FIC: Little Wild Bouquet 1/6
title: Little Wild Bouquet
23rd century AU, Star Trek (AOS) set in the mirrorverse - for the jim_and_bones Halloween Costume Challenge in response to the costume photo prompt ‘Robin Hood’.
characters: Kirk/McCoy, Pike, Sulu, Uhura, Scotty, and a couple of others but I don’t want to spoil :D
words: this part approx.. 2,700 words. WIP in 6 parts, projected 20-25K.
rating: nc-17
Summary: Jim Kirk is hiding out in Iowa Forest when he gets captured by a gang of misfits led by ‘Doc’ who mistakenly think Jim’s a cadet and hopes to claim a ransom from Starfleet. Like McCoy, in the past George and Sam Kirk have been involved in an underground movement to destroy the Empire and set up a republic, and are known as ‘crats’ - followers of democracy. Is Jim a chip off the old block, or will Doc be paying Jim to leave?
warnings: mirrorverse light. The rating is due to explicit man-sex a bit later :D although there are acts of violence, references to violence in some detail ‘off camera’, bad language and bad manners. Also some mild medical gore. And minor character death.
A/N: While this is mirrorverse, it is very light and based more on the concept of a society along the lines of ancient Rome where those in power are ruthless and above the law, while everyone else just muddles along best they can. And it’s an AU because… well things go a slightly different way than in the movie. Yes, complicated premise is complicated.
+Also, for the benefit of any readers who are still in USA, post-election mind-set, know that ‘republicans’ and ‘democrats’ have a different meaning in the context of this fic. The ancient Romans had those who wanted to preserve the empire with an emperor leading it, and those who wanted to establish a democracy and set up a republic. In my world, ‘crats’ are supporters of democracy and want to bring down the Empire.
+I nearly forgot - the title is a line from the poem/song Democracy by Leonard Cohen
Many thanks to the wonderful awarrington for beta reading and for so much more, such as asking questions that made me write plot!*gasp* Some of the ideas in the fic are totally hers, and many edits that make it better in every way (including science and doctor speak at which I suck) - thank you sweetie!
Also thanks to weepingnaiad for word warring with me, her support for my ghastly first drafts and for cheer-leading in general.
disclaimer: none of the characters are mine but belong to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. I just making them play with each other’s naughty bits.
Intriguing snippet “Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest.
AMAZING ART by the wonderful, talented loobeeinthesky! It’s so beautiful!
on Archive of our Own
Little Wild Bouquet
Part 1
“Doc!” Sulu’s voice is a slightly too loud whisper but, given where they’re perched, it’s better he woke Leonard like this than by poking him.
It’s understandable that Leonard should have momentarily lost the fight against the drag of sleep; ten hours the woman was in labor. He feels a glow of satisfaction, remembering his patient’s expression: tired relief, followed by awed confusion when he placed the baby into her grateful arms.
She’s gone already, fuck knows where, wet nurse in tow, taking over immediately; fucking noble women and their insistence on detaching from their young. Gram clipped his own mother round the ear often enough, chastising her for allowing too strong a bond to form by feeding Leonard herself.
He yawns, flushes with irritation, bleary eyes following Sulu’s ‘that way’ gesture.
Leonard nods and adjusts his position on the branch where he sits horse-back on it, thighs clamping tighter. The leaves are beginning to turn with hints of gold and purple, rustling and rattling around them. He lifts his binoculars, sweeps across the forest canopy to hone in on their target who has wheeled his motorbike closer to the stream, closer to them.
“Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest. He covers up by faking another yawn.
“Should’ve let me come with Monty,” Sulu whispers.
“Stim’s wore off is all - I’m good,” Leonard whispers back, eyes still on their target who shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the seat. He then pulls a comm from his back pocket, scrolls down the screen, tucks it away and bends down to unlace his boots. With the definition, Leonard can see they’re worn but well cared for, recently re-heeled but not polished. Must have sentimental value, or maybe the kid stole them, he doesn’t look the type to care about anything - even the bike’s battered though it purred well enough where they tracked him on the perimeter of their territory. Leonard thinks wearily how living the life of a criminal makes you a better detective than the average citizen of the Empire.
He swaps hands and rubs an eye with his middle finger, swallowing when he sees the young punk pull off his t-shirt to reveal a pattern of three nautical stars curving on his teres minor. Leonard’s eyes rake down a skinny but well defined back, till he catches himself and can drag his gaze away. He’s healthy looking, Leonard tells himself, so he must have some credits to his name though he’s dressed like a bum. And he has a lot of scars but then who hasn’t by the time they reach manhood?
“Now, boss?”
The kid’s lowering his jeans. Leonard makes a staying gesture and swallows when he sees the little punk’s commando. He clamps his lips tight and makes damn sure not to glance at Sulu; if they catch eyes, Sulu, ever ready for a bit of banter, will make something of his hesitation. It’s just Leonard wants to be sure is all; they’re going to get just one shot at this. Maybe they should wait till dark.
Leonard shifts on the branch and leans forward. His eyes rake over the image in his sights, following the kid who strides naked into the stream and lets out an audible yelp at the cold. Leonard watches him crouch and scoop water over dirty blond hair that falls too long over his ears. He ignores the little twinge in his cock when the kid turns- damn, he really should get laid occasionally - sexual frustration is clouding his thinking.
“Boss?”
Once the kid’s struggled back into his jeans, Leonard raises his hand and nods. He lowers the binoculars and Sulu lifts the cross-bow then his eyes flick back to their target to watch in satisfaction when he sees the kid drop, the tranquilizer dart hitting home instantly.
They slide down from the tree and jog towards him. He’s fallen mouth open onto his side. Sulu nudges the kid’s hip with his boot and stands back while Leonard runs the tricorder over him, over damp, creamy skin, a lightly haired chest and skinny hips. He flicks pine needles off his skin where they’ve stuck to him.
“Credits, credits, I love you credits!” Sulu whoops and pulls the rope off his belt. He faces Leonard, counts, “two, three, four-“
“For the good of the many,” they both chorus and salute.
Leonard flicks his comm open. “Monty, we’re done here. Come get the bike - he’ll be out for a while.”
+++
Jim’s shoulder’s going to snap if this soon to be dead asshole doesn’t let go.
Saliva soaks the sack or whatever filthy fucking cloth they’ve used to cover his face and his skin stings on his arms and neck where he’s made contact with the forest floor. He’s memorizing voices, details as they drag him through the forest backwards. He twists and hollers, unable to kick even, not the way they’ve hog tied him with restraints round his thighs, his calves and ankles. He registers that he’s somehow wearing his t-shirt again but that his beloved jacket is gone which only makes his need to murder one of these bastards even more intense.
Fuck - he should have told someone where he was going; they’d be able to track him via his comm, right? Only no one he wants to find him would have had a clue where he was before the sniper got him and they hauled him here. Wherever ‘here’ is.
He knows he’s still in the forest, even though he lost consciousness for a while there. He can feel pine needles caught on his skin, and what the fuck, he can smell horse shit. Who the hell has horses anymore? Maybe they’re for food - yeah, that makes sense.
The forests are more dangerous than the cities harboring small bands of outlaws and the detritus of society; away from the city’s surveillance, they can pretty much do as they please, the miles and miles of dense Iowa woodland populated by villains left to their own devices by the gouty Empire. These days it gathers enough taxes and loot in the black that it gives even less of a shit about the safety of its citizens. Jim suspects that sometimes Starfleet even recruits its most badass red shirts from the wilderness, the promises of the spoils of battle enticing them out of the trees.
And isn’t that why he’s here? To hide out from the cops?
Well that worked out just great; out of the fucking frying pan…
“I’ll make you pay” Jim manages to get out, but his threat sounds lame even to his own ears; still he’s gotten out of tighter corners than this before.
When his head thunks against a tree trunk or something, he yelps more in surprise than pain and decides to change tack; it might be best to play it quiet and afraid, so when he makes his move - once he’s taken his sweet time eviscerating their fucking hides - it’ll be all the sweeter.
“Don’t, don’t,” he playacts, whining while trying not to smirk as more than one pair of hands twists him round and he lands face first in a heap of leaves. The muscles in his shoulders scream and his arms are brutally twisted harder behind him as the restraints are pulled tighter.
Finally, one of the fuckers speaks. “Hey, don’t cry, cadet.” The words drip with sarcasm, with fake concern.
‘Cadet’? Why do they think…? Ah, it’s because he’s wearing that asshole Cupcake’s dog tags. That’s good - if they find out who he really is, they’ll embed his feet in concrete to keep him from escaping.
“Keep fucking still!” another voice shouts, accompanied by the familiar press of cold steel at his throat.
Jim makes himself flinch, totally in character now. “Don’t hurt me, please - I’ll tell you anything.”
He strains to work out how many of them there are; there’s at least half a dozen voices, one of them a woman’s, but he’s yet to identify anyone who might be in charge. All the better, a gang of thugs he can deal with; as soon as he wins one of them over he’ll be out of here and no need for anyone to know about his little hike gone wrong in the woods.
“Hear that?” a Scottish voice says with a chuckle. “He thinks we give a toss about what he knows.” There’s a crunch as a kick lands on his ass and Jim bites his lip to stop himself with the threats. Man is he ever going to enjoy killing this fuck in particular.
Instead he chokes back a fake sob and tries to curl into a ball, bracing himself for the next assault. He knows that if he was the one wearing the boot, the more pathetic the reaction, the more he’d kick so…
“Monty, quit!” A booming voice commands, southern accent all molasses and spurs. Jim licks his lips and waits for the sound of, at the very least, a cuff to the Scottish bastard’s ear but no such thing happens.
“Doc, he’s not putting up much of a fight, I was getting bored.” A grunted response and Jim can feel the leader’s presence as he looms over, bringing with him a faint waft of whiskey and cigars. Man, Jim’s only got himself captured by cowboys. Great.
“He’s not gonna be worth a fucking hog’s hide if you cover him in contusions, is he?”
Not a natural leader, Jim surmises; for one, why’s he explaining himself to his goon? And why isn’t the scot being punished for back talking? Jim waits for the sound of an agonizer at least, or the threat of one, but all he can sense is irritation coming off the boss in waves.
Credits, they’re after payment, Jim thinks. Fuck - who’s gonna pay a ransom for his hide? Actually, now he’s blown out on Pike, maybe the cops.
“He’s wearing cadet tags, boss,” another voice says, a lazy drawl from his left, “the way those Starfleet dudes look after their own, they’d cough up even when we start removing his fingers.”
Yeah, if Starfleet had anything to do with him.
“God damn it, Hik, but you’re a theatrical asshole,” Doc growls but with no heat in his voice.
“Dog tags don’t match up with his comm ID,” a woman’s voice remarks.
“Must have stolen them,” Doc muses, moving away.
“And the bike’s got fake ID too, seems like it’s been registered to a long deceased citizen,” the woman continues.
Jim stays stock still braced for another kick while he remembers with a leer how he yanked the tags off the simian cadet in a Riverside pub, right before he drove his dagger into the motherfucker’s belly. He flushes with satisfaction. No one gives a damn who you kill in a bar, long as honor’s at stake, but touch a Starfleet cadet and you’re dead meat - once they’ve slow-cooked you in a booth that is. If it hadn’t have been for Pike intervening when he did, that’s exactly what would have happened.
“What’s his name?” Doc doesn’t sound that interested and for some reason this makes Jim feel a little disappointed.
“Says here, Tiberius George,” the Scot says, “it’s not his real name; man’s a consummate hacker by the looks of things, though he’s left big, clumsy finger prints all over his work.”
Jim wants to protest at that - he was on the run, dammit, hurriedly changing his comm print in a rest-stop in shit light, and he’d broken his reading glasses in the fight. He takes a deep breath - fuck ‘em - what does he care what they think?
“So…” Doc draws out the vowel with what Jim’s realising is his default, sarcastic drawl. “Instead of a cadet, we’ve got ourselves a bum - someone who’s not worth the scrapings off a hog’s balls.” There’s laughter and Jim grinds his teeth, keeping quiet. “Fact is we’ve got ourselves a piece of meat no one wants and seeing as we haven’t quite yet taken up cannibalism, he’s a problem.”
“No one wants him,” the woman says, her voice acid. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Jim hears the sound of a knife being drawn from a metal sheath and wishes he was a religious man, that he believed in Jupiter or some such fuck who at least could provide him with comfort in his last moments. He swallows, twitches, taking solace in all he’s got: charm, brains - badassary not quite available right now, given the rope and sack; but these have never failed him yet and they’re just a bunch of low-rent hoods, right?
“Wait!” he says.
A beat.
“Wait?” The Doc, Jim knew it, isn’t a natural leader. Good thing, because if it were Jim in charge, he’d have had himself killed as soon as they worked out the tags were stolen. Now Jim’s got a life line.
“If it was me, you know, in your shoes. Boots even. I’d sell the bike,” Jim says swallowing, waiting. His voice seems to disappear into the trees.
“Would you now? I hadn’t thought of that, had you, crew?” Seriously, the sarcastic tone, Doc’s drawl is having unexpected effects on Jim’s cock but he drives forward, seeing as it’s life and death at stake.
“Yes, Doc, only you won’t be able to without my help-”
“Must be booby trapped,” the Scot says admiringly, “I’d have done the same.”
“And it’s worth a lot of credits,” Jim says tentatively, feeling his nose twitch, fucking sack, fuck his life. “If you’re going to kill me, can I at least look my executioner in the eye?” Jim takes a chance and struggles onto his back and tries to sit upright, turning towards where the woman so keen to kill him last stood. “You sound kind of hot, baby.”
He smiles in satisfaction when he hears her cursing. “Fucking hick, who you calling baby?”
“Shush, Nyota, can’t you see he’s trying to get you all riled up,” Doc says, amusement in his voice. “Sulu, take off the sack, let’s take a look at this bum.”
Jim hears footsteps approach and braces himself, tries to make himself look tough when he feels fingers at his throat, the sack loosen and then he blinks, eyes gritty and sore, forcing them open against the lamp held near. He looks into the face of his captor, Asian features, fine and unlined, a scar across one cheek, eyes cold and amused - yep, this one’s the dangerous one, he decides.
Jim drops his head in mock submission but glances up when Sulu steps away revealing the rest of the group. He scans them quickly - there’s the one the doc called Nyota, yep definitely hot, a knife in one hand, nice boots. And that must be the Scot, a tricorder in his hand and a sword at his hip, staring at Jim with an unreadable expression, and …Jim suppresses the desire to let out an appreciative whistle when he sees the Doc, his eyes tracking up long, long thighs, over a broad chest and settling on a dark-eyed scowl which sends little shocks right down to his dick. Hmm, he might have to kill this one last.
More importantly, one look at his face and Jim knows Doc won’t have him killed.
“Hey, Sulu,” he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows to indicate he come closer. Sulu strides back and crouches by him - man, what a bunch of amateurs.
Sulu’s nose makes a satisfying crunch when Jim head butts him. He recovers and Jim laughs maniacally, though Sulu’s astride his chest, pummelling his face with murderous fists, dimly aware of Doc and the Scot trying to pull him off.
Then those same hands are round Jim’s throat squeezing hard, tightening and tightening until he sees stars and finally blacks out with a gurgle.
on to part 2
23rd century AU, Star Trek (AOS) set in the mirrorverse - for the jim_and_bones Halloween Costume Challenge in response to the costume photo prompt ‘Robin Hood’.
characters: Kirk/McCoy, Pike, Sulu, Uhura, Scotty, and a couple of others but I don’t want to spoil :D
words: this part approx.. 2,700 words. WIP in 6 parts, projected 20-25K.
rating: nc-17
Summary: Jim Kirk is hiding out in Iowa Forest when he gets captured by a gang of misfits led by ‘Doc’ who mistakenly think Jim’s a cadet and hopes to claim a ransom from Starfleet. Like McCoy, in the past George and Sam Kirk have been involved in an underground movement to destroy the Empire and set up a republic, and are known as ‘crats’ - followers of democracy. Is Jim a chip off the old block, or will Doc be paying Jim to leave?
warnings: mirrorverse light. The rating is due to explicit man-sex a bit later :D although there are acts of violence, references to violence in some detail ‘off camera’, bad language and bad manners. Also some mild medical gore. And minor character death.
A/N: While this is mirrorverse, it is very light and based more on the concept of a society along the lines of ancient Rome where those in power are ruthless and above the law, while everyone else just muddles along best they can. And it’s an AU because… well things go a slightly different way than in the movie. Yes, complicated premise is complicated.
+Also, for the benefit of any readers who are still in USA, post-election mind-set, know that ‘republicans’ and ‘democrats’ have a different meaning in the context of this fic. The ancient Romans had those who wanted to preserve the empire with an emperor leading it, and those who wanted to establish a democracy and set up a republic. In my world, ‘crats’ are supporters of democracy and want to bring down the Empire.
+I nearly forgot - the title is a line from the poem/song Democracy by Leonard Cohen
Many thanks to the wonderful awarrington for beta reading and for so much more, such as asking questions that made me write plot!*gasp* Some of the ideas in the fic are totally hers, and many edits that make it better in every way (including science and doctor speak at which I suck) - thank you sweetie!
Also thanks to weepingnaiad for word warring with me, her support for my ghastly first drafts and for cheer-leading in general.
disclaimer: none of the characters are mine but belong to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. I just making them play with each other’s naughty bits.
Intriguing snippet “Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest.
AMAZING ART by the wonderful, talented loobeeinthesky! It’s so beautiful!
on Archive of our Own
Little Wild Bouquet
Part 1
“Doc!” Sulu’s voice is a slightly too loud whisper but, given where they’re perched, it’s better he woke Leonard like this than by poking him.
It’s understandable that Leonard should have momentarily lost the fight against the drag of sleep; ten hours the woman was in labor. He feels a glow of satisfaction, remembering his patient’s expression: tired relief, followed by awed confusion when he placed the baby into her grateful arms.
She’s gone already, fuck knows where, wet nurse in tow, taking over immediately; fucking noble women and their insistence on detaching from their young. Gram clipped his own mother round the ear often enough, chastising her for allowing too strong a bond to form by feeding Leonard herself.
He yawns, flushes with irritation, bleary eyes following Sulu’s ‘that way’ gesture.
Leonard nods and adjusts his position on the branch where he sits horse-back on it, thighs clamping tighter. The leaves are beginning to turn with hints of gold and purple, rustling and rattling around them. He lifts his binoculars, sweeps across the forest canopy to hone in on their target who has wheeled his motorbike closer to the stream, closer to them.
“Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest. He covers up by faking another yawn.
“Should’ve let me come with Monty,” Sulu whispers.
“Stim’s wore off is all - I’m good,” Leonard whispers back, eyes still on their target who shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the seat. He then pulls a comm from his back pocket, scrolls down the screen, tucks it away and bends down to unlace his boots. With the definition, Leonard can see they’re worn but well cared for, recently re-heeled but not polished. Must have sentimental value, or maybe the kid stole them, he doesn’t look the type to care about anything - even the bike’s battered though it purred well enough where they tracked him on the perimeter of their territory. Leonard thinks wearily how living the life of a criminal makes you a better detective than the average citizen of the Empire.
He swaps hands and rubs an eye with his middle finger, swallowing when he sees the young punk pull off his t-shirt to reveal a pattern of three nautical stars curving on his teres minor. Leonard’s eyes rake down a skinny but well defined back, till he catches himself and can drag his gaze away. He’s healthy looking, Leonard tells himself, so he must have some credits to his name though he’s dressed like a bum. And he has a lot of scars but then who hasn’t by the time they reach manhood?
“Now, boss?”
The kid’s lowering his jeans. Leonard makes a staying gesture and swallows when he sees the little punk’s commando. He clamps his lips tight and makes damn sure not to glance at Sulu; if they catch eyes, Sulu, ever ready for a bit of banter, will make something of his hesitation. It’s just Leonard wants to be sure is all; they’re going to get just one shot at this. Maybe they should wait till dark.
Leonard shifts on the branch and leans forward. His eyes rake over the image in his sights, following the kid who strides naked into the stream and lets out an audible yelp at the cold. Leonard watches him crouch and scoop water over dirty blond hair that falls too long over his ears. He ignores the little twinge in his cock when the kid turns- damn, he really should get laid occasionally - sexual frustration is clouding his thinking.
“Boss?”
Once the kid’s struggled back into his jeans, Leonard raises his hand and nods. He lowers the binoculars and Sulu lifts the cross-bow then his eyes flick back to their target to watch in satisfaction when he sees the kid drop, the tranquilizer dart hitting home instantly.
They slide down from the tree and jog towards him. He’s fallen mouth open onto his side. Sulu nudges the kid’s hip with his boot and stands back while Leonard runs the tricorder over him, over damp, creamy skin, a lightly haired chest and skinny hips. He flicks pine needles off his skin where they’ve stuck to him.
“Credits, credits, I love you credits!” Sulu whoops and pulls the rope off his belt. He faces Leonard, counts, “two, three, four-“
“For the good of the many,” they both chorus and salute.
Leonard flicks his comm open. “Monty, we’re done here. Come get the bike - he’ll be out for a while.”
+++
Jim’s shoulder’s going to snap if this soon to be dead asshole doesn’t let go.
Saliva soaks the sack or whatever filthy fucking cloth they’ve used to cover his face and his skin stings on his arms and neck where he’s made contact with the forest floor. He’s memorizing voices, details as they drag him through the forest backwards. He twists and hollers, unable to kick even, not the way they’ve hog tied him with restraints round his thighs, his calves and ankles. He registers that he’s somehow wearing his t-shirt again but that his beloved jacket is gone which only makes his need to murder one of these bastards even more intense.
Fuck - he should have told someone where he was going; they’d be able to track him via his comm, right? Only no one he wants to find him would have had a clue where he was before the sniper got him and they hauled him here. Wherever ‘here’ is.
He knows he’s still in the forest, even though he lost consciousness for a while there. He can feel pine needles caught on his skin, and what the fuck, he can smell horse shit. Who the hell has horses anymore? Maybe they’re for food - yeah, that makes sense.
The forests are more dangerous than the cities harboring small bands of outlaws and the detritus of society; away from the city’s surveillance, they can pretty much do as they please, the miles and miles of dense Iowa woodland populated by villains left to their own devices by the gouty Empire. These days it gathers enough taxes and loot in the black that it gives even less of a shit about the safety of its citizens. Jim suspects that sometimes Starfleet even recruits its most badass red shirts from the wilderness, the promises of the spoils of battle enticing them out of the trees.
And isn’t that why he’s here? To hide out from the cops?
Well that worked out just great; out of the fucking frying pan…
“I’ll make you pay” Jim manages to get out, but his threat sounds lame even to his own ears; still he’s gotten out of tighter corners than this before.
When his head thunks against a tree trunk or something, he yelps more in surprise than pain and decides to change tack; it might be best to play it quiet and afraid, so when he makes his move - once he’s taken his sweet time eviscerating their fucking hides - it’ll be all the sweeter.
“Don’t, don’t,” he playacts, whining while trying not to smirk as more than one pair of hands twists him round and he lands face first in a heap of leaves. The muscles in his shoulders scream and his arms are brutally twisted harder behind him as the restraints are pulled tighter.
Finally, one of the fuckers speaks. “Hey, don’t cry, cadet.” The words drip with sarcasm, with fake concern.
‘Cadet’? Why do they think…? Ah, it’s because he’s wearing that asshole Cupcake’s dog tags. That’s good - if they find out who he really is, they’ll embed his feet in concrete to keep him from escaping.
“Keep fucking still!” another voice shouts, accompanied by the familiar press of cold steel at his throat.
Jim makes himself flinch, totally in character now. “Don’t hurt me, please - I’ll tell you anything.”
He strains to work out how many of them there are; there’s at least half a dozen voices, one of them a woman’s, but he’s yet to identify anyone who might be in charge. All the better, a gang of thugs he can deal with; as soon as he wins one of them over he’ll be out of here and no need for anyone to know about his little hike gone wrong in the woods.
“Hear that?” a Scottish voice says with a chuckle. “He thinks we give a toss about what he knows.” There’s a crunch as a kick lands on his ass and Jim bites his lip to stop himself with the threats. Man is he ever going to enjoy killing this fuck in particular.
Instead he chokes back a fake sob and tries to curl into a ball, bracing himself for the next assault. He knows that if he was the one wearing the boot, the more pathetic the reaction, the more he’d kick so…
“Monty, quit!” A booming voice commands, southern accent all molasses and spurs. Jim licks his lips and waits for the sound of, at the very least, a cuff to the Scottish bastard’s ear but no such thing happens.
“Doc, he’s not putting up much of a fight, I was getting bored.” A grunted response and Jim can feel the leader’s presence as he looms over, bringing with him a faint waft of whiskey and cigars. Man, Jim’s only got himself captured by cowboys. Great.
“He’s not gonna be worth a fucking hog’s hide if you cover him in contusions, is he?”
Not a natural leader, Jim surmises; for one, why’s he explaining himself to his goon? And why isn’t the scot being punished for back talking? Jim waits for the sound of an agonizer at least, or the threat of one, but all he can sense is irritation coming off the boss in waves.
Credits, they’re after payment, Jim thinks. Fuck - who’s gonna pay a ransom for his hide? Actually, now he’s blown out on Pike, maybe the cops.
“He’s wearing cadet tags, boss,” another voice says, a lazy drawl from his left, “the way those Starfleet dudes look after their own, they’d cough up even when we start removing his fingers.”
Yeah, if Starfleet had anything to do with him.
“God damn it, Hik, but you’re a theatrical asshole,” Doc growls but with no heat in his voice.
“Dog tags don’t match up with his comm ID,” a woman’s voice remarks.
“Must have stolen them,” Doc muses, moving away.
“And the bike’s got fake ID too, seems like it’s been registered to a long deceased citizen,” the woman continues.
Jim stays stock still braced for another kick while he remembers with a leer how he yanked the tags off the simian cadet in a Riverside pub, right before he drove his dagger into the motherfucker’s belly. He flushes with satisfaction. No one gives a damn who you kill in a bar, long as honor’s at stake, but touch a Starfleet cadet and you’re dead meat - once they’ve slow-cooked you in a booth that is. If it hadn’t have been for Pike intervening when he did, that’s exactly what would have happened.
“What’s his name?” Doc doesn’t sound that interested and for some reason this makes Jim feel a little disappointed.
“Says here, Tiberius George,” the Scot says, “it’s not his real name; man’s a consummate hacker by the looks of things, though he’s left big, clumsy finger prints all over his work.”
Jim wants to protest at that - he was on the run, dammit, hurriedly changing his comm print in a rest-stop in shit light, and he’d broken his reading glasses in the fight. He takes a deep breath - fuck ‘em - what does he care what they think?
“So…” Doc draws out the vowel with what Jim’s realising is his default, sarcastic drawl. “Instead of a cadet, we’ve got ourselves a bum - someone who’s not worth the scrapings off a hog’s balls.” There’s laughter and Jim grinds his teeth, keeping quiet. “Fact is we’ve got ourselves a piece of meat no one wants and seeing as we haven’t quite yet taken up cannibalism, he’s a problem.”
“No one wants him,” the woman says, her voice acid. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Jim hears the sound of a knife being drawn from a metal sheath and wishes he was a religious man, that he believed in Jupiter or some such fuck who at least could provide him with comfort in his last moments. He swallows, twitches, taking solace in all he’s got: charm, brains - badassary not quite available right now, given the rope and sack; but these have never failed him yet and they’re just a bunch of low-rent hoods, right?
“Wait!” he says.
A beat.
“Wait?” The Doc, Jim knew it, isn’t a natural leader. Good thing, because if it were Jim in charge, he’d have had himself killed as soon as they worked out the tags were stolen. Now Jim’s got a life line.
“If it was me, you know, in your shoes. Boots even. I’d sell the bike,” Jim says swallowing, waiting. His voice seems to disappear into the trees.
“Would you now? I hadn’t thought of that, had you, crew?” Seriously, the sarcastic tone, Doc’s drawl is having unexpected effects on Jim’s cock but he drives forward, seeing as it’s life and death at stake.
“Yes, Doc, only you won’t be able to without my help-”
“Must be booby trapped,” the Scot says admiringly, “I’d have done the same.”
“And it’s worth a lot of credits,” Jim says tentatively, feeling his nose twitch, fucking sack, fuck his life. “If you’re going to kill me, can I at least look my executioner in the eye?” Jim takes a chance and struggles onto his back and tries to sit upright, turning towards where the woman so keen to kill him last stood. “You sound kind of hot, baby.”
He smiles in satisfaction when he hears her cursing. “Fucking hick, who you calling baby?”
“Shush, Nyota, can’t you see he’s trying to get you all riled up,” Doc says, amusement in his voice. “Sulu, take off the sack, let’s take a look at this bum.”
Jim hears footsteps approach and braces himself, tries to make himself look tough when he feels fingers at his throat, the sack loosen and then he blinks, eyes gritty and sore, forcing them open against the lamp held near. He looks into the face of his captor, Asian features, fine and unlined, a scar across one cheek, eyes cold and amused - yep, this one’s the dangerous one, he decides.
Jim drops his head in mock submission but glances up when Sulu steps away revealing the rest of the group. He scans them quickly - there’s the one the doc called Nyota, yep definitely hot, a knife in one hand, nice boots. And that must be the Scot, a tricorder in his hand and a sword at his hip, staring at Jim with an unreadable expression, and …Jim suppresses the desire to let out an appreciative whistle when he sees the Doc, his eyes tracking up long, long thighs, over a broad chest and settling on a dark-eyed scowl which sends little shocks right down to his dick. Hmm, he might have to kill this one last.
More importantly, one look at his face and Jim knows Doc won’t have him killed.
“Hey, Sulu,” he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows to indicate he come closer. Sulu strides back and crouches by him - man, what a bunch of amateurs.
Sulu’s nose makes a satisfying crunch when Jim head butts him. He recovers and Jim laughs maniacally, though Sulu’s astride his chest, pummelling his face with murderous fists, dimly aware of Doc and the Scot trying to pull him off.
Then those same hands are round Jim’s throat squeezing hard, tightening and tightening until he sees stars and finally blacks out with a gurgle.
on to part 2