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]

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.