Extended Moments III
Title: Extended Moments III
Author: crazywriter10
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG-13 (swearing, use of the f-word, some violence)
Series: Fine Black Lines
Summary: I had so much fun writing Reveal and Inked, so I decided to lengthen those moments from Reveal into something a little more tangible. This is the third of those extended moments.
It was the job of the CMO to keep everyone on the flagship healthy. To do this, Len spent quite a bit of time in his Sickbay patching up. From the most slight of cuts and scrapes - the engineering teams not minding their fingers as the useful and necessary appendages they were - to those away missions where someone came back bleeding or with a limb threatening to possibly fall off on the floor. Len had seen a lot in his short tenure as CMO, and much more during his career as a doctor as a whole.
He spent a majority of his time around people who either sneezing, bleeding, oozing, or in some sort of pain. When he wasn’t busy with any of that, he was usually in his lab running specimens and experiments.
Occasionally, when the situation warranted, he fulfilled the Lieutenant Commander part of his life by going on an away mission or two. If it involved drugs, viruses, or advanced medical care, Len went from swearing under his breath at test tubes to silently freaking out on the transporter pad.
This was one such occasion.
The particular planet they were orbiting - Vyra…something, Len couldn’t remember - had extended an invitation to him through Jim to have a look at their current medical facility for sick children. They were rumored to have advancements they wouldn’t mind sharing with the Federation, and Len was always curious to see how other medical facilities were run. He knew his own bedside manner - or lack thereof depending on who one spoke to - and he knew M’Benga’s, and he was…well, he was curious as a cat that didn’t know any better.
Hell, he didn’t even mind when Scotty said there was something in the atmosphere that made using the transporter impossible and they had to take the shuttle. Len clutched at the armrests, looked at the ceiling, and prayed the damn thing wouldn’t come apart from the force of entering the atmosphere. With Jim piloting the thing, Len didn’t have the same comfortable weight against his shoulder that he’d had when he’d flown from Riverside to San Francisco. He was not happy about it, either.
Jim’s sense of self-preservation - and many lectures on Len’s part while standing over Jim’s prone form in a biobed later on - had him landing the shuttle in a clearing and the team walking into the village. The village council was there to greet them, and Len found himself whisked off without a word to the wiser in the direction of the clinic. He waved over his shoulder with his communicator to appease Jim and Spock, and allowed himself to be tugged into the rather crude wood structure. It was bigger than the other structures around it, a strange symbol over the door that he took for “medical” in whatever language they spoke.
His guide seemed to have vanished between one doorway and the next, and he tucked his communicator back into his pocket. Rubbing at the hairs on the back of his neck, he tried one of the doors on either side of the hall. They were locked. Okay. That was….odd. There weren’t really any locked doors in his Sickbay - including his office. Actually, on occasion, it was as though it was a swinging door.
Len wandered down the hall a little more and peeked around a door that was open. He was expecting a couple of beds, maybe a playroom with the children in it, laughing and playing for a little bit to forget that they were sick. What he found was a room with desks and various weapons hanging on the wall.
Every warning bell and self-preservation instinct that he both came by naturally and had been trained into him by Starfleet and Jim flared wildly.
Shit. Len backed out of the room and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t dare bring his communicator out since it would probably beep and make all sorts of noise and otherwise compromise his current position in case things were going south. And things felt like they were going south, even if they hadn’t turned pear-shaped yet.
The damn thing chirped in his pocket.
He fumbled with it and almost dropped it on the rough floor. “What?”
”Bones, can you meet us back at the shuttle? That was Jim’s there’s something fishy going on and I’d like to keep all my limbs and my personnel at the moment tone and Len responded to that better than he probably responded to his own adrenal glands.
“On my way.” Len shut the communicator, stuffed it in his pocket, and turned to go back the way he came.
And nearly ran down the guide he’d thought had abandoned him.
“Hi, yeah, so sorry but I have to go,” he babbled, ducking by the slighter man and trying to walk quickly but not too quickly, and definitely try not to look like the only thing keeping him from running was no alerting them that something was wrong. He turned a random corner and walked a little faster. Should he call Jim? Say something was up and he was still stuck inside the clinic? Though, from the look of the weapons on the wall it wasn’t so much a clinic as a coup center or something.
Len barely noticed that he’d run into a dead-end until he nearly smashed his nose into the wall.
Okay, no exit. He did a quick turn-around and picked a different path. Why were there no windows in this damn place? Medical facility his ass…
He wasn’t sure which rabbit hole he’d fallen into, but he was sure as shit looking for a way out.
Turning a corner in one breath he was looking up from his back on the floor, a dull ringing in his head and what felt like a bruise the size of a baseball growing around his left eye. A man the size of a mountain loomed over him, and he rolled to the right, away from Mountain Man to try and get his feet under him. Every lesson he’d had in self-defense had seemed to be gone from his head, and he staggered down the hall back in the direction he’d just come.
Fucking…shit… He rammed his shoulder into the nearest door over and over. There had to be a window in one of those rooms. The communicator in his pocket chirped as the shoddy construction work gave way painfully beneath his right shoulder. He stumbled into the room, his left eye slowly but surely swelling shut.
Twelve heavily armed men looked up from around a rough-hewn conference table, the silence practically audible.
“Um…Help?” His communicator chirped again; pain radiated from the back of his head and darkness descended on his good eye as the floor rushed up to meet him.
* * *
Len came to as they were dragging him literally through the mud by his tied wrists. He had just enough coherency to realize he was outside between the dwellings, his belt digging painfully into his tailbone, dirt and rocks cascading under the elastic waistband of his boxers.
Gave a whole new meaning to the term “getting his rocks off.”
His ass was dragged over a particularly large rock and he twisted his hips, trying to dig his heels in. Wherever he was going, he didn’t want to. Anything to do with tied wrists wasn’t anything he wanted a part of.
Unless the tie was silk and it was in the bedroom and…
He kicked and bucked, trying to get his feet under him. The grip on his wrists tightened, digging the harsh rope into the sensitive skin. They passed through what smelled like a barnyard, Len looking for anything to wrap his legs around in protest. There was nothing - only a hit on the side of the head from the door as it swung shut behind whoever was pulling him.
There was some scuffling from the room they’d just entered - it was some sort of main room in what seriously smelled like a barn. Oh, look, there was even a pig in the corner, if he turned his head. He was dragged up by the wrists, shoulders taut, and he kicked back blindly once he was upright enough to be on solid footing.
He was a doctor. He knew shoulder muscles weren’t meant to stretch that way.
“Fuck,” he grunted, yanked up onto his toes and then a little further. The rope between his wrists was hung from a hook hanging from a pipe. From the smell of it, it had once upon a time held raw meat. The man behind him gave him a sharp smack to the back of the head and came around his left side on his way to the door. Len’s weight pulled on his wrists, chafing them in the ropes as the door swung shut. He twisted in his bonds trying to balance on his toes.
The heat in the barn was almost oppressive, and it stunk nearly all the way to the orbiting Enterprise. Len was still trying to find his precarious balance, and he wondered idly how long it would take before he started talking to himself.
The pig in the corner gave a grunt as it shifted hay.
Rather, how long it would take before he started talking to the pig.
* * *
I can’t take him anywhere, Jim thought as he pushed open the door to the crude barn the council had informed him was where his CMO was being held. Len’s left eye was swollen shut in a mass of purple. He was hanging from the ceiling much like a slab of raw meat at a butchers, and Jim shuddered at his own ill-conceived reference.
He stepped in front of Len - the man looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. “You cost four pounds of peanut butter to them, you know.” He stepped around to Len’s back , running his hands and up down Len’s ribcage. Were those stones in the elastic of his boxers? Seriously? Len’s shirts were already riding up, and he rucked them up a little further, running his fingers over the inked Harm under some shape he couldn’t readily identify.
Len stiffened.
Jim pulled a knife he’d borrowed from one of the now-happy village elders munching on straight peanut butter and sawed at the bloody bonds holding Len’s wrists. Len’s arms flopped to his sides with a grunt and his knees quivered under his full weight. He needed Jim’s help to get an arm over the blonde’s shoulders, head lolling senselessly toward Jim’s neck. It was a familiar scent to someone who’d been smelling nothing but dirt, mold, and that damned pig in the corner for the better part of three days. He shook as Jim walked them both to the door.
He kissed Len’s matted, filthy hair, refusing to think of every single thought that he might have somehow lost Len in the past three days, whispering, “But you’re priceless to me.”
Len’s other hand came around to tangle in the fabric of Jim’s gold command shirt over his belly, damned determined to make sure this was something real and tangible, and not some scenario he was describing to the pig still scuffling in the corner.
Author: crazywriter10
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG-13 (swearing, use of the f-word, some violence)
Series: Fine Black Lines
Summary: I had so much fun writing Reveal and Inked, so I decided to lengthen those moments from Reveal into something a little more tangible. This is the third of those extended moments.
It was the job of the CMO to keep everyone on the flagship healthy. To do this, Len spent quite a bit of time in his Sickbay patching up. From the most slight of cuts and scrapes - the engineering teams not minding their fingers as the useful and necessary appendages they were - to those away missions where someone came back bleeding or with a limb threatening to possibly fall off on the floor. Len had seen a lot in his short tenure as CMO, and much more during his career as a doctor as a whole.
He spent a majority of his time around people who either sneezing, bleeding, oozing, or in some sort of pain. When he wasn’t busy with any of that, he was usually in his lab running specimens and experiments.
Occasionally, when the situation warranted, he fulfilled the Lieutenant Commander part of his life by going on an away mission or two. If it involved drugs, viruses, or advanced medical care, Len went from swearing under his breath at test tubes to silently freaking out on the transporter pad.
This was one such occasion.
The particular planet they were orbiting - Vyra…something, Len couldn’t remember - had extended an invitation to him through Jim to have a look at their current medical facility for sick children. They were rumored to have advancements they wouldn’t mind sharing with the Federation, and Len was always curious to see how other medical facilities were run. He knew his own bedside manner - or lack thereof depending on who one spoke to - and he knew M’Benga’s, and he was…well, he was curious as a cat that didn’t know any better.
Hell, he didn’t even mind when Scotty said there was something in the atmosphere that made using the transporter impossible and they had to take the shuttle. Len clutched at the armrests, looked at the ceiling, and prayed the damn thing wouldn’t come apart from the force of entering the atmosphere. With Jim piloting the thing, Len didn’t have the same comfortable weight against his shoulder that he’d had when he’d flown from Riverside to San Francisco. He was not happy about it, either.
Jim’s sense of self-preservation - and many lectures on Len’s part while standing over Jim’s prone form in a biobed later on - had him landing the shuttle in a clearing and the team walking into the village. The village council was there to greet them, and Len found himself whisked off without a word to the wiser in the direction of the clinic. He waved over his shoulder with his communicator to appease Jim and Spock, and allowed himself to be tugged into the rather crude wood structure. It was bigger than the other structures around it, a strange symbol over the door that he took for “medical” in whatever language they spoke.
His guide seemed to have vanished between one doorway and the next, and he tucked his communicator back into his pocket. Rubbing at the hairs on the back of his neck, he tried one of the doors on either side of the hall. They were locked. Okay. That was….odd. There weren’t really any locked doors in his Sickbay - including his office. Actually, on occasion, it was as though it was a swinging door.
Len wandered down the hall a little more and peeked around a door that was open. He was expecting a couple of beds, maybe a playroom with the children in it, laughing and playing for a little bit to forget that they were sick. What he found was a room with desks and various weapons hanging on the wall.
Every warning bell and self-preservation instinct that he both came by naturally and had been trained into him by Starfleet and Jim flared wildly.
Shit. Len backed out of the room and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t dare bring his communicator out since it would probably beep and make all sorts of noise and otherwise compromise his current position in case things were going south. And things felt like they were going south, even if they hadn’t turned pear-shaped yet.
The damn thing chirped in his pocket.
He fumbled with it and almost dropped it on the rough floor. “What?”
”Bones, can you meet us back at the shuttle? That was Jim’s there’s something fishy going on and I’d like to keep all my limbs and my personnel at the moment tone and Len responded to that better than he probably responded to his own adrenal glands.
“On my way.” Len shut the communicator, stuffed it in his pocket, and turned to go back the way he came.
And nearly ran down the guide he’d thought had abandoned him.
“Hi, yeah, so sorry but I have to go,” he babbled, ducking by the slighter man and trying to walk quickly but not too quickly, and definitely try not to look like the only thing keeping him from running was no alerting them that something was wrong. He turned a random corner and walked a little faster. Should he call Jim? Say something was up and he was still stuck inside the clinic? Though, from the look of the weapons on the wall it wasn’t so much a clinic as a coup center or something.
Len barely noticed that he’d run into a dead-end until he nearly smashed his nose into the wall.
Okay, no exit. He did a quick turn-around and picked a different path. Why were there no windows in this damn place? Medical facility his ass…
He wasn’t sure which rabbit hole he’d fallen into, but he was sure as shit looking for a way out.
Turning a corner in one breath he was looking up from his back on the floor, a dull ringing in his head and what felt like a bruise the size of a baseball growing around his left eye. A man the size of a mountain loomed over him, and he rolled to the right, away from Mountain Man to try and get his feet under him. Every lesson he’d had in self-defense had seemed to be gone from his head, and he staggered down the hall back in the direction he’d just come.
Fucking…shit… He rammed his shoulder into the nearest door over and over. There had to be a window in one of those rooms. The communicator in his pocket chirped as the shoddy construction work gave way painfully beneath his right shoulder. He stumbled into the room, his left eye slowly but surely swelling shut.
Twelve heavily armed men looked up from around a rough-hewn conference table, the silence practically audible.
“Um…Help?” His communicator chirped again; pain radiated from the back of his head and darkness descended on his good eye as the floor rushed up to meet him.
* * *
Len came to as they were dragging him literally through the mud by his tied wrists. He had just enough coherency to realize he was outside between the dwellings, his belt digging painfully into his tailbone, dirt and rocks cascading under the elastic waistband of his boxers.
Gave a whole new meaning to the term “getting his rocks off.”
His ass was dragged over a particularly large rock and he twisted his hips, trying to dig his heels in. Wherever he was going, he didn’t want to. Anything to do with tied wrists wasn’t anything he wanted a part of.
Unless the tie was silk and it was in the bedroom and…
He kicked and bucked, trying to get his feet under him. The grip on his wrists tightened, digging the harsh rope into the sensitive skin. They passed through what smelled like a barnyard, Len looking for anything to wrap his legs around in protest. There was nothing - only a hit on the side of the head from the door as it swung shut behind whoever was pulling him.
There was some scuffling from the room they’d just entered - it was some sort of main room in what seriously smelled like a barn. Oh, look, there was even a pig in the corner, if he turned his head. He was dragged up by the wrists, shoulders taut, and he kicked back blindly once he was upright enough to be on solid footing.
He was a doctor. He knew shoulder muscles weren’t meant to stretch that way.
“Fuck,” he grunted, yanked up onto his toes and then a little further. The rope between his wrists was hung from a hook hanging from a pipe. From the smell of it, it had once upon a time held raw meat. The man behind him gave him a sharp smack to the back of the head and came around his left side on his way to the door. Len’s weight pulled on his wrists, chafing them in the ropes as the door swung shut. He twisted in his bonds trying to balance on his toes.
The heat in the barn was almost oppressive, and it stunk nearly all the way to the orbiting Enterprise. Len was still trying to find his precarious balance, and he wondered idly how long it would take before he started talking to himself.
The pig in the corner gave a grunt as it shifted hay.
Rather, how long it would take before he started talking to the pig.
* * *
I can’t take him anywhere, Jim thought as he pushed open the door to the crude barn the council had informed him was where his CMO was being held. Len’s left eye was swollen shut in a mass of purple. He was hanging from the ceiling much like a slab of raw meat at a butchers, and Jim shuddered at his own ill-conceived reference.
He stepped in front of Len - the man looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. “You cost four pounds of peanut butter to them, you know.” He stepped around to Len’s back , running his hands and up down Len’s ribcage. Were those stones in the elastic of his boxers? Seriously? Len’s shirts were already riding up, and he rucked them up a little further, running his fingers over the inked Harm under some shape he couldn’t readily identify.
Len stiffened.
Jim pulled a knife he’d borrowed from one of the now-happy village elders munching on straight peanut butter and sawed at the bloody bonds holding Len’s wrists. Len’s arms flopped to his sides with a grunt and his knees quivered under his full weight. He needed Jim’s help to get an arm over the blonde’s shoulders, head lolling senselessly toward Jim’s neck. It was a familiar scent to someone who’d been smelling nothing but dirt, mold, and that damned pig in the corner for the better part of three days. He shook as Jim walked them both to the door.
He kissed Len’s matted, filthy hair, refusing to think of every single thought that he might have somehow lost Len in the past three days, whispering, “But you’re priceless to me.”
Len’s other hand came around to tangle in the fabric of Jim’s gold command shirt over his belly, damned determined to make sure this was something real and tangible, and not some scenario he was describing to the pig still scuffling in the corner.