"You look like hell."
The door slid shut behind the cadet. He stood in his – their – dormitory, rubbing each of many strained muscles.
"Thanks, Bones," he shrugged, taking a careful seat on the edge of his – their – bed.
It was two single-beds, invariably shoved together by the end of the day. The older cadet sat on his own side, flicking through medical reviews and muttering about the unfair distribution of their homework, until Kirk shuffled up beside him and fell asleep against his shoulder. Always against the arm he chose to write with.
Tonight was different.
Kirk tugged off his uniform and kicked off his boots. The undershirt remained, stiff and stuck to his skin. He curled up and sighed into his pillow; he did not face McCoy, nor did he touch him.
"No, really," McCoy ventured, abandoning the stylus, "You okay?"
Kirk felt a hand tracing the bruise on his shoulder. He tried to turn his head and offer protest, but the other hand caught him. Fingers drifted through his hair, and returned him gently to the pillow.
"Hand-to-hand today," he explained, shutting his strained eyes "Finney kicked my ass."
McCoy lifted the thin fabric of the shirt, and peeled it back. Defensively, Kirk reached to correct it. Again, he was caught and redirected.
"I'm fine, okay? Don't worry about it."
McCoy set down the tablet and moved to face his patient. He knelt beside the bed, constantly keeping a hand on Kirk's battered shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the yellowing edges of the bruise, and Kirk winced.
"Were you bleeding?" he asked, leading the crumpled shirt toward Kirk's neckline.
Kirk knew the situation, at this point, was only worth surrendering to. The wounds would be found, diagnosed, and treated. He knew he should've slept anywhere but home.
McCoy helped him set up, and was slow in lifting the shirt over his head. It was discarded, made into a pile on the carpeting. Kirk leaned on the pillow, while McCoy settled on his own side of the bed.
"There's no way all of that's from a class," McCoy began, assessing the injuries.
"He doesn't like hearing 'no,'" Kirk admitted, "And I don't like saying it."
McCoy sighed, and went to collect a kit from his side of their room. It never spent much time in its assigned drawer, between classes and practical applications. On his roommate, mainly.
"It's not that bad," Kirk maintained. McCoy scoffed, and returned to his place.
He sorted through the satchel, and removed what Kirk would dismiss as an 'ancient' serum.
"What are you doing?" Kirk asked, not dependent enough on the answer to exert himself by turning.
He warmed the lotion between his hands, and outlined each bruise before filling any in.
Relaxing, Kirk arched his back and stretched both arms forward.
"He is never going to touch you again," McCoy's anger brimmed through his teeth, while kneading the patch of red between Kirk's shoulder-blades, "I don't care what 'class' it's for."
"Mmhmm," was all Kirk could manage, between sleepy breaths and further twitches. He felt McCoy's thumbs, pressing away the tension at the base of his neck. His head rolled forward, and his eyes remained peacefully shut.
"I mean it," McCoy continued, "I'll tell him myself."
"You do that," Kirk conceded, rolling over to lie flat on his chest. He drew in a sharp breath of the fabric, delighted to be met by his – their – scent. Borrowed bourbon, the leather of school bags, and an aftershave he swore he was allergic to.
McCoy fetched a towel, dipping it into a warm, saline solution before he returned. This was spread across Kirk's back, with each corner stiffly spread and stamped into place. McCoy smoothed over it with both hands, smiling at each relieved sigh Kirk gave him.
Kirk did not fall asleep facing McCoy. He did not fill the contour of the doctor's shoulder.
He remained there, face buried against the mattress, quiet and contemplative. McCoy's hands, even when done with their assessment, remained curled over his shoulders.
"Why'd you stop?" Kirk lulled, only awoken by the pause. Suddenly, his aches began crying out again, and McCoy sighed and reached to soothe them.
"You need to get some sleep."
"That can't be your answer for everything."
McCoy shrugged and leaned over him, and laced attentive fingers through messy hair.
"I'm a doctor, and you'll do what I tell you."
Kirk swore he gave an emphatic 'yes,' but this was tied into his dreams.
When McCoy suggested severance with Finnegan, Kirk listened.
"I'll tell him myself, if you won't. You're never going to see him again."
That night, they shared laughter and sips of Romulan ale. McCoy worked at patching himself up, after his – their – encounter with a less-than-thrilled Finnegan. Absently, Kirk toyed with McCoy's fingers.
For the first time, it was the doctor who suggested pushing their beds together. Immediately, Kirk complied.
They slept, tangled up between sheets and one another.
"I'm glad you talked me out of that one," Kirk breathed, against McCoy's chest. He felt the doctor's arms tighten around his waist. One reassigned itself, sifting through his hair, instead. McCoy drew Kirk's face to his shoulder, and spoke softly:
"So am I."
He listened, shortly after his – their – graduation.
"Don't let me hold you back, Jim," McCoy said, hand always hovering near his shoulder, "That's a hell of an opportunity."
"I thought we agreed; we were gonna look for the same assignment. I'll take anything, if it—"
"Don't worry about me… I think you just found the love of your life, Captain."
Kirk let the title seep through him, until it coursed through every vein. It became a splint, which he never wanted to remove.
Love, indeed.
His, and theirs.