Extended Moments I
Title: Extended Moments I
Author: crazywriter10
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: Ranging from PG-13 to NC-17/R (This part is PG-13, for Len's generous use of a curse word.)
Summary: I had quite a bit of fun writing Reveal, and its sequel, Inked, and something that's been going around in my head for a little while has been to extend those moments in Reveal and make them into something a little more substantial. This is the first one.
Word Count: 773 (First Part)
Series: Fine Black Lines
Len hadn’t thought he could run across anyone more stupid than that unfortunate cadet that had thought it a wise decision to liquor himself up properly and then try to bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge with homemade equipment, but the latest batch of morons to wander through his ER shift were definite runners up. Coupled with a ridiculous course load and piled-up due dates, sleep and food had taken a backseat for a little while in the rush for midterm preparations and then the actual tests themselves.
How he was still on his feet and moving - thinking, even - he had no idea.
His OCD-like way of keeping things off his floor - including his clothes - had taken a nosedive as well, and when he pushed open the door to the room he shared with an equally messy (at the moment, not forever) Jim Kirk, he just didn’t give a shit that he was stepping with dirty boots on what he would probably have to put on his body. He really didn’t care. Didn’t care that he had dropped his scrubs haphazardly between the door and the bed, and that his cadet reds that he’d worn (with the jacket open, thank you very much) on the way back from the hospital were somewhere between the bed and the bathroom. At least the jacket was. The black undershirt had separated from the waistband of his pants, and he yanked it all the way off outside the bathroom door, hellbent on a shower.
He cranked the temperature on the water up as high as he could stand it and stood under the spray, thankful that he was still at the Academy, that he wasn’t on some floating tin can (which didn’t do much for his blood pressure or his panic-button, either) and had to use a damn sonic. There was nothing like hot water for working the kinks out of an overworked, over-stressed back. He refused to let his mind wander to what was happening on Monday, what exams he would need to plan for. It was more stress that he didn’t need, and if the knot at the top of his spine was anything to go by, he really didn’t need any more.
The bathroom was steamed appropriately when he got out (not that he really cared) and he toweled his hair to a mess while he hunted for clean (or semi-clean, he really wasn’t picky at this point) clothes.
His underwear drawer was in a state of disarray with not much left - he’d need to find some time to do laundry, maybe when he found the time to find what was left of his sanity - and his pants weren’t crisp to cadet standards (again, not that he gave a shit). The undershirt that he’d found was the one that he’d just taken off, which might have defeated the purpose of finding something clean. Honestly, he just didn’t care.
Bent over and rummaging through the piles of clothes on the floor, he didn’t hear Jim come in. He was also oblivious to Jim crossing the room to stand behind him while he was still bent. What he did realize was that it was Jim’s finger that was trailing lightly near the dip in his spine. He stiffened, hardly daring to breathe. Len knew full well what Jim was looking at - the word Harm written in Gothic lettering - and he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to let Jim see just what being a doctor and healing others - no matter how stupidly they may have injured themselves - meant to him. It was his life. Majorly. Enough to spend quite a while under the tattoo gun in a parlor in Georgia, enough to keep it hidden from his parents and the other well-to-dos with invalid opinions.
He reached back, blindly swatting at Jim’s hand.
“Can you go at least five minutes without getting handsy with someone else?” Len groused, pulling his shirt down over his pants as he stood. His eyes were wide when he turned to look at Jim, expecting questions he didn’t want to answer. He had the eyebrow and glare poised, ready to release if Jim asked thought to ask what it was or even to see it.
Len just wasn’t ready to let Jim that close to him, yet. Not when he couldn’t readily identify what it was exactly that he was feeling toward Jim in the first place. Jim had the good sense to not say anything further - for which Len was grateful - and Len allowed him to lead him from the room. Once he’d gotten a clean shirt on, that is.
Author: crazywriter10
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: Ranging from PG-13 to NC-17/R (This part is PG-13, for Len's generous use of a curse word.)
Summary: I had quite a bit of fun writing Reveal, and its sequel, Inked, and something that's been going around in my head for a little while has been to extend those moments in Reveal and make them into something a little more substantial. This is the first one.
Word Count: 773 (First Part)
Series: Fine Black Lines
Len hadn’t thought he could run across anyone more stupid than that unfortunate cadet that had thought it a wise decision to liquor himself up properly and then try to bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge with homemade equipment, but the latest batch of morons to wander through his ER shift were definite runners up. Coupled with a ridiculous course load and piled-up due dates, sleep and food had taken a backseat for a little while in the rush for midterm preparations and then the actual tests themselves.
How he was still on his feet and moving - thinking, even - he had no idea.
His OCD-like way of keeping things off his floor - including his clothes - had taken a nosedive as well, and when he pushed open the door to the room he shared with an equally messy (at the moment, not forever) Jim Kirk, he just didn’t give a shit that he was stepping with dirty boots on what he would probably have to put on his body. He really didn’t care. Didn’t care that he had dropped his scrubs haphazardly between the door and the bed, and that his cadet reds that he’d worn (with the jacket open, thank you very much) on the way back from the hospital were somewhere between the bed and the bathroom. At least the jacket was. The black undershirt had separated from the waistband of his pants, and he yanked it all the way off outside the bathroom door, hellbent on a shower.
He cranked the temperature on the water up as high as he could stand it and stood under the spray, thankful that he was still at the Academy, that he wasn’t on some floating tin can (which didn’t do much for his blood pressure or his panic-button, either) and had to use a damn sonic. There was nothing like hot water for working the kinks out of an overworked, over-stressed back. He refused to let his mind wander to what was happening on Monday, what exams he would need to plan for. It was more stress that he didn’t need, and if the knot at the top of his spine was anything to go by, he really didn’t need any more.
The bathroom was steamed appropriately when he got out (not that he really cared) and he toweled his hair to a mess while he hunted for clean (or semi-clean, he really wasn’t picky at this point) clothes.
His underwear drawer was in a state of disarray with not much left - he’d need to find some time to do laundry, maybe when he found the time to find what was left of his sanity - and his pants weren’t crisp to cadet standards (again, not that he gave a shit). The undershirt that he’d found was the one that he’d just taken off, which might have defeated the purpose of finding something clean. Honestly, he just didn’t care.
Bent over and rummaging through the piles of clothes on the floor, he didn’t hear Jim come in. He was also oblivious to Jim crossing the room to stand behind him while he was still bent. What he did realize was that it was Jim’s finger that was trailing lightly near the dip in his spine. He stiffened, hardly daring to breathe. Len knew full well what Jim was looking at - the word Harm written in Gothic lettering - and he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to let Jim see just what being a doctor and healing others - no matter how stupidly they may have injured themselves - meant to him. It was his life. Majorly. Enough to spend quite a while under the tattoo gun in a parlor in Georgia, enough to keep it hidden from his parents and the other well-to-dos with invalid opinions.
He reached back, blindly swatting at Jim’s hand.
“Can you go at least five minutes without getting handsy with someone else?” Len groused, pulling his shirt down over his pants as he stood. His eyes were wide when he turned to look at Jim, expecting questions he didn’t want to answer. He had the eyebrow and glare poised, ready to release if Jim asked thought to ask what it was or even to see it.
Len just wasn’t ready to let Jim that close to him, yet. Not when he couldn’t readily identify what it was exactly that he was feeling toward Jim in the first place. Jim had the good sense to not say anything further - for which Len was grateful - and Len allowed him to lead him from the room. Once he’d gotten a clean shirt on, that is.