[For Spock]

[leftwithmybones]

Disheveled and discontent and goddamn pissed is how McCoy is coming back to his home, not tipsy enough to stop caring and not sober enough to actually be thinking clearly about the situation. He's straddling this twilight in-between and knows that he's in one helluva mood and that's about all. His hair's a mess, his clothes are wrinkled, and he's only wearing a black t-shirt, button down clenched tightly in his hands.

When he gets back to the hut, he slams the door behind him because it feels good. It feels so good that he wants to recommend that wherever he serves next has manual doors just so he can slam each and every one until they break. "Damn it," he hisses to himself. "Alright, Cat, get out here," he half-heartedly commands, because what good is a pet if you can't even be comforted in your time of need.

Comments

[leftwithmybones]

McCoy narrows his eyes at Spock and all but juts a finger in his direction to accuse him of enjoying his displeasure. He takes a deep breath and pushes a hand through his hair, collapsing on the couch and letting the damn kitten take roam of wherever he wants. "Arguing's not going to do a damn thing to help," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll keep it down, you can go back to ... whatever it is you do at night alone in that room."