sequel: ny
title: NY (2)
fandom: star trek 09
pairing: none .. at least here.
rating: R for language.
word count: 989
notes: a continuation of ny. mobster!au. entirely callieach's fault.
Despite how much he likes looking like a seventeen-year-old punk rock rebel, he changes out of the clothes and puts on some jeans and a black t-shirt. He wipes the makeup off and washes the hair-dye out and decides that, why not, he’ll keep the cigarette and the boots. The boots definitely give him a good look.
He lights another and presses his ear to the door to Pike’s office, pulling in a carcinogenic lungful.
”I’m not gonna have anything to do with your god-damn operation, ya hear? You’re gonna fuckkin’ let me go or god-damn, I’m callin’ my lawyer and he deals with malpractice.. He’s not gonna be afraid of your mobster connection.”
“Oh, it’s not that simple, Dr. McCoy. I’m afraid that ‘mobster connection’ means a lot more than you think. I could probably stop every malpractice suit against you for the next twenty years, if I wanted. Hell, you could turn into Dr. Kevorkian tomorrow and no one would ever sue you, ever. In fact, people would flock to you, if I wanted. And though I think it speaks highly of you to go on a torrent in my office surrounded by my guards, I need your help, and I need it sooner rather than la---Jim, stop listening at the door."
“How do you do that?” Jim asks, as he pushes the door open, saunters past McCoy, sits on Pike’s desk.
Pike is leaning back in his chair, fingers intertwined as he leans to his left, elbow resting on the armrest of the high-backed leather chair he works from. The desk in front of him is set with a number of knick-knacks and quite a few stacks of papers, a desk lamp - a classic business scenario. The man himself bears a certain nobility to him, hair more grey with a few streaks of brown, face worn with age and responsibility and risk. His blue eyes are still bright, though, gleaming with intelligence and just icy enough to suggest that he’ll do what it takes to get what he wants. Even with that cruel streak, there’s no denying the charisma in his broad shoulders and lean chest, his casual posture, his unmistakable confidence. He’s dressed in a dark blue button-up, the first button undone, with the matching blazer is tossed over the back of his chair. A small stylized design - a sharp, silver arch - adorns the shirt over his right breast.
“Excuse me, Dr. McCoy,” he says, a small smile, and then turns to the new fixture on his desk, the smile entirely replaced with a stern face, the kind a father gives his child. “Jim, you’re about as subtle as an angry black man in the middle of Manhattan, plus, you’re wearing those -” He gestures to the boots - “and I could hear them from across the house. Get off my desk; I’m trying to have a conversation here, and all I need is you being generally disruptive. I’ll spend some time with you later.” Pike stares at him, all ice and fury and anger.
“All right. But just this time. Next time, I won’t give up so easily.” He leaps off the desk again, grinning at the doctor. “You better not take up too much of my time. I warn you, I’m possessive. And vicious. And, as this guy here can attest, I bite. But I am always up for a little three-way, especially with you, eh? You look good in the suit, but I bet you look better in another.” He shoots the doctor a lewd look.
“Jim.” Sharp.
Jim laughs, holds his hands up hopelessly, and struts out.
“For a mobster, you sure keep some odd company,” McCoy mutters.
“Jim is good at what he does, when he wants to be,” Pike replies, and a fondness sneaks into his smile, then is wiped and replaced with his business face. “Anyway, you can join my team, or I can take you out back and shoot you. Workaholic doctor, bitter divorcee? Why, rumor has it he simply lost himself to his grief and ended it all.” The corners of his lips twist upwards, but it’s too cruel and thin to be a reappearance of that smile from before.
Leonard looks at Pike, and his face twists with hatred.
Pike nods, and his gaze moves into the hall, “Jim,” he says angrily, glaring, “Will show you where you’ll be living from now on. And then, he will be in trouble for not figuring out how to follow orders yet. Maybe I’ll take him out in the back and shoot him, instead.”
“Would be an improvement,” the doctor grumbles. Pike laughs.
From the hallway drifts Jim’s voice, suggestive, “That sounds pretty hot. I’m down for it.”
“And then I will hang him by his feet for a few hours, so when I finally let him go, he’ll have such a bad migraine he won’t be able to count to ten.”
“That doesn’t sound hot at all.” Jim comes back into view, shoving his hands in his pockets in the doorway. “How about just shooting me in the face?”
With a half-amused, half-disgusted snort, Pike opens a drawer, pulling out a small journal. “Take Leonard to his room,” He leans forward and locks eyes with Jim, blue eyes freezing, ”and do not be too forward. Do I make myself perfectly clear, James Kirk?” There’s a snarl under his words, even if it can’t be heard, like an undercurrent of razor blades. Jim’s smile disappears.
“All right, all right.” Jim looks at the doctor, looks him up and down just once before cocking his head and heading out. “This way, Dr. McCoy.”
fandom: star trek 09
pairing: none .. at least here.
rating: R for language.
word count: 989
notes: a continuation of ny. mobster!au. entirely callieach's fault.
Despite how much he likes looking like a seventeen-year-old punk rock rebel, he changes out of the clothes and puts on some jeans and a black t-shirt. He wipes the makeup off and washes the hair-dye out and decides that, why not, he’ll keep the cigarette and the boots. The boots definitely give him a good look.
He lights another and presses his ear to the door to Pike’s office, pulling in a carcinogenic lungful.
”I’m not gonna have anything to do with your god-damn operation, ya hear? You’re gonna fuckkin’ let me go or god-damn, I’m callin’ my lawyer and he deals with malpractice.. He’s not gonna be afraid of your mobster connection.”
“Oh, it’s not that simple, Dr. McCoy. I’m afraid that ‘mobster connection’ means a lot more than you think. I could probably stop every malpractice suit against you for the next twenty years, if I wanted. Hell, you could turn into Dr. Kevorkian tomorrow and no one would ever sue you, ever. In fact, people would flock to you, if I wanted. And though I think it speaks highly of you to go on a torrent in my office surrounded by my guards, I need your help, and I need it sooner rather than la---Jim, stop listening at the door."
“How do you do that?” Jim asks, as he pushes the door open, saunters past McCoy, sits on Pike’s desk.
Pike is leaning back in his chair, fingers intertwined as he leans to his left, elbow resting on the armrest of the high-backed leather chair he works from. The desk in front of him is set with a number of knick-knacks and quite a few stacks of papers, a desk lamp - a classic business scenario. The man himself bears a certain nobility to him, hair more grey with a few streaks of brown, face worn with age and responsibility and risk. His blue eyes are still bright, though, gleaming with intelligence and just icy enough to suggest that he’ll do what it takes to get what he wants. Even with that cruel streak, there’s no denying the charisma in his broad shoulders and lean chest, his casual posture, his unmistakable confidence. He’s dressed in a dark blue button-up, the first button undone, with the matching blazer is tossed over the back of his chair. A small stylized design - a sharp, silver arch - adorns the shirt over his right breast.
“Excuse me, Dr. McCoy,” he says, a small smile, and then turns to the new fixture on his desk, the smile entirely replaced with a stern face, the kind a father gives his child. “Jim, you’re about as subtle as an angry black man in the middle of Manhattan, plus, you’re wearing those -” He gestures to the boots - “and I could hear them from across the house. Get off my desk; I’m trying to have a conversation here, and all I need is you being generally disruptive. I’ll spend some time with you later.” Pike stares at him, all ice and fury and anger.
“All right. But just this time. Next time, I won’t give up so easily.” He leaps off the desk again, grinning at the doctor. “You better not take up too much of my time. I warn you, I’m possessive. And vicious. And, as this guy here can attest, I bite. But I am always up for a little three-way, especially with you, eh? You look good in the suit, but I bet you look better in another.” He shoots the doctor a lewd look.
“Jim.” Sharp.
Jim laughs, holds his hands up hopelessly, and struts out.
“For a mobster, you sure keep some odd company,” McCoy mutters.
“Jim is good at what he does, when he wants to be,” Pike replies, and a fondness sneaks into his smile, then is wiped and replaced with his business face. “Anyway, you can join my team, or I can take you out back and shoot you. Workaholic doctor, bitter divorcee? Why, rumor has it he simply lost himself to his grief and ended it all.” The corners of his lips twist upwards, but it’s too cruel and thin to be a reappearance of that smile from before.
Leonard looks at Pike, and his face twists with hatred.
Pike nods, and his gaze moves into the hall, “Jim,” he says angrily, glaring, “Will show you where you’ll be living from now on. And then, he will be in trouble for not figuring out how to follow orders yet. Maybe I’ll take him out in the back and shoot him, instead.”
“Would be an improvement,” the doctor grumbles. Pike laughs.
From the hallway drifts Jim’s voice, suggestive, “That sounds pretty hot. I’m down for it.”
“And then I will hang him by his feet for a few hours, so when I finally let him go, he’ll have such a bad migraine he won’t be able to count to ten.”
“That doesn’t sound hot at all.” Jim comes back into view, shoving his hands in his pockets in the doorway. “How about just shooting me in the face?”
With a half-amused, half-disgusted snort, Pike opens a drawer, pulling out a small journal. “Take Leonard to his room,” He leans forward and locks eyes with Jim, blue eyes freezing, ”and do not be too forward. Do I make myself perfectly clear, James Kirk?” There’s a snarl under his words, even if it can’t be heard, like an undercurrent of razor blades. Jim’s smile disappears.
“All right, all right.” Jim looks at the doctor, looks him up and down just once before cocking his head and heading out. “This way, Dr. McCoy.”