Chapter Text
“It’s too damn sunny.”
“Only you could find an issue with too much sun right now. What, haven’t you noticed it’s cold enough to freeze Klingon testicles?”
“Yeah, and it’s still too sunny!”
“Good one, Bones. You’ve really convinced me.”
Kirk looks back with a grin so shit-eating that McCoy would spell him six ways to the seven hells if he didn’t think he’d lose his balance. As it is, he’s too busy concentrating on one foot in front of the other while he and Jim walk yet another kilometer on this endless glacier stretching for eternity in all directions.
McCoy could reply, but why bother? Jim is too buoyant with his psychopathic sense of adventure right now to give an inch of any kind, even in banter. McCoy settles for glaring in the other direction, although he unfortunately can’t keep that up for long either — you know, on account of the blinding sun.
It doesn’t matter anyway, really; McCoy can’t stay angry with James Kirk for long.
Bold, clever, and curious, there’s a reason Jim’s the captain of the starship H.M.S. Enterprise, one of only a handful of naval vessels designed to explore the far reaches of the seas with little but the constellations to guide their way.
Unfortunately, that includes the icy far reaches north, a place McCoy hadn’t remembered to pray he wouldn’t end up before giving up his small-town country healer life for Starfleet. He hadn’t even known to loathe the way the sun reflects on the vast white ice threatening their footsteps.
It almost makes him miss the seemingly boundless white fog that muted their vision and muffled their footsteps when they began this trek out into the formless wilderness.
Actually, no. He doesn’t miss the damn fog. Sure, he’s sweating and freezing at the same time, but it’s not a right side better to be freezing, damp, and half-blind, either. McCoy looks back and is comforted by a small brown smudge far off in the distance, still visible despite the distance due to the landscape’s immeasurable uniformity.
He sighs, wondering when Jim’s ardor for new experiences will finally dim to exhaustion and they can put up the tent and pretend there’s an evening sunset.
That part isn’t so bad; the tent is charmed to simulate the night sky back home, and he and Jim don’t need anything more complicated than a bedroll and a bottle of lube to have a good time.
He’s still daydreaming about this when he feels Jim stiffen beside him.
McCoy can’t deny that the younger son of a bitch has better hearing, but he doesn’t have to strain long, either, before he catches the faint strain of a deep voice calling for help.
They move in tandem. McCoy lifts his staff and casts a searching spell while Jim heads straight for the center of the magical waves reverberating from the focal point as soon as the spell identifies it. Then, McCoy brings up the rear, eyes widening when he sees what — or more accurately, who — lies inside the dip in the ice.
From a distance, the tall stranger could be anyone, but as they draw closer, McCoy registers prominent pointed ears, an unusual pallor, and a blue-and-white tunic with matching blue vambraces for his arms and legs.
It’s hard to see more, as the man is lying face down to a glacier.
Unfortunately, the stranger bears so many of the hallmarks of one specific species that McCoy can’t deny that’s what he is, not because he begrudges his presence here (although, he personally wouldn’t really call a single unconscious member of a species a presence, but nobody asks him), but because they shouldn’t be this far north at all.
“That’s a Vulcanian!”
Before he knows it, McCoy is rushing forward.
Unbeknownst to him, Jim’s lips quirk in amusement at his back.
For all his harsh words, Bones is a healer first; he’ll throw personal safety out the porthole if he gets even a glimpse of an injured party. There are times when it worries Jim that Bones will so casually run headlong into real danger with little more than abjuration on his side, but he reminds himself that keeping Bones safe is what the Captain is there for.
Jim shivers slightly as Bones casts several diagnostic spells over the stranger’s body, the telltale smoke and ash that comes with healing magic filling the pristine air. It’s so cold that even the air feels like it’s heavy with icicles, and so Jim starts checking the perimeter around them just to give himself a reason to keep his blood moving.
While McCoy can’t remember the specifics, he knows to avoid skin-to-skin contact with the stranger, vague academy lessons rising murky in his mind.
Still, there comes a moment when the back of McCoy’s hand brushes the other man’s cheek. The healer flushes, embarrassed, but the stranger only stirs, brow furrowed in some unknown emotion. His skin is ice cold; McCoy tries not to think about that as he heals the numerous surface scrapes marring his body with dried green blood.
Eventually, the stranger wakes.
McCoy blinks and sits back on his haunches, ready to explain himself. Instead he’s greeted with the unintelligible murmurings of an ice-gone madman willing to pull the good healer down with him — or at least that’s what it feels like when a too-strong hand grips his wrist so tightly he can’t find an inch of give on either side.
“Just relax,” he mutters to himself, a little nervous. Understandable, considering the circumstances, really — this Vulcanian could do anything to him. Dark eyes flicker to McCoy’s staff; whatever he sees must put him at least somewhat at ease, because he relaxes his grip enough to let the good healer continue.
He shakes out his wrist, wincing. That’ll bruise. He glances down at the man’s face. If McCoy were so inclined to parse the fine details of that nearly-impassive expression, he’d guess the man was distressed.
McCoy chuckles. “I’ve seen that face before.”
“What do you mean?”
The rasping baritone isn’t exactly what McCoy expected — but this stranger is, after all, quite ill.
When the man sits up on his elbows, McCoy tries to push him back down, although he gives up quickly; it’s about as much use as trying to budge a battlement.
“Means some folks think I’ve got a bad bedside manner,” McCoy replies, more focused on a particularly gnarly bruise he’s sensing over the stranger’s left thigh than his response. “I’m too damn honest for my own good, so, instead of a cushy gig handing out boiled honey to rich folks’ tykes, I’m out here in this gods-forsaken wilderness with you instead.”
It’s clearly too many words for the Vulcanian to process, and he sinks back down on his own accord, defeated by McCoy’s loquaciousness.
“Aw, Bones, don’t say that,” comes Jim’s panting voice.
McCoy suppresses the urge to ask where he’s been and if the answer is “sprinting around in circles looking for something to do.” He knows the real answer is both more dangerous and more boring: checking the perimeter to find out what — or who — left the Vulcanian in this state.
The healer looks down and assesses. The stranger isn’t bad-looking, he thinks idly, with high cheekbones and tilted brows over glittering eyes. If it weren’t for the bowl cut — and the cold and the sun and the general air of misery around them — McCoy might have licked his lips.
Instead, he says, “We can move him now.”
“We’ll have to go back,” Jim says, real disappointment threading his voice. He’s insane, McCoy thinks; truly, verifiably insane.
He says as much, and Jim laughs, already leaning down to pick up the stranger in another one of his favorite tasks — proving himself useful with physical prowess (Jim is very helpful for handling what magic can’t in cross-city moves).
“Heavy, aren’t you?” Jim grunts, hoisting the Vulcanian into his arms.
“My body mass is 32.4% more highly concentrated than yours,” comes a weak voice.
McCoy is struck with the inappropriate urge to laugh. “You’re alright with this?” he asks.
“I am in need of assistance. It is illogical that you would heal me only to cause me further harm," says the Vulcanian.
“We humans do a lot of illogical things,” McCoy says, unable to keep the hint of bitterness from his voice.
Those black eyes find his. “Let me rephrase. It is illogical to believe that you, healer, would cause me further harm."
McCoy opens his mouth to say something — what, he doesn’t know — when Jim lets out a quite uncaptainly groan.
If asked to log it, McCoy would define that sound as a clear and definitive “ugh.”
The esteemed Captain takes one step forward, then stops, clearly steeling himself for a very long walk back. McCoy takes pity on him and casts a feather-light charm on the Vulcanian.
Instead of setting up camp, they walk back into the sun, miles of ice stretched out ahead of them. It’s not long before the endless return journey has Jim returned to his chipper self — no doubt pretending that he’s carrying Spock by his own strength alone on an adventure of epic proportions.
“And you wanted more of this,” McCoy mutters. “What exactly are we missing by going back again?”
“Something to find,” Jim says promptly.
“I think we found plenty,” McCoy says, eyes catching on the strange being in Jim’s arms.
“Dream bigger, Bones. There’s always something new out there.”