"You told me again you preferred handsome men, but for me you would make an exception"
James T. Kirk lay awake in the pull-out sofa bed, staring at the dark-invisible ceiling and wondering what the fuck was going on.
His life, ever since it had been returned to him by one Leonard McCoy, MD, had made even less sense than it had during those long hours-days(-years?) in the brig, feeling his life ebbing from him and valuing it both more and less with every passing breath. He was so used to being sure, cock-sure Uhura had said sometimes with what she thought was a clever fucking smile, that the constant instability he'd been able to feel ever since he stopped being not-hungry and then stopped being hungry was new and confusing and had not allowed him a moment's rest. He could barely think, given the conflicting signals he was getting, moment by moment. He couldn't plan, could not find a tactical angle for his dulled agile mind.
Because at the center of it all, at the center of his world, now, was McCoy. Bones, as Chapel called him, with wide-eyed, childlike logic that looked like no sense Kirk could ever make. Bones were hard. They broke. They held you up, but they didn't hold you together, and when bones were all Kirk had had left they hadn't been all that fucking useful.
McCoy wasn't like that at all. He was lithe and slippery, smooth boyish face hidden by whatever perverse vanity prompted the scruff. He was lean muscle curving his limbs in repose, his neck thrown back as if in invitation. Or at least insistence that you would not dare. He was unkempt conditioned silky hair, too long but not neglected. He was sharp eyes and a lazy smile, a contradiction, a warning and a promise all in one. Kirk didn't get it. Could not determine what was being offered, or why, or what part of him was meant to give in or respond. What was McCoy's angle? And how did you read a man as confident and inscrutable as any cat?
Kirk didn't have an opinion about cats, one way or the other, but he had to admit that the admiration whispered into Chapel's ear hadn't been all bunk. There was something fluid and alluring about him, something you couldn't quite touch. The sort of thing that unnerved, even as you fought to pull your eyes away and couldn't. He knew he should be scared. Part of him was. He was existing in two minds, now: that which recognized the danger and the connection between what McCoy was and what M'Benga and Rien and Chapel had become, and that which admired the bastard anyway. Mostly, Kirk just thought he could play him right back.
But that depended, again, on finding the angle. Something he still didn't have, and thought he would by now. He was getting bits and pieces, learning little by little what kept the man's interest. But how much of that was being fed to him, and how much was Kirk's own magic charm? It had been a long time since he hadn't been able to tell.
Over it all, though, was the conviction that he wouldn't be here if McCoy didn't think he still had something to offer. And that, Kirk thought, was both more valuable and more dangerous than anything. It gave him options. Opportunities. But had also made him vulnerable to whatever McCoy had in mind. It was getting harder and harder, though, to worry about where it led. As long as it went somewhere. McCoy was feeding him the rope, and Kirk was tying himself to McCoy's fate himself. Hanging, unbidden, on McCoy's every word and movement with ever more lively eyes. And all the while believing it was of his own accord that he followed. That he had a choice. That he was wise to McCoy's manipulation, and therefore free from it. The great trick, of course, was that he was aware and falling for it anyway.
His life, ever since it had been returned to him by one Leonard McCoy, MD, had made even less sense than it had during those long hours-days(-years?) in the brig, feeling his life ebbing from him and valuing it both more and less with every passing breath. He was so used to being sure, cock-sure Uhura had said sometimes with what she thought was a clever fucking smile, that the constant instability he'd been able to feel ever since he stopped being not-hungry and then stopped being hungry was new and confusing and had not allowed him a moment's rest. He could barely think, given the conflicting signals he was getting, moment by moment. He couldn't plan, could not find a tactical angle for his dulled agile mind.
Because at the center of it all, at the center of his world, now, was McCoy. Bones, as Chapel called him, with wide-eyed, childlike logic that looked like no sense Kirk could ever make. Bones were hard. They broke. They held you up, but they didn't hold you together, and when bones were all Kirk had had left they hadn't been all that fucking useful.
McCoy wasn't like that at all. He was lithe and slippery, smooth boyish face hidden by whatever perverse vanity prompted the scruff. He was lean muscle curving his limbs in repose, his neck thrown back as if in invitation. Or at least insistence that you would not dare. He was unkempt conditioned silky hair, too long but not neglected. He was sharp eyes and a lazy smile, a contradiction, a warning and a promise all in one. Kirk didn't get it. Could not determine what was being offered, or why, or what part of him was meant to give in or respond. What was McCoy's angle? And how did you read a man as confident and inscrutable as any cat?
Kirk didn't have an opinion about cats, one way or the other, but he had to admit that the admiration whispered into Chapel's ear hadn't been all bunk. There was something fluid and alluring about him, something you couldn't quite touch. The sort of thing that unnerved, even as you fought to pull your eyes away and couldn't. He knew he should be scared. Part of him was. He was existing in two minds, now: that which recognized the danger and the connection between what McCoy was and what M'Benga and Rien and Chapel had become, and that which admired the bastard anyway. Mostly, Kirk just thought he could play him right back.
But that depended, again, on finding the angle. Something he still didn't have, and thought he would by now. He was getting bits and pieces, learning little by little what kept the man's interest. But how much of that was being fed to him, and how much was Kirk's own magic charm? It had been a long time since he hadn't been able to tell.
Over it all, though, was the conviction that he wouldn't be here if McCoy didn't think he still had something to offer. And that, Kirk thought, was both more valuable and more dangerous than anything. It gave him options. Opportunities. But had also made him vulnerable to whatever McCoy had in mind. It was getting harder and harder, though, to worry about where it led. As long as it went somewhere. McCoy was feeding him the rope, and Kirk was tying himself to McCoy's fate himself. Hanging, unbidden, on McCoy's every word and movement with ever more lively eyes. And all the while believing it was of his own accord that he followed. That he had a choice. That he was wise to McCoy's manipulation, and therefore free from it. The great trick, of course, was that he was aware and falling for it anyway.