Chapter Text
Title: Better Strangers
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy friendship, mentions of Kirk/McCoy & McCoy/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Leonard McCoy moves to San Francisco it's to start a new life. Something different from his old life. That means putting up with Starfleet policies, combat classes, idiot hospital employees and Jim Kirk.
Perhaps the fact that the organization that Leonard McCoy has promised to live and breathe for is called Starfleet should have been his first clue that this was going to suck. Incurable landlubber that he is, he has to wonder what he had been thinking when he’d made that decision. He rather suspects he was drunk at the time.
If the name hadn’t been a dead give-away, the simple reality that he hadn’t been able to make himself get on the transport sober should have been a giant fucking red flag. But somehow–somehow–it takes him until the minute he gets his class schedule for this to really sink in.
And sink in it does. It’s not even the first year minimum requirement of one foreign language course or the mandatory class devoted entirely to the two hundred thirty-six different ways to bow to various alien races that does it. It’s the not one, not two, but three various combat classes that are listed for the semester.
Surely there is some mistake. He’s a doctor, not a soldier; what the hell does he need three combat classes for? The only things he plans on fighting are disease and infection. Leave the Klingons to the people who actually signed up for that bullshit.
And then send them straight for their psych evals, he thinks darkly.
Who is he going to fight? He doesn’t even plan to get posted in space. In fact, if he can wrangle it, he’ll spend the next several years working right here on campus and then probably be done with Starfleet altogether. Maybe he’ll feel like going back to Georgia by then.
He snorts at the thought. Not likely. He should probably just consider the entire goddamned state part of the divorce settlement and be done with it. He’d only been half kidding when he told that kid he’d lost the planet in the divorce. He’s a Californian now at any rate (and hell if that doesn’t chafe just a bit.)
He quickly closes the message containing his new schedule and tosses his PADD on the bed. He has a shift at the hospital to get ready for; they are already putting him to work. He’d try to be bitter about that but he doubts it’s worth the effort. Not when it affords him luxuries like his own apartment and freedom from the curfews and campus restrictions the other cadets have to deal with. He’s still technically a cadet, but he does get some of the perks that posted personnel are entitled to.
But not being bitter is one thing, actually being pleased is another altogether and, quite frankly, probably a bit much to ask given his current state of mind. Which brings things full circle and really? Three combat classes? What are the other two going to try and teach him that he couldn’t fail to learn in the first?
He turns on the shower – actual water here in the staff housing block – and steps under the spray. These classes are going to be painful, a complete waste of his time and, probably most importantly, utterly humiliating.
He’s been here all of two days. If you counted the first day he spend wandering around in a belligerent drunken fog, writing God knows what in the too-small blank spaces on the administrative forms and dry heaving into the bushes by the shuttle pad. He honestly doesn’t want to think too hard about that.
In that time, surely he’s met somebody that he could take this up with and get it fixed. (Because it is a mistake, and that’s what you do with mistakes; you fix them.)
The thing is, Leonard seriously doubts he’s endeared himself to anyone. He isn’t the most affable guy under the best of circumstances, and being so bitter and depressed you’d drunkenly indenture yourself to a space-faring organization when you hate space hardly qualifies as ‘the best of circumstances.’
He steps out of the shower and grabs his towel. Eyeing himself critically in the mirror he notes that he needs to shave rather desperately. He was scruffy enough when he arrived and he hasn’t touched a razor since. He doesn’t much like the idea of showing up for his first day of work looking like a vagrant and besides, it itches like hell.
“You’re a pathetic, miserable bastard, you know that?” he asks his reflection.
His reflection nods and reaches for his shaving kit. “Damn right.”
By the time he’s finished shaving he feels lighter. Like some of the burden he’s been carrying has been washed down the drain with his beard. Well, mostly washed down anyway, he thinks, eyeing the gritty sink basin critically. It really is a good thing he doesn’t have a roommate.
Once he is dressed in scrubs and has his hair neatly combed he actually feels human again. Maybe not happy, but certainly more like himself and probably better than he’s felt since Jocelyn dropped the bomb on him that she actually wanted a divorce. He feels cleaner and lighter and ready to actually face the outside world at any rate. Two days in and he’s actually getting the fresh start he came here for, combat classes be damned.
He shakes his head and grabs his various accouterments on the way out the door. He’s decided to walk to Starfleet Medical. It’s far enough away that he could grab a ride but something, probably his general disdain for big city laziness, stops him.
His new feeling of freedom lasts precisely as long as his walk does. The minute he walks through the doors of the climate controlled hospital he has some kid throw up on his shoes and the new, optimistic Leonard McCoy dies before he really got a chance to live.
God fucking dammit!
He sighs and makes his way to the nurse’s station. They’ll know where he can get a change of scrubs. The nurses know everything.
He grimaces as his shoes squish unpleasantly but a blond nurse catches his eye and does an admirable job of suppressing her smile before gesturing at him to follow her. “Welcome to Starfleet Medical,” she says over her shoulder, managing to sound both amused and sympathetic. “First day?”
He glances down at his shoes and back at the nurse, giving a stiff nod to the back of her head. “Yes,” he tells her. Grumbles more like, glancing back to his shoes. He decides he doesn’t have time to take them off here and they’re not going to get much grosser than this. He squelches down the hall after her.
She leads him in silence through a door into a locker room and presents him with a set of blue scrubs, not unlike his own soiled set. He grunts an acknowledgement that’s probably a little ungrateful but he’s covered in vomit and he’s going to be late checking in for his shift, so she can excuse him for not being his usual charming self.
She gestures him toward the showers and he suspects her continued silence is to keep the laughter in but he lets it slide and passes her with a gruff thanks. He may not be amused but he’d half to be dead not to see the humor in the situation. But seeing and appreciating are two very different things and he just took a shower, God dammit.
It’s just sonics here in the hospital, which is just as well. They’re faster and more efficient and he can clean his shoes, which a water shower would be no help with.
Clean and changed he chucks his soiled scrubs in the chute and puts his shoes back on with a distasteful look. They may have been cleaned but something about putting on shoes that someone has just upchucked all over is still rather disgusting, and he’s not pleased to have to wear vomit-shoes for the next six hours, which is the length of his orientation and administrative torture session.
He finds his way easily back to the nurse’s station and blond nurse is waiting for him. He gives her a curt nod and she doesn’t seem to begrudge him his surly attitude, returning the nod with a friendly smile.
“Doctor McCoy?” she asks.
“That’s me.”
“It didn’t seem like the time for introductions earlier; I’m Christine Chapel. Dr. Lemley is expecting you, if you’ll follow me.” She starts down the hall in the opposite direction of the locker room and McCoy follows close behind.
“How are you liking the hospital so far?” she asks him.
“You’re kidding right?” he asks drily. A small quirk of her lips tells him she is, but she doesn’t answer. Possibly because they seem to have arrived at Dr. Lemley’s office.
“Dr. McCoy to see you sir,” Chapel says, poking her head in the door and then she turns back down the hall, leaving Leonard standing in the hall.
Dr. Lemley doesn’t look up from his PADD as Leonard enters his office.
“You’re late.”
Leonard scowls. “I apologize. There was an incident in the waiting area involving bodily fluids. I was unavoidably delayed.” What he wants to say is ’Some prick threw up on me as soon as I walked into your stupid hospital, you jackass’ but that’s probably both a little juvenile and a lot unwise as far as opening lines with your new boss go.
“See that it doesn’t become a habit,” is Lemley’s condescending reply.
Leonard bites back ’What? Getting vomited on? Wasn’t planning on it,’ but can’t quite bring himself to say ’Yessir’ either. Lemley hasn’t even bothered to look at him yet.
Yeah, there has to have been a lot of alcohol that went into the decision to subject himself to this.
Eventually Lemley does look at him, even if it’s just long enough to give Leonard the feeling he’s wondering what he’s still doing in his office and foist him off onto his assistant.
Jackass, Leonard thinks.
This is what he’s got to look forward to for the next few years, vomit in his shoes and pompous, self important, no-talent administrative physicians. Somebody, please, take him out back and shoot him.
The rest of his time in the hospital is kind of a blur. Not so much because time flies, because it really doesn’t, but because it so goddamn mind numbingly boring that filling out one ridiculous, redundant form bleeds into the next.
His tour is equally underwhelming. Once he gets the basics – ER in the front, maternity in the back, psych upstairs, pathology downstairs – it’s really just a hospital. It has hospital rooms that look like any other hospital rooms and a cafeteria that serves food no doctor would recommend their patient eat.
It’s his first day and he’s actually watching the clock. This really does not bode well for the next four years.
It would be different if they’d let him treat somebody, but until all the administrative bullshit is processed he is only allowed to observe.
When he finally gets his freedom he nods a goodbye to Chapel and a petite nurse with flaming red hair named Rodriguez – go figure – he steps outside. It’s still light – it’s summer in California, it won’t be dark until well after dinner – he decides to pick up food on the way back to his room. If he doesn’t stop and eat he gets to take these shoes off that much sooner.
His room is dark and quiet. After the bustling brightness of the hospital it should be a relief. Instead it reminds him of everything that’s changed in the last year. Instead of coming home to his wife and daughter and that obnoxious cat that was always exactly where you wanted to place your next step he comes back to a dark room and a duffle bag, only partly unpacked.
Never mind that his relationship with Jocelyn was strained, alternately cold distance and heated arguments, he can still miss the idea of what he had. And he misses Jo.
He toes off his shoes, deciding against burning them and dumps his bag of take-out on the small table.
Two chairs. He wonders if the other one will ever get used.
He changes into a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. His noodles aren’t technically hot anymore but they’re warm enough and he pulls up his schedule again while he eats.
Classes don’t start until Monday. It’s Wednesday now. Five days to psych himself up to take Vulcan Physiology and Conversational Andorian. Oh, and the basic combat courses. How could he forget those.
He fishes around in his bag until he comes up with a bottle of something sufficiently alcoholic to make today suck less. He tells himself it’ll make tomorrow easier.
His glass is empty long before his plate is and when he finally falls asleep he’s almost forgotten why joining Starfleet is possibly the worst idea he’s ever had.
~
Thursday morning shows more promise. At least Leonard makes it through the doors of the hospital without anybody losing their breakfast on him. He finds it slightly depressing that he’s counting something like that as a win.
Chapel gives him a nod as he passes her station and he returns it with a gruff “Good morning.” It’s a far cry from cheerful but it’s friendly enough. From what he’d seen yesterday, she and Rodriguez are more competent than many of the doctors. Besides, if there’s one thing he’s learned as a doctor, it’s that nurses are valuable allies.
Lemley is no more interested in Leonard than he was yesterday; he is clearly too busy and important to deal with lowly cadets, no matter how many initials they have after their name. But Leonard’s paperwork has all gone through and he’s cleared to start seeing patients so he isn’t too bothered. He’s here to heal people, not to pander to his desk jockey boss’s sizeable ego.
Work is slow today, classes haven’t started yet and the new cadets are still on their best behavior. He does get a couple of second-years who managed to injure themselves rearranging furniture in their new dorm, and a single third-year who he spends about ten times longer than necessary with just to get them to tell him about their completely curable if admittedly rather embarrassing problem.
When Leonard finally does get a patient with something to complain of other than stupidity, he’s got him diagnosed and all but cured in half an hour. He’s good at his job, at least he still has that.
As he’s signing off on the kid’s chart, about to offer him a pat on the back and send him out the door, a man in scrubs and a coat identifying him as Dr. Kaya sweeps in like he’s gracing them with his presence and addresses the cadet–one Wilson Norman, poor kid–ignoring Leonard entirely.
“What do we have here?” Dr. Kaya asks Norman, holding his hand out for the chart without so much as a glance in Leonard’s direction. Which just means he misses the rather spectacular look of indignant disbelief he gets in lieu of the PADD.
He finally does turn to Leonard, who has what could be referred to as issues with authority under the best condition, he is just in time to see the flaring nostrils and the arms crossing over his chest. “I asked for the chart, cadet,” he says.
“Actually, you didn’t. And you certainly didn’t say please.” Leonard’s expression could be called a smile¬–technically.
“I believe I made myself clear.”
“Oh, you did,” Leonard returns, both eyebrows high on his forehead. “In fact, I think you stopped just short of snapping your fingers for it. Which, by the way, is the only thing that stopped you from getting the chart and in a very uncomfortable way.”
Kaya looks down his nose at Leonard, quite a feat for a man nearly four inches shorter than him. “What is your name, cadet.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Leonard McCoy. And it’s Doctor.” His good Southern upbringing demands he offer his hand to shake now but frankly he just doesn’t want to. Instead he turns to poor Wilson Norman, now squirming uncomfortably on the bed and looking about ready to bolt and says, “You’re good to go kid. Hit the pharmacy on your way out.”
Thus dismissed the cadet all but runs from the room, offering a weak thanks on his way out. That leaves Leonard alone with Dr. Kaya. He ignores him.
It’s working splendidly until Kaya, ego bruised, begins gibbering about insubordination. Leonard doesn’t even glance up from the PADD he still hasn’t handed over to the prick next to him.
“You don’t outrank me here,” he tells him, sounding almost bored.
Kaya’s chest swells until he thinks it’s in danger of exploding. “I beg to differ. You’re a cadet! I’m¬–“
“I don’t care what you are,” Leonard says frankly, finally glancing up to Kaya’s face. Well, up-ish. “Unless you’re a walking medical encyclopedia, you weren’t more qualified to make that call that I was. I’m not an intern; I’m a doctor and I don’t appreciate my judgment being called into question just because your office is bigger than mine. If you have a complaint about anything other than me doing my job, I’d be happy to hear it,” he lies. “Otherwise I believe it’s time for lunch.”
He is getting hungry so when he brushes past Kaya he heads for the cafeteria despite the fact that it actually is lunch time and he’s going to end up making mindless small talk with whoever happens to be sitting at whichever of the tables Leonard chooses.
Rodriguez and another med-track cadet named Piotr Zajak, as it turns out. Rodriguez offers him a smile, which he makes a valiant effort to return. He’s pretty sure it just comes out as a grimace.
“Get barfed on again?” she asks brightly.
He chuckles darkly. “Worse. Had a delightful conversation with a charming man by the name of Dr. Kaya. Or so his nametag tells me. If I’m gone tomorrow I was fired. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”
Piotr chokes on his sandwich and Rodriguez laughs.
“I’m glad my imminent unemployment could brighten your day.”
“You won’t be fired,” Rodriguez says, still too cheerful by half. “Kaya’s an ass and the only one that he doesn’t drive up the wall is Lemley. Which I suspect has something to do with the fact that he never hears him talk; Kaya’s too busy licking his boots.”
“Oh, good. The only person who likes the guy is my direct senior. My job security is assured,” Leonard’s mouth quirks up despite himself. Rodriguez makes it hard to stay grumpy. She could deliver the news that we was being fired herself and he’d probably thank her. He’s just having a bit of trouble getting to upset about the prospect of losing a job he’s not even sure why he wanted in the first place.
Piotr gives one last cough, his eyes watering and mutters “Seriously, you’re fine. Try being the guy’s intern.”
Leonard makes a sympathetic face. “You’ve made your point,” he concedes. “It could always be worse.”
Lunch passes–dare he say it–pleasantly, and what do you know, he’s made a friend. Wouldn’t his mother be proud.
When lunch is over he can give Rodriguez a genuine smile and he shakes Piotr’s hand warmly. He still has the rest of a dull afternoon to look forward to but eventually it ticks by, perhaps no faster than this morning but at least not so unpleasantly.
Still, this is going to be a long few years. If he makes it that long.
Dinner is take-out again. Greek this time, though he’s not impressed and probably won’t be visiting that restaurant again anytime soon.
After dinner he pulls the bottle out again. It’s nearly empty. Tomorrow is Friday. The most important thing on his to-do list has just become find a decent bar.
He sips from his glass slowly, letting the warm feeling spread through his limbs and the sleepiness creep over him. This is the very last of his stash from Georgia and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to savor it.
When he falls asleep the bottle is still sitting on his table, completely dry. He dreams of hot, sticky nights on the porch and the old tire swing in the back yard.
~
Friday is much the same: boring but vomit free. He eats lunch with Piotr in almost complete silence. Piotr is a quiet guy; it’s one of Leonard’s favorite things about him.
Leonard does four physicals that afternoon, three of them new recruits and one of them an engineer being transferred off planet. The most exciting part of his day is the kid that comes in with a dislocated thumb, and he’s there and gone in under twenty minutes.
He changes into civvies in the locker room, and by the time he leaves the hospital he needs a drink just to counteract the sheer drudgery of his life. We wakes up in his bare, empty room, goes to his grossly under-stimulating job and then back to his empty room. His unfortunate meeting with Kaya seems a distant memory now and if not for the dirty looks he gets in the halls, he might think it never happened.
The first bar Leonard finds is a little loud for his tastes but it serves alcohol and that’s his only real criteria at the moment. He makes a mental note to find something farther from the campus in the future as he places his order and finds a seat somewhere in a corner, far from the press of young bodies.
But the young bodies come to him anyway. A man slides into his booth across from him with a charming smile. He’s young, Leonard notes but closer to his own age than to some of the teenagers he sees around campus. Thank fuck.
“Can I help you?” He intends the question to come out flat and uninviting but he can’t help his eyes from running down the man’s chest and dark, muscular arms–completely ruining the effect. And they’re great arms. But when the man’s smile grows into a bright, handsome grin Leonard decides it’s not worst thing that’s ever happened.
He even smiles back.
“Maybe I can help you,” the man says. “Can I get you another drink? I’m Kahil.”
Leonard shakes the offered hand and gives Kahil a nod. Why the hell not, he thinks. It’s not like he’s married.
Kahil proves to be friendly and he’s incredibly good looking, if not exactly a brilliant conversationalist. Thought honestly, the more drinks Leonard has the less he cares. And his absolute favorite thing is that he looks nothing like Jocelyn.
Once he realizes that it’s inevitable that they leave together, really.
It’s still warm outside when they leave. The heavy air does nothing to sober McCoy up and he’s still smiling and dizzy when he climbs naked onto Kahil’s bed and throws and sloppy grin over his shoulder.
He revels in the feel of warm hands on his skin, sliding over his back, his hip, tugging through his hair; the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the rough bite of teeth against his shoulder, his neck and one memorable occasion, his thigh.
With Kahil inside him he forgets what he hates about messy, drunk sex and just enjoys himself. It’s not perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better than going back to his empty room again before the sun had even set would have been.
Leaving Georgia was freeing in a way and he wouldn’t go back to Jocelyn for all the tea in China, but the truth is he’s a lonely. With a warm body next to him, it’s easy to forget that.
Afterward he falls asleep in Kahil’s bed. When he wakes it’s early morning, Kahil is still asleep and Leonard is sober. Definitely time to leave.
It’s barely six o’clock on a Saturday morning, the sun muzzy through the thin morning fog, which is already starting to burn off. He decides to make his way back to campus on foot, he’s earned this walk of shame. It’s his first in years; first since his first few weeks with Jocelyn, and he intends to enjoy the experience.
A small coffee shop catches his eye as he meanders down the street in yesterday’s clothes and he stops in for a cup – black, no sugar. He sits with his coffee by the big windows in the front of the shop and people watches.
He can’t even remember the last time he did this. Can’t remember the last time he cared about anything other than what was going on at work or his own imploding marriage.
But the marriage is history and there’s absolutely nothing interesting going on at work, Lemley makes sure of that, so really what Leonard has going for him right now is this cup of coffee and the fact that he has the next two days to explore San Francisco. If he’s ever going to have to call it home, he’s really going to need to find a better bar.
He spends the day unpacking his bags and exploring the city. Which is to say, he spends sixteen minutes unpacking his bags, and the rest of the day exploring the city.
It’s different from Georgia and Leonard tries not to automatically place that fact in the con list in his mind. He’s marginally successful. The ocean is nice and the bridge is beautiful but it’s noisier and more crowded than is his preference.
He uses the cities various forms of public transit and pokes around in shops for the better part of the afternoon. He could just pull up a map on his PADD but it’s not really any substitute for seeing with your own eyes. Besides, it’s not like he has something better to be doing.
Eventually he finds a number of small bars, far enough from campus that they won’t be packed with people who are still excited about being old enough to drink alcohol, but close enough that the cab fare back to his room won’t cost more than his night of drinking either. He makes a note to try them each out and points himself back in the direction of Starfleet.
When he gets back there’s a comm from his mother waiting for him, which he quickly answers, and one from Jocelyn’s pet shark she calls a lawyer, which he doesn’t. He tells his mother he’s alive, he arrived and been put to work, that she can stop worrying and that she is not, under any circumstances, to try and feed him; he’s eating just fine, thank you very much.
He hasn’t been home –back, not home, he reminds himself – twenty minutes before the oppressive silence starts to get to him. It’s still bright outside, too early to start drinking. He lies back on his bed, a tiny single mattress, smaller than any bed he’s had since his freshman year of college. He’s going to have to do something about that.
Having room for a nightlife aside, he’s grown accustomed to having more space to stretch out. Even when his marriage was falling apart he’d wake to find his limbs sprawled on Jocelyn’s side of the bed, more out of habit than any desire to be close.
Now he’s just surrounded by the echoing loneliness of his room, lying like the dead, arms crossed over his chest, on a tiny mattress too small for a single man, let alone company. On the bright side,he thinks, the emptiness makes the room seem bigger. He’s sure one he fills it up it will sink in that his entire life is now set in a tiny bedroom/living room with a sad counter against one wall that he’d heard somebody refer to as a kitchenette.
He finds it inside himself to at least remember to be grateful he gets his own bathroom.
He eats in the mess that night. If he finds eating in what amounts to a school cafeteria demeaning, he’s feeling zen enough from his walkabout that he puts up with it for the benefit of it being fast and close. Lately food is really more of a means of filling his stomach with something to help absorb the alcohol than anything else. He’d intentionally failed to mention that in his comm to his mother.
When he’s done with his dinner he waits until dark and grabs a tram off campus. The bar he’s chosen for tonight is in a small brick building that must be at least a hundred years old and it’s still mostly empty.
He orders a bourbon and takes it to a table near the back to sip it for a while. Except that when he gets there he realizes that maybe this was a bad idea. He has nothing to do but think, he either needs to do something or get more alcohol. The bar is still too empty to start looking for his evening companionship, so he quickly downs the rest of his glass, and when he’s sets his glass down there’s someone sitting across from him.
“Shuttle guy! McCoy, right?”
Leonard nods. He recognizes the kid, but he doesn’t remember his name so he doesn’t say anything. His visitor doesn’t seem to mind.
“You’re looking better than last time I saw you.”
“I’m sober,” Leonard replies. “Don’t get too used to it, I’m trying to remedy that.” He gestures for another drink and he sees the kid mouthing beer to the pretty waitress out of the corner of his eye.
They sit and watch the bar fill up in mostly silence, occasionally peppered with the kid’s pithy comments (“Holy shit, would you look at those legs? Can you imagine the vice grip on your ears?”) and witty asides (“This beer could stand to be beer-ier.”) The former earns him dirty looks, the latter bewildered ones, but Leonard will grudgingly admit that it’s a welcome distraction from himself. Not unlike their shuttle ride, now that he thinks about it.
Eventually the comments grow fewer and farther between, each of them sizing up each new patron as they come through the door. Leonard is startled when the kid speaks again, but he covers his flinch with a scowl.
“What d’you think about her?” he asks, pointing discreetly to a particularly stunning brunette in a truly tiny dress sitting at the bar.
Leonard lets out a low whistle.
“What about you, man. Who’ve you got your eye on?”
Leonard studies him for a moment, considering, before he shrugs and tilts his head in the direction of a tall dark haired man in a pair of jeans so tight Leonard practically feels it his duty to get them off before they do irreparable harm.
His drinking buddy – whose name he still can’t remember, thanks to being drunk when they met, no doubt – nods appreciatively, his eyes lingering on the tight denim and the clearly delineated anatomy therein, and takes a long pull at his beer. He licks at his lips and Leonard finds his eyes following the tongue until it disappears back into his mouth.
A flash of long blond hair pulls his eyes away from this kid’s mouth and he tenses. The woman that just walked in looks a fair bit like Jocelyn. Not enough to mistake them, even from across the crowded room, but enough to make him work a little harder to recover some of his lost buzz.
He glances over at the kid and sees him passing an appreciative eye over the blonde. Leonard gives a mental shrug. If the kid wants her, he’s on his own. Leonard made the mistake already of assuming Jocelyn had been “his type” and picked up a woman with similar attributes.
He’d discovered that it didn’t really do it for him anymore; what he’d loved about Jocelyn had been Jocelyn. Until she turned into a raving bitch, and then not so much. Now he missed the idea of her from time to time but God help him, that woman could go straight to hell.
Apparently Jocelyn had missed the “do not pass go, do not collect all of my money” bit on that chance card and she’d cleaned him out on the way.
Leonard goes back to staring appreciatively at the man in the painted-on jeans. Forget Jocelyn. He was in a bar, surrounded by beautiful people, decent drinking companion at his side. He glances over at said drinking companion and finds him eyeing him appraisingly.
“Something on my face?” he asks dryly.
The kid smiles. “Nope.”
“Huh.” And that’s it. The kid doesn’t look away, Leonard doesn’t ask what he wants. He knows what he wants. And to be honest, Leonard’s feeling pretty willing. The guy’s damn pretty and probably knows his way around a blowjob, if the way he keeps licking his lips and glancing at Leonard’s belt is any indication.
After sitting through another moment of consideration, which is far less awkward than Leonard feels it should be, he turns back to his companion. “We gonna have to sit here through another drink?”
The smile on his face grows into a grin. “Fuck no. I’m just really hoping your roommate’s not around tonight.”
“No roommate. Let’s go.” McCoy makes his way to the bar without looking behind him, he knows he doesn’t have to. Tabs settled they exit the bar together, into the stifling warmth of the September night.
Southern gentleman to the last, McCoy holds the door and gestures the other man through. “Would now be a bad time to mention I can’t remember your name?”
Well, almost to the last.