderer, I am satisfied," Spock replies.
"You afraid of me Spock? Well..." McCoy appears to tease. "Didn't think Vulcans got afraid an' all."
"I am not afraid, however, I am curious." He does not admit to the stranger, but he...now feels, uneasy...
"Well." There is a bitter laugh from McCoy. "Maybe I am." He laughs again even harder. "Let's get some sleep, huh?"
continued in part 2