First we take Manhattan - [Gym, Quarters] - [Kirk, McCoy]

[behnd_blueyes]

It was a few days before Kirk woke up without a bone-deep fatigue that didn't stop him from enjoying the now-regular--though far from routine--sex he and McCoy had fallen into but hadn't allowed for much else. He ate a lot. He used the weights that McCoy had had sent there. The sofa remained tucked away in its primary shape, and neither mentioned

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[behnd_blueyes]

Kirk was fucked up, but it wasn't exactly that that kept him from accepting being owned, or the fact he needed it. The fact was, he had no models for that type of reciprocity. You owned or you were owned. You paid, or you were paid. Which wasn't to say it colored everything--people bought in different currency, and he and Uhura had had a sort of partnership that had existed on a sexual-professional level Kirk got.

He didn't get belonging. He didn't understand why or that he wanted it, what it meant, that it really meant owning something back. Maybe he would learn, but for now it was merely confusing. And he had to stick things into the boxes he had names for. The games he'd already played. Family wasn't one of 'em.

He smirked slightly at the flush on McCoy's face, the reference. McCoy was always telling him to slow the fuck down, but damn if it wasn't McCoy racing to the finish every time. And if that wasn't some kind of validation, he didn't know what was.

"I know a few ways to work on that, too," he said. "But I figure I got a ways to go, all around, before I catch up."

[sharpestscalpel]

"Keep smarting off, won't even make it to the gym." McCoy eyed the table significantly, where he'd fucked Kirk bent over it amidst the dinner dishes the night before.

The McCoys valued family. It was what kept all of them safe, kept all of them together. Didn't always make much sense from the outside looking in - and hadn't ultimately protected his mama much - but Leonard H. McCoy knew what family meant: taking care of your own and letting them take care of you in return, no grudges held.

Or at least not held when there were outsiders threatening.

[behnd_blueyes]

Maybe the Kirks had valued family, once. Maybe Sam remembered. He wasn't around to ask. But family, to Kirk, meant Uncle Frank being there and Winona being gone even when she was there. There wasn't much care about it.

"I've got all day," he said, picking up his dishes. If he was forced to, he'd have had to admit this was... nice. Wholly unexpected, but it felt somehow safe in a way his empty quarters never had.

[sharpestscalpel]

McCoy grumbled over to his closet to find his gym clothes. "You got all day but I got evidence suggests you're good for one or the other." Kirk was improving, rapidly, and it was gratifying to watch from a medical perspective. But McCoy still doubted he could fuck Kirk ragged and then haul the kid to the gym.

Maybe the other direction, though. Tear him up at the gym and then slide into him sweaty and already muscle trembly from a good fucking workout.

Gym shorts, running shoes, ratty old Academy tshirt. "You even got gym clothes?"

[behnd_blueyes]

McCoy was, probably, unfortunately, right. Kirk hated being weak. Physically weak, tapped out. He hated it. But he was getting better, he knew that. Could feel it every day. Could see himself filling out more and more, enough to worry every time McCoy fucked him that he was losing whatever it was that was keeping him interested. Not from any sense he got that McCoy was losing interest, but he couldn't help but remember certain things. But food was too good to consider not eating as much as he could.

"Used to," he said. "Never went back to see what happened to my shit."

[sharpestscalpel]

McCoy jerked his head toward the door.

"Fucking figure we should check that shit out then."

His hair was long enough to hang in his eyes and he pushed the bangs back with the meaty part of his palm.

[behnd_blueyes]

There wasn't much Kirk owned. Still less he treasured. Over the years, he'd had to travel light, and when he'd joined up he'd had a box from home that had held everything he could stand to remember. He hadn't added much to that after arriving on the Enterprise, so when they entered his room it looked much the same as any other. There wasn't a lot of dust, and the vents took care of any that wanted to settle, so he might just as well have stepped out that morning.

There were some clothes in the drawers and closet, a few slung over the back of a chair. Standard-issue mostly, a few sweaters and shirts that wouldn't fit him anymore, some jeans. A leather jacket.

The walls were mostly bare, though the dresser had an old-fashioned photograph with worn edges--not even in a frame--showing a pretty blonde woman smiling at the camera and a man looking down at her, seemingly unaware of the photographer. They had both, undeniably, found expression in Kirk's own features. Kirk grabbed a box from the closet and tossed it in after tucking it into some old maritime fiction book. Most of his books--he had more than one might expect, though that didn't mean much, here--were high seas adventure or military history, with a few unexpected classics tucked in. He dropped them all into the box, not saying a word. A case, the sort a medal might have been presented in, when in as well. As did his jacket and some odds and ends from the top drawer of his desk. Finally he set it on the bed and grabbed his workout clothes, similar to McCoy's and with elastic he hoped would hold.

"Figure it's easier if everything's in one place," he said noncommittally, stripping neatly and stepping into his gym clothes. They hung off him like a scarecrow still, but he wasn't interested in displaying his body anyway.

[sharpestscalpel]

He was curious about that photo - Kirk had kept it and he was bringing it with him now and that meant it meant something. Kirk would deny it, probably. Might even deny it to the point that McCoy could take it from him and tear it up and then McCoy would know it meant more than anything else; but he wasn't there yet - he could still ease Kirk into talking about it, probably. That was a hollow victory anyway because Kirk was on his good side and he didn't make a habit of wrecking people's shit unless they weren't.

Casual was the best approach. "I'll get somebody come take that to the room." McCoy's room, their room, what the fuck ever. It was just the room now. "Ready?"

[behnd_blueyes]

"Yeah." He didn't need to ask whether his stuff would be okay--McCoy wouldn't get anyone for a job if they were likely to fuck it up. He knew that much. McCoy had asked nothing, and Kirk was surprised, the way he was always prying. Probably waiting to take him by surprise or something. Fine.

He didn't do anything so sentimental as say goodbye to the room, even silently. It meant nothing to him; no room ever really had, aside from whether he was alone in it or not. They walked to the gym, Kirk feeling stronger even than yesterday, even eager to work his wasted muscles.

[sharpestscalpel]

McCoy had waited longer for less. And it was just plum fun to keep Kirk guessing.

The walk to the gym was short. It was a large area, and it was mostly regarded as neutral territory. The sparring area where Pike and Spock had worked out their Vulcan weird ass workout shit didn't see much action from what McCoy was told but there was always someone there.

Now it was just a few of the gamma crew, assholes McCoy didn't recognize by sight to know their names. He didn't bother to greet them, instead set to stretching.

[behnd_blueyes]

Kirk had his own routine, and he fell back into it easily. The stretching part, anyway--he'd have to go easy on the weight, on how much he did--but the more he stretched, the better. His limbs obeyed though they seemed confused by his demands.

There were eyes on him, curious fuckers who wanted a glimpse of the freak, and eyes on them, which he cared less about. Le them wonder what McCoy and Kirk were cooking up--they wouldn't find out until it was too late, and in the meantime, anyone who wasn't jealous was a liar or an idiot.

[sharpestscalpel]

"You all right?"

He'd keep an eye on Kirk regardless. But there weren't enough people to truly constitute much of a danger even if someone was determined to come after Kirk here - and there had been time for rumor to circulate. He honestly didn't give a good flying sideways fuck who people figured belonged to whom; he just wanted to make sure people bet on McCoy coming after them if they fucked with Kirk. The nervous looks one of the gym rats kept shooting them gave him the impression that much had been received loud and clear.

At Kirk's affirmative, he loped over to the track and settled into an easy pace, just to get his blood moving.

[behnd_blueyes]

Kirk was fine--he could keep an eye on himself, and he was pretty sure none of these assholes were about to try anything. They had nothing to gain anyway, and with McCoy's rep, everything to lose. He wondered if anyone knew about M'Benga yet.

Stretched, he moved to the machines, checking first that they were calibrated not to do actual harm and setting an easy pace for himself. It was still difficult, even the minimal resistance he was using, but it was another challenge. No used staying pissed he had to make up for so much; it was just another obstacle to overcome and something to focus on that wasn't eating or boredom.

He'd worked up a light sweat--not hard, in his condition--before looking up to find McCoy, almost unconsciously seeking him with his eyes instead of keeping an eye on the others. That was habit, but he knew he was watching out for McCoy, too.

Now McCoy was jogging, easy and loping, sort of smooth and casual as he did everything and not at all bad to look at.

[sharpestscalpel]

He picked up his pace a little, then a little more until he was running, comfortable and quick. He hated running in a fucking goddamn circle around a little shitty track like a goddamn hamster in a fucking wheel but you did what you had to damn well do on a fucking star ship. Stupid fucking space.

McCoy didn't hate space. Most of the time.

The curve carried his feet back to the far wall and as he came around it, McCoy looked for Kirk - weight machines, should have fucking predicted that like goddamn clockwork. Kid needed to put on some muscle, though, or he'd fall down in a stiff fucking breeze.

The sweat was beading on his neck now, dampening the back of his tshirt. It felt good. Felt like being in his damn body. It was a little like fucking Kirk in that regard, keeping him grounded in his nerve endings. Nice.

[behnd_blueyes]

One of the asshole ensigns was staring at him, literally staring at the ropey muscle and tendons standing out along Kirk's arms as he worked the weight machine, and Kirk stared right back. If he wanted to horrify people he'd take off his goddamn shirt, but he wasn't here to provide entertainment and when he caught the woman's eye she started and glanced away quickly. She left soon after that. Everything worked, that was the main thing, and nothing hurt anymore except from honest use, and at this point weight training was nearly aerobic for him. He used to jog, too, and maybe he'd take it up again but right now he was fucking tired of being tired out from lifting books.

He stopped, catching a break and toweling the sweat from his face. It felt good to be back. Better to be on the bridge, but this was almost normal. So normal he found himself unable to keep from pushing himself, so after a breather and a sip of water he ended up on the track, determined not to embarrass himself but not to give a shit how minimal his endurance or slow his pace was now.

[sharpestscalpel]

McCoy slowed his pace again, kept speed with Kirk when he otherwise would have passed him. The doctor eyed Jim's red but pale face, the healthy blossom of sweat, the faintest hint of a rasping wheeze to his breathing. The rest of McCoy just appreciated that Kirk was all sweaty which probably meant slippery.

"How you holding up, Jimmy-boy?"