Characters/Pairing: McCoy/Kirk, Chapel
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Warnings: Rape, violence, abuse.
Summary: Leonard saw the single drop of blood on the bed--and knew he had to escape from his macabre relationship with Kirk. But escape is not as easy as fleeing to Earth or another planet, picking a new name and finding a new job. Kirk is a Star Fleet Captain, with a captain's training, a captains technology, and a captains bloodhound instincts. And even worse, Kirk is--well Kirk.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't own shit.
Note: This can see seen as a Mirror Universe fic or an alternative Original Universe fic, doesn't matter. Also, Some depictions in this fic are loosely based on the novel, Rose Madder by Stephen King.
It was two years and six months of hell, all told, but he hardly knew it. For most of those years he existed in a daze so deep it was like death, and on more then one occasion he found himself almost certain that his life wasn’t really happening, that he would eventually awaken, yawning and stretching as idiotically as the hero in one of those old Walt Disney animated cartoons. This idea came to him most often after Kirk had attacked him so viciously that he had to go to bed for awhile in order to recover. Kirk did that eight or nine times a month. The previous year—the year of Yeoman Lisa Moore, the year of the official reprimand—it had happened almost a dozen times. The previous month had seen his second and last trip to his own
It turned out he had a broken rib (he had thought so) and it was poking at his lung. He told the falling on his medic kit story for the second time in three months and didn’t think even the intern who’d been there observing the examination and treatment believed it this time, but no one asked any uncomfortable questions; Chapel just fixed him up and sent him to bed.
Sometimes, when he was lying in bed at night, images would come swarming into his mind like strange comets. The most common was Kirk’s fist, with blood grimed into the knuckles and smeared across the raised gold of his
He was always on the verge of dropping off, relaxed and loose-limbed, when these images came. Then he would see the fist floating toward him and jerk fully awake again and lie trembling beside Kirk, hoping he wouldn’t turn over, only half-awake himself, and drive a blow into his stomach or thigh for disturbing him.
He passed into this hell when he was twenty-two and awakened from his daze about a month after his twenty-fourth birthday, almost three years later. What woke him up was a single drop of blood, no larger than a dime.
He saw it while making the bed. It was on the top sheet, his side, close to where the pillow went when the bed was made. He could, in fact, slide the pillow slightly to the left and hide the spot, which had dried to an ugly maroon color. He saw how easy this would be and was tempted to do it, mostly because he could not just change the top sheet; he would have to pick up new ones, and if he put on one of those flower-patterned sheets they handed out, he would have to put on the other patterned one, as well.
Look at this, he heard Kirk saying. Goddam sheets don’t even match—got a white one on the bottom and one with flowers on it on top. Jesus, why do you have to be so fucking lazy? Come here—I wanna talk to you.
McCoy stood on his side of the bed in the dim lights, the lazy asshole who spent his time before and after shifts cleaning their quarters (a single smeared fingerprint on the corner of the bathroom could bring a blow) and obsessing over what to get Kirk for his dinner, he stood there looking down at the tiny stop of blood on the sheet, his face so slack and devoid of animation that an observer might well have decided he was mentally retarded. I thought my damned nose had stopped bleeding, he told himself. I was sure it had.
Kirk didn’t hit him in the face often; he knew better. Face hitting was for the sort of drunken assholes Kirk had seen by the hundreds before his career as a Star Fleet Captain. You hit someone—your wife, for instance—in the face too often, and after awhile the stories about falling down the stairs or running into the bathroom door in the middle of the night stopped working. People knew. People talked. And eventually you got into trouble, even if the women kept her mouth shut, because the days when folks knew how to mind their own business were apparently over.
None of that took his temper into account, however. Kirk had a bad one, very bad, and sometimes he slipped. That was what happened last night, when he brought Kirk a second glass of iced tea and spilled some on his hand. POW, and McCoy’s nose was gushing like a broken water-main before Kirk even knew what he was doing. He saw the look of disgusted on Kirk’s face as the blood poured down over his mouth and chin, then the look of worried calculation—what if his nose was actually broken? That would mean he would either have to reset it himself, or sneak down to Sickbay to snatch a regenerator.
For a moment McCoy thought one of the real beatings was coming, one of the ones that Kirk usually finished off by shoving an agonizer in his mouth and a cock up his ass. One of the ones where Kirk would force him to look deeply into his cold blue eyes as he brutally fucked him, all the while letting McCoy know that he belonged to him and was doing this for his own good. So McCoy would learn.
Then Kirk’s sharply honed sense of self-preservation had kicked in, and he had gotten McCoy a washcloth filled with ice and led him to the couch, where McCoy had lain on it with the makeshift icepack pressed down between his watering eyes. That was where you had to put it, Kirk told him (as if McCoy didn’t already know), if you wanted to stop the bleeding in a hurry and reduce the residual swelling. It was the swelling Kirk was worried about, of course. After watching McCoy for a moment longer Kirk went back to the table and finished his dinner.
There hadn’t been much swelling, as a quick glance in the mirror this morning had shown McCoy (Kirk had already given him a close looking-over and then a dismissive nod before drinking a cup of coffee and leaving for his shift), and the bleeding had stopped after only fifteen minutes or so with the icepack…or so he thought. But sometime during the night, while he slept, one traitorous drop of blood had crept out of his nose and left this spot, which meant he was going to have to strip the bed and remake it before his next shift in Sickbay, in spite of his sore back. His back always ached these days; even moderate bending and light lifting made it hurt. His back was one of Kirk’s favorite targets. Unlike what Kirk called “face-hitting”, it was safe to hit someone in the back…if the someone in question knew how to keep his mouth shut, that was. Kirk had been working on McCoy’s kidneys for two years, and the traces of blood McCoy saw more and more frequently in his urine no longer surprised or worried him. It was just another unpleasant part of being with Kirk, that was all, and there were probably billions of people who had it worse. Hundreds right on this ship. So he had always seen it, anyway until now.
He looked at the spot of blood, feeling unaccustomed resentment throbbing in his head, feeling something else, a pins-and-needles tingle, not knowing this was the way you felt when you finally woke up.
There was a small bentwood rocker on his side of the bed which he had always thought of, for no reason he could have explained, as Joanna’s Chair. He backing toward it now, never taking his eyes of the small drop of blood glaring off the white sheet, and sat down. He sat in Joanna’s Chair for almost five minutes, then jumped when a voice spoke in the room, not realizing at first that it was his own voice.
“If this goes on, he’ll kill me.” He said, and after he got over his momentary startle, he supposed it was the drop of blood—the little bit of himself that was already dead, that had crept out of his nose and died on the sheet—he was speaking to.
The answer that came back was inside his head, and it was infinitely more terrible than the possibility he had spoken aloud:
Except he might not. Have you thought of that? He might not.
- Current Mood: artistic