Moving Day (RP)

[sharpestscalpel]

It was easy enough to empty sickbay out. Most of the wounds coming in were superficial – the real power struggle would take a few more days while alliances and allegiances shook themselves out of the wash. Uhura looked good in the chair and she’d already held it – with a knife blade so lazy from Chekov that the whole defense would have been an insult to the assassin if he hadn’t gurgled out his last breaths onto the floor at Uhura’s booted heels.

McCoy motioned to the last of the nurses and they scattered to take their positions in the halls. It wasn’t that McCoy trusted them. It was that they damn well knew better than to try anything on him or he’d make them wish he’d killed them before he fucked them.

Now it was just a matter of getting Kirk out the door. He hadn’t given the man any warning – it was more fun to keep him guessing.

The probes opened the door to the iso room at McCoy’s approach.

He was smiling.

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[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

He knew McCoy was playing with him. He just didn't know the game yet. And he knew McCoy knew that, knew he was delighting in keeping him off-balance, but Kirk couldn't afford to care.

He knew that he was vulnerable. Out there, he was disgraced, weak, unmanned. He had no protection. Nothing, now, but whatever McCoy was willing to provide. Which seemed to be his own room. It meant being under his eye, and that of those probe fuckers.

But it sure beat the fuck out of dying.

The shower was going in the other room, and Kirk tried to muster some resentment at McCoy's obvious message: Kirk was harmless. McCoy had nothing to fear, even exposed naked in the shower. Nor was he worried about Kirk leaving, or messing with his things. Because he didn't think Kirk was capable? or because he had nothing to lose or hide?

It wasn't trust.

Warmed by the bourbon but no less confused, Kirk pulled his eyes away from the photo and the books and scattered personal effects and moved to the sofa. He activated the conversion. No point in running. Not now. There was nowhere to go. And if McCoy was going to leave him unsupervised, Kirk might as well earn the trust that, for now, was appearances only.

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

He continued his clean up, long strokes over wet skin with an old-fashioned bar of soap, suds forming and sliding down his legs under the spray.

McCoy was patient - but he wasn't a saint and he wasn't immune. He'd been accused of being a hedonist before. And he had no interest in self-denial for the sake of self-denial.

Turning down Kirk's offer had been delicious - the confusion in Kirk's eyes coming slow and only after McCoy was several steps away. Had anyone ever turned that kid down? McCoy didn't know - he suspected Uhura had, as much as Kirk hadn't answered the damn question. But the ship was a rumor mill and Pike was... predictable. Kirk had gotten here on the strength of his smarts but also the strength of how well he took it.

The water and soap slicked his skin and McCoy ran hands over his chest, then braced one against the wall as the other stroked his slowly hardening cock.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

McCoy was taking his sweet ass time. It struck Kirk to wonder if he was jerking off in there, or just wanted him to think he was; the man was a first class pervert and while that could be useful to Kirk, he hadn't proved predictable so far. Kirk was tired, but the alcohol had gone straight to his head and he had been kept so long between various sets of identical walls that he could not resist another turn of the room, trying to gather any clue at all.

But there was only one photo with people in it, and the hot chick was pissing him off, and the books were in Vulcan. He wandered over to the terminal, on the off chance that McCoy didn't have it locked down even more than usual. He had no real hope, but he knew well enough that assuming things like that led to missing the fact the door was wide open. As expected, the screen denied him rudely and Kirk figured there wasn't enough time to do anything about it before McCoy emerged again. Likewise closets and drawers. His cursory examination revealed standard fare: uniforms, civvies, a few relatively tame sex toys. The door, when he approached, did not open.

He suspected, too, that those things were waiting.

Kirk returned to the sofa bed and sat. Still softer than the biobed, and not beeping. But there seemed to be some rule about pull-out beds being crap, and this was no exception. Or so Kirk would have noted, had it not been infinitely preferable to a floor in the brig.

What was McCoy doing? Not just in the shower. What game was he playing? Why was he waiting? What was Kirk supposed to offer?

He sat, contemplating that, but did not lie down.

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

He had no shortage of shortage of objects for his sexual energies. He could call Chapel or Ritchies or, hell, even M'Benga, let him earn some goodwill back, and they'd be in the shower on their knees before he finished the goddamn comm.

But the indulgence of masturbation, he relished it. The pressure just right as he eased into a regular rhythm, no instructing or guarding against unwary teeth, just the familiar slip slide slick of his palm on the smooth skin of the shaft of his erection, the brush of fingertips grazing over the head.

Kirk would be wandering around, baffled. There was nothing for him to find, nothing that McCoy cared about him seeing. Would Kirk ask about the photo? Jos and Jo, a long time ago.

Jos, with her sweetass cunt and her filthy mouth. Kirk with his sharp ribs and his defeated eyes that were trying so hard to spark. McCoy wanted to be there when they caught flame. Jos would like that one.

The steamy air felt good as his breaths deepened and his pace increased.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Something gleamed as Kirk turned his head, his gaze circling the room yet again for anything he'd missed, and this time he rose, startled. Oh. The mirror in the closet. Standard issue, full-length. He'd managed to avoid it in his first cursory perusal of the room, but he must not have closed the door all the way.

He hadn't seen a mirror in... Well. Not since any of this had happened. He didn't want to know, didn't want that image of himself to replace the one in his mind, the true Jim Kirk, the one he would be again. If he believed it hard enough, the scarecrow he was now would disappear all the faster. He wouldn't have to address it. Much like the smooth area below his dick that would scar but wouldn't ever, really, heal.

No. That wasn't who he was. Kirk didn't deny his own reality; he denied his inability to change the future. He'd achieved nothing by hiding from himself. Arrogant he might be, but he was also confident, and it wasn't blind. He needed to know what he was working with. What McCoy saw when he looked at him.

He approached slowly, listening for the shower, and shoved the closet open. Blue eyes stared back at him, unchanged though they looked large and haunted in that face. A face he didn't recognize at all. His hair, though too long, was thin. The shape of his face had changed, the contours altered, lips more pronounced. His cheekbones would have been enviable in a face less gaunt and ravage.

The clothes McCoy had brought him hung off him still, and Kirk grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt and pulled up. Not off--the shower could fall silent at any moment--but slowly he revealed what he had glimpsed but only from above. His hipbones jutted out above the elastic band of his pants, his waist sharply defined and his ribs sticking out like denuded branches. And this was after all the eating he'd been doing. With the sores and rashes mostly cleared up.

The bourbon was offering him a modicum of distance, a hazy vantage point from which to view himself. But he was still fucking hideous. No muscle. A spindly bundle of sticks bound together under tight skin. He'd seen this before, on Tarsus. And vowed not to be this man.

He let the shirt fall and tugged now at his pants, shoving them down to mid-thigh. He could pull them up again in a moment. And made himself look.

Kirk stared, intently, purposefully, attempting to inure himself to the sight. There was progress, too. No urge to vomit. Just the gut-level sensation that it was wrong, all wrong, not that he could help but be reminded when he pissed or itched or hell, moved.

No, look at it, he told himself. Look at yourself. Get used to it. Nothing's going to change. But you can change the rest. You can make it not matter. Figure out what McCoy wants. Give it to him, keep giving it to him until there's nothing more he can give you. Maybe he's got a plan. What do you have? If you fail, it can't be any worse. If you don't... if you don't, you can make sure this shit doesn't matter at all.

Fucking freak, was what he was now. But there was someone out there for anything you could possibly sell. Maybe he hadn't been handed to McCoy, he thought. Maybe McCoy had been handed to him, and just didn't know it yet. It was a place to start, anyway.

He snapped the pants back into place and shut the closet door.

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

He stroked himself through it, leaning more heavily on the arm bracing him against the wall, forehead coming to rest against the cool tile, the temperature a contrast that just heightened the responses of his nerves and wound him tighter, coiled the spring winding tight in his belly.

McCoy had waited for Pike to tire of Spock – and it hadn’t happened. The fucker had, of all things, fallen in love with his calculator. Kirk hadn’t counted on that to be returned. McCoy might not think much of the softer emotions but they were goddamn useful. Kirk would learn that. He wouldn’t be caught blind again, not after what it had cost him.

Such an intriguing price. McCoy had tended the wound, puckered pink skin scarring over but still soft, still delicate, smoother than the skin around it and slightly shiny. He wanted to suck on it.

The thought of it left him thrusting into his fist now, grunting his pleasure as the climax washed over him and then was washed away down the drain.

McCoy slumped, his whole chest pressed against the wall now to hold himself upright. He reached for his drink and took a deep pull from the glass, careful to shield it from the cooling spray. His ration was almost up. He might have to pay Gaila a visit after all.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk could hear nothing from the shower, no hint of anything but water. Enough water that it was suspicious, made him wonder how McCoy had rated so much of it, and what he was trying to prove by demonstrating it.

He swayed on his feet now, tension and drink mixing with his already delicate state to send him crashing as he waited for some new signal from McCoy. He made it to the pulled-out sofabed before he physically gave out, settling against the back and drawing his knees up to his chest in a now-habitual gesture of fetal watchfulness. He would not fall asleep, he told himself. Too dangerous. Wouldn't show weakness. Didn't know what McCoy would want when he emerged. Didn't know what he expected. Had to be ready for anything.

His brain felt fuzzy from exhaustion and liquor, and he fought it, dulled blue eyes trained on the bathroom door.

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

McCoy turned off the water and stayed in the shower stall, back against the wall, a moment longer to finish his drink. Finally, muscles loose, finally relaxed, he stood up from his slumped posture and reached for a towel.

After all, he had a house guest. Wouldn't do to take too long and be rude.

Not when there were so many other ways to get his point across. McCoy tended to the rest of his bedtime rituals before he dragged the towel over his hair, rubbed at it to get most of the wet, and then draped the terry cloth around his neck.

The inrush of cold air hit him when he opened the door, prickling his skin with goosebumps.

"Fucking colder in here than I thought. You want it warmer?"

He eyed Kirk, curled up on the sofa bed, as he walked naked to his own bed.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk watched him, his suspicion imperfectly concealed. The display was overt, obvious, and yet: what was the object? McCoy's intact and presumably well-satisfied equipment? His wiry but well-fed frame, muscles shifting as he moved to the bed? The direction of his travel--namely, not towards Kirk--itself?

He shrugged. He was always cold these days.

"Not my room," he said. "Wouldn't object, though."

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

It wasn't a standard bed. Not nearly as big as Pike's - the greedy motherfucker - but enough to do the job and provide some comfort. The sheets were a high enough thread count to earn McCoy that hedonist label. He slid under the blankets and sprawled - his most typical demeanor - with his head on two stacked pillows.

"Temp, fucking up 5 degrees."

He stretched, arms pushing back against the headboard and his toes curled over the bottom of the mattress, and then eased onto his side, to face Kirk.

"I always treat my guests right, Blue. Just one more fucking thing you will finally figure out."

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

His brain sluggish, Kirk nonetheless felt intensely the foolishness of falling asleep in a room with another person. It shouldn't have been any different from the brig, or sickbay. Anyone could have killed him with very little trouble. Without even touching him. And yet, the homey--for a certain value of homey--surroundings caught him off guard, which had the effect of putting him on it.

But it went both ways. McCoy, apparently, didn't think he had anything to fear from Kirk. Yet another show of his confidence, without any need to shove it in Kirk's face. He knew that Kirk had nothing to gain by killing his only benefactor.

"I've got a lot on my mind," he said dryly, vageuly acknowledging the vast array of things he hadn't figured out. First among them, why they were engaged in a fucking sleepover. What McCoy wanted from him. His thoughts drifted, but he was loathe to lay down. Wary.

"Who's the girl?"

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

That got a reaction - McCoy tensed slightly even though he held his position, slightly curled, one hand tucked beneath a pillow.

"Something else for you to learn real quick - you want to spread gossip, I will make you the fucking subject of it, I tell you goddamn what."

His voice was low, a reminder of the instruction he had issued Kirk that day in the brig.

"Now, you asking about my wife or my ex-daughter?"

And just like that, the menace was gone and he was as inviting as ever, warm and sincere and genteel.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk stared at him balefully. Who the fuck was he going to tell? Project one when McCoy eventually went back to sickbay was figure out if he was even technically still alive or had rank. Didn't mean he was going to start running his mouth.

Just common fucking sense. Not the twist of fear in his gut, no. Or the relief at the new tone, the obvious warning that shift itself should be swallowed by bourbon and confusion.

"Yeah," he said. That covered the basics, anyway. He wasn't stupid enough to ask too much about anyone's past, or why they'd ended up here. But it was a piece of information, that was sure. Had to be hard to leave a piece like that back home. Not that Kirk would know. Even in a place like this, other people had families. Photos. "What're their names?"

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

He stared across the room for a moment.

'Lights, goddamn 10%."

McCoy returned to his back, idly stroked his cock with his thumb as he spread his legs and settled himself.

"Wife is Jocelyn. You might know her better as the wife of Senator Reginald Bainesbridge."

His snort was a clear indication of his opion on that matter.

"Daughter is Joanna and I am legally prohibited from speaking about her."

Pike's pull had only gone so far. He was not well-trusted by the Fleet higher-ups who had approved his position.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk blinked in the sudden dimness, though whether at the unwanted display--yeah, not that subtle--or the name even he wasn't sure. At this point, it didn't occur to him to wonder if McCoy was trying to tempt him. He was firmly convinced he'd never feel that stir of desire again. No, it was solely to demonstrate what he himself was not capable of. What he'd never have from a sweet number like that.

Sure, he'd be able to fuck again. On the receiving end, and he'd done that before plenty without feeling anything about it one way or the other. But McCoy was determined to remind him, constantly, of his deficiencies. Of his own inability to take pleasure in it ever again, or to put it to a girl like Uhura who liked it a little rough once in awhile.

Still, he had trouble looking away, and trouble covering that fact in the heady state McCoy had put him in. Didn't mean anything but that he was starved: for attention, for stimulus, for anything in his field of vision that wasn't grey walls and death.

"That's too damn bad," he said, not specifying which piece of information prompted the remark. He was so tired, but there was this edge to it that was like trying to sleep on gravel. "They look happy."

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

"Uppity woman, that one. She's a goddamn fucking firecracker."

For the first time, McCoy's voice held actual, recognizable fondness and admiration.

And fatigue. It had been a long day. He deserved the 48 hours off-shift he had managed to arrange for himself. And it wasn't like Chapel didn't know how to comm if there was trouble.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk, too, was fading, despite his wariness. He could not maintain vigilance. His head bowed, his body swaying slightly until he caught himself, snapping back upright.

"S'nice place you've got," he mumbled. "Thanks f'r the drink."

[sharpestscalpel.livejournal.com]

"Sleep fucking tight, James T. Kirk."

McCoy's eyes gleamed in the little bit of light left. Then he turned to his other side and closed his eyes and slept.

[behnd-blueyes.livejournal.com]

Kirk did not sleep right away.

He watched McCoy for awhile, like a starved dog at the edge of a fire. It might lick out and burn you, or someone might kick you away from what little warmth you've managed to find.

But it caught up with him, eventually. Everything that had happened (and not), all the adrenaline and anticipation and hell, simple walking had done him in. He drifted off, eventually curling into a fetal position on the sofa bed, his face turned towards McCoy as if he could keep watch through lowered eyelids.