Blood Ties - part 3a/6
Title: Blood Ties
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: ~19,200 words (this part)
A/N for this part: Not a crossover, as such, but set in the universe of ‘Angel’.
Characters: Nyota Uhura, with a fleeting appearance by Angel himself - blink and you’ll miss it!
Previous parts, warnings, thanks, disclaimer and additional notes are to be found in the masterpost .
A/N: This part set in the universe of ‘Angel’ the TV series, by Joss Whedon, but is not strictly a crossover, I am merely borrowing the setting.
Intriguing snippet: The kid’s openly staring at him, blue eyes wide, framed by dark, thick eyebrows and their eyes lock for a beat. Len feels a little twist in his throat, a sense of déjà vu, sure he’s seen this guy someplace before. In the hospital could be...he shrugs it off and waits for the kid to blink, to speak even.
Blood Ties: Chapter 3
~
I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born. ~Jack London
~
Los Angeles. 1999
Len runs his hands back and forth in semi-circles across the steering wheel. He stares at the broad, stone steps leading up to the building and watches in his rear-view mirror in case the doors open. He’s been sitting here ten minutes now and no one’s come in or out in that time. But then it’s late, why would they? What the hell kind of detective agency stays open at this hour?
When he looked through the ads, the late opening was the main reason he picked Angel Investigations; it meant he could swing by on his way home. It did cross his mind to phone past clients out of the blue, except he’s not sure you can do that. Plus, there’s the small matter of his phone manner which, as Joss never fails to remind him, sucks. He kind of liked the slogan too: We help the helpless; after all, what is he, if not helpless?
It’s not a scientific way to make a decision, but it’s all he’s got.
Never having met one, Len has no idea what in blazes makes a competent detective; he’s a doctor, dammit. It’s ironic the one person he could have asked would be Jocelyn, but since she’s to be the subject… He rubs an eye and just manages to stop himself thumping his head on the steering wheel. Dammit all - he can’t fucking believe he’s stooping this low.
Another five minutes grind by and Len glowers at any homeless people who look like they might shuffle towards his open window. None make it within five feet of the car.
So here he is, left to his own devices, the only ‘help’ in his half-assed decision-making being the P.I.s on TV when, ordinarily, he’d sooner have his eyes gouged out with hot spoons than watch that shit. And what’s he learned? That they’ve all got froofy hair and look great in the compulsory shirtless scenes. And don’t get him started on the UST. He rolls his eyes and takes off his sunglasses realizing they probably make him look like a hit man sitting in the dark, with his stubble and tan skin. He hooks them in the top pocket of his shirt, eases off the seat, sweat making his shirt stick to his back.
He worries a nail with his teeth, wishing he’d never ditched smoking. At least it would give him something to do with his hands, a way of marking out the passing of time, and maybe something to distract him from the knots permanently formed in his stomach of late.
Damn, he should have called; but then, he would have felt committed when, the way it is now, he can still bail.
The endless hum of traffic soothes him a little and he leans back in his seat, searching for the half moon struggling to be seen through the haze and neon, and masked by downtown skyscrapers. Of course he can’t, and though it’s a clear night, not one single star can be seen through the light pollution - fuck, he misses sitting on a porch just staring at the night sky, everything he loves traded in for tail-lights and crazies, palm trees and have-a-nice-fucking-day.
Okay, maybe he’s warming to the place - not that he’d admit that to anyone, but in a perverse kind of way the Los Angelinos being so upbeat, rather than cheer him (God forbid) help keep him cynical as hell, grounded in a way now he’s so far from home. So here he is dressed like a hit man, hiding out with his family in the city of dreams, trying to forget the shit-storm since daddy died and he’s been pretty much disowned.
He clears his throat (goddamn shit air quality) and watches a girl on roller-blades zip past the car, her breasts motionless as she arcs side to side as if the sidewalk were snow and she was in Aspen. Not for the first time he wonders whether he should have gone into plastic surgery - god knows he needs the money what with Jocelyn’s law school debts and the fucking extortionate day care center she insists is the only one to send their baby girl to.
Len reaches for his keys, pulls them out of the ignition and scoops up his jacket from the passenger seat. The agency’s card falls out and he angles it towards the street light, examining the logo again to try and figure out what it might represent - a white squiggle on black - and shakes his head. “What the fuck is that?” he mutters and leans into the door and shoves it open just as a movement catches his eye and the doors to the building swing, polished mahogany and glass glinting in the streetlights.
A tall, dark haired man with a Cro-Magnon brow and a kicked puppy look lopes out and bounces down the steps, slipping something into his back pocket. That’s a lot of hair product, Len thinks as he slams the door to his car and locks it. The guy’s wearing a too-big black leather jacket over a black shirt, black pants - and that’s a lot of black on black. Seriously, he needs to stop watching ‘Queer Eye’ over Joss’ shoulder; he’s beginning to sound very West Hollywood.
Hair Gel Guy makes for a Plymouth convertible with its roof off that’s parked in front of Len’s, and nods. “Hey,” he says.
Len nods back, making the corner of his mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.
“It’s an angel,” Hair Gel Guy says, surprising Len because how did the guy know what he was thinking? Even if he’d said it out loud, he was way too far away to have heard him, that’s for sure.
Len examines the card again. “It is?” he looks into brown eyes. “I’m not seeing it…”
Hair Gel Guy looks unaccountably pissed by this. “You waiting for someone?”
“I…no,” Len mumbles and slips his keys into his sports jacket, then shoves his shades back on defensively. He waves vaguely towards the building. “I was just…”
“You in trouble?” Hair Gel Guy frowns, folding his arms. “Because if you’re in trouble I can…”
“No, do I look like I am?” Dammit, he knew the shades were a mistake. Len doesn’t like the guy’s assessing gaze, and wonders why he looks so pissed. He shrugs and rests his hand on the door, glancing up and down the street through the remnants of holiday shoppers. And tourists - always goddamn tourists in L.A.
“Busy time of year,” Hair Gel Guy says, turning away, and with that, without bothering to open the door on his convertible, he swings his legs over the door and slides elegantly into the driver seat.
“Great car,” Len remarks taking a step forward to run a hand along the body work until he’s stayed by a warning look.
“Yeah,” Hair Gel Guy says. He turns the key and the vintage Plymouth pulls away, wallowing into traffic.
Well, Len thinks, he was sure good looking enough to be a TV detective. “Y’all have a nice day,” he growls under his breath then frowns when Hair Gel Guy raises a hand like he’s heard. Weird.
Len looks at the card again: Angel Investigations, he reads. Ask for Angel. Fucking porn star name; he can’t wait to set eyes on this guy.
He takes the steps two at a time and pushes through the doors of a deserted lobby. There’s a side light on, but other than that it’s dark, decorated in somber colors, with an old-style phone on a desk. He can see a light glowing through a glass door and takes more steps down, past lamps balanced on banisters that would look more at home in a Victorian street scene than an office. He hovers outside the door a moment, takes a breath, ducks his head and peers through the glass.
He can just make out a kid sitting in darkness, feet up on the desk, in jeans and a white t, blond head bowed, and a notebook or sketch book resting on long thighs, a pencil between his lips.
Len deliberates whether to knock or to just walk in but the kid seems to sense he’s there, sniffs like a dog and looks up. He frowns, squints, then gapes at Len like he’s seen a ghost or something.
Len opens the door and steps in. The kid’s still gawping and as Len gets close, his feet hit the floor with a thud, the pad falling to the black and white tile. Without taking his eyes off Len, the kid leans, picks it up, rests the pad on the desk which is cluttered with old books and various office bits and pieces, none of which look like they were made more recently than fifty years ago.
Len forces himself to smile as disarmingly as his nature allows.
“Hi, pardon me…I startled you.”
The kid’s openly staring at him, blue eyes wide, framed by dark, thick eyebrows and their eyes lock for a beat. Len feels a little twist in his throat, a sense of déjà vu, sure he’s seen this guy someplace before. In the hospital could be...he shrugs it off and waits for the kid to blink, to speak even. When he does neither, Len tries again to break the awkward silence.
“You Angel?” Len says, trying not to smirk; because yeah, the kid’s kind of pretty, in a generic, all-American way and would probably make a fine living in college-boy porn. Not that he has any idea what that might be like…
The kid stands. He continues to have trouble talking and Len considers stretching his hand out and pushing his jaw up for him. “You’re gonna catch flies, kid,” he drawls.
“No, no - my name’s Jim, Jim Kirk,” the kid says, staring up at him. “You’re so… tall,” he adds stupidly, blinking, the poor light casting strange shadows on his cheeks. His voice is deeper than Len expected, soft and somehow familiar. He’s likely an actor, or done voice-over - yeah, that’ll be it, but it doesn’t explain why he suddenly feels like there’s an itch under his skin.
“McCoy,” he says extending a hand. “Len.” Something passes over the kid’s face and Len can see he’s making a concerted effort to compose himself. Damn, it’s too late to make like he wandered in off the street by mistake. Kirk grips his hand with cool, soft fingers and seems reluctant to release it till Len glances down and raises an eyebrow. When he lets go, Len feels his heart rate accelerating - must be his instincts kicking in - this town’s full of crazies after all. “And yeah, so they tell me.” He taps a finger in the kid’s direction. “And you’re of average height.”
The kid’s face breaks into a brilliant smile, like he approves of Len’s sarcastic tone. Well, isn’t that a nice change?
“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me how I can help?” Kirk switches on a table lamp and his face comes into sharp focus, his skin glows ethereal white, eyes sparkling bluer than the swimming pool tiles at Len’s apartment building.
Len tries real hard to keep the irritation out of his voice; if he’s going to make the leap, do the P.I. thing, he needs someone who knows what he’s doing, and Kirk barely looks old enough to drink. But he’s here now and Len doesn’t want to lose Joss or, more to the point, Joanna. His stomach flutters as the fear resurfaces, that everything in his marriage might be going to shit.
“I dunno, kid,” he says, clearing his throat, “I was expecting to speak with Angel?” He glances into the dark corners of the room, like Kirk might be hiding him there. “He your daddy?”
“My daddy?” Jim ducks his chin, looks kind of embarrassed. “No, me and Angel, we’ve only met a couple of times, not even friends, truth be told - he’s kind of a…oh! I see…”
“You thought I meant…” Len gives the kid the eyebrow.
“Yeah. Sorry.” He’s gifted a lopsided grin that makes his mouth go a little dry. “The whole southern thing… ‘daddy’, ‘ma’am’. It’s kind of cool.” Kirk clears his throat and looks down. “Matter of fact - he was just here.”
“Tall guy, hair mousse,” Len makes the universal gesture of ‘tall’, raises his hand above his head. Kirk follows the movement like a cat tracking a bird, then his eyes flicker back to Len’s face. “Looks like he-”
“- found out his cat died?” Kirk offers. They both laugh and Len looks away when he sees how Kirk’s eyes crinkle, maybe glow a little. Maybe the kid is old enough to drink - now he’s got a better look at him. “Yeah, I said I’d babysit the business while he’s in New York,” Kirk explains. “For the next month this place,” and he waves a broad, pale hand, “is pretty much mine!”
“Hell, I thought you were the security.”
“Nah, security’s not my thing - I’m more of a…well, I like being in charge,” he raises his eyebrows and Len feels a flush on his neck at the innuendo which sure, he could have imagined. Kirk’s voice drops, soothing, compelling, “Tell me what I can do for you.”
Len lets the words tumble out before he can change his mind. “I need a private investigator.”
“Then I’m your man.”
There’s a beat as Jim holds his gaze, his eyes fierce blue, hypnotic. Len feels mildly dizzy for a moment and thinks he can smell the scent of cut flowers, like last time he hit the florists on the way home from work when he and Joss were still talking. He unsticks his lips. It’s weird, but he feels like he’s leaning a little towards Kirk, so he shifts his weight to prove to himself that he isn’t, then manages to say, “Is your climate-control out, kid? It’s kinda warm in here.”
“Yeah, sorry, I haven’t…I don’t really suffer in the heat, or the cold...neither does Angel. Hey, let me see if there’s anything to drink. Hold on… take a seat.” He walks round the desk, stops, looks at Len over his shoulder, “Don’t go anywhere, k?”
The moment Kirk strides out of the office and bounces down some steps to what must be a basement room, Len’s lungs fill with air. It’s an odd reaction, but then he is stressed - he’s left this too long.
While he waits, Len examines his surroundings, leans over to the desk and pushes the stapler so it’s in line with the old books heaped high. He turns when he hears Kirk.
“This is all we’ve got, sorry, I haven’t had a chance to buy…” their fingers brush when he hands over a glass of tap water, and the kid looks kind of embarrassed, lowering his eyes.
“You not having anything?” Len says, taking a sip, rolling the glass across his cheek then stretching his legs out.
The kid looks at Len’s hands and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says, “I drank…earlier.” He settles behind the desk. “So, how can I help?”
“How long you been a private investigator, kid?”
Kirk sticks his tongue into his cheek then smiles, revealing gleaming, perfect teeth. He leans across the desk and winks at Len. “I’ll let you into a secret - not very long.” He slumps back, cocks his head at Len which really irritates the fuck out of him. “That a problem?”
“’Course it’s a problem.”
Kirk blinks. “Listen, tell me what your situation is and I’ll put your mind at rest. I’m good at this stuff. I have a way of finding things out; I’m very stealthy, cat-like even.”
“I’m not feelin’ reassured, Kirk.”
“Please - call me Jim,”
Len nods. “Okay. You look kinda young - Jim.”
Jim opens his mouth, seems to think better of whatever he was about to say. He absently presses the tip of his tongue to one of his canines and says a little defensively, “I get that a lot. I’m older than I look.”
“In this town, sure you are.” They both laugh again and their eyes catch for a moment and it’s Len who has to look away, feeling his neck heat up a little. He glances at Jim’s mouth, rests his half-empty glass on the desk, and reaches for a piece of folded paper in his jeans pocket; it contains all the details he’s anticipated he’ll need; he keeps it in his palm for now.
“Okay, look, it’s none of my business.” He sighs, deciding to give the kid a break. “If Angel’s left you in charge…hey, what hell kind of name is that? He Mexican?”
“No - Irish, way back…” Jim thumbs over his shoulder.
“Anyway…it’s my wife,” he says eventually. “Guess there’s no other way to say it than come out with it - I think she’s having an affair.”
“You’re married?”
Len thinks Jim’s latched onto the wrong part of this. “Well don’t sound so damned surprised!”
Jim makes a dismissive gesture, and licks his lips again. He really should get some chap stick - that pink tongue’s kinda distracting. “No, I…you look young to be married these days. I guess.”
These days? And if he thinks that disarming smile’s going to work on him…Len huffs, “I’m not.”
Jim makes a placating gesture with his hands and rests them on his thighs. “So, you think your wife’s having an affair, okay…that’s easy. You want me to get pictures, do some surveillance? I can do that.” He’s calm, composed, like Len’s being fitted for a suit, not having his personal life laid bare in this museum set of an office.
Len looks at his watch. “I don’t know. I just want to be sure is all…” Surveillance? Shit. Looks like he hasn’t really thought this through.
Jim stands, rounds the desk, sits on its edge and crosses his feet at the ankles. He has big feet, skinny calves and... Len stops himself trailing his eyes up towards denim clad thighs, snapping to Jim’s face and then looking away. Damn the kid doesn’t seem to blink like normal folk. It’s unsettling and Len’s not used to being unsettled by anyone. Ever.
Jim leans towards him. “You ever thought about just asking her?” Len swallows. The kid’s groin’s at eye level, and Len leans back in his chair, feeling intimidated as hell by the temporary difference in their heights - and he just knows this is intentional on Jim’s part.
“I can’t do that,” Len snaps. “I might be wrong.”
“Okay, that’s cool. So what makes you think she is?” Jim folds his arms and Len takes in the way the muscles flex, the creamy skin, and feels his neck color. Maybe he picked up a cold or something - he really doesn’t feel quite right.
“Shouldn’t you be making notes?” he grumbles.
“No, I’m good, I have like a really awesome memory.” Jim watches him reach for the glass of water, his eyes fixed on Len’s throat as he swallows, watches Len run his hand across his mouth. Len feels a twitch in his cock and shifts in his chair. There’s something about that unwavering stare, the cool composure of this kid he finds disconcerting... and his voice, yeah that’s it - his voice. Where the hell’s he heard it before?
“Joss - Jocelyn - my wife, she’s been acting strange; she’s been working late, more so than usual, and she’s been cool with me; off…you know?” Which is quite an achievement considering they’re still only together because of Jo-Jo, but Jim doesn’t need to know that.
“Well, I’ve never been married, but yeah…” Jim slaps his thigh to fill the sudden awkward silence. “I can do a surveillance package, you’ll have to give me her place of work, route, that kind of thing. Times. Hey,” Jim twists, leans back across the desk, raising a foot off the floor to keep his balance, exposing pale abs momentarily, a line of fine hairs. He opens a drawer and rummages and Len’s startled by a sudden image of what Jim would look like spread out over the desk. He shakes his head irritably. This is what happens when you don’t have sex in a while - makes you hyper-sensitive and, he’s kind of forgotten how much he likes guys.
Jim’s voice brings him back to reality. “Maybe I oughta write some stuff down - show Angel I haven’t just been sitting round the place. It’s kinda cool I’ve got a job my first night. Day, I mean.” He looks across the pile of books, glancing into the drawer. “Maybe there’s a form or something.”
“A form?” Len snorts. “Why don’t you use that pad?” He points to the notebook and reaches round Jim, inhaling his scent which oddly, is floral, reminding him of jasmine from home and adding to the disturbing sensation of familiarity. To his surprise, Jim snatches it from him, his hands moving way too fast, actually a blur when he takes it which gives Len pause. Jim frowns, holding the pad to his chest, then places it on the desk behind him.
“That’s not for…it’s for something else…” It’s the first time Jim’s lost his composure since he regained the power of speech when Len first walked into the office. One thing Len knows, he needs to see what’s in that pad now.
“Hey, sorry,” Len raises his hands. “I can come back in the mornin’; this is obviously a bad time - maybe we can grab breakfast - looks like you’ve not had to time to settle in. I don’t need to be at…anywhere… till the afternoon.” He looks around the dark office, eyes settling on another pile of books in a recess behind the desk. “Truth is, I feel kind of dumb, maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am.” Joss and he may not be sleeping together anymore, but he’s damned if someone else is going to take over his parental role, some goddamn sleaze in a suit, driving a phallic car and flashing his expense account.
“Maybe…if you are wrong, well - I can at least put your mind at rest, or give you some ammunition, a way of knowing for sure. I’m pretty good at reading people too. Thing is…job like yours can put a strain on a marriage...”
What the fuck does a kid this age know about marriage, or anything and Len glowers at him. “I haven’t told you what I do; how the hell do you know what kind of job I got?” How the hell do you know anything?
If Len was a betting man, he’d say Jim looks like he’s just been busted. Thankfully, he moves back to the other side of the desk and sits down, sprawling in his chair, his eyes dark, lazily sweeping Len from top to toe. Yep, Len may be out of practice but he can tell when he’s being flirted with. It irritates and thrills him all at once and he chews his bottom lip and crosses his legs to hide what feels like a bulge threatening to embarrass him. Not that the kid would notice.
“Call it a hunch,” Jim says vaguely. “You look like a doctor; you’ve got nice hands…”
“Well, my career as a hand model went all to shit, so I decided to take up medicine as somethin’ to fall back on.” Len’s enjoying this - yeah, he’s not lost his touch.
Jim’s lips purse in something between irritated and amused, and he steers the conversation back to business. “So, since I’m not at my best in the mornings - I sleep late - let’s see what we can cover now; then the sooner I get started, well - the sooner I can get paid.” He smiles a large, toothy smile and winks at Len who finds he’s staring at Jim’s mouth. And there’s that flicker of déjà vu again. Maybe it’s all the old shit in the place reminding him of his gram’s house - she had one of those corny green down-lighters too.
He hurriedly tells Jim about the times Joss has been late, how she has at least twice received calls in his presence and been very evasive about who the caller was when normally she’s happy to share basic stuff about her work without breaking confidentiality - it’s all they goddamn talk about, other than about Jo-Jo, not that he tells Jim that part, of course.
All the while, he examines his surroundings, the neutral walls and the slightly worn office carpet, part of him trying to figure out why he feels unsettled in this kid’s presence. It’s not just sexual attraction; there’s something, he’s realizing, not quite right about Jim, and he doesn’t like it. And he thinks he’s finally figured out why - it’s the guy’s skin - it’s weird. Jim’s not tan and everyone’s tan in LA, especially someone like him; with his low-ride jeans and dirty blond hair. The kid doesn’t look the type to work in an office; hell, he doesn’t look like he’s done a days work in his life and he’d likely look more comfortable with a surf board in his arms. Though he’d have to grow his hair, which would be nice…
If only his goddamn dick would get the message and stop with the little electric shocks every time their eyes catch. And frankly, yet another part of him is still not convinced this place is the real deal.
It’s like he said it out loud because Jim remarks: “I have a secretary starting tomorrow. Place will look more like a detective agency then - don’t worry, Bones.”
Len starts. “I’m asking you now, before you fall into the habit, not to call me that again.” He unfolds his piece of paper and slides it across the desk. “It’s all here: address, work place, car registration, everythin’ you’ll need.”
Jim nods then grins. “Three days and I’ll have something for you - sound good, Bones?”
Len rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Should I call? Or, well - my number’s on there too.”
Jim shares a half smile with him that makes Len think again that he’s somehow been saying stuff out loud when in fact he hasn’t. “You can call me anytime, Bones.”
Len scowls at the stupid nickname. Well, he can let it ride this time - they won’t be spending much more than a few more hours together, if that. He glances at the pad on the desk again and back to Jim. “You got another glass of water, Jim? Save me stopping off…”
“ Sure.”
He’s been wondering about that pad since Jim reacted so strongly to his touching it earlier. As soon as the coast is clear, he walks round the desk and flicks it open, eyes sliding to the door first.
What he sees makes the blood drain from his face - the sketch pad is full of pencil drawings, and whoever the fuck drew these, must have been following him, or have photos of him or something because every last one looks like him, they’re practically goddamn portraits; Len in some kind of period costume, frilly shirt, and long hair, or if not him, someone with an uncanny resemblance. And he’s pretty damn certain Jim Kirk was the artist. He touches the pencil nearby, and feels a shudder go through him. Shit. They must have met before - his weird feelings make sense now. What he can’t figure out is why the drawings and what the hell the connection is between them.
Len doesn’t question his impulse to get the hell out of there. He grabs his jacket and pushes past Jim at the door, sloshing water all over his t.
“Hey, Bones!”
“Sorry, Jim, gotta go - something came up…call me.”
+++
Exactly three days later finds them sitting in a bar in West Hollywood.
Len blames it on lack of sleep, but the sound of fans whirring above his head and the clunk of pool balls behind them make him feel even more on edge than the natural anxiety, the anticipation of whatever it is Jim’s going to tell him that he might have uncovered about Jocelyn.
From the moment he left Jim’s office he’s not felt right. He slept for shit, waking up hard, bathed in sweat, neck itching for some reason - thoughts about Jim haunting him and making him cranky.
It doesn’t make any kind of sense but the notion they’ve met before won’t leave him. He can’t recall anything, no matter how much he goes over it in his head; sure - he drinks too much and it’s got worse the past few years - but Len has never experienced any blackouts. He’s settled on the explanation, thin as it is, that he must have treated Jim at some point and the guy must have fixated on him - hence the drawings. And what a coincidence that Len should have then walked into a detective agency to hire an ex-patient. It doesn’t sit right, but it’ll have to do.
And yeah, he thinks, looking round the bar, Len’s always liked guys; he fooled around plenty in med school, and since the cooling off between him and Joss, he’s thought about following through on some of the looks thrown his way but, even though things with him and Joss suck, and it looks like there’s no going back, he’s not ready.
The place wasn’t Len’s choice with guys making out in the not so dark corners, forcing his dreams to re-surface; he shifts about on the stool and tears his beer mat to shreds, piling the pieces up on the bar.
Jim hasn’t said a word about Len disappearing.
They’re both perched on barstools, and it’s late - so much for a breakfast meeting - and there’s a mixed crowd, a few women, men in suits as well as some more casually dressed, their voices ringing round them so he has to lean close to hear Jim speak.
Jim’s not in jeans this time, dressed more the part in gabardine pants and a black shirt; the contrast with his skin makes Len want to run a finger down Jim’s throat, see if it feels, tastes, as well as looks like cream.
He takes a long awaited gulp of beer, the smell of hops soothing him and he stares in silence at Jim’s fingers while he opens a large envelope to draw out some photographs; the veins in Jim’s wrist are pale blue and delicate, nails perfect and a little longer than you’d expect on a man, Len thinks absently, aware he’s focusing on all the wrong things here, like he’s been goddamn bewitched or something. Jim sees him looking and their eyes catch. Damn, his pupils are so dark, so big in the dimly-lit bar. Len feels himself lean almost imperceptibly towards Jim and he mentally checks himself, huffing a sound which has some resemblance to a laugh. He hasn’t felt this attracted to anyone in forever and it’s completely thrown him off-balance.
“I’m nervous as hell,” he explains. It’s partly the truth, of course, but it’s been a long three days; and nights.
“You look like shit,” Jim says good-naturedly, his lips half an inch from Len’s ear sending a faint shudder through him, the waft of jasmine again. Fuck.
“Yeah, well, I haven’t been sleeping right,” Len mutters, his cock twitching at the residual memory, the goddamn feel of the dreams he’s been having. Heat creeps up his neck and cheeks; he thanks the powers-that-be for moody lighting.
“Here,” Jim says gently. “Look at these.” He slides a pile of 8x10 photos across the counter. Len wishes they’d taken a booth at the back and taking a breath, turns them over.
At first he’s confused and he passes through the photos twice before he can say, ”There’s nothing here. It’s just Jocelyn on the phone. This one - sitting in her car eating a Danish… that’s it? That’s all you got for me?”
“You sound almost disappointed, Bones.” Jim’s leaning on the bar, looking sideways at him, smirking, scanning Len’s face for a reaction while a long finger taps a silent rhythm on the lip of his bottle.
“Dammit all, will you stop calling me that?”
Jim chews his lip, glances up the bar and looks back at him. “Okay, there is something. Good news and bad news.”
Len holds his breath for a moment and feels a skitter of adrenaline across his scalp. “Jesus Christ, Jim, quit messing with me; out with it!”
“Well, okay, Mrs. McCoy’s not having an affair, which is good, we’ve established that.” Len rolls his eyes so hard he almost gets a dizzy spell. He closes his eyes wondering how long it would take to strangle the smug asshole, but snaps them open when Jim goes on. “But there is something; she’s been holding out on you. The phone calls - she’s working on representing some clients that, how shall I put it? are douche bags.”
“What? What kind of fucking douche bags?”
“The kind maybe regular attorneys might not feel so good about touching. The kind they’d know to leave well alone.”
A beat while Len processes this, then shakes his head. “She wouldn’t do that.” He frowns at his wife in the photos, “She’s…” Damn, and the thought crosses his mind - not for the first time in his life - that people, you think you know them… His lips set in a line. “What kind of people. Be specific, man!”
Jim doesn’t answer immediately, running his finger down the neck of his bottle. “You’ll have to talk to her…” His voice is low, almost lost in the din around them and a pit of dread opens up inside Len.
“Shit - is she in danger?” His heart’s racing, mind galloping as he imagines gun-runners, drug-dealers, wise guys - his slender, elegant wife surrounded by the detritus of society. He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t make sense. I don’t believe you…there’s a mistake…Joss would never knowingly…” and what about Joanna? Fuck.
Jim’s look is unreadable. He sips at his beer, downs his shot and licks his lips, then adopts a light tone. “The mystery that is man. Or woman in this case. You can never tell just by looking at people, you know - what they’re capable of - trust me.”
Something catches Len’s attention in the mirror behind the bar, a glint from a sequined dress when a brunette joins the press of drinkers behind them and takes up a position beside Jim. He looks at her, back at the reflection, blinks, and wonders why he can’t see Jim as sharply in the mirror, like he’s a ghost or something - must be the lighting. He turns in his seat and examines the stone-like expression on Jim’s face, the fine stubble on his chin; Jim’s eyes seem to glint amber for a split second till he looks away and runs his finger down the neck of the bottle. If he is a ghost, he’s pretty damn solid-looking.
Dammit, he feels dizzy again - he should ask for water.
“Not someone you love, you’ve lived with for five years - I…” The words sound so weak, and so fucking unconvincing to his own ears. Len remembers reading a book where a holocaust survivor had grown obsessed with examining the faces of Nazis, looking at photos for clues for how they could have done what they did, for something in their eyes, the set of their mouths, but finding nothing, nothing at all. He thinks about, Joss, holding Jo-Jo when she was born, sitting opposite him at the breakfast bar, sitting beside him on the couch, her feet in his lap as she goes through her briefs. The woman that could be the poster girl for ‘regular people’. The woman he used to love so much he couldn’t breathe - until daddy got sick, till she joined the other side in hating on him and pointing the finger.
“She’s a mom, my wife. It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”
Jim shrugs, non-committal. Len senses the kid’s holding out on him, and he ought to question him some more, but he feels weak and can’t order his thoughts so good.
He turns the photos so they’re face-down on the bar and raises a finger to beckon the barkeep. He feels Jim’s hand touch his. It’s cool, not cold, but it gives him pause - the guy’s personality, how energetic he seems even when poised on the bar stool, almost motionless, well - he ought to be scalding to the touch.
“You sure you should be having another - you’re driving, right?” Jim’s voice is deep, warm, concerned, when why on earth should he give a damn? It soaks through him.
Fuck, fuck. This business with Joss, there must be some mistake; he’ll have to go through it with Jim, find out whatever he did to get the photos, what he must have heard too to come up with this crazy theory, and find out who the hell he spoke to… It would have been way better if she was sleeping with some other guy - that’s within the parameters of normal at least, a world of shit, but normal.
His head slumps forward…why does he feel so heavy, so…? He hears the barkeep’s voice through a thick fog of weariness and he nods, slurring, “Yeah, the same again.” Jim’s hand is still on his, tightening round his wrist. “I’ll leave the car,” Len hears himself say; his tongue feels double its normal size, the words coming out slow. “Damn, I need to…” he wants Jim to let go…no, needs him to hold on…he feels himself sliding away from the stool his hands reaching out.
“S’okay, Bones, I gotcha…”
+++
“I think I might throw up on you…”
“Hey, fuck, hang on…”
Jim’s got his arm slung around Len, and shitty as he feels, he thinks - face against the kid’s cheek - he can tell there’s something not quite right; Jim’s holding him far too easily for such a scrawny kid, and why’s he not breathing, why can’t he feel it against his temple?
And before he can hope to figure any of this out, next thing, the kid’s dropped him and Len’s head bumps against a hard surface, and Len hears him say, “…shit, sorry, Bones, just…I have to take care of something…”
Dammit, he’s, ow, fuck, he’s hit his head pretty hard and Len’s eyes flutter closed. Over the space of he has no idea what amount of time, he opens and closes them to catch glimpses of Jim standing a few feet away surrounded by some pretty mean looking…Len squints, groans, and rubs an eye because he’s lost a lens or something, that must be why they’re kind of out of focus, and look like their foreheads are all bumpy, reminding him of Klingons on that stupid show Joss can’t seem to quit. He can hear growling too, like they’ve got dogs with them or something, only he can’t see any.
Where the hell is he? They’ve ended up in some shitty alley, could be behind the bar, though he doesn’t remembering leaving. He manages to sit up, brush his hair out of his eyes and he looks towards Jim, hears more growls and then sees Jim run, and jump really high, like a pole-vaulter or like he’s been winched up by a circus wire. He lands effortlessly on a dumpster, legs wide, beckoning three mean looking fucks to come get him.
Len’s head spins again; he leans forward, brings his knees up and smells then sees a fuck-ugly bastard leaning over him, all pig breath and bad skin. And weird-ass yellow eyes. Big teeth. And that’s a hell of a growl - the guy must’ve escaped from a unit or something.
“Say bye-bye.” The idiot’s grin reveals yellow canines that would fit better in the mouth of a bear than a human. Len feels a shudder of fear - where the hell is Jim?
Suddenly, it’s like he’s woken up in some crappy CGI moment; one minute the guy with the bear teeth is there and then, well, he’s not. He literally goes ‘poof’ and fucking disappears in a shimmer of dust, an expression of comical surprise on his face before he vanishes into thin air - revealing a smirking Jim, holding a piece of wood or something in his hand. Jim’s face looks weird too with the same slight bumps on his forehead, and not to mention a fan of prominent veins under amber, wolf-eyes.
“That was close, Bones!” he says cheerfully and turns in time to scissor kick, like he’s a ninja or something, sending another meathead to the deck. Len watches in disbelief as Jim pounces on his victim, grabs the front of his shirt and lifts him off the ground apparently effortlessly, while roaring like an animal. He then aims the wood (Len’s realizes now, this is a stake) right to the heart. There’s another shimmer of dust like metal filings which hold the air for a split-second, then vanish.
Jim spins to look at him, triumph on his transformed features; not a bead of sweat, no flush of colour evident on his cheeks, just this ‘mask’ - what kind of fucking monster is he?
“Friends of Mrs. McCoy,” Jim explains, his tongue flickering to his canines, “The ones I told you about. Looks like they weren’t into my snooping around. Didn’t like my ‘interview’ technique you could say…”
Before Len’s finished attempting to process this, dark shadows advance towards Jim, and then the smirk’s gone and the wood, okay - the stake - drops to Jim’s feet into the piles of litter.
Len watches in horror how Jim’s inexplicably clutching at his throat making sounds like he’s choking; then he realizes that two more lunk-heads have appeared from nowhere and have lassoed him with a long chain round his neck, using it to drag Jim till he hits the ground like a sack of corn, feet kicking; fuck he should do something, help, but Len can’t stand, he’s real dizzy still - he’s gotta do something.
“Thought you could come into my town and sashay around like you own the damn place, eh, Kirk? And who’s this, your boyfriend? Hanging out with humans is never good, dude, makes you soft. Looks bad.”
“Master vampire, my lily-white ass,” another chips in, tightening his hold on the chain, grinning at his friend, watching in amusement as Jim jerks like a fish on a line.
Vampire? What…? Everything falls into place, the skin, the breath, the lack of reflection, the fucking facial transformation, the intense look - Len realizes this is why he’s lost sleep - from movies and shit books, everyone knows vampires use some kind of hypnotic thing to lure and capture their victims. But that’s fiction - this is real. Only how can it be?
Jim splutters and Len can tell he’s lost this fight. He sees one of the guys raise his arm and he’s holding a stake too - he’s going to kill Jim, he realizes and is filled with sudden determination, an understanding that he can’t allow this.
Len folds forward and onto his side with a fake groan, so it looks like he’s passing out, and he can feel the stake Jim dropped is under his thigh. He works his arm so he can get a grip on it then staggers to his feet. Adrenaline keeps him upright, helps clear his head though he feigns being drunk, slurs, laying on his accent real thick to keep the show going.
“Think I’m gonna puke, shit…” he peeks sideways at the strong legs in front of him, “Hey, Jim, I thought you were gonna call a cab.” He ignores the choking sound coming from near his feet and he lurches left, then right, hand holding the stake near his belly. He gags like he’s going to throw up and, just as he smells the scent of carrion, of death near his face when one of the assholes comes close, he brings his arm back and jabs forward hard, hitting the guy with the attitude, with all the precision of a surgeon, right in the heart.
He feels flesh give, a faint tingle round his hand like he’s dipped it in bubbles, and glowers triumphant into startled, feral eyes, and just like that, the vamp’s gone. “Fuck you!” he hisses into the empty space where the monster used to be. “Leonard McCoy, vampire hunter, pleased to make your acquaintance!” He turns and glares at the other guy - the acting thing must be in the air in this town because, damn he’s good.
The other guy drops the chain, feet sliding in the trash and sprints off to leap onto a dumpster and upwards, holding onto a drain pipe with one hand. He pauses to look over his shoulder at them, then skitters up sheer glass like a spider and disappears over the roof edge.
It’s repellent and fucked up, but Len doesn’t give himself time to dwell on it; he’s gotta help Jim.
He’s in the fetal position, coughing, choking, mouth frothing blood, hands clawing at his neck feebly. The skin’s raw, like it’s had acid dropped on it and his fingers are dripping blood where they made contact with the chain. Len remembers dimly that the other vamps wore gloves.
“Jim, let go, I got it, ‘k’?” He carefully untangles the thin links - it looks like silver, no thicker than a length of wool but obviously deadly to the man - creature - in front of him.
“What the fuck are you, Jim, that was…shit, like something out of a vamp show. Is that what you are? A fucking vampire?” And he can’t believe he’s asking this, but then, how can he deny the truth of what he’s just witnessed, what he’s been a part of?
Jim gapes, raises a hand which then drops, and suddenly he looks very young, like his body’s shrinking before Len, and for the second time since he’s been in this alley, Len doesn’t think, he just follows his instinct.
“You’re gonna die, aren’t you, if I don’t help you?”
Jim splutters, “…silver…’s’poison…fuck…”
Len tosses the chain away and stretches Jim out on his back, feeling the skin on his face and neck with his knuckles. It’s clammy, cold and he’s shivering. “You going to fucking die?” he brings his face close, so Jim can speak in his ear.
“…sorry…”
Len pulls Jim up into a sitting position, sits with one leg bent behind him to support his weight and ignores the fact that he’s stroking Jim’s jaw, his face, like it’s a loved-one he’s trying to comfort.
“Tell me how I can help you? Should I take you to the E.R.?” The bumps have disappeared from Jim’s brow, his skin smooth, human, unblemished again, apart from the pock marks on his chin, stubble (fucking vamps have stubble?) and despite the fact that he’s clearly fucked, blood pouring from the tear on his throat where the chain bit into him, Jim’s eyes are still brilliant, shining in the dark alley like a cat’s in headlights.
Jim’s got no heart beat, how the fuck’s he supposed to stop blood flow? Still Len tries, spreading his bloodstained fingers over the area pressing tight, the blood cool, thick and seeping round his fingers like mercury. “What do you need, Jim? Tell me!”
Jim’s eyes flicker up towards Len’s neck, then close tight like he’s thrown a period into a sentence he daren’t even start.
Something twists inside Len when the nickel drops. Is he scared? Any more than he is when he’s got anyone’s life in his hands and he just does what he has to do? Hell no.
“Jim, it’s okay…do it…” his voice is grit in his mouth.
In the faintest of movements Jim shakes his head; Len realizes that every second is another too long because now there are cracks forming under Jim’s eyes, like he’s drying out, turning into chalk in front of him, dust…shit, Len’s going to have to make him.
He kneels against Jim’s hip, cups a hand under his neck, and lifts him up like he’s made of paper. He guides Jim’s mouth to his jugular, shifts so Jim can lean against him, “Just fucking do it, okay…only a sip, mind…I…fuck…”
Vamp instinct’s kicked in, looks like, because he feels the brush of Jim’s lips against his skin and then teeth clamp onto his throat; there’s a slight resistance as Jim tests the spot, then he hears a barely audible growl when they break the surface. It’s all Len can do not to shove him away, fighting the fear that this was some huge fucking mistake but he couldn’t just stand by and let Jim die, could he?
The sensation’s like molten metal’s being drawn right up one side of his body and Len lets out a moan of pain and surprise, his cock hardening instantly.
Panting, he takes Jim’s hand and guides it to the back of his own head so he can feel Jim’s fingers teasing the hairs at the nape. He holds it in place while Jim sucks, until Jim can take over, still too weak to hold on. Jim’s other hand is fisted in Len’s shirt and Len tugs him closer, wrapping his legs around him.
He feels the strength returning to Jim in equal amounts it seems to be leaving him, the rhythmic pulse as Jim feeds from him, drawing life in, deflating Len, using him up, suddenly no longer pain-laced, but warm, peaceful and comforting.
Len couldn’t move now if he wanted to; his arms drop to his sides, body arching back, held by Jim like he’s made of nothing heavier than one of the crushed boxes in the alley. Then his head drops and Len stares glassy-eyed over the dirty blond hair at the nearby dumpster, blue and beat up, the phone number on the side already out of focus.
The sounds from the bar behind them fade like they’ve sunk into the ocean until there’s nothing but the whooshing of his heartbeat, struggling against the assault, the moans from Jim, as he sucks, each pull somehow connected to sensations in his belly and his cock, so he feels on fire, can feel the heat transferring to Jim’s skin.
He’s the one turning to dust, the dizziness is back, and Jim’s climbed onto him, practically sitting on Len’s lap and fuck, he’s gotta stop and Len thinks he can hear Jim’s thoughts now, or maybe he’s just dying and he’s hallucinating as the endorphins kick in, to make it easier for him - thank you physiology…
Fuck, Bones, fuck, taste so good, like everything good, like you’re mine, like I remember.
Want, acceptance and need wash through Len, and he’s unsure if these are his emotions or Jim’s; he can feel Jim’s cock pressing against him through his clothes and he’s hard too; then he feels a shudder - maybe the last thing he’s ever gonna feel or know. There’s a moan from Jim and Len’s head falls back when the clamp around his neck loosens and he blacks out, coming in his pants, an idiot hanged-man kicking out his last breath against Jim’s cool lips.
+++
end of part 3a and onto part 3b
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: ~19,200 words (this part)
A/N for this part: Not a crossover, as such, but set in the universe of ‘Angel’.
Characters: Nyota Uhura, with a fleeting appearance by Angel himself - blink and you’ll miss it!
Previous parts, warnings, thanks, disclaimer and additional notes are to be found in the masterpost .
A/N: This part set in the universe of ‘Angel’ the TV series, by Joss Whedon, but is not strictly a crossover, I am merely borrowing the setting.
Intriguing snippet: The kid’s openly staring at him, blue eyes wide, framed by dark, thick eyebrows and their eyes lock for a beat. Len feels a little twist in his throat, a sense of déjà vu, sure he’s seen this guy someplace before. In the hospital could be...he shrugs it off and waits for the kid to blink, to speak even.
Blood Ties: Chapter 3
~
I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born. ~Jack London
~
Los Angeles. 1999
Len runs his hands back and forth in semi-circles across the steering wheel. He stares at the broad, stone steps leading up to the building and watches in his rear-view mirror in case the doors open. He’s been sitting here ten minutes now and no one’s come in or out in that time. But then it’s late, why would they? What the hell kind of detective agency stays open at this hour?
When he looked through the ads, the late opening was the main reason he picked Angel Investigations; it meant he could swing by on his way home. It did cross his mind to phone past clients out of the blue, except he’s not sure you can do that. Plus, there’s the small matter of his phone manner which, as Joss never fails to remind him, sucks. He kind of liked the slogan too: We help the helpless; after all, what is he, if not helpless?
It’s not a scientific way to make a decision, but it’s all he’s got.
Never having met one, Len has no idea what in blazes makes a competent detective; he’s a doctor, dammit. It’s ironic the one person he could have asked would be Jocelyn, but since she’s to be the subject… He rubs an eye and just manages to stop himself thumping his head on the steering wheel. Dammit all - he can’t fucking believe he’s stooping this low.
Another five minutes grind by and Len glowers at any homeless people who look like they might shuffle towards his open window. None make it within five feet of the car.
So here he is, left to his own devices, the only ‘help’ in his half-assed decision-making being the P.I.s on TV when, ordinarily, he’d sooner have his eyes gouged out with hot spoons than watch that shit. And what’s he learned? That they’ve all got froofy hair and look great in the compulsory shirtless scenes. And don’t get him started on the UST. He rolls his eyes and takes off his sunglasses realizing they probably make him look like a hit man sitting in the dark, with his stubble and tan skin. He hooks them in the top pocket of his shirt, eases off the seat, sweat making his shirt stick to his back.
He worries a nail with his teeth, wishing he’d never ditched smoking. At least it would give him something to do with his hands, a way of marking out the passing of time, and maybe something to distract him from the knots permanently formed in his stomach of late.
Damn, he should have called; but then, he would have felt committed when, the way it is now, he can still bail.
The endless hum of traffic soothes him a little and he leans back in his seat, searching for the half moon struggling to be seen through the haze and neon, and masked by downtown skyscrapers. Of course he can’t, and though it’s a clear night, not one single star can be seen through the light pollution - fuck, he misses sitting on a porch just staring at the night sky, everything he loves traded in for tail-lights and crazies, palm trees and have-a-nice-fucking-day.
Okay, maybe he’s warming to the place - not that he’d admit that to anyone, but in a perverse kind of way the Los Angelinos being so upbeat, rather than cheer him (God forbid) help keep him cynical as hell, grounded in a way now he’s so far from home. So here he is dressed like a hit man, hiding out with his family in the city of dreams, trying to forget the shit-storm since daddy died and he’s been pretty much disowned.
He clears his throat (goddamn shit air quality) and watches a girl on roller-blades zip past the car, her breasts motionless as she arcs side to side as if the sidewalk were snow and she was in Aspen. Not for the first time he wonders whether he should have gone into plastic surgery - god knows he needs the money what with Jocelyn’s law school debts and the fucking extortionate day care center she insists is the only one to send their baby girl to.
Len reaches for his keys, pulls them out of the ignition and scoops up his jacket from the passenger seat. The agency’s card falls out and he angles it towards the street light, examining the logo again to try and figure out what it might represent - a white squiggle on black - and shakes his head. “What the fuck is that?” he mutters and leans into the door and shoves it open just as a movement catches his eye and the doors to the building swing, polished mahogany and glass glinting in the streetlights.
A tall, dark haired man with a Cro-Magnon brow and a kicked puppy look lopes out and bounces down the steps, slipping something into his back pocket. That’s a lot of hair product, Len thinks as he slams the door to his car and locks it. The guy’s wearing a too-big black leather jacket over a black shirt, black pants - and that’s a lot of black on black. Seriously, he needs to stop watching ‘Queer Eye’ over Joss’ shoulder; he’s beginning to sound very West Hollywood.
Hair Gel Guy makes for a Plymouth convertible with its roof off that’s parked in front of Len’s, and nods. “Hey,” he says.
Len nods back, making the corner of his mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.
“It’s an angel,” Hair Gel Guy says, surprising Len because how did the guy know what he was thinking? Even if he’d said it out loud, he was way too far away to have heard him, that’s for sure.
Len examines the card again. “It is?” he looks into brown eyes. “I’m not seeing it…”
Hair Gel Guy looks unaccountably pissed by this. “You waiting for someone?”
“I…no,” Len mumbles and slips his keys into his sports jacket, then shoves his shades back on defensively. He waves vaguely towards the building. “I was just…”
“You in trouble?” Hair Gel Guy frowns, folding his arms. “Because if you’re in trouble I can…”
“No, do I look like I am?” Dammit, he knew the shades were a mistake. Len doesn’t like the guy’s assessing gaze, and wonders why he looks so pissed. He shrugs and rests his hand on the door, glancing up and down the street through the remnants of holiday shoppers. And tourists - always goddamn tourists in L.A.
“Busy time of year,” Hair Gel Guy says, turning away, and with that, without bothering to open the door on his convertible, he swings his legs over the door and slides elegantly into the driver seat.
“Great car,” Len remarks taking a step forward to run a hand along the body work until he’s stayed by a warning look.
“Yeah,” Hair Gel Guy says. He turns the key and the vintage Plymouth pulls away, wallowing into traffic.
Well, Len thinks, he was sure good looking enough to be a TV detective. “Y’all have a nice day,” he growls under his breath then frowns when Hair Gel Guy raises a hand like he’s heard. Weird.
Len looks at the card again: Angel Investigations, he reads. Ask for Angel. Fucking porn star name; he can’t wait to set eyes on this guy.
He takes the steps two at a time and pushes through the doors of a deserted lobby. There’s a side light on, but other than that it’s dark, decorated in somber colors, with an old-style phone on a desk. He can see a light glowing through a glass door and takes more steps down, past lamps balanced on banisters that would look more at home in a Victorian street scene than an office. He hovers outside the door a moment, takes a breath, ducks his head and peers through the glass.
He can just make out a kid sitting in darkness, feet up on the desk, in jeans and a white t, blond head bowed, and a notebook or sketch book resting on long thighs, a pencil between his lips.
Len deliberates whether to knock or to just walk in but the kid seems to sense he’s there, sniffs like a dog and looks up. He frowns, squints, then gapes at Len like he’s seen a ghost or something.
Len opens the door and steps in. The kid’s still gawping and as Len gets close, his feet hit the floor with a thud, the pad falling to the black and white tile. Without taking his eyes off Len, the kid leans, picks it up, rests the pad on the desk which is cluttered with old books and various office bits and pieces, none of which look like they were made more recently than fifty years ago.
Len forces himself to smile as disarmingly as his nature allows.
“Hi, pardon me…I startled you.”
The kid’s openly staring at him, blue eyes wide, framed by dark, thick eyebrows and their eyes lock for a beat. Len feels a little twist in his throat, a sense of déjà vu, sure he’s seen this guy someplace before. In the hospital could be...he shrugs it off and waits for the kid to blink, to speak even. When he does neither, Len tries again to break the awkward silence.
“You Angel?” Len says, trying not to smirk; because yeah, the kid’s kind of pretty, in a generic, all-American way and would probably make a fine living in college-boy porn. Not that he has any idea what that might be like…
The kid stands. He continues to have trouble talking and Len considers stretching his hand out and pushing his jaw up for him. “You’re gonna catch flies, kid,” he drawls.
“No, no - my name’s Jim, Jim Kirk,” the kid says, staring up at him. “You’re so… tall,” he adds stupidly, blinking, the poor light casting strange shadows on his cheeks. His voice is deeper than Len expected, soft and somehow familiar. He’s likely an actor, or done voice-over - yeah, that’ll be it, but it doesn’t explain why he suddenly feels like there’s an itch under his skin.
“McCoy,” he says extending a hand. “Len.” Something passes over the kid’s face and Len can see he’s making a concerted effort to compose himself. Damn, it’s too late to make like he wandered in off the street by mistake. Kirk grips his hand with cool, soft fingers and seems reluctant to release it till Len glances down and raises an eyebrow. When he lets go, Len feels his heart rate accelerating - must be his instincts kicking in - this town’s full of crazies after all. “And yeah, so they tell me.” He taps a finger in the kid’s direction. “And you’re of average height.”
The kid’s face breaks into a brilliant smile, like he approves of Len’s sarcastic tone. Well, isn’t that a nice change?
“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me how I can help?” Kirk switches on a table lamp and his face comes into sharp focus, his skin glows ethereal white, eyes sparkling bluer than the swimming pool tiles at Len’s apartment building.
Len tries real hard to keep the irritation out of his voice; if he’s going to make the leap, do the P.I. thing, he needs someone who knows what he’s doing, and Kirk barely looks old enough to drink. But he’s here now and Len doesn’t want to lose Joss or, more to the point, Joanna. His stomach flutters as the fear resurfaces, that everything in his marriage might be going to shit.
“I dunno, kid,” he says, clearing his throat, “I was expecting to speak with Angel?” He glances into the dark corners of the room, like Kirk might be hiding him there. “He your daddy?”
“My daddy?” Jim ducks his chin, looks kind of embarrassed. “No, me and Angel, we’ve only met a couple of times, not even friends, truth be told - he’s kind of a…oh! I see…”
“You thought I meant…” Len gives the kid the eyebrow.
“Yeah. Sorry.” He’s gifted a lopsided grin that makes his mouth go a little dry. “The whole southern thing… ‘daddy’, ‘ma’am’. It’s kind of cool.” Kirk clears his throat and looks down. “Matter of fact - he was just here.”
“Tall guy, hair mousse,” Len makes the universal gesture of ‘tall’, raises his hand above his head. Kirk follows the movement like a cat tracking a bird, then his eyes flicker back to Len’s face. “Looks like he-”
“- found out his cat died?” Kirk offers. They both laugh and Len looks away when he sees how Kirk’s eyes crinkle, maybe glow a little. Maybe the kid is old enough to drink - now he’s got a better look at him. “Yeah, I said I’d babysit the business while he’s in New York,” Kirk explains. “For the next month this place,” and he waves a broad, pale hand, “is pretty much mine!”
“Hell, I thought you were the security.”
“Nah, security’s not my thing - I’m more of a…well, I like being in charge,” he raises his eyebrows and Len feels a flush on his neck at the innuendo which sure, he could have imagined. Kirk’s voice drops, soothing, compelling, “Tell me what I can do for you.”
Len lets the words tumble out before he can change his mind. “I need a private investigator.”
“Then I’m your man.”
There’s a beat as Jim holds his gaze, his eyes fierce blue, hypnotic. Len feels mildly dizzy for a moment and thinks he can smell the scent of cut flowers, like last time he hit the florists on the way home from work when he and Joss were still talking. He unsticks his lips. It’s weird, but he feels like he’s leaning a little towards Kirk, so he shifts his weight to prove to himself that he isn’t, then manages to say, “Is your climate-control out, kid? It’s kinda warm in here.”
“Yeah, sorry, I haven’t…I don’t really suffer in the heat, or the cold...neither does Angel. Hey, let me see if there’s anything to drink. Hold on… take a seat.” He walks round the desk, stops, looks at Len over his shoulder, “Don’t go anywhere, k?”
The moment Kirk strides out of the office and bounces down some steps to what must be a basement room, Len’s lungs fill with air. It’s an odd reaction, but then he is stressed - he’s left this too long.
While he waits, Len examines his surroundings, leans over to the desk and pushes the stapler so it’s in line with the old books heaped high. He turns when he hears Kirk.
“This is all we’ve got, sorry, I haven’t had a chance to buy…” their fingers brush when he hands over a glass of tap water, and the kid looks kind of embarrassed, lowering his eyes.
“You not having anything?” Len says, taking a sip, rolling the glass across his cheek then stretching his legs out.
The kid looks at Len’s hands and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says, “I drank…earlier.” He settles behind the desk. “So, how can I help?”
“How long you been a private investigator, kid?”
Kirk sticks his tongue into his cheek then smiles, revealing gleaming, perfect teeth. He leans across the desk and winks at Len. “I’ll let you into a secret - not very long.” He slumps back, cocks his head at Len which really irritates the fuck out of him. “That a problem?”
“’Course it’s a problem.”
Kirk blinks. “Listen, tell me what your situation is and I’ll put your mind at rest. I’m good at this stuff. I have a way of finding things out; I’m very stealthy, cat-like even.”
“I’m not feelin’ reassured, Kirk.”
“Please - call me Jim,”
Len nods. “Okay. You look kinda young - Jim.”
Jim opens his mouth, seems to think better of whatever he was about to say. He absently presses the tip of his tongue to one of his canines and says a little defensively, “I get that a lot. I’m older than I look.”
“In this town, sure you are.” They both laugh again and their eyes catch for a moment and it’s Len who has to look away, feeling his neck heat up a little. He glances at Jim’s mouth, rests his half-empty glass on the desk, and reaches for a piece of folded paper in his jeans pocket; it contains all the details he’s anticipated he’ll need; he keeps it in his palm for now.
“Okay, look, it’s none of my business.” He sighs, deciding to give the kid a break. “If Angel’s left you in charge…hey, what hell kind of name is that? He Mexican?”
“No - Irish, way back…” Jim thumbs over his shoulder.
“Anyway…it’s my wife,” he says eventually. “Guess there’s no other way to say it than come out with it - I think she’s having an affair.”
“You’re married?”
Len thinks Jim’s latched onto the wrong part of this. “Well don’t sound so damned surprised!”
Jim makes a dismissive gesture, and licks his lips again. He really should get some chap stick - that pink tongue’s kinda distracting. “No, I…you look young to be married these days. I guess.”
These days? And if he thinks that disarming smile’s going to work on him…Len huffs, “I’m not.”
Jim makes a placating gesture with his hands and rests them on his thighs. “So, you think your wife’s having an affair, okay…that’s easy. You want me to get pictures, do some surveillance? I can do that.” He’s calm, composed, like Len’s being fitted for a suit, not having his personal life laid bare in this museum set of an office.
Len looks at his watch. “I don’t know. I just want to be sure is all…” Surveillance? Shit. Looks like he hasn’t really thought this through.
Jim stands, rounds the desk, sits on its edge and crosses his feet at the ankles. He has big feet, skinny calves and... Len stops himself trailing his eyes up towards denim clad thighs, snapping to Jim’s face and then looking away. Damn the kid doesn’t seem to blink like normal folk. It’s unsettling and Len’s not used to being unsettled by anyone. Ever.
Jim leans towards him. “You ever thought about just asking her?” Len swallows. The kid’s groin’s at eye level, and Len leans back in his chair, feeling intimidated as hell by the temporary difference in their heights - and he just knows this is intentional on Jim’s part.
“I can’t do that,” Len snaps. “I might be wrong.”
“Okay, that’s cool. So what makes you think she is?” Jim folds his arms and Len takes in the way the muscles flex, the creamy skin, and feels his neck color. Maybe he picked up a cold or something - he really doesn’t feel quite right.
“Shouldn’t you be making notes?” he grumbles.
“No, I’m good, I have like a really awesome memory.” Jim watches him reach for the glass of water, his eyes fixed on Len’s throat as he swallows, watches Len run his hand across his mouth. Len feels a twitch in his cock and shifts in his chair. There’s something about that unwavering stare, the cool composure of this kid he finds disconcerting... and his voice, yeah that’s it - his voice. Where the hell’s he heard it before?
“Joss - Jocelyn - my wife, she’s been acting strange; she’s been working late, more so than usual, and she’s been cool with me; off…you know?” Which is quite an achievement considering they’re still only together because of Jo-Jo, but Jim doesn’t need to know that.
“Well, I’ve never been married, but yeah…” Jim slaps his thigh to fill the sudden awkward silence. “I can do a surveillance package, you’ll have to give me her place of work, route, that kind of thing. Times. Hey,” Jim twists, leans back across the desk, raising a foot off the floor to keep his balance, exposing pale abs momentarily, a line of fine hairs. He opens a drawer and rummages and Len’s startled by a sudden image of what Jim would look like spread out over the desk. He shakes his head irritably. This is what happens when you don’t have sex in a while - makes you hyper-sensitive and, he’s kind of forgotten how much he likes guys.
Jim’s voice brings him back to reality. “Maybe I oughta write some stuff down - show Angel I haven’t just been sitting round the place. It’s kinda cool I’ve got a job my first night. Day, I mean.” He looks across the pile of books, glancing into the drawer. “Maybe there’s a form or something.”
“A form?” Len snorts. “Why don’t you use that pad?” He points to the notebook and reaches round Jim, inhaling his scent which oddly, is floral, reminding him of jasmine from home and adding to the disturbing sensation of familiarity. To his surprise, Jim snatches it from him, his hands moving way too fast, actually a blur when he takes it which gives Len pause. Jim frowns, holding the pad to his chest, then places it on the desk behind him.
“That’s not for…it’s for something else…” It’s the first time Jim’s lost his composure since he regained the power of speech when Len first walked into the office. One thing Len knows, he needs to see what’s in that pad now.
“Hey, sorry,” Len raises his hands. “I can come back in the mornin’; this is obviously a bad time - maybe we can grab breakfast - looks like you’ve not had to time to settle in. I don’t need to be at…anywhere… till the afternoon.” He looks around the dark office, eyes settling on another pile of books in a recess behind the desk. “Truth is, I feel kind of dumb, maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am.” Joss and he may not be sleeping together anymore, but he’s damned if someone else is going to take over his parental role, some goddamn sleaze in a suit, driving a phallic car and flashing his expense account.
“Maybe…if you are wrong, well - I can at least put your mind at rest, or give you some ammunition, a way of knowing for sure. I’m pretty good at reading people too. Thing is…job like yours can put a strain on a marriage...”
What the fuck does a kid this age know about marriage, or anything and Len glowers at him. “I haven’t told you what I do; how the hell do you know what kind of job I got?” How the hell do you know anything?
If Len was a betting man, he’d say Jim looks like he’s just been busted. Thankfully, he moves back to the other side of the desk and sits down, sprawling in his chair, his eyes dark, lazily sweeping Len from top to toe. Yep, Len may be out of practice but he can tell when he’s being flirted with. It irritates and thrills him all at once and he chews his bottom lip and crosses his legs to hide what feels like a bulge threatening to embarrass him. Not that the kid would notice.
“Call it a hunch,” Jim says vaguely. “You look like a doctor; you’ve got nice hands…”
“Well, my career as a hand model went all to shit, so I decided to take up medicine as somethin’ to fall back on.” Len’s enjoying this - yeah, he’s not lost his touch.
Jim’s lips purse in something between irritated and amused, and he steers the conversation back to business. “So, since I’m not at my best in the mornings - I sleep late - let’s see what we can cover now; then the sooner I get started, well - the sooner I can get paid.” He smiles a large, toothy smile and winks at Len who finds he’s staring at Jim’s mouth. And there’s that flicker of déjà vu again. Maybe it’s all the old shit in the place reminding him of his gram’s house - she had one of those corny green down-lighters too.
He hurriedly tells Jim about the times Joss has been late, how she has at least twice received calls in his presence and been very evasive about who the caller was when normally she’s happy to share basic stuff about her work without breaking confidentiality - it’s all they goddamn talk about, other than about Jo-Jo, not that he tells Jim that part, of course.
All the while, he examines his surroundings, the neutral walls and the slightly worn office carpet, part of him trying to figure out why he feels unsettled in this kid’s presence. It’s not just sexual attraction; there’s something, he’s realizing, not quite right about Jim, and he doesn’t like it. And he thinks he’s finally figured out why - it’s the guy’s skin - it’s weird. Jim’s not tan and everyone’s tan in LA, especially someone like him; with his low-ride jeans and dirty blond hair. The kid doesn’t look the type to work in an office; hell, he doesn’t look like he’s done a days work in his life and he’d likely look more comfortable with a surf board in his arms. Though he’d have to grow his hair, which would be nice…
If only his goddamn dick would get the message and stop with the little electric shocks every time their eyes catch. And frankly, yet another part of him is still not convinced this place is the real deal.
It’s like he said it out loud because Jim remarks: “I have a secretary starting tomorrow. Place will look more like a detective agency then - don’t worry, Bones.”
Len starts. “I’m asking you now, before you fall into the habit, not to call me that again.” He unfolds his piece of paper and slides it across the desk. “It’s all here: address, work place, car registration, everythin’ you’ll need.”
Jim nods then grins. “Three days and I’ll have something for you - sound good, Bones?”
Len rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Should I call? Or, well - my number’s on there too.”
Jim shares a half smile with him that makes Len think again that he’s somehow been saying stuff out loud when in fact he hasn’t. “You can call me anytime, Bones.”
Len scowls at the stupid nickname. Well, he can let it ride this time - they won’t be spending much more than a few more hours together, if that. He glances at the pad on the desk again and back to Jim. “You got another glass of water, Jim? Save me stopping off…”
“ Sure.”
He’s been wondering about that pad since Jim reacted so strongly to his touching it earlier. As soon as the coast is clear, he walks round the desk and flicks it open, eyes sliding to the door first.
What he sees makes the blood drain from his face - the sketch pad is full of pencil drawings, and whoever the fuck drew these, must have been following him, or have photos of him or something because every last one looks like him, they’re practically goddamn portraits; Len in some kind of period costume, frilly shirt, and long hair, or if not him, someone with an uncanny resemblance. And he’s pretty damn certain Jim Kirk was the artist. He touches the pencil nearby, and feels a shudder go through him. Shit. They must have met before - his weird feelings make sense now. What he can’t figure out is why the drawings and what the hell the connection is between them.
Len doesn’t question his impulse to get the hell out of there. He grabs his jacket and pushes past Jim at the door, sloshing water all over his t.
“Hey, Bones!”
“Sorry, Jim, gotta go - something came up…call me.”
+++
Exactly three days later finds them sitting in a bar in West Hollywood.
Len blames it on lack of sleep, but the sound of fans whirring above his head and the clunk of pool balls behind them make him feel even more on edge than the natural anxiety, the anticipation of whatever it is Jim’s going to tell him that he might have uncovered about Jocelyn.
From the moment he left Jim’s office he’s not felt right. He slept for shit, waking up hard, bathed in sweat, neck itching for some reason - thoughts about Jim haunting him and making him cranky.
It doesn’t make any kind of sense but the notion they’ve met before won’t leave him. He can’t recall anything, no matter how much he goes over it in his head; sure - he drinks too much and it’s got worse the past few years - but Len has never experienced any blackouts. He’s settled on the explanation, thin as it is, that he must have treated Jim at some point and the guy must have fixated on him - hence the drawings. And what a coincidence that Len should have then walked into a detective agency to hire an ex-patient. It doesn’t sit right, but it’ll have to do.
And yeah, he thinks, looking round the bar, Len’s always liked guys; he fooled around plenty in med school, and since the cooling off between him and Joss, he’s thought about following through on some of the looks thrown his way but, even though things with him and Joss suck, and it looks like there’s no going back, he’s not ready.
The place wasn’t Len’s choice with guys making out in the not so dark corners, forcing his dreams to re-surface; he shifts about on the stool and tears his beer mat to shreds, piling the pieces up on the bar.
Jim hasn’t said a word about Len disappearing.
They’re both perched on barstools, and it’s late - so much for a breakfast meeting - and there’s a mixed crowd, a few women, men in suits as well as some more casually dressed, their voices ringing round them so he has to lean close to hear Jim speak.
Jim’s not in jeans this time, dressed more the part in gabardine pants and a black shirt; the contrast with his skin makes Len want to run a finger down Jim’s throat, see if it feels, tastes, as well as looks like cream.
He takes a long awaited gulp of beer, the smell of hops soothing him and he stares in silence at Jim’s fingers while he opens a large envelope to draw out some photographs; the veins in Jim’s wrist are pale blue and delicate, nails perfect and a little longer than you’d expect on a man, Len thinks absently, aware he’s focusing on all the wrong things here, like he’s been goddamn bewitched or something. Jim sees him looking and their eyes catch. Damn, his pupils are so dark, so big in the dimly-lit bar. Len feels himself lean almost imperceptibly towards Jim and he mentally checks himself, huffing a sound which has some resemblance to a laugh. He hasn’t felt this attracted to anyone in forever and it’s completely thrown him off-balance.
“I’m nervous as hell,” he explains. It’s partly the truth, of course, but it’s been a long three days; and nights.
“You look like shit,” Jim says good-naturedly, his lips half an inch from Len’s ear sending a faint shudder through him, the waft of jasmine again. Fuck.
“Yeah, well, I haven’t been sleeping right,” Len mutters, his cock twitching at the residual memory, the goddamn feel of the dreams he’s been having. Heat creeps up his neck and cheeks; he thanks the powers-that-be for moody lighting.
“Here,” Jim says gently. “Look at these.” He slides a pile of 8x10 photos across the counter. Len wishes they’d taken a booth at the back and taking a breath, turns them over.
At first he’s confused and he passes through the photos twice before he can say, ”There’s nothing here. It’s just Jocelyn on the phone. This one - sitting in her car eating a Danish… that’s it? That’s all you got for me?”
“You sound almost disappointed, Bones.” Jim’s leaning on the bar, looking sideways at him, smirking, scanning Len’s face for a reaction while a long finger taps a silent rhythm on the lip of his bottle.
“Dammit all, will you stop calling me that?”
Jim chews his lip, glances up the bar and looks back at him. “Okay, there is something. Good news and bad news.”
Len holds his breath for a moment and feels a skitter of adrenaline across his scalp. “Jesus Christ, Jim, quit messing with me; out with it!”
“Well, okay, Mrs. McCoy’s not having an affair, which is good, we’ve established that.” Len rolls his eyes so hard he almost gets a dizzy spell. He closes his eyes wondering how long it would take to strangle the smug asshole, but snaps them open when Jim goes on. “But there is something; she’s been holding out on you. The phone calls - she’s working on representing some clients that, how shall I put it? are douche bags.”
“What? What kind of fucking douche bags?”
“The kind maybe regular attorneys might not feel so good about touching. The kind they’d know to leave well alone.”
A beat while Len processes this, then shakes his head. “She wouldn’t do that.” He frowns at his wife in the photos, “She’s…” Damn, and the thought crosses his mind - not for the first time in his life - that people, you think you know them… His lips set in a line. “What kind of people. Be specific, man!”
Jim doesn’t answer immediately, running his finger down the neck of his bottle. “You’ll have to talk to her…” His voice is low, almost lost in the din around them and a pit of dread opens up inside Len.
“Shit - is she in danger?” His heart’s racing, mind galloping as he imagines gun-runners, drug-dealers, wise guys - his slender, elegant wife surrounded by the detritus of society. He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t make sense. I don’t believe you…there’s a mistake…Joss would never knowingly…” and what about Joanna? Fuck.
Jim’s look is unreadable. He sips at his beer, downs his shot and licks his lips, then adopts a light tone. “The mystery that is man. Or woman in this case. You can never tell just by looking at people, you know - what they’re capable of - trust me.”
Something catches Len’s attention in the mirror behind the bar, a glint from a sequined dress when a brunette joins the press of drinkers behind them and takes up a position beside Jim. He looks at her, back at the reflection, blinks, and wonders why he can’t see Jim as sharply in the mirror, like he’s a ghost or something - must be the lighting. He turns in his seat and examines the stone-like expression on Jim’s face, the fine stubble on his chin; Jim’s eyes seem to glint amber for a split second till he looks away and runs his finger down the neck of the bottle. If he is a ghost, he’s pretty damn solid-looking.
Dammit, he feels dizzy again - he should ask for water.
“Not someone you love, you’ve lived with for five years - I…” The words sound so weak, and so fucking unconvincing to his own ears. Len remembers reading a book where a holocaust survivor had grown obsessed with examining the faces of Nazis, looking at photos for clues for how they could have done what they did, for something in their eyes, the set of their mouths, but finding nothing, nothing at all. He thinks about, Joss, holding Jo-Jo when she was born, sitting opposite him at the breakfast bar, sitting beside him on the couch, her feet in his lap as she goes through her briefs. The woman that could be the poster girl for ‘regular people’. The woman he used to love so much he couldn’t breathe - until daddy got sick, till she joined the other side in hating on him and pointing the finger.
“She’s a mom, my wife. It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”
Jim shrugs, non-committal. Len senses the kid’s holding out on him, and he ought to question him some more, but he feels weak and can’t order his thoughts so good.
He turns the photos so they’re face-down on the bar and raises a finger to beckon the barkeep. He feels Jim’s hand touch his. It’s cool, not cold, but it gives him pause - the guy’s personality, how energetic he seems even when poised on the bar stool, almost motionless, well - he ought to be scalding to the touch.
“You sure you should be having another - you’re driving, right?” Jim’s voice is deep, warm, concerned, when why on earth should he give a damn? It soaks through him.
Fuck, fuck. This business with Joss, there must be some mistake; he’ll have to go through it with Jim, find out whatever he did to get the photos, what he must have heard too to come up with this crazy theory, and find out who the hell he spoke to… It would have been way better if she was sleeping with some other guy - that’s within the parameters of normal at least, a world of shit, but normal.
His head slumps forward…why does he feel so heavy, so…? He hears the barkeep’s voice through a thick fog of weariness and he nods, slurring, “Yeah, the same again.” Jim’s hand is still on his, tightening round his wrist. “I’ll leave the car,” Len hears himself say; his tongue feels double its normal size, the words coming out slow. “Damn, I need to…” he wants Jim to let go…no, needs him to hold on…he feels himself sliding away from the stool his hands reaching out.
“S’okay, Bones, I gotcha…”
+++
“I think I might throw up on you…”
“Hey, fuck, hang on…”
Jim’s got his arm slung around Len, and shitty as he feels, he thinks - face against the kid’s cheek - he can tell there’s something not quite right; Jim’s holding him far too easily for such a scrawny kid, and why’s he not breathing, why can’t he feel it against his temple?
And before he can hope to figure any of this out, next thing, the kid’s dropped him and Len’s head bumps against a hard surface, and Len hears him say, “…shit, sorry, Bones, just…I have to take care of something…”
Dammit, he’s, ow, fuck, he’s hit his head pretty hard and Len’s eyes flutter closed. Over the space of he has no idea what amount of time, he opens and closes them to catch glimpses of Jim standing a few feet away surrounded by some pretty mean looking…Len squints, groans, and rubs an eye because he’s lost a lens or something, that must be why they’re kind of out of focus, and look like their foreheads are all bumpy, reminding him of Klingons on that stupid show Joss can’t seem to quit. He can hear growling too, like they’ve got dogs with them or something, only he can’t see any.
Where the hell is he? They’ve ended up in some shitty alley, could be behind the bar, though he doesn’t remembering leaving. He manages to sit up, brush his hair out of his eyes and he looks towards Jim, hears more growls and then sees Jim run, and jump really high, like a pole-vaulter or like he’s been winched up by a circus wire. He lands effortlessly on a dumpster, legs wide, beckoning three mean looking fucks to come get him.
Len’s head spins again; he leans forward, brings his knees up and smells then sees a fuck-ugly bastard leaning over him, all pig breath and bad skin. And weird-ass yellow eyes. Big teeth. And that’s a hell of a growl - the guy must’ve escaped from a unit or something.
“Say bye-bye.” The idiot’s grin reveals yellow canines that would fit better in the mouth of a bear than a human. Len feels a shudder of fear - where the hell is Jim?
Suddenly, it’s like he’s woken up in some crappy CGI moment; one minute the guy with the bear teeth is there and then, well, he’s not. He literally goes ‘poof’ and fucking disappears in a shimmer of dust, an expression of comical surprise on his face before he vanishes into thin air - revealing a smirking Jim, holding a piece of wood or something in his hand. Jim’s face looks weird too with the same slight bumps on his forehead, and not to mention a fan of prominent veins under amber, wolf-eyes.
“That was close, Bones!” he says cheerfully and turns in time to scissor kick, like he’s a ninja or something, sending another meathead to the deck. Len watches in disbelief as Jim pounces on his victim, grabs the front of his shirt and lifts him off the ground apparently effortlessly, while roaring like an animal. He then aims the wood (Len’s realizes now, this is a stake) right to the heart. There’s another shimmer of dust like metal filings which hold the air for a split-second, then vanish.
Jim spins to look at him, triumph on his transformed features; not a bead of sweat, no flush of colour evident on his cheeks, just this ‘mask’ - what kind of fucking monster is he?
“Friends of Mrs. McCoy,” Jim explains, his tongue flickering to his canines, “The ones I told you about. Looks like they weren’t into my snooping around. Didn’t like my ‘interview’ technique you could say…”
Before Len’s finished attempting to process this, dark shadows advance towards Jim, and then the smirk’s gone and the wood, okay - the stake - drops to Jim’s feet into the piles of litter.
Len watches in horror how Jim’s inexplicably clutching at his throat making sounds like he’s choking; then he realizes that two more lunk-heads have appeared from nowhere and have lassoed him with a long chain round his neck, using it to drag Jim till he hits the ground like a sack of corn, feet kicking; fuck he should do something, help, but Len can’t stand, he’s real dizzy still - he’s gotta do something.
“Thought you could come into my town and sashay around like you own the damn place, eh, Kirk? And who’s this, your boyfriend? Hanging out with humans is never good, dude, makes you soft. Looks bad.”
“Master vampire, my lily-white ass,” another chips in, tightening his hold on the chain, grinning at his friend, watching in amusement as Jim jerks like a fish on a line.
Vampire? What…? Everything falls into place, the skin, the breath, the lack of reflection, the fucking facial transformation, the intense look - Len realizes this is why he’s lost sleep - from movies and shit books, everyone knows vampires use some kind of hypnotic thing to lure and capture their victims. But that’s fiction - this is real. Only how can it be?
Jim splutters and Len can tell he’s lost this fight. He sees one of the guys raise his arm and he’s holding a stake too - he’s going to kill Jim, he realizes and is filled with sudden determination, an understanding that he can’t allow this.
Len folds forward and onto his side with a fake groan, so it looks like he’s passing out, and he can feel the stake Jim dropped is under his thigh. He works his arm so he can get a grip on it then staggers to his feet. Adrenaline keeps him upright, helps clear his head though he feigns being drunk, slurs, laying on his accent real thick to keep the show going.
“Think I’m gonna puke, shit…” he peeks sideways at the strong legs in front of him, “Hey, Jim, I thought you were gonna call a cab.” He ignores the choking sound coming from near his feet and he lurches left, then right, hand holding the stake near his belly. He gags like he’s going to throw up and, just as he smells the scent of carrion, of death near his face when one of the assholes comes close, he brings his arm back and jabs forward hard, hitting the guy with the attitude, with all the precision of a surgeon, right in the heart.
He feels flesh give, a faint tingle round his hand like he’s dipped it in bubbles, and glowers triumphant into startled, feral eyes, and just like that, the vamp’s gone. “Fuck you!” he hisses into the empty space where the monster used to be. “Leonard McCoy, vampire hunter, pleased to make your acquaintance!” He turns and glares at the other guy - the acting thing must be in the air in this town because, damn he’s good.
The other guy drops the chain, feet sliding in the trash and sprints off to leap onto a dumpster and upwards, holding onto a drain pipe with one hand. He pauses to look over his shoulder at them, then skitters up sheer glass like a spider and disappears over the roof edge.
It’s repellent and fucked up, but Len doesn’t give himself time to dwell on it; he’s gotta help Jim.
He’s in the fetal position, coughing, choking, mouth frothing blood, hands clawing at his neck feebly. The skin’s raw, like it’s had acid dropped on it and his fingers are dripping blood where they made contact with the chain. Len remembers dimly that the other vamps wore gloves.
“Jim, let go, I got it, ‘k’?” He carefully untangles the thin links - it looks like silver, no thicker than a length of wool but obviously deadly to the man - creature - in front of him.
“What the fuck are you, Jim, that was…shit, like something out of a vamp show. Is that what you are? A fucking vampire?” And he can’t believe he’s asking this, but then, how can he deny the truth of what he’s just witnessed, what he’s been a part of?
Jim gapes, raises a hand which then drops, and suddenly he looks very young, like his body’s shrinking before Len, and for the second time since he’s been in this alley, Len doesn’t think, he just follows his instinct.
“You’re gonna die, aren’t you, if I don’t help you?”
Jim splutters, “…silver…’s’poison…fuck…”
Len tosses the chain away and stretches Jim out on his back, feeling the skin on his face and neck with his knuckles. It’s clammy, cold and he’s shivering. “You going to fucking die?” he brings his face close, so Jim can speak in his ear.
“…sorry…”
Len pulls Jim up into a sitting position, sits with one leg bent behind him to support his weight and ignores the fact that he’s stroking Jim’s jaw, his face, like it’s a loved-one he’s trying to comfort.
“Tell me how I can help you? Should I take you to the E.R.?” The bumps have disappeared from Jim’s brow, his skin smooth, human, unblemished again, apart from the pock marks on his chin, stubble (fucking vamps have stubble?) and despite the fact that he’s clearly fucked, blood pouring from the tear on his throat where the chain bit into him, Jim’s eyes are still brilliant, shining in the dark alley like a cat’s in headlights.
Jim’s got no heart beat, how the fuck’s he supposed to stop blood flow? Still Len tries, spreading his bloodstained fingers over the area pressing tight, the blood cool, thick and seeping round his fingers like mercury. “What do you need, Jim? Tell me!”
Jim’s eyes flicker up towards Len’s neck, then close tight like he’s thrown a period into a sentence he daren’t even start.
Something twists inside Len when the nickel drops. Is he scared? Any more than he is when he’s got anyone’s life in his hands and he just does what he has to do? Hell no.
“Jim, it’s okay…do it…” his voice is grit in his mouth.
In the faintest of movements Jim shakes his head; Len realizes that every second is another too long because now there are cracks forming under Jim’s eyes, like he’s drying out, turning into chalk in front of him, dust…shit, Len’s going to have to make him.
He kneels against Jim’s hip, cups a hand under his neck, and lifts him up like he’s made of paper. He guides Jim’s mouth to his jugular, shifts so Jim can lean against him, “Just fucking do it, okay…only a sip, mind…I…fuck…”
Vamp instinct’s kicked in, looks like, because he feels the brush of Jim’s lips against his skin and then teeth clamp onto his throat; there’s a slight resistance as Jim tests the spot, then he hears a barely audible growl when they break the surface. It’s all Len can do not to shove him away, fighting the fear that this was some huge fucking mistake but he couldn’t just stand by and let Jim die, could he?
The sensation’s like molten metal’s being drawn right up one side of his body and Len lets out a moan of pain and surprise, his cock hardening instantly.
Panting, he takes Jim’s hand and guides it to the back of his own head so he can feel Jim’s fingers teasing the hairs at the nape. He holds it in place while Jim sucks, until Jim can take over, still too weak to hold on. Jim’s other hand is fisted in Len’s shirt and Len tugs him closer, wrapping his legs around him.
He feels the strength returning to Jim in equal amounts it seems to be leaving him, the rhythmic pulse as Jim feeds from him, drawing life in, deflating Len, using him up, suddenly no longer pain-laced, but warm, peaceful and comforting.
Len couldn’t move now if he wanted to; his arms drop to his sides, body arching back, held by Jim like he’s made of nothing heavier than one of the crushed boxes in the alley. Then his head drops and Len stares glassy-eyed over the dirty blond hair at the nearby dumpster, blue and beat up, the phone number on the side already out of focus.
The sounds from the bar behind them fade like they’ve sunk into the ocean until there’s nothing but the whooshing of his heartbeat, struggling against the assault, the moans from Jim, as he sucks, each pull somehow connected to sensations in his belly and his cock, so he feels on fire, can feel the heat transferring to Jim’s skin.
He’s the one turning to dust, the dizziness is back, and Jim’s climbed onto him, practically sitting on Len’s lap and fuck, he’s gotta stop and Len thinks he can hear Jim’s thoughts now, or maybe he’s just dying and he’s hallucinating as the endorphins kick in, to make it easier for him - thank you physiology…
Fuck, Bones, fuck, taste so good, like everything good, like you’re mine, like I remember.
Want, acceptance and need wash through Len, and he’s unsure if these are his emotions or Jim’s; he can feel Jim’s cock pressing against him through his clothes and he’s hard too; then he feels a shudder - maybe the last thing he’s ever gonna feel or know. There’s a moan from Jim and Len’s head falls back when the clamp around his neck loosens and he blacks out, coming in his pants, an idiot hanged-man kicking out his last breath against Jim’s cool lips.
+++
end of part 3a and onto part 3b