Author's Note: So went and saw Into Darkness and absolutely fingirled out. I liked the original Khan, but fffft, Benedict Cumberbatch. Oh my goodness. Anyway, this isn't exactly a slash fic but its not entirely AU - basically, what this piece is is just a sort of 'what if' scene where Khan is on the Enterprise for longer, about one night, before they interrogate him right after Kronos. And while that one night is passing, Kirk finds that all he can think about is revenge. It's a little dark, not too terrible. I didn't think it needed to be rated M, but if you disagree, just let me know and I'd be glad to change the rating.
Happy reading!
Blood Lust
Captain Kirk could not sleep.
Those eyes of a certain prisoner were haunting him, burning through everything that made up the man James T. Kirk, gazing into the very darkest depths where desire had seated itself. Jim rolled over, only to glare at his digital clock which flashed 2:47 AM back at him. Undoubtedly the 'night crew' was well into their shift, Spock even was probably still awake, pacing the bridge or doing ungodly amounts of reports, Scotty had likely put the core into its resting state as not to use unnecessary power.
And meanwhile, Kirk drifted in his twilight zone of half-awareness and remembrance.
"Captain!"
His muscles screamed as his fist met mutual flesh – not even a mark on that marble skin. Again, he made stark contact, and again the harsh impact left nothing in its wake.
Garbled images swam before his eyes. Spock clasping the lifeless hand of what used to be Admiral Pike, seared remains of an archives building, people running, people screaming.
And John fucking Harrison.
Jim dug his fingers mercilessly into the murderous bastard's hair, getting a better angle to punch the sick, demented spindle of a man. He wanted to make him hurt, make him bleed. For the first time, Jim Kirk wanted to excruciatingly and intimately torture someone if only for the satisfaction that this man might beg for his life.
Only so Jim could deny him.
Kirk gasped and clawed at the sheets, stifled by the rage that arced through his body like electricity. Sleep was well beyond him now. Jim swung his legs over the side of his bed, cradling his head in his hands. His gasping breaths filled the room, momentarily drowning out the pounding in his ears.
Those eyes – every time the Captain dared to close his own, there they were. Those eyes. Set in that damnable face of a man Jim wanted nothing more than to ruin, to destroy in every possible way.
When he got up for the umpteenth time that night, Jim no longer wondered where he might go.
. . . . .
"Captain, I was so hoping I might see you again."
The voice sent unwonted shivers down Jim Kirk's spine, so that all he could manage was a ground out, "Shut the hell up."
The containment area was vacant, he'd dismissed the crew and stalked back and forth in front of Harrison's cage as if their roles were reversed, as if Kirk was the prisoner and John alone held the key.
Even confined, Harrison looked regal and proud, his body all hard angles and planes of contoured muscle barely covered by the skin-tight black outfit. He looked dangerous, like an animal coiled and ready to strike, which made what Kirk wanted all the more accessible.
"Have you come for a rematch of sorts?" John called out lightly, pressing both his hands to the glass wall. Kirk locked eyes with him, and Harrison deliberately seemed to lick his bottom lip. His voice dropped to a whisper, seductive in its promise, "Would you like to hit me again, Captain?"
More than anything, his body seemed to cry out, his soul seemed to moan.
It was like walking the razor's edge, insanely and agonizingly tempting. Silence carried through the small space, broken only by softest breath Jim dared to let slip. He neared the containment cell, never once breaking eye contact with the traitor.
Deftly, Jim's fingers sought out the control panel, overriding the security protocol with little more than a swipe of his thumb. For a tense moment, a small opening appeared, big enough for Kirk to fit through and big enough still to permit John Harrison's escape. And for a second, it seemed neither would happen until both did at nearly the same time.
Jim pulled himself into the cell as John grasped the front of his uniform, dragging the Captain in fully until they were standing at the very center; Harrison clasping Kirk by his collar, Kirk clutching Harrison by his forearms.
Then Jim sucker punched John square in the mouth.
He hardly moved in an inch, and true to form, his body betrayed no pain, yet John Harrison's eyes absolutely went ablaze with something, a mixture of many things all at once – hate, lust, need, agony, rage.
Instinctually, Jim curled one hand into the silken locks down to the roots and smashed his fist again across Harrison's face, followed by his elbow, then a knee in the gut, then back to his fists.
Again and again, Jim pummeled the sculpted face. No bruises would blossom, no skin would break. The only thing he could create was the sharp slap of flesh on flesh, piercing the otherwise silent cage.
A pause, filled with panting. Jim was innately glad to hear the ragged gasps coming from the other man, every bit as shallow as his own breathing. Though those gasps quickly turned a breathless chuckle, humorless and brief, more of a rapid escape of air than anything else.
"James Kirk," his name sounded wrong on the lips of the maniac, "I think you may never cease to amaze me."
It was clearly meant with scorching sarcasm, though it came out tired, worn and deadpanned, lacking what Jim would believe to be a usual vehemence. Harrison slumped forward slightly, his hands slipping down the chest of the Captain, ghosting over his abdomen to settle on his lower stomach and hips. Slowly, his forehead came to rest on Kirk's shoulder, half tucked against his neck, steady exhales making trails of goose-bumps. Jim's hands wound their way into his hair, his fingernails scraped and danced across his skull.
They would stand like that for much too long, their gasps turning into synced breathing. Finally, after what may have been minutes, or perhaps hours, Kirk would leave and Harrison would make no move to stop him, merely return to his bunk unharmed as if nothing had happened. Kirk would stare at his own bruised and busted knuckles back in the dim safety of his cabin, filled only with one thought.
Even later, when John Harrison would morph into the villain Khan and Jim would put everything on the line just to ensure the safety of his crew. When at last the crescendo broke and James Kirk found himself lying prone in a hospital stretcher, that same blood he'd desired to spill coursing through his veins, one single thought would consume him.
Why?