Title: Accidentally on Purpose

Author: Gixxer Pilot

Beta: Livejournal's lovely Wicked Jade

Summary: Modern day AU. Kirk and McCoy are cops, partnered together and working patrol. As a duo, there will inevitably be ups and downs. But the downs? They won't always be comical like this.

Author's Notes: Seriously. The last thing I should do (and I mean the very last fucking thing) is start yet another fic. I do sincerely apologize to those of you that have been waiting for me to finish Shades of Grey, as I promise I'm working on that one, too. It's just that this tribble was way too much fun to ignore. I totally heart AU fics, so I figured I could toss my offering into the mix. I also think there's a distinct possibility this AU of mine might end up as a running series, so look for that if you're so inclined.

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek.


Choices, in law enforcement, were often dictated by others. Cop work, by its very nature, was strictly reactionary. It wasn't possible for a police officer to arrest someone for what they were thinking. There had to be means, motive and opportunity. Essentially, there had to be a crime. But how a cop reacted to any type of call varied greatly, and hinged on the equal actions of the complainants involved. Sometimes, all that was necessary was a bit of handholding or some interjection of logic. Other times, actions and reactions required more drastic, forceful measures. But there was one thing, one choice so sacred that it required the knowledge and understanding of the oldest, most seasoned police officers within the unit.

The million dollar question of the day: what's for dinner.

For the last hour, a debate raged inside squad 7862. As the elder statesman of the pair, McCoy felt it was his duty to choose the food. But Kirk, the kid who couldn't sit still long enough for his ass to even make an impression in the seat, begged to differ. It simply wasn't fair that Jim was always overruled by McCoy's seniority, especially when the cranky old bastard never let him drive. Picking their dinner seemed like the amicable solution, especially given the fact that Kirk was blatantly disallowed from abusing the squad car's lights and sirens while in his partner's presence.

But so far that evening, Kirk was having little success appealing to his partner's rather particular palette. Who knew a former med student-turned-paramedic-turned-cop could be so damned picky?

"Pizza," Jim shot.

"No."

Kirk paused, tapped on finger on his lips and asked, "Subs?"

"We had those yesterday," Bones replied flatly.

Sighing, Kirk tossed out a sarcastic, "Sushi."

McCoy reciprocated with a grunt and a raise of his right eyebrow. "Dead raw fish? Do I need to remind you how many ways that might kill you from the inside out?"

Jim growled under his breath. "What about the buffet?"

"Are you trying to curse us? Yeah, let's go and eat ourselves retarded, which will inevitably invite a lengthy, drawn out foot pursuit the second I put us ten-eight. If you want to chase a fourteen-year-old car thief through the neighborhood while lugging around half of Old Country Buffet under your vest, that's your choice. Personally, I don't really want to relive my academy days of running while I puke," McCoy replied, cringing. Yes, he liked his food to remain in his stomach, thanks very much.

Jim scoffed. He swore some days that McCoy was contradictory because his brain was wired to always respond that way. But he could never resist an opportunity to poke fun at the one place where he had the upper hand. "That would imply that you'd actually run now, old man. Every time someone bails, I hit the ground at a dead sprint and you take the car and drive around. You're out of shape, Bones. Face it," Jim said. Kirk extended the index finger of his left hand and poked McCoy in the side, right above the handle of his gun.

McCoy swatted Jim's hand away with practiced ease. Without looking down, he caught Kirk's finger and started bending until little yelps of pain started floating from the passenger seat of the squad car. Satisfied, he shoved Kirk's hand away. "Use your head to save your legs. Just because I don't enjoy chasing dee-wee suspects and drug dealers through yards and over fences does not make me ineffective. I catch just as many perps as you do, only I do it-"

"With my help," Jim finished for McCoy, cutting his partner off in mid sentence.

"I was going to say, 'Without breaking a sweat,' before I was interrupted," McCoy said. An amused, cocky smile was spreading its way across his face before he remembered he was supposed to be upset. He locked it down as quickly as it came. With his favorite cranky mask in place again, he swiveled his head right for a quick half-second look at Jim.

"Exactly. You don't break a sweat because all you do is walk up and cuff them." Kirk pushed the seatbelt off his shoulder and leaned into McCoy's personal space. "I'm the one that runs them down, gets dirty and hurt, and you take all the credit!"

McCoy grunted in acknowledgment, his eyebrows doing their active climb and descent up and down his forehead. "If the shoe fits, I guess."

"That's cold, dude. Way cold," Jim answered, trying his damndest to look seriously pissed, but failing miserably. There was no malice to his words or any kind of sting to his tone. He knew that the banter was part of the job, and it was a perk he relished. Honestly, it was fun bullshitting with McCoy, especially given their rather rocky beginning together as partners. Kirk cleared his throat and amended, "But that still doesn't change the fact that I am hungry." Jim's stomach chose that moment to voice its agreement, a loud growl filling the hollow silence in the car. "See? I could go for some chow mein."

"We are not having Chinese again," McCoy answered emphatically.

"Why not? Lucky Jade is awesome!"

"No, Lucky Jade almost killed me the last time we ate there. I was sick for three days." A fine shudder worked its way from McCoy's toes to his head when the memory of eating bad egg rolls and moo goo gai pan assaulted his brain. Never, ever again would he be that stupid. He swore he'd drag the health inspector with him to any restaurant he didn't frequent in order to avoid that very unpleasant situation from repeating itself. Jim still hadn't let him live down the traffic stop from which McCoy had to excuse himself momentarily when his stomach picked that moment to revolt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim couldn't help but notice the light green pallor Bones' face suddenly took on, and how his partner's lip was curling up in that slightly disgusted way it did when they responded to a particularly rank decomp. Kirk smiled, hiding his chuckle behind his hand. In jest, he asked, "Sure that wasn't the bender talking?"

"What bender? You know I haven't had a drop in over a year." McCoy's default expression, the stony, pissed-off one, was plastered all over his face. Most young officers, and even some of the older ones, may have recoiled in abject fear seeing the hard, angry look. But McCoy knew that Jim could see the twinkle in his eye, and quite probably the gratitude as well.

Indeed, Kirk picked up his partner's meaning. He shifted in his seat so he was facing back forward while trying to look as officious as possible. Deadpanned, he replied, "Yeah. I hear those tonic waters are pretty potent these days. The lime is the killer."

McCoy's rich laugh bounced off the windows. Admittedly, sometimes it did feel good to do something other than frown, but he'd never admit that out loud. "Touché, Jim."

Looking thoroughly impressed with himself for the day, Jim practically beamed in the passenger seat. His stomach growled again, this time louder than the first. "Bones, I'm famished. I'm going to waste away and die if I don't eat like, now. I gave you suggestions and you shot them all down, and the longer you drag this out, the less likely it gets that a decent place will still be open. So, decide, old man. Food. Food, food. food."

McCoy rolled his eyes and leaned over in the driver's seat of the squad. He pulled the car to a stop behind a gigantic garbage truck waiting at the light and glared at his younger partner. One hand dangling over the steering wheel, he asked in the most exasperated tone he could muster, "You do this to me on purpose, don't you? How can any one person possibly have as much energy as you all the damned time? You are some sick cosmic punishment for all the wrongs I've done in every single past life. Why? What did I do wrong? Why me?"

Meanwhile, Kirk took to his favorite pastime when his partner was ranting away: imitating said partner. Jim's hands flew around his face, wild gesticulations and facial acrobatics a near spot on match to McCoy's own. The younger officer stopped long enough to realize his partner's lips had ceased moving, and that there was no sound coming from his mouth.

Pressing his chapped lips into a firm line, McCoy asked, "Jim? JIM! Are you even listening?"

Kirk continued his imitations and rolled his eyes. "Of course I am. I don't have much a choice in the car with you. But to answer your questions, yes, I'm listening, but no, I'm not a punishment. You know you'd miss me too much. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself. No one would give you fashion advice, women advice or tell you when you're being an asshole. Hell, you'd probably never make it out of your underwear and off your La-Z-Boy on our days off if I weren't around to show you how to live. You'd be bored."

"No, I'd be sane without you. I would also have a much lower dry cleaning bill, I'd get by with three uniforms a year, and I would avoid the embarrassment that comes with being a public spectacle at the hands of my partner," he grumbled, tossing out a couple of choice curses along the way. In his heart, McCoy knew the kid was right, and Jim understood that fact as well. But that didn't mean he had to give the little shit the pleasure of hearing it out loud. Scowling, he added, "And besides that, since when did rookies get an opinion? You're one step up from the gum I peeled off my shoe this morning with your debit card. You FNGs are good for fetching my coffee and doing the traffic paperwork, but not much else."

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Glad I don't use the thing very often." Jim was indignant, and began ticking off 'Kirk's Finer Points of Partnership' on his fingers. "But Bones. We've been partners for almost two years. I was done being a probie eighteen months ago. I know your birthday, the date and the year. I hang out with you, voluntarily, in that little tiny dorm room you call an apartment. You puked all over me. Twice. What chunk of the term 'partnership' do you not get?"

"The part about being saddled with a crazy, over the top, annoying-as-fuck infant with a gun for a partner. That's what." McCoy looked smug when Kirk's jaw snapped closed. He knew he could always get the younger man with the experience trump card, and he never failed to use it when necessary. It was low, but it was nevertheless effective. "Now, we're going to Charley's and there better not be any damned argument about it."

Kirk folded his arms over his chest and nearly pouted. "Fine. But if they short me on the chili for my fries again, someone's going to jail."

McCoy just pulled on the road that would lead the pair to lunch when the radio cackled. 'If you two ladies are done, some of us have real work to do.'

Reaching up to grab the shouldered microphone with his left hand, McCoy jabbed the button on the side of the black square receiver propped on his right shoulder. "Six-two to dispatch. Say again?"

A few random chuckles were audible in the background, and Kirk was able to pick out most of the voices. Of course one had to be their CO. Great. Jim heard the sound of someone brushing something from area of the microphone. Knowing the desk sergeant, it was most likely some type of food. To the original request, the dispatcher replied, 'McCoy, you were leaning on your transmit button again. The entire department just heard you two arguing like an old married couple. Should I get the chaplain down here for when you boys are off shift to perform the ceremony? Might as well make it official.'

"Fuck off, Serdeski. Jealousy is a bitch when your ass won't fit in the squad, isn't it?" McCoy sniped back. He pulled the mic roughly off the shoulder board on his jacket and growled into it, "How's that jelly doughnut tasting?"

There was a pause for a beat, and Jim could practically hear Serdeski sputtering with righteous indignation, even though the desk bound cop had already released the push to talk button from his end. It was no secret that McCoy and the three to eleven shift's desk sergeant had a long running feud, something stemming back to the time they were rookies together. Jim heard inklings about an ongoing, escalating prank war between Greg Serdeski and his partner, against McCoy and his partner. Scuttlebutt had it that the war culminated in epic fashion when Serdeski's squad ended up in the Iowa River. The jury was still out whose fault it really was, but officially, the sergeant had the black mark in his jacket to show for it. Privately, Kirk always suspected McCoy, but his will to live far surpassed his curiosity at how his straight-laced partner pulled off the prank. He valued his life, after all.

A bit more contrite, Serdeski's nasally voice cackled over the radio again. 'Why don't you two children take a call and help me clear out this backlog I've got? 1015 Dupont Avenue, apartment 2C. We've got a call from neighbors who said they could hear screams from inside. I've rolled the fresh meat out there, but Lieu wants you guys to back them up.'

"Takes one to know one, Serdeski." With the parting shot across the proverbial bow, Jim's demeanor switched to that of strictly business. He pulled the notepad from his pocket and clicked the pen. He scribbled down the address and grabbed his mic. "1015 Dupont, ten-four."

McCoy flipped on the lights, activated the siren, and floored the accelerator. He used the turn lane to get around a slow moving Civic. Concentrating on the road, he bit out a disappointed, "So much for dinner."

"Yeah. I was really looking forward to chili fries."


Cop codes: 'dee-wee' - DUI or DWI suspect; 'ten-eight' - in service (on duty); 'FNG' - acronym for Fucking New Guy(s); 'Lieu' - endearing term for the precinct's Lieutenant, who, in this verse, will be Chris Pike.

Next Up: Kirk and McCoy discover why it's a bad idea for rookies to run together, and they have a bit of…disagreement with a suspect.