[And then Jim says it. The thing that could make his eyes roll so far back into time, they could probably shift the course of history again, all by themselves.
Space Piracy.]
I'll tell you another thing you're no-good at-- this discussion your insisted on.
[That's right, he was giving Jim ownership of it. Full custody, as it were. He'd walked in here, ready at most for a very good time exploring the map of Jim's body, old faithful scars and trigger points along a web of nerves he liked to play instrumentally, a little too fond of the myriad of noises Jim could make in the rare moments where words failed him. At worst, he'd expected a stiff drink, a hot shower, and a good lie-in.
What he got? An emotional ambush, where it seemed they were both being held hostage, a gag shoved so far down their emotional gullets that neither one could scream or spit out anything useful.
Space. Fuckin'. Piracy.]
You propose, and as if that didn't feel ridiculous enough, you go ahead and ask if I'd like to commit treason and be forced to live with half-blind Spock for the rest of my days! I didn't get a damn medical degree and bring your moronic ass back from the dead so I could betray an inter-galactic army all because you read too many damn children's stories and want to wear a feather in your cap! [He could feel his temper rising. Admittedly, it was a common enough feeling.
Helped to smother down all the other ones, which he threatened to feel a little more acutely. Things like hurt or care. Those always came in too clear, too much to him. They were easier to tamp down under the guise of annoyance than to face, more often than not, even if they tended to steer the wheel anyway, unacknowledged.]
My no-ideas have been better than your ideas, so far! Hell, Jim-- if the options are marry you or treason, you'd better go pick out a white dress. Or else kiss my ass goodbye, because if this is all you've got, like hell I'm not getting a transfer.
that's the only threat I make
Space Piracy.]
I'll tell you another thing you're no-good at-- this discussion your insisted on.
[That's right, he was giving Jim ownership of it. Full custody, as it were. He'd walked in here, ready at most for a very good time exploring the map of Jim's body, old faithful scars and trigger points along a web of nerves he liked to play instrumentally, a little too fond of the myriad of noises Jim could make in the rare moments where words failed him. At worst, he'd expected a stiff drink, a hot shower, and a good lie-in.
What he got? An emotional ambush, where it seemed they were both being held hostage, a gag shoved so far down their emotional gullets that neither one could scream or spit out anything useful.
Space. Fuckin'. Piracy.]
You propose, and as if that didn't feel ridiculous enough, you go ahead and ask if I'd like to commit treason and be forced to live with half-blind Spock for the rest of my days! I didn't get a damn medical degree and bring your moronic ass back from the dead so I could betray an inter-galactic army all because you read too many damn children's stories and want to wear a feather in your cap! [He could feel his temper rising. Admittedly, it was a common enough feeling.
Helped to smother down all the other ones, which he threatened to feel a little more acutely. Things like hurt or care. Those always came in too clear, too much to him. They were easier to tamp down under the guise of annoyance than to face, more often than not, even if they tended to steer the wheel anyway, unacknowledged.]
My no-ideas have been better than your ideas, so far! Hell, Jim-- if the options are marry you or treason, you'd better go pick out a white dress. Or else kiss my ass goodbye, because if this is all you've got, like hell I'm not getting a transfer.