What's your favorite color?

The first time McCoy asked that question, it was his second weekend at the Academy. After a hellish week of nothing but introductory courses filled with never ending syllabus lectures, Jim dragged him out of their dorms to hit the town for the night.

By then, he'd only known the kid a little less than two weeks. That, however, did not impede his ability to sense Jim's unfortunate habit of ending up in some kind of bar brawl the few times they went out for a drink.

Needless to say, when Kirk wants to end their night at one of the local clubs, McCoy is all but expecting to leave the place dragging his idiot roommate out by the collar, grumbling unhappily and threatening the younger man rigorously with every conceivable type of torture possible.

The usual, he thinks.

Unfortunately for him, and perhaps just a bit more unfortunately for Jim, this fight turns particularly nasty.

McCoy can hold his own for the most part; it's not like he hasn't been in his fair share of bar brawls before. But in the commotion, he loses sight of Kirk. He doesn't worry though because he knows the younger man will come out of it fine just like he always does. Albeit with a few scrapes and cuts and maybe a black eye every now and again; but that's nothing McCoy can't handle at this point.

Then comes a scream not unlike the ones McCoy's heard while working a late night shift in the emergency trauma unit of the nearby hospital. He searches frantically for the source and immediately feels the color drain from his face when he turns on a heel, eyes landing on a disheveled Kirk: the shattered leg of a wooden bar stool precariously lodged in his right leg.

By this time, all of the aggravators of the brawl are on the floor. Most cradling their injuries; some are unconscious. Honestly, McCoy could care less. He's already gone tunnel vision and is hopping overturned chairs and broken tables to get to Kirk. When he finally does get close enough to assess the damage, the younger man all but collapses into him. McCoy fumbles to readjust his position so that he can get Kirk's left arm around his shoulder.

"Hey, Bones," Kirk says. His words are taught; straining to remain casual despite what must be agonizing pain.

"Don't you 'Hey, Bones' me, you idiot," McCoy reprimands. "Look what you've gotten us into now."

"Yeah, that's my bad," Kirk jokes, clearly still drunk and dazed from the fight. He gives a small laugh that quickly breaks off into an unpleasantly hoarse cough. He groans, no longer able to mask the obvious pain he's in. McCoy's demeanor softens a bit and he shakes his head.

"Come on, we've gotta get you to the emergency room."

"What, you can't use your doctor knowledge to heal me all by yourself?" Kirk slurs.

McCoy sighs gruffly.

"Don't you test me. I will leave your ass here. Maybe one of your new friends could help you out once they regain consciousness."

"Alright, point taken. Let's go," Kirk says, taking a step forward.

McCoy sighs. Splendid. If he wanted to deal with drunken, injured bar brawlers he would have just taken the graveyard shift at the clinic this weekend.

Kirk yells out as his foot drags across the floor and McCoy quite suddenly forgets his anger altogether.

"Easy, Jim, one step a time," he instructs carefully. He waits a moment as the younger man breathes through his teeth, riding out another wave of pain.

Thankfully, Kirk obeys, and they slowly sync their movements to set a somewhat organized path towards the exit. It takes some time, but soon enough they're outside and surrounded by the cool autumn air.

"What now?" Kirk asks, at least a bit sobered up from the pain his injury's causing him.

McCoy thinks on that question for a moment. He forgot they took the public transit here. So they either walk the fourteen miles to the closest emergency care unit, which he is most certainly not keen on doing, or they call an ambulance. But at this hour and this far out from the main part of the city, the wait time for help isn't promising. Of course they had to pick the dive bar farthest away from town on tonight of all nights.

"Here, sit down for a second so I can get a good look at your leg," McCoy says. Slowly, he helps lower Kirk to sit on the edge of the concrete sidewalk surrounding the bar.

Before he does anything else, McCoy takes out his phone and dials out for emergency services. It doesn't take long to get in touch with the dispatcher. She tells him it will be 20 minutes at least.

Great, he thinks.

The woman offers to help guide him in performing triage on Kirk's injury, but McCoy hangs up in a huff before she even has a chance to finish her sentence.

"I'm guessing it's going to be a while then, huh?" Kirk asks, words slurring together once again. McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Just shut up and let me look at your leg," he says, turning back towards the younger man.

He kneels down on the haunches of his legs and begins examining the splintered wood sticking out of the lower part of Kirk's right leg. The wound isn't exactly deep, but it's still lodged in there pretty tight; not to mention the possibility of the wood breaking off under the skin and embedding themselves in deeper parts of muscle tissue.

Despite all that, what worries him most is the blood dripping down Kirk's leg in rivulets and pooling on the dusty pavement beneath him. 20 minutes for an ambulance is ridiculous, but it's the only help they've got coming and McCoy can only do so much without any kind of medical supplies readily available. If he doesn't at least try and staunch the blood flow, the consequences could be bad. There's no way to treat hypovolemic shock all the way out here.

Grunting unhappily at the unfortunate circumstances he's been presented with, McCoy takes off his jacket to use as a makeshift tourniquet.

"I'm going to have to take it out," McCoy tells Kirk upfront. No use in mincing words; they're shit out of luck at this point and are essentially up the creek with no paddle. Though a even a boat without a paddle would probably get here faster than the ambulance that's coming, McCoy thinks.

"Take it out?" Kirk echoes hesitantly.

"Yeah, take it out," McCoy repeats. "As in remove the god damn wooden log lodged in your calf."

"Isn't that going to hurt?" Kirk asks.

"I wouldn't say it's going to feel particularly pleasant, if that answers your question," McCoy replies.

Kirk sighs, letting his head fall back in surrender.

"I'll take it out and then use my jacket to tie off the blood flow. It'll at least stop the bleeding until the ambulance gets here," McCoy explains.

There's an expectant look on Kirk's face as he braces for the pain he knows is coming.

McCoy prepares to remove the length of wood when, oddly enough, a vague memory resurfaces from one of his earliest med school classes. He doesn't know why this specific moment suddenly comes back to him now of all possible times, but it does nonetheless.

He can hear the faded voice of his old professor, briefing them on the mental capacity for pain. How not knowing what's about to happen may lessen the pain rather than if you know what's coming.

"You know, they say it hurts less if it's a surprise."

Well, McCoy wagers, it's not like it'll make things worse.

Eh, what the hell? He decides.

"I've got a question for you, Jim," he says.

Kirk's face momentarily relaxes at the casual tone in the older man's voice. He looks expectantly at the doctor.

"What's your favorite color?"

And McCoy lets only a second pass, just enough for Kirk to give him an understandably confused look, before he latches onto the wood with one hand and Kirk's leg with the other.

Then he yanks it out, quick and clean.

Kirk lets out a bellowing scream that echoes across the San Francisco skyline and probably wakes up most of the city's sleeping inhabitants.

McCoy works quickly to wrap his jacket around the wound and tie it off to prevent any further blood loss. By the time he finishes, Kirk has stopped screaming.

There's a brief moment of silence.

"What the hell, Bones," Kirk yells, tone furious and voice laced with residual pain from the extraction.

McCoy shrugs.

"They say it hurts less if it's a surprise," he says.

Kirk groans as he readjusts his body to a more comfortable position.

"Remind me to find whoever told you that so I can kick his ass," he says.

And McCoy smirks despite himself.

"How about, instead of that, the next time you get us into a bar brawl you avoid getting half a stool leg shoved into your leg and I won't surprise you by having to rip it out."

Kirk thinks on the offer for a moment.

"Fair enough," he agrees.