Title: Grudge Match
Word Count: 2454
Genre(s): Drama/Romance. Kinda.
Pairings: McCoy/Kirk, Spock/Uhura
Warnings: Violence. Some cursing. Fem!Bones, Reaper!Bones. Immortal!Kirk implied. Inspiration from Battlestar Galactica's "Unfinished Business" (episode 3x9) for the idea (though I'm sure it's an old military tradition somewhere on Earth too).
Author's Notes: Set vaguely in the near future of my Ghosts of Mars 'verse, where Johnna "Reaper" Grimm became Lenore "Bones" McCoy over the course of a couple centuries. (It could be read as a standalone, purely AOS fic though, if you suspend your disbelief long enough.)

This is a one-shot, really. I'm posting it in two parts, because the second part isn't co-operating with editing right now.

ETA: FFN ate my formatting. If you got spammed a couple of times with the new story alert, it's because I fixed the scene break indicators.

Summary: When Lenore McCoy and Jim Kirk were on the outs, the whole ship felt it.

Grudge Match

It was something of an open secret that the Chief Medical Officer and the Captain were an item. Regulations outright forbade fraternization, but it wasn't quite as black-and-white on the frontiers of space. As long as the chain of command didn't suffer – and it often didn't – the crew turned a blind, indulgent eye to it.

Because when the captain and CMO were happy, the whole ship brimmed with energy. An upbeat, indestructible dynamo on the bridge, and a miracleworking god who actually smiled once in awhile in SickBay made everyone's day that much better. Shifts flew by, morale soared and efficiency went through the roof.

But when McCoy and Kirk were on the outs, the whole ship felt it.

oOoOoOo

When it came to fighting, most officers preferred the comfortable distance of a phaser or phase rifle. Gods forbid they should have to get up close and personal with a knife or their fists. Most officers let their hand-to-hand training slide, except for Security where it was a job requirement. Sparring matches sprang up impromptu after shifts were done. They were good-natured, laughing affairs where a couple of friends came together and threw a couple of punches at each other in the name of exercise and good fun. On most ships, this was the accepted practice, if not the standard.

Not so on the Enterprise.

A regulation boxing ring appeared in the rec hall every now and then, when tensions were high and nerves were frazzled. The rules were simple: you put your ID in the cannister, you fought. When you wanted out, you pulled your ID out. There was no rank, no protocol, no rules except you yield, you lose and bring it to the ring, work it out in the ring, leave it in the ring.

Ring matches on Grudge Night were serious business.

oOoOoOo

The ship was finally repaired from the last encounter with the Klingons, who seemed to have an especial hatred for theEnterprise crew. Tensions had been mounting and tempers seething for weeks. Without warp drive, the Enterprise had been stranded out on the fringes of space. Thankfully, they'd been close enough to a habitable planet to get in some shore leave, and harvest enough resources for synthesizing repair parts and food, but it had taken a toll on the crew. Morale was down, dissatisfaction was way, way up.

And Kirk and McCoy had been pissed at each other the whole time.

No one knew why. If senior staff did, they weren't telling. All anyone could piece together was that a landing party had gone aboard the Klingon warbird, weapons fire had been exchanged. The five survivors who came back – McCoy, Kirk, Sulu, a redshirt ensign named Bates, and the security officer the Captain habitually called Cupcake – had all kept their mouths shut.

But something had happened. Kirk had come back brimming with fury, practically screaming at anyone who dared say as much as "good morning". McCoy, well... the crew was used to McCoy's mercurial moods. But there was somethingdifferentabout the CMO. Something darker, and infinitely more dangerous. She terrified anyone and everyone who crossed her path, and all she had to do was look at them.

It exponentially multiplied the strain on the rest of the crew. The injured got barked at more so than usual, McCoy's razor-sharp tongue tore them new orifices while her hands patched up their bones and organs. Kirk became an anal-retentive tyrant, stalking the corridors with raging eyes just looking for violations to pounce on.

Whatever their problems, the rest of the crew felt it. Morale was at an all-time low, and even the closest of friends were snapping at each other like rabid dogs. The situation was unbearable.

And so, one Thursday evening as the Enterprise limped back to Federation space, the ring went up.

oOoOoOo

Uhura didn't like the grudge matches, and she never dropped her ID into the cannister. She preferred using words and reason to settle her differences with others. It was one of the reasons why she was so compatible with Spock, who lived and died by logic.

Which was why she was so surprised to walk into the rec hall at 1800 hours to find Spock directing several of the security staff in placing chairs around the boxing ring. "What are you doing?" she asked. She hoped the appall she felt didn't show through her voice. One did not emotionally begin an argument with a Vulcan and expect to win.

"The situation between Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy has grown untenable. The rift between them is causing untold harm across the entire ship. I have taken the liberty of scheduling a Grudge Night in order to provide them the opportunity to work out their problems."

Uhura shook her head and even went so far as to lay a single hand on Spock's elbow. "Spock, no. Intervention, counselling, those are better options than... than... beating the snot out of each other."

Spock's eyebrow twitched up. "Physical altercation has proven historically to relieve tension and stress," he said. "Previous Grudge Nights have shown to positively affect crew morale. Also, given the personalities and volatility of the two involved, I highly doubt they would accept any third-party intervention into what is at its core, a personal matter."

Uhura jerked back as if he'd slapped her. "You can't approve of this," she said, scandalized. "It's barbaric!"

Spock turned to her and, though his expression showed the stereotypical Vulcan impassivity, Uhura thought she saw a glint of sympathy in his eyes. "Barbaric or not, Lieutenant Uhura, the results are undeniable. Interpersonal relationships improve, morale increases and a sense of camaraderie is engendered even amongst those who engage only in side-bets. It has proven quite beneficial a tradition on board this ship. I am not always a proponent of the ends justifying the means, but in this case, it is undeniable fact."

She blinked, unsure how to process the idea that a Vulcan, who suppressed violent tendencies as a course of his race's philosophy, might even tacitly approve of fist-fighting for stress-relief. "I... didn't know you felt this way."

Spock's tone was as even as ever, but Uhura heard the gentle admonition in his words. "You never asked, Lieutenant."

oOoOoOo

The crowd started gathering as word spread that the ring was up. Grudge Night was officially a go. IDs clattered into the cannister as shipmates eyed each other with all the hostility and irritation they were supposed to suppress on duty. Uniform shirts were not permitted as the rank insignia was inherent in the design, so most people simply wore Starfleet-issue gym clothes.

If anyone was surprised to see Spock sitting at the table with Scott, the usual referee, no one batted an eyelash.

Scott took a swig of his flask, taking advantage of the fact that no rules meant no prohibition on booze. "Ye think they'll throw in, Spock?" he said, offering the Vulcan the flask.

Spock shook his head a fraction, and Scott withdrew his offering. "I do not know, Mr. Scott, but I am hopeful."

Uhura slouched beside them, scowling. "I can't believe you talked me into coming here," she grumbled. Like everyone else, she was wearing exercise clothing. It was only because uniforms were forbidden, though she had debated wearing one anyway. She had no intention of ever participating.

Spock's eyebrow rose. "I merely suggested, lieutenant, that you witness the meritous effects of what initially seems a violent and pointless practice before you decide to approve or disapprove. You made the decision to participate tonight yourself."

She ignored Spock's chiding, mostly because Scott had gotten an interested, speculative look Uhura didn't like. "No," Uhura said firmly, leaning forward to point a finger at Scott. "Get that look off your face. I am not participating. I'mobserving. Nothing more."

Scott snapped his mouth shut. "Aye, ma'am. Well, time ta get this show on th' road." He half-stood, banging the cannister on the table. "If I can get yer attention, ladies and gents! This is Grudge Night. Ye know what we do here. Ye know why. Ye know th' rules. If ye don't, ask yer neighbour." Scott dipped his hands into the cannister. "First match!" he called, pulling two IDs out. "Greg Paulson and Chan Li Su."

The two whose names had been called made their way to the ring, pausing at the equipment rack to lace on gloves. Uhura glanced between the participants, but neither seemed to have any sort of animosity towards the other. She heard bets being taken and given, with Chan the favored at two-to-one odds.

"Whenever yer ready," Scott called.

The match was swift. Paulson was twice the size of his Chan and, despite Grudge Night rules stating no-holds-barred, he obviously didn't want to hurt Chan. Chan, on the other hand, had no such compunctions and pressed the advantage, toppling Paulson like a tree with a couple of rabbit punches and a brutal groin shot that left virtually all the men and at least a third of the women wincing in sympathy.

Scott applauded. "Winner! Chan Li Su!"

Uhura wanted to be disgusted. Grudge Night was about using physical violence to solve problems, and that was against her core beliefs. But as she looked around at the rations chits and credits changing hands, the smiles and cheers, even the jeers that held no sting of malice, and at Chan offering Paulson a hand to his seat, slow realization dawned that maybe she'd been wrong.

Maybe if she viewed it as a distasteful but integral part of an alien culture, and covered under Starfleet respect and tolerance rules, she could live with it. She still didn't like it, but no one was forcing her to participate.

The matches went on, some more personal than others. Scott threw his ID into the cannister at one point, and Spock took over referee duties. Scott drew up against O'Malley, one of his engineers, who looked pretty eager to start brawling. Uhura wondered what had gone on down in Engineering during the course of the repairs for the affable, eminently likeable Scott to engender such bloodthirst.

Uhura leaned back to watch the brawl. At first, it seemed like O'Malley, being taller and more muscular, would dominate Scott. But Scott was quick and slippery, bouncing like a jackrabbit from one end of the ring to the other, darting in to jab at O'Malley's ribs before darting back out again. Then O'Malley got in a lucky shot that dropped Scott with a spectacular thud. He didn't get up for a minute, and when he did, he was clearly done.

Spock rose. "Mr. O'Malley," he said, "is the winner."

O'Malley got Scott back on his feet, and the two engineers passed words that ended in broad (if lopsided in Scott's case) smiles and hearty back slaps. When Scott found his way back to the table, e had a towel around his neck, a bottle of water in his hand, and a nose already swollen to nearly twice its size.

"Looks painful," Uhura said.

"Oh aye. It is," Scott said cheerfully, grinning even though it had to be painful. "An' it's gonna hurt like th' dickens until I can get to Sickbay and ask Doctor McCoy to pretty please fix it for me."

Uhura shook her head in disbelief. "What was all that about anyway?"

Scott waved a hand dismissively, gingerly feeling at his nose. "Water under the bridge, now. That's the point, lass. Lance the poison before it kills."

"I'm starting to see that." Uhura looked around as Spock called the last match of the evening, a girl from stellar cartographer with one of the botanists. She was still disturbed at the broken noses, the black eyes, the bloody streaks on faces. But she could no longer pretend to deny that people were looser, freer, more relaxed, with all the aggression spent.

"It seems that you were right," she told Spock, watching the people mingling and socializing. "The mood seems better. Lighter. It's too bad, though, that McCoy and Kirk didn't show up, since you set this whole thing up for them in the first place."

"I would not jump so quickly to that conclusion, lieutenant."

Uhura blinked. Ranks were forbidden on Grudge Night, in order to avoid court martial for striking a superior officer. Spock's tone had been mild enough, but the slip of her rank belied that: something had surprised, possibly even shocked, him.

His eyes were fixed on something behind her and over her right shoulder, so she turned to see what had seized his attention. A dark-haired woman dressed in a black tank-top and dark green pants stood in the doorway, glaring absolute death at something across the room.

She looked so different from the usual rumpled scrubs or rumpled medical blues, it took Uhura a few moments to recognize the Chief Medical Officer. Curiously, she looked back and saw Kirk, dressed in black, meeting McCoy's flinty glare with his own.

Gradually, the mingling crewmembers became aware of their Captain and CMO's presence. Even from halfway across the room from either of them, Uhura felt the rage and fury snapping from their staredown like static along her shoulders. She shivered. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. The tension, so carefully drained and siphoned over the course of the evening, instantly ramped back up to eleven.

Paths cleared as Kirk and McCoy started moving towards the table where Spock patiently sat. Chairs scraped out of the way, and people melted back warily, unwilling to stand in their way. It was clear that, if anyone did, McCoy and Kirk would likely walk right over them.

They reached the table, slapped their IDs into the cannister, and glared at each other. If they were dogs, they'd be circling and snapping, fur bristling and fangs bared. As it was, they came as close enough. Toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, barely three inches apart. Kirk was taller, but McCoy's aggressive, looming presence added height to her slim form.

The air felt thicker around them, solid and heavy. Uhura hunched her shoulders, praying neither of them turned their attention on her. It went on forever, growing so increasingly uncomfortable Uhura wanted to run away screaming. Neither of them spoke, neither of them budged an inch. Neither of them looked away. They look like they don't know whether to fight or fuck.

"The next match," Spock said calmly, not even bothering to reach for the IDs, "will be Lenore McCoy and James Kirk."