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Title: Downbelow
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Star Trek (TOS), Babylon 5
Characters: Stephen Franklin, Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, cameos by Spock and Kirk.
Summary: While on walkabout, Stephen meets a fellow spirit in a Downbelow bar.
Wordcount: 1517
Continuity: Unspecified Trek time, but within the 5 year mission. Year 3, B5 time, while Stephen is on walkabout after the stims.
Warnings: My brain is still somewhat fever-fogged, so please forgive me if I've done something stupid.
Downbelow
The bar was a tiny thing, curled up near flush against the hull, wrapped in the seedy warrens of Downbelow. Stephen stepped confidently inside, well aware of what a show of hesitance would do to him here. Though he should be safe enough. Relatively few people were safe in Downbelow, but enough of the big players had recognised the use of a walkabout doctor that he'd managed something of a VIP status. As much as was possible, down here. Enough to manage.
The place was pretty crowded, clutches of desperate men, the occasional working woman, even a couple of kids running around, and didn't that just squeeze his heart? His hands itched for a second, the twitched demand for stimulants, to help, to drive so many sicknesses out. He ignored it resolutely. That was not why he was here.
He spotted a place to sit soon enough, a rare empty space in the corner, next to a blue-eyed man looking at his glass with the resolute determination of a practised drinker who'd been hit where it hurt. Stephen stopped at his side, biting his lip at the pained humour in the eyes that glanced wryly his way, and gestured towards the free seat.
"May I?" he asked, eyes never leaving the strange man's face. There was something compelling there, a mobile cynicism that seemed half a lie, and half a deeper truth that Stephen could imagine. A man who'd seen something, he thought. Those eyes could only belong on someone who'd seen things.
"Help yourself," the drinker said, warm and self-depreciating. "I ain't goin' nowhere for a while." And there was a deeper meaning to that, but it was a common one here, in the Downbelow, where people came when they had nowhere else to go.
"Thank you," he answered, seating himself gingerly, and holding out a hand in greeting. "Stephen Franklin. Pleased to meet you, sir." The man blinked in surprise for a second, then took Stephen's hand in his own surprisingly strong ones, a warm grip.
"Sir, is it?" the man asked, amused, and Stephen flushed, though he wasn't sure why. "Leonard McCoy, at your service, m'boy. Or Bones, if you'd like. Don't think anyone's called me sir in a long while." He smiled a little, shadowed, and Stephen tightened his grip a little in response.
"Maybe they should," he said softly, and McCoy blinked in surprise. Then the man smiled, a real smile, and pulled his hand back a little to offer Stephen the bottle.
"Thank you. Join me?"
Stephen swallowed, feeling his body burn, knowing it wasn't alcohol he craved. Knowing he'd never have that again, either. "No, sir," he said quietly. "Not what I'm here for." And blue eyes sharpened on his face, the quick assessment that Stephen recognised, remembered, and McCoy nodded.
"As you like," McCoy commented neutrally. "More for me, after all." He paused, taking Stephen in some more. "What brings you here then, if not the search for a decent drink? Doctor?"
Stephen looked up at him sharply, though he could hardly be surprised. He was getting pretty well known, down here. But still ... he didn't think this man had heard of the walkabout doctor and just randomly thought he might be the same man. He watched the other warily for a moment, then smiled slightly, spreading his hands. "Guilty," he smiled. "How'd you know?"
McCoy grinned. "Takes one to know one, eh?" He winked, watching as Stephen blinked, and remembered why that earlier examination had seemed familiar. Takes one to know one. Heh.
"Yes sir," he replied, and this time the 'sir' came as naturally as breathing. Right the first time. Leonard McCoy was definitely deserving of the title.
"Bah," McCoy waved his hand. "Told you, no sirs. Just an old country doctor, that's me." For a second, a shadow slipped into his eyes, his gaze growing a little distant as he looked out at something far beyond the sweaty confines of the bar, and Downbelow, and Babylon 5. "Just an old country doctor, waiting for a ride home."
Stephen reached out, then, instinctively, resting his hand atop McCoy's in mute sympathy, the familiar ache and desire to help rising in him, the same old weakness, the same old strength. The older man looked at him in surprise, a flicker crossing his face too fast to follow, and then he smiled, and reached over his other hand to pat Stephen's gently.
"You must be a fair decent doctor," McCoy said quietly, gravely. Then he grinned a little. "I definitely approve of the bedside manner, anyway, though I'm not quite as old and helpless as all that!" Stephen recoiled a little, trying to shake his head, the memories of his recent failures all too fresh.
"I'm ... I'm not," he whispered, very softly. "Not anymore. I ... I got lost."
"Ah," McCoy murmured, and Stephen looked up at the inflection. "So that's it, is it?" He shook his head a little, a faint smile on his face, old shadows in his eyes. "Don't let it take you too hard, Stephen. We all of us go through that. Those of us who know what matters, anyway." He paused, tired blue eyes meeting and holding Stephen's, a wealth of experience in them. "Hell of a thing, isn't it? To have someone's life in your hands. Friends' lives. Kids. And sometimes, no matter how hard you try ... you just aren't always good enough. Fast enough. Knowledgeable enough. You're not enough, and people die. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
Stephen flinched, looked down, shaking a little. He cleared his throat, tried to ignore the lump there. "And then ..." he whispered, hoarse. "Then you do something stupid." He felt the hand catch his own, gently, and tried not to flinch.
"Yeah," McCoy said gently. "Then you do something stupid. But you get over it. In time. You get over it."
"I'm trying," Stephen admitted, softly, not meeting the other man's eyes. "I'm really trying." He blinked, then, as a hand reached out and nudged his chin, raising his head, and clear blue eyes met his with all the strength and honesty of a man who's been there.
"Good," McCoy said, gently. "That's good. That's all a man can ask of himself, and it's good enough. Trust me." He smiled, and Stephen wondered briefly how anyone couldn't have trusted him. "You'll do fine, Stephen Franklin. Just fine."
There was a moment, then, where McCoy went quietly back to his drink, and Stephen worked furiously on pulling himself together, banishing the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. It took a while, but McCoy seemed perfectly content to let it, and for that, Stephen had to be grateful. That, and much more.
Eventually, though, he managed to get his composure and his voice back, and looked up once more. "Thank you, sir," he murmured, and he'd never meant an honorific more in his entire life. McCoy smiled cheerily at him, and nodded gravely, his eyes once more gone a little distant in the quiet. And Stephen wanted desperately to help. "Is there nothing I can do for you, sir?" he asked, quietly, his mind going to every contact he had, every way he could think of to get this man anywhere he needed to go, anywhere that wasn't Downbelow, where people went when there was nowhere else to go.
But then, surprisingly, McCoy grinned, his eyes lifting to someone behind them. "I don't think that's necessary, m'boy," he laughed, and Stephen turned in his seat to see who had put that light in the older man's eyes. A severe man with pointed ears, obviously alien, stood warily in the entrance to the bar, a shorter, golden-haired man at his side. They both looked straight at McCoy, and the relief was obvious in their expressions as they approached.
"Doctor McCoy," the alien greeted as they neared. "It is ... good to see you well." His eyes tracked over Stephen questioningly, but rapidly turned back to his friend as the blond man reached past him to grip McCoy's hand heartily, and perhaps a touch desperately.
"Bones," he said. "Shoulda known we'd find you in the nearest bar to the portal." And Stephen blinked at that, but it was hardly the strangest thing he'd heard. Not even the strangest in the last month, so he let it go, glad to see that McCoy was once more among friends.
"I take it," he smiled, interrupting gently. "I take it this is that ride you were waiting for, country doctor?" And McCoy grinned, and took his hand once more, vibrant in joy.
"It is indeed!" he smiled, and was still smiling, bickering gruffly, as he left the bar, and Downbelow, and Babylon 5.
And Stephen too, in the moments after his new friend had left, could not help but smile. His walkabout was far from over, the burn of need still too strong in his veins, the ache of doubt still too deep in his heart. No. His walkabout wasn't over. But it was nice to know that someone else's was.
There was hope, in that. One Stephen needed. One he now had.
