Fic: The fault is not in our stars (5/8)
Title: The fault is not in our stars (5/8)
Author: eonism
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just here for the lulz.
Characters/Pairings: UST Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
Word Count: 2,903
Summary: James T. Kirk is going to Rura Penthe. Pike is in his corner, Spock has his reservations, and McCoy is coming with no matter what Kirk has to say on the subject.
When Uhura told Sulu to tell Chekov to tell Scotty to get to Observation Lounge 2 before alpha shift, everybody showed up at 0500. Tugging their uniform shirts down, shuffling their feet, ready for whatever she had to tell them. The lounge was long-abandoned by then, between shifts when Sciences rotated their posts for the next scheduled roster. It was the safest place onboard to meet and discuss their plan, whether the news was good or bad.
Uhura came through the doors at 0501, a PADD tucked under her arm. She said nothing as she brought up the audio file she had ported from her station, played it and held it up for the others to hear. Through the static emerged a stable, repeating pattern. Finally she smiled, and one-by-one it spread.
Keep your pants on. We’ll be home soon.
--
The one positive to sitting in a prison on a backwater asteroid was its thriving, bountiful contraband trade.
Terran cigarettes and Klingon moonshine, pornography vids and weaponry, and everything else one would expect to find in a prison. Whatever one needed, it could be found if he knew to look in the right places and ask the right people. Vral and his little horde ran the gambling rings, while the jittery gang of Betelgeusians handled alcohol and narcotics of every stripe and planetary origin. Romulans traded crude weapons in the camps and Andorians were the information couriers, adept to finding out secrets for a reasonable price. Everyone else traded amongst themselves for favors, in the hope of finding oneself in good graces with the outlining packs of profiteers and criminals. As long as the miners worked hard and all dissenters were punished, the Klingons let it pass.
Rumor had it that there were guards who aided in the smuggling trade, securing weapons and drug pipelines in and out of the mines through supply transport ships for a cut of the earnings. These were old men, dull-eyed and soft-toothed. They had let their youths slip past them while they watched prisoners work themselves to death in the mines, denied the opportunity to die honorably while they grew old and fat on Rura Penthe. Some of them wanted revenge; some of them just wanted a little something extra for their trouble. No one, it seemed, had any names to speak of.
Kirk had bartered and persuaded his way into possession of a bottle of Romulan ale and three packs of Terran cigarettes. The slender young Andorian on the other side of the campfire couldn’t help herself.
Nissa was a gaunt young thing. She was made of sharp angles but eye-catching under long silver hair, if only in a somewhat hollow, sunken-in way. At twenty-four she had been thrown into Rura Penthe for seducing a Klingon captain, living as his courtesan in order to sell military secrets, and by twenty-five she had slit seven throats. The scars on her knuckles and wrists told stories of knives and broken bottles, and Kirk had the wits about him to keep a reasonable distance between them, just in case.
“He arrived twenty-two days ago,” she said of Doctor Aatu Suk, looking the bottle over carefully. “He was brought down in chains by seven guards and led to the entrance of the northwest garrison.”
“And has he been out since?”
“Do you have any idea how much I can get for this?” She traced fine fingertips over the edges of the ale bottle and looked a little dreamy. “I might as well be naked and rolling around in credits.”
Kirk leaned forward. “Has he been seen out in the mines since or not?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. My sources are very reliable,” Nissa said coolly, “and every one of them say your doctor is in lock-up.”
“And a name?”
She tilted her chin up, looking defiant. “I told you that would take time. I’m a spy, not a miracle worker.”
“I need a name.”
“And you’ll get it, as soon as I come up with something useful.”
“Good. Because if you try to screw me on this, you won’t like what happens next.”
At that, Nissa chuckled. “Screw you? I was the kept woman of Pahash, Son of Kras, for two years. I don’t think you could handle me, son.”
Rolling his eyes, Kirk leaned away, made motion to stand up from the fire. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Nissa.”
Holding the bottle to herself, the Andorian regarded him coolly. “And you as well, my captain.”
At the entrance of the cave, McCoy waited. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, watching the other prisoners congregating over campfires and their engine grease stew. Kirk approached him with a tip of his head and they started walking in the other direction.
“Anything useful?”
“Suk is being held in the guard barracks,” Kirk said, softly as not to be heard. “For the last twenty-two days.”
“So it’s as bad as we thought.”
“In that he’s probably spent the last month as a Klingon piñata? Yeah, pretty much.”
“And there’s no guarantee he’s even still alive.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that this is our only lead.”
“Yeah, I know.” McCoy sighed. “So what do you want to do now?”
“Go in, find him, and get out on the surface. It’s our only way out of this.”
“Jim, you can’t be serious. Even if you’re picked up, there’s no way to get out and find Suk, let alone rescue him.”
“I have a plan. I’m just waiting for a few things to come together.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that.”
“What, you don’t think I’ve ever gotten out of a pair of handcuffs before?” Kirk chuckled offhandedly. “I’ve been arrested six times since I was fourteen, Bones. And most of those were just because I had nothing better to do over the weekend.”
“Jim, just - stop it.”
They stopped in the corridor, alone save the shuffling of chained feet in the distance. After a moment, McCoy sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.
“Look, there has to be some other way,” he said. “This isn’t a joke, alright?”
Kirk just stood there, giving McCoy the same big sad eyes that got him out of every argument they ever had. “I know that, Bones. And there isn’t any other way, okay? So either I do this, or all of this was for nothing.”
The doctor said nothing and simply shook his head. The captain leaned in, crowded them into the wall, all canine sincerity and stupid, hopeful eyes.
“I have a plan, alright? Just trust me on this.”
“Trust you? You want to turn yourself over to Klingons, Jim. What exactly am I supposed to trust you with?”
“It’ll work, Bones, okay?” Kirk said, all but pleading. “So just trust me.”
After a moment, with a pit in his stomach, McCoy nodded. “Fine.”
He continued walking without Kirk, back to the bunks alone, shaking his head with useless fists made of his hands. To clear his head, get some space. Kirk let him go for the moment and finally, after a sigh, headed back in the other direction.
--
“I do believe they’re coming back,” Pike said.
They were running out of pieces, White and Black, circling one another precariously. Pike made a move. Spock returned it. Back and forth until White sat on the cusp of a solid victory, Black a quiet defeat. Still, they said nothing of the game itself.
“I wouldn’t have sent them if I didn’t truly believe that.”
Spock leaned back in his chair to study the board. “It is curious though, Captain, why you chose to send Doctor McCoy at all.”
“I thought you said it was a sound idea, Spock,” Pike ventured, unsure of the territory his former first officer was treading on.
“I was inclined to agree, as I recall, to sending a member of the medical staff along with the captain. But I said nothing about Doctor McCoy.”
Pike shrugged unaffectedly. “He asked for permission. I gave it to him. Simple as that.”
At that, Spock raised a puzzled brow. “But is it good strategy?”
“Does it always have to be strategy?”
“You said you chose Captain Kirk because he was the best possible candidate for this mission. Surely there are equally qualified candidates for this assignment besides Doctor McCoy.”
“There probably are,” Pike said. “What’s your point?”
“My point, Captain, is that the doctor’s selection seems personal. And you are obviously closer to Jim than you are to Doctor McCoy, so any personal bias on your part would appear -”
“Illogical?”
Pike smiled. Spock straightened in his seat.
“Yes,” he said, “indeed it does.”
Watching Spock study the board, Pike was slow to answer, calculating his response. Eventually he shrugged again.
“Consider it an exercise in human sentimentality, Spock.”
“How so?”
“Jim needs someone to look after him sometimes, beyond what you and I can do. Chasing him around, making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And McCoy.” Sighing, Pike leaned back into his seat to study the board as well. “Well, McCoy volunteered himself for the job. Who am I to say no to that?”
At that, Spock said nothing. Leaning forward he made his move and decided against the topic entirely.
“Your move, Captain.”
--
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
McCoy hadn’t heard the first three hey’s. He hadn’t heard much of anything since coming back from the mines, ears still ringing from the clanging of axes and the throaty rumble of the decaying elevator. If he had, he would have dodged the rock that Nissa threw at his back. Behind him, the Andorian looked put-upon, smoking a cigarette between full blue lips.
“What the fuck is your damage, lady?” he snarled.
He debated whether or not he was truly above throwing a rock back at her. She had started it, after all, and he was still a little irritated to begin with. Kirk eagerly wanting to hand himself over to Klingons and be tortured to death tended to do that to him.
“Where’s your boyfriend at?” Nissa stepped up to him, a head smaller and waif-thin, blowing smoke from her nostrils.
McCoy stewed, but decided against hitting her. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he deadpanned. “And what the hell do you want?”
“Keel.”
“What?”
“The name he wants is Keel,” she said, like he was stupid. “Tell him my sources are one-hundred-percent on this. And I did what he asked, so he can cool his heels with all the posturing. I’ve held up my end of the bargain.”
Still not following, McCoy shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re even talking about, lady.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just let him know for me, alright?” Flicking the butt of her cigarette away, Nissa patted his chest gently. “And if he’s going to threaten me, tell him to bring you along the next time. Because you? You could definitely handle me.”
“And just who are you exactly?”
“Just a friend of a friend.” She winked at him. “Which makes me a friend, too.”
Watching Nissa turn to disappear down the other end of the passageway, McCoy decided he had to find Kirk.
--
Kirk didn’t see McCoy again for the rest of the evening, if there ever was such a thing on Rura Penthe. There was no real sense of time in caves, just the slow crawl of minutes between sleeping and waking, working and sweating and the bitter, endless chill. He didn’t follow after McCoy when they split up. It was just easier that way, the same way he didn’t bother to tell McCoy he wouldn’t have made another move without McCoy’s say so. That only made things more complicated, and left his mouth dry and his hands useless at the thought. Wherever McCoy was, he would come around, because he always did eventually. Kicking and screaming every step of the way, but always yielding, just that tiny little bit that Kirk needed to win out in the end.
Not that this was about winning or losing, but Kirk wasn’t about to say anything about that, either.
The bathing troughs were swarmed by miners at the end of the day, sloshing water and talking amongst themselves in native tongues. Kirk knew well enough that he was exposing himself to risk by going alone, but he knew the rules of engagement, too. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Don’t get too close to anybody. Keep his hands to himself. It had kept him safe enough so far, in the face of things.
Coats set aside and undressed above the waist, he was just washing the dirt and the sweat from his arms when he noticed how quiet it had gotten around him. An awkward silence rolled over the cave, conversations dropped like rags in the troughs as the other men all moved away. It put Kirk on edge, careful in his movements as he reached for the clothes left folded at his feet, prepared to make a quick exit. There was no time for that, as the other men began to disperse and two members of Vral’s gang approached, flanking the wounded Rigelian. The fistful of braids that Kirk had torn out was replaced by a crude bandage, covering the shallow lesions where the flesh had followed.
Ranyx bore his teeth, fists balled at his side. Vral’s men herded the last of the prisoners away, and left Ranyx and Kirk to sort it out for themselves. Ready for the fight, Kirk tilted his chin up, betrayed nothing.
“You cost me a lot, Human,” the Rigelian snarled.
“And you pounded my face in and nearly broke my ribs,” Kirk said, “which I think pretty much makes us even.”
“Even?” Ranyx laughed, a slick, skittish sound. “No, even would be cutting my earnings out of that nice smooth skin of yours. That would make us even.”
“You can try.” Kirk moved to put a safe distance between them, kept his guard up. “I see you still have some hair left.”
“You must think you’re funny, don’t you?”
Kirk shrugged unaffectedly. “I’ve been called worse.”
Out of the sleeves of his pelts Ranyx drew a hidden blade, long and thin. He smirked in a tug of scar tissue, moving in to strike. Kirk dodged the first thrust at his belly and then another, slapping Ranyx’s hand away, trying to keep space between them. He dove for the Rigelian’s arm and forced it aside, their bodies crashing together in a struggle for the blade. Bringing his knee up to Ranyx’s elbow, Kirk slammed it down until the other man screamed, dropping the blade in a sick crack of tendon and bone. With a growl the Rigelian turned to force his elbow into Kirk’s face, knocking him back in a bright flash of ache and the taste of blood in his sinuses.
On the ground, it was easy for Ranyx to get on top of him. Straddling his hips to choke him, even as Kirk struggled and scratched at Ranyx, trying to gain some leverage, peel his fingers back and tear at his skin. Twisting, squeezing, crushing, until Kirk’s vision narrowed into pinholes and everything began to feel loose and fuzzy and -
There was the sudden violent sound of a puncture, like a knife tearing through leather. Above him Ranyx jerked, eyes wide and mouth twisted open. He released his hold on Kirk’s throat before slumping over in a howl of pain, the knife still lodged in his shoulder where McCoy had driven it. Coughing, Kirk fought to breathe, too dazed to register as McCoy grabbed for him, pulled him to his feet and pressed him to the nearest wall.
“Jim,” McCoy sighed out. Panic made his hands unsteady as they moved over Kirk’s throat, down his chest and stomach to check for wounds. Carelessness made them move around the back of Kirk’s neck, thumbing at his jaw and carding into his hair. “Jim, are you alright?”
Still gasping for breath, Kirk wasn’t aware of the way he was gripping McCoy’s wrists, holding on as the pain and the cold caught up with him. He wasn’t aware of anything but the closeness of the doctor’s body, the warmth of him through his clothes. The feverish way McCoy looked at him, slicing through Kirk in muscle memory to the pit of his stomach where the panic and violence were lost in translation. Both panting, skin touching, the rough pad of McCoy’s thumb edging over Kirk’s bottom lip until, sinking his teeth into the flesh, it just felt right.
The first kiss was a hot and zealous thing. It was all wetness and hunger, lips and teeth, hands pulling at hair and fisting in clothing. Pressed back into the wall, Kirk let himself be consumed, kissed into oblivion by McCoy’s impatient mouth and his wandering hands. Whatever it was between them spilled out unfettered, after four years of sidestepping and conversations only half-had, building into a breathing, needing thing. Until McCoy finally pulled away, pet a hand down Kirk’s bruised throat, and looked sick with himself.
“Jim, I,” he breathed out, his lips full from kissing, and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Before Kirk could stop McCoy he had already moved away, out of his reach. Retreating from Kirk, resigned to his escape and to licking wounds Kirk couldn’t see. Left alone, Kirk just felt cold.
Author: eonism
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just here for the lulz.
Characters/Pairings: UST Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
Word Count: 2,903
Summary: James T. Kirk is going to Rura Penthe. Pike is in his corner, Spock has his reservations, and McCoy is coming with no matter what Kirk has to say on the subject.
When Uhura told Sulu to tell Chekov to tell Scotty to get to Observation Lounge 2 before alpha shift, everybody showed up at 0500. Tugging their uniform shirts down, shuffling their feet, ready for whatever she had to tell them. The lounge was long-abandoned by then, between shifts when Sciences rotated their posts for the next scheduled roster. It was the safest place onboard to meet and discuss their plan, whether the news was good or bad.
Uhura came through the doors at 0501, a PADD tucked under her arm. She said nothing as she brought up the audio file she had ported from her station, played it and held it up for the others to hear. Through the static emerged a stable, repeating pattern. Finally she smiled, and one-by-one it spread.
Keep your pants on. We’ll be home soon.
--
The one positive to sitting in a prison on a backwater asteroid was its thriving, bountiful contraband trade.
Terran cigarettes and Klingon moonshine, pornography vids and weaponry, and everything else one would expect to find in a prison. Whatever one needed, it could be found if he knew to look in the right places and ask the right people. Vral and his little horde ran the gambling rings, while the jittery gang of Betelgeusians handled alcohol and narcotics of every stripe and planetary origin. Romulans traded crude weapons in the camps and Andorians were the information couriers, adept to finding out secrets for a reasonable price. Everyone else traded amongst themselves for favors, in the hope of finding oneself in good graces with the outlining packs of profiteers and criminals. As long as the miners worked hard and all dissenters were punished, the Klingons let it pass.
Rumor had it that there were guards who aided in the smuggling trade, securing weapons and drug pipelines in and out of the mines through supply transport ships for a cut of the earnings. These were old men, dull-eyed and soft-toothed. They had let their youths slip past them while they watched prisoners work themselves to death in the mines, denied the opportunity to die honorably while they grew old and fat on Rura Penthe. Some of them wanted revenge; some of them just wanted a little something extra for their trouble. No one, it seemed, had any names to speak of.
Kirk had bartered and persuaded his way into possession of a bottle of Romulan ale and three packs of Terran cigarettes. The slender young Andorian on the other side of the campfire couldn’t help herself.
Nissa was a gaunt young thing. She was made of sharp angles but eye-catching under long silver hair, if only in a somewhat hollow, sunken-in way. At twenty-four she had been thrown into Rura Penthe for seducing a Klingon captain, living as his courtesan in order to sell military secrets, and by twenty-five she had slit seven throats. The scars on her knuckles and wrists told stories of knives and broken bottles, and Kirk had the wits about him to keep a reasonable distance between them, just in case.
“He arrived twenty-two days ago,” she said of Doctor Aatu Suk, looking the bottle over carefully. “He was brought down in chains by seven guards and led to the entrance of the northwest garrison.”
“And has he been out since?”
“Do you have any idea how much I can get for this?” She traced fine fingertips over the edges of the ale bottle and looked a little dreamy. “I might as well be naked and rolling around in credits.”
Kirk leaned forward. “Has he been seen out in the mines since or not?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. My sources are very reliable,” Nissa said coolly, “and every one of them say your doctor is in lock-up.”
“And a name?”
She tilted her chin up, looking defiant. “I told you that would take time. I’m a spy, not a miracle worker.”
“I need a name.”
“And you’ll get it, as soon as I come up with something useful.”
“Good. Because if you try to screw me on this, you won’t like what happens next.”
At that, Nissa chuckled. “Screw you? I was the kept woman of Pahash, Son of Kras, for two years. I don’t think you could handle me, son.”
Rolling his eyes, Kirk leaned away, made motion to stand up from the fire. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Nissa.”
Holding the bottle to herself, the Andorian regarded him coolly. “And you as well, my captain.”
At the entrance of the cave, McCoy waited. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, watching the other prisoners congregating over campfires and their engine grease stew. Kirk approached him with a tip of his head and they started walking in the other direction.
“Anything useful?”
“Suk is being held in the guard barracks,” Kirk said, softly as not to be heard. “For the last twenty-two days.”
“So it’s as bad as we thought.”
“In that he’s probably spent the last month as a Klingon piñata? Yeah, pretty much.”
“And there’s no guarantee he’s even still alive.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that this is our only lead.”
“Yeah, I know.” McCoy sighed. “So what do you want to do now?”
“Go in, find him, and get out on the surface. It’s our only way out of this.”
“Jim, you can’t be serious. Even if you’re picked up, there’s no way to get out and find Suk, let alone rescue him.”
“I have a plan. I’m just waiting for a few things to come together.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that.”
“What, you don’t think I’ve ever gotten out of a pair of handcuffs before?” Kirk chuckled offhandedly. “I’ve been arrested six times since I was fourteen, Bones. And most of those were just because I had nothing better to do over the weekend.”
“Jim, just - stop it.”
They stopped in the corridor, alone save the shuffling of chained feet in the distance. After a moment, McCoy sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.
“Look, there has to be some other way,” he said. “This isn’t a joke, alright?”
Kirk just stood there, giving McCoy the same big sad eyes that got him out of every argument they ever had. “I know that, Bones. And there isn’t any other way, okay? So either I do this, or all of this was for nothing.”
The doctor said nothing and simply shook his head. The captain leaned in, crowded them into the wall, all canine sincerity and stupid, hopeful eyes.
“I have a plan, alright? Just trust me on this.”
“Trust you? You want to turn yourself over to Klingons, Jim. What exactly am I supposed to trust you with?”
“It’ll work, Bones, okay?” Kirk said, all but pleading. “So just trust me.”
After a moment, with a pit in his stomach, McCoy nodded. “Fine.”
He continued walking without Kirk, back to the bunks alone, shaking his head with useless fists made of his hands. To clear his head, get some space. Kirk let him go for the moment and finally, after a sigh, headed back in the other direction.
--
“I do believe they’re coming back,” Pike said.
They were running out of pieces, White and Black, circling one another precariously. Pike made a move. Spock returned it. Back and forth until White sat on the cusp of a solid victory, Black a quiet defeat. Still, they said nothing of the game itself.
“I wouldn’t have sent them if I didn’t truly believe that.”
Spock leaned back in his chair to study the board. “It is curious though, Captain, why you chose to send Doctor McCoy at all.”
“I thought you said it was a sound idea, Spock,” Pike ventured, unsure of the territory his former first officer was treading on.
“I was inclined to agree, as I recall, to sending a member of the medical staff along with the captain. But I said nothing about Doctor McCoy.”
Pike shrugged unaffectedly. “He asked for permission. I gave it to him. Simple as that.”
At that, Spock raised a puzzled brow. “But is it good strategy?”
“Does it always have to be strategy?”
“You said you chose Captain Kirk because he was the best possible candidate for this mission. Surely there are equally qualified candidates for this assignment besides Doctor McCoy.”
“There probably are,” Pike said. “What’s your point?”
“My point, Captain, is that the doctor’s selection seems personal. And you are obviously closer to Jim than you are to Doctor McCoy, so any personal bias on your part would appear -”
“Illogical?”
Pike smiled. Spock straightened in his seat.
“Yes,” he said, “indeed it does.”
Watching Spock study the board, Pike was slow to answer, calculating his response. Eventually he shrugged again.
“Consider it an exercise in human sentimentality, Spock.”
“How so?”
“Jim needs someone to look after him sometimes, beyond what you and I can do. Chasing him around, making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And McCoy.” Sighing, Pike leaned back into his seat to study the board as well. “Well, McCoy volunteered himself for the job. Who am I to say no to that?”
At that, Spock said nothing. Leaning forward he made his move and decided against the topic entirely.
“Your move, Captain.”
--
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
McCoy hadn’t heard the first three hey’s. He hadn’t heard much of anything since coming back from the mines, ears still ringing from the clanging of axes and the throaty rumble of the decaying elevator. If he had, he would have dodged the rock that Nissa threw at his back. Behind him, the Andorian looked put-upon, smoking a cigarette between full blue lips.
“What the fuck is your damage, lady?” he snarled.
He debated whether or not he was truly above throwing a rock back at her. She had started it, after all, and he was still a little irritated to begin with. Kirk eagerly wanting to hand himself over to Klingons and be tortured to death tended to do that to him.
“Where’s your boyfriend at?” Nissa stepped up to him, a head smaller and waif-thin, blowing smoke from her nostrils.
McCoy stewed, but decided against hitting her. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he deadpanned. “And what the hell do you want?”
“Keel.”
“What?”
“The name he wants is Keel,” she said, like he was stupid. “Tell him my sources are one-hundred-percent on this. And I did what he asked, so he can cool his heels with all the posturing. I’ve held up my end of the bargain.”
Still not following, McCoy shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re even talking about, lady.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just let him know for me, alright?” Flicking the butt of her cigarette away, Nissa patted his chest gently. “And if he’s going to threaten me, tell him to bring you along the next time. Because you? You could definitely handle me.”
“And just who are you exactly?”
“Just a friend of a friend.” She winked at him. “Which makes me a friend, too.”
Watching Nissa turn to disappear down the other end of the passageway, McCoy decided he had to find Kirk.
--
Kirk didn’t see McCoy again for the rest of the evening, if there ever was such a thing on Rura Penthe. There was no real sense of time in caves, just the slow crawl of minutes between sleeping and waking, working and sweating and the bitter, endless chill. He didn’t follow after McCoy when they split up. It was just easier that way, the same way he didn’t bother to tell McCoy he wouldn’t have made another move without McCoy’s say so. That only made things more complicated, and left his mouth dry and his hands useless at the thought. Wherever McCoy was, he would come around, because he always did eventually. Kicking and screaming every step of the way, but always yielding, just that tiny little bit that Kirk needed to win out in the end.
Not that this was about winning or losing, but Kirk wasn’t about to say anything about that, either.
The bathing troughs were swarmed by miners at the end of the day, sloshing water and talking amongst themselves in native tongues. Kirk knew well enough that he was exposing himself to risk by going alone, but he knew the rules of engagement, too. Don’t look anyone in the eye. Don’t get too close to anybody. Keep his hands to himself. It had kept him safe enough so far, in the face of things.
Coats set aside and undressed above the waist, he was just washing the dirt and the sweat from his arms when he noticed how quiet it had gotten around him. An awkward silence rolled over the cave, conversations dropped like rags in the troughs as the other men all moved away. It put Kirk on edge, careful in his movements as he reached for the clothes left folded at his feet, prepared to make a quick exit. There was no time for that, as the other men began to disperse and two members of Vral’s gang approached, flanking the wounded Rigelian. The fistful of braids that Kirk had torn out was replaced by a crude bandage, covering the shallow lesions where the flesh had followed.
Ranyx bore his teeth, fists balled at his side. Vral’s men herded the last of the prisoners away, and left Ranyx and Kirk to sort it out for themselves. Ready for the fight, Kirk tilted his chin up, betrayed nothing.
“You cost me a lot, Human,” the Rigelian snarled.
“And you pounded my face in and nearly broke my ribs,” Kirk said, “which I think pretty much makes us even.”
“Even?” Ranyx laughed, a slick, skittish sound. “No, even would be cutting my earnings out of that nice smooth skin of yours. That would make us even.”
“You can try.” Kirk moved to put a safe distance between them, kept his guard up. “I see you still have some hair left.”
“You must think you’re funny, don’t you?”
Kirk shrugged unaffectedly. “I’ve been called worse.”
Out of the sleeves of his pelts Ranyx drew a hidden blade, long and thin. He smirked in a tug of scar tissue, moving in to strike. Kirk dodged the first thrust at his belly and then another, slapping Ranyx’s hand away, trying to keep space between them. He dove for the Rigelian’s arm and forced it aside, their bodies crashing together in a struggle for the blade. Bringing his knee up to Ranyx’s elbow, Kirk slammed it down until the other man screamed, dropping the blade in a sick crack of tendon and bone. With a growl the Rigelian turned to force his elbow into Kirk’s face, knocking him back in a bright flash of ache and the taste of blood in his sinuses.
On the ground, it was easy for Ranyx to get on top of him. Straddling his hips to choke him, even as Kirk struggled and scratched at Ranyx, trying to gain some leverage, peel his fingers back and tear at his skin. Twisting, squeezing, crushing, until Kirk’s vision narrowed into pinholes and everything began to feel loose and fuzzy and -
There was the sudden violent sound of a puncture, like a knife tearing through leather. Above him Ranyx jerked, eyes wide and mouth twisted open. He released his hold on Kirk’s throat before slumping over in a howl of pain, the knife still lodged in his shoulder where McCoy had driven it. Coughing, Kirk fought to breathe, too dazed to register as McCoy grabbed for him, pulled him to his feet and pressed him to the nearest wall.
“Jim,” McCoy sighed out. Panic made his hands unsteady as they moved over Kirk’s throat, down his chest and stomach to check for wounds. Carelessness made them move around the back of Kirk’s neck, thumbing at his jaw and carding into his hair. “Jim, are you alright?”
Still gasping for breath, Kirk wasn’t aware of the way he was gripping McCoy’s wrists, holding on as the pain and the cold caught up with him. He wasn’t aware of anything but the closeness of the doctor’s body, the warmth of him through his clothes. The feverish way McCoy looked at him, slicing through Kirk in muscle memory to the pit of his stomach where the panic and violence were lost in translation. Both panting, skin touching, the rough pad of McCoy’s thumb edging over Kirk’s bottom lip until, sinking his teeth into the flesh, it just felt right.
The first kiss was a hot and zealous thing. It was all wetness and hunger, lips and teeth, hands pulling at hair and fisting in clothing. Pressed back into the wall, Kirk let himself be consumed, kissed into oblivion by McCoy’s impatient mouth and his wandering hands. Whatever it was between them spilled out unfettered, after four years of sidestepping and conversations only half-had, building into a breathing, needing thing. Until McCoy finally pulled away, pet a hand down Kirk’s bruised throat, and looked sick with himself.
“Jim, I,” he breathed out, his lips full from kissing, and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Before Kirk could stop McCoy he had already moved away, out of his reach. Retreating from Kirk, resigned to his escape and to licking wounds Kirk couldn’t see. Left alone, Kirk just felt cold.