Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek.I just take the characters out for a spin on my side of the imaginative vortex of the world. Totally. And return them after I've had my fun.
Title: Stainless Steel
Inspired by: On the Bridge, by Todd Strasser and my English FE.
Warnings: Language, references to sex-stuff, and violence. And probably OOC-ness in the characters. Bah.
a/n: This is just a little oneshot that popped into my head, kind of... random in a sense, but with plot and all that. If something in here- god forbid- offends you, it was unintentional. There. Now then.
Enjoy reading it- or not. Either way. Enjoy!
"Look, it's none of your business-- alright?" James T. Kirk hissed, looking between Bones and Spock with a hard glare, that clearly stated for them to mind their own fucking business. It had been Bones that had started it, asking, demanding why the hell Kirk had just had to get into another spat with the resident Vulcan, and how he had managed to get the shit beaten out of him worse than before. The bruises on his neck were shaped like fingers, long spindly fingers that just so happened to be a lot stronger than they looked. A bloody, most likely broken nose, and one or two fractured ribs. And don't forget that jolly ol' concussion now there!
Somehow in the mess of being yelled at he let loose the comment, '"I've had worse Bones, a helluva lot worse." That got him a curious raise of one slim black eyebrow, and a flabbergasted doctor. Oh shit, it dawned on him a little too late, now I've got at least one of them curious. Dammit Jim, you're such a genius. So that was the short, but completely moronic reason he was sitting with his shirt off in front of two people he had hoped never to be sitting before in such a situation. The injuries from Spock stood out easily on his skin, while paler, older wounds happily gathered on his back, populated his stomach, and ran down his thighs.
Bones couldn't stop ranting about how if half the wounds had been treated properly, and quickly there wouldn't be scarring, or any other permanent damage caused. Things Kirk already knew, and was well aware of. This normally wouldn't have bothered him as much as it was if Spock hadn't been a silent spectator, the Vulcan's steady gaze unwavering, and undoubtedly holding curiosity, but not the gall to show emotion. Kirk bit back the hiss of coward that threatened to escape his lips. It wouldn't do to cause anymore trouble. Especially when Bones was dangerously close to a hypo-dispenser.
No thank-you. He didn't want anymore allergic reactions to the things, it was already bad enough he had been in the sickbay for over an hour. It was getting to him now.
"C'mon Jim! It would just be one story, a good one, to show you've had worse than the hobgoblin over there," Bones jerked his head at the Vulcan, who didn't even bat an eyelash in the direction of the insult, "Because not only do I want to know if there is something worse than Spock, but I want to know how you got those. And as your primary physician you have to do as I say if it concerns your-"
"Yes, yes," Kirk interrupted, waving his hand to cut the rant off, "You've said the same a million times Bones."
"I do not believe a 'million times' is a proper estimate, Captain," Spock interrupted suddenly, deciding at that moment to involve some of that famous 'Vulcan logic'. "I must agree with Dr. McCoy on this, any insight on how these injuries occurred will be able to help determine if they will be a problem in the future."
The hybrid received a dry look at that and then, "Fine, fine, if it'll get you both off my back and out of here." He wasn't giving up- hell, he wasn't losing the game here. He was improvising an ending so that he could just get out of the sickbay and away from that hypo in Bones' hand.
A warning that he shouldn't try to get away.
Damn, Bones knows me enough. There goes plan B. Back to plan C.
Abruptly smacking his hands together, then rubbing them to cause the feeling in his fingers to return, Kirk began to recount the memories exactly as it had happened. This was one he hardly ever, ever, spoke of. He figured that these two were about to be the only other ones besides Sam and himself who knew it.
"I beat the shit out of this guy," Laurence Bridge began, "At that whore-bar on the outskirts." He was leaning on one of the refinished steel walls of the old, repaired structure that ran above a teaming highway. He had a cigarette teetering between his lips, barely biting the end, watching the cars and aircars alike whiz happily below. Dark hair hung in his eyes.
"Why?" Kirk asked, joining him by the wall.
He shrugged, the collar of his leather jacket moving along with the motion. "He pissed me off, that's it. Bigger than me, tough, probably on steroids, a senior maybe. Thought I wasn't tough 'cause I'm smaller, but I don't let anyone push me 'round."
"Wha'd ya do ta him?" Kirk asked, curious. He too, at the age of ten, was smoking a cigarette. His first ever, and he wasn't inhaling it like Laurence was. Just letting the smoke gather in his mouth before puffing it out. It wasn't as enjoyable as the older boy made it seem.
Laurence looked thoughtful, then gloated, "Pretty damn sure I broke his nose and a couple o' ribs Jimmyboy. I couldn't hang 'round though them employees called the cops on us."
"Wha' for?" Kirk ventured, watching how Laurence took a deep drag on his cigarette, smoke coming out his nose not his mouth. Not even having to remove the stick from his mouth.
Laurence chuckled, "They just don' like me, y'know 'ow it is."
Kirk nodded, even though he didn't know what it was like. But there was no way he would admit that to Laurence, it was pretty damn wicked to think the robo-cops disliked you. He was pretty sure that there was no way that he was even in the robo-cops database. Completely unknown.
The two boys stared down the highway, Kirk rubbing his fingers across the Marlboros pack in his denim jacket, sleeves torn off in an attempt to replicate the fight-worn look of Laurence's leather. It felt like a fraud compared to the worn black, scuffed with blood and layered in little cuts and things. Truly bad ass, and then there was Kirk and his faux-jacket. He felt down right stupid wearing the thing, wondering when he would actually get it to the authenticity that was Laurence's. Never, he admitted to himself. It would take nearly a decade to reach that fine degree of demolition.
He even had to hide the thing from his mother, because it wasn't his good clothes, it was one of his not-nice clothes that were actually nice. He hid in the garage every day, and got it every morning on the way to the transport to school. Laurence didn't have that kind of trouble, his parents didn't give a damn about their son's future.
Down on the highway, a shiny red convertible aircar approached, two scantily clad girls in the front seats. Laurence waved, and the girls waved back, giving his whistle an appreciative giggle or two before they sped underneath the bridge and were gone. Hopefully Laurence muttered, "Maybe they'll turn around and come back up the ramp."
"You think? They're old enough to drive at least-"
"Yeah but, if they want to give me a ride, I'll let them give me a ride."
"Do ya do anything?"
"They're older girls Jim, whadd'ya 'ink?"
Scarlet crept over Kirk's face and he muttered an awed, "Really?"
"Really Jimbo, really. Sometimes they take me to one of them whore-bars, or sometimes we just hang out and makeout. Sometimes, if I'm swet ennuf, I get to fuck 'em."
Kirk was floored, awestruck, but floored. Once he had played spin-the-bottle at a birthday party and had had to kiss a girl, but he had never madeout with one. Much less do the extremity of having sex with one. Ten-year olds just didn't have sex (he added this so Spock wouldn't state the query he seemed dying to say- whatever it was).
"Ey, they think we're going to drop something on 'em," Laurence suddenly pointed out, gesturing to the few cars below who's drivers were looking cautiously up at them. Suddenly the older boy had a wicked grin across his face, and pretended to throw a rock at a blue vehicle; it swerved off course slightly, almost causing an accident. Now more people were warily looking up at the leather-clad teen and the barest hint of a blond head.
Kirk's jaw almost dropped-- almost. "Who-o-a! Neat!"
"Scarred the shit out of 'er, dinnit?"
"Yep!" Eager to please.
A few minutes passed, and Kirk was tossing the cigarette butt onto the steel, snuffing it out with his boot. He had smoked the thing all the way down to the filter, it had relaxed him, but a nasty taste still lingered in his mouth where the thing had been in before. Smoke from the thing had kept getting into his eyes, making them water, and he was oddly relieved to have that gone and done with. Note to self, when rebelling against step-dads, do not use cigarettes. There. No more further mistakes in that direction.
"Tha's not how you do it," Laurence growled, "Watch." He took the filter of the still burning cigarette in his forefinger and thumb, flicking it so it went down into the stream of traffic. Suddenly, beneath it, a sleek black car appeared, the cigarette butt landing on the windshield. Oh shit. Laurence was grinning, and neither saw the black car pull onto the exit ramp and onto the bridge.
Kirk didn't even notice until he heard the door slam, and he turned, wide-eyed, to see three men heading towards them. Angry. His stomach tightened, threatening to send today's lunch up, and his heart beat was way too fast. Adrenaline pumped through his system, his first taste at his future-drug.
"Uh- uh- Laurence?"
Laurence turned, "Wha-" But it was too late. They were surrounded, and Laurence knew it. Kirk knew it. The three guys knew it. Everyone knew it. Kirk and Laurence could see the well-defined muscles of the men through their thin clothing, obviously chosen for the effect. Kirk's flight instinct kicked in, but he couldn't run. Any means of escape except over the wall were blocked off. And he was no jumping to the cars below- that was just plain crazy.
"Which one of you shits flicked that butt onto my car?" One of the men growled, voice husky and dark. He had long black hair that curled over his ears, and a beard that went along with it.
The two boys glanced at each other, and Kirk was determined as hell not to rat out on Laurence. Friends didn't squeal on each other. He noticed too late, however, that the three guys were staring at him. Kirk turned to look at Laurence, and they boy was pointing at him. At Kirk.
Before Kirk could work up a protest, he could himself dangling in the air by his shirt collar in the husky's grip. Feet whirling uselessly in the air at the sudden lack of solid ground, and the whip of the air as his face smacked against something hard, something plastic but glass at the same time. A small groan escaped his lips, and before he had a chance to regain his breath, a beefy hand had wrenched his head back by his hair. Tugging harshly on the blond strands. He was forced to stare at some spot on the windshield.
"Lick. it. off."
Having no idea what the man was talking about, Kirk tried to lift his head, but his captor forced his face to press against the windshield. Angrier, harsher this time. He could feel a red welt gathering on his cheek already. Shit, how was he going to explain that one to mom?
"I said, to lick it."
This was followed by a sharp blow to his back, pain rushing up and down his spine in currents. Synchronized to the rapid beating of his heart, threatening like mad to go flying out of his ribcage any second. He wanted to ask what he was supposed to lick, but then Kirk looked down at the windshield. There was the cigarette butt, little gray ashes clustered around it. He froze, the thought making him sick to the stomach, already feeling the threat of the juices in his throat. Oh god no.
"Til its clean you shit," was the harsh whisper in his ear, "Or we'll do worse than this to you and ya friend over there!" He pressed Kirk's face even harder against the windshield, only an inch away from the little gray specks now. He stared at it, breath labored from the man's weight on him, and the car's fender digging into his ribs. And oh god- was that one breaking he felt? His first broken rib and he was going to have to explain it to mom- oh shit.
The man leaned harder against him, forcing him to be as close as possible to the offending butt, nails digging into Kirk's back. Running down the fabric, flecks of blood showing at the continuous path of nails. His lungs forced a spasm and struggled for air, and Kirk had to bite his lips to prevent from gasping out and licking the ash. He was not going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing him give in. No way in hell.
The man seemed to sense this and suddenly Kirk could breath, he was flying, he was soaring, he as free and then-- WHAM!
Kirk's face cracked against the windshield, actually causing cracks to appear on the glass. Silently he rejoiced in his reeling mind, ha, take that you bastards. His hands were covering his nose and mouth, numbness tingling across his face, and he was certain his nose was broken and several teeth were going to be gone next morning. Just a feeling. And that he had several fractured, if not broken ribs. He slumped to the ground, doubling over clutching his face as the pain suddenly exploded as the black car and its passengers wheeled away.
"You're bleeding," Laurence said. Kirk drew his hands away from his face to see that they were coated in bright, slimy red. It ran down his face, the salty taste getting into his mouth, stinging at his split and bruised lips. Attacking his bitten tongue, gathering on his denim jacket. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to stop some of the bloodflow, which succeeded in the most part. He was still a wreck, but he could tell that his nose was not broken, just cut up something nasty. All his teeth were still as they had been before, ones that had been loose, just a little looser. Which meant more cash from the 'Tooth Fairy' (Spock raised an eyebrow at that- finally a reaction!).
"Want a hand?" Laurence asked, and then helping Kirk up when he nodded, "I tried to help you man."
Kirk just gave Laurence a glance, and tuned out of the rest of the conversation. He didn't look back when Laurence left, and he headed home, trying to come up with some excuse so his mom didn't freak. Or his step dad get so goddamn angry that he blew a fuse.
And. Just maybe. Actually get himself a little cleaned up before coming home.
He didn't make it a habit.
"And that," Kirk declared, clapping his hands together, "Is the end of storytime, now run along children."
a/n: I'm rather fond of the ending line. For some odd, unexplainable reason, it seems very JJ-verse Kirk. Ah well.
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