masterofmidgets | I Call Bullshit

Ugh, can I please have a do-over of today? This go-round really stunk.

I got in a fight with my dad over my perceived lack of initiative in fixing the Financial Aid Fail in his eyes. Lots of screaming and door-slamming from both parties. He apologized pretty quickly once I started crying, though.

He made me go on a walk with him after dinner, which I hate because we always end up bickering over something when we walk together, even we haven't already been fighting. True to form, we tried to have a civil conversation about where to go to fax the forms to financial aid, he started lecturing, I got defensive, he got mad over how defensive I was being, we ended up screaming at each other in the parking lot of the Mormon Church. And when I tried to shut the argument down and walk away, on the grounds that this was unproductive and just made us both angry and miserable, he got pissed off at that. So we had a second, much louder screaming fight about not having a screaming fight. At which point I just said fuck it, took off, and walked home on my own.

The depressing thing is, as much of an immature asshole as he is, he is worlds more mature and in control of his temper than he used to be. I still remember how scary and violent he was when I was a kid; I remember the fights we had when I was fourteen where he called my mom an alcoholic whore to my face. That he is just a jerk now is a monumental improvement over how used to be, and represents a lot of work and therapy on his part. But...he's still a jerk.

So I've been listening to Blue October really loudly in my room, and I had some cake, and I'm going to try to meditate again tonight, and I think I'll be fine and probably won't even have to kill him with a hammer.

In an unrelated note, I'm still working on the anti-sex pollen fic, and feeling tremendously guilty because I promised the anon I'm writing for it would be done last weekend. But I'm finally on the Spock-voice part, so now all I have to do is get Kirk kidnapped and rescued and it will be done. But, uh, here's some proof this fic does, actually, exist!

When McCoy comes to his room on Saturday evening, Kirk is on his third glass of brandy and just starting to slur his words.

“Jesus Christ, Jim,” McCoy swears when he walks in and sees the bottle on the table, but Kirk ignores him and pours them both another glass with a broad and sloppy grin, and McCoy doesn’t complain about that.

“I hope you remember that you have a bridge inspection to do in the morning,” McCoy says, sipping slowly from his glass. It’s good liquor, Kirk knows, the best a captain’s salary can buy, which is pretty damn good, but if McCoy doesn’t want to enjoy it that’s his problem.

“Screw the inspection, Bones,” Kirk says. The brandy burns his throat a bit as he tips his glass back, but it leaves behind a warm numbness he rather likes. “Spock’s the only one who will care if I show up hungover. One of the benefits of being the captain of this fine vessel.” He hiccups slightly on the last word, and his own voice sounds so strange to his ears he starts laughing. When he looks up again McCoy is glowering at him with his arms folded over his chest.

“I know you’re not this much of a damn fool,” McCoy growls. “So will you please tell me this isn’t your way of begging for attention from that green-blooded bastard?”

McCoy is wrong, wrong, wronger than a cadet doing his first navigational charts, and Kirk needs to make him see that. “Don’t want attention,” he mutters. “Just miss him is all. I touch him all the time, did you know that? I didn’t know that. But I do.”

It’s true. Kirk hadn’t realized it until this week, but when they are around each other he touches Spock all the time. He bumps his shoulder, pats his back, slings a companionable arm around him. When he leans over Spock’s shoulder to study his console he brushes his ears and the back of his neck with his fingertips, when they play chess their hands touch every move. He is always touching Spock and he’s never even noticed, and now he misses it, desperately.

“I just want things to go back to normal,” Kirk says. He pours himself another glass. “You’re supposed to fix things, Bones. Tell me you’re going to fix this.”

McCoy takes the glass out of his hands and puts it back on the table. “Why don’t you just ask me to walk on water next time? It would probably be easier than synthesizing an antidote for an unknown toxin based on luck and guesswork.” He sighs heavily, and Kirk knows McCoy is older than he is, but he doesn’t usually look it. “I’m getting close, though. A few more days, maybe. We’ll figure it out, Jim.”

McCoy stands and Kirk follows, lets himself be led back into his bedroom and his bed by McCoy’s reassuringly heavy hand on his shoulder, and falls asleep before his head hits his pillow. When he wakes up in the morning, he doesn’t remember most of the night before, but he does remember McCoy telling him he’d only have to last a few more days, and that was the important thing, anyway.

Two days later, Kirk is kidnapped.