(no subject)

McCoy has passed righteous indignation roughly an hour ago and he's slid right into a comfortable niche where he's mad as hell and he's just not going to take it anymore. He'd been relieved and proud to get the signatures needed, but when he'd stopped to hand them in and ask how Jim's had come along, they'd told him that Jim had dropped his name out of the running.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out why, even though McCoy's got about ten on hand in order to give him an answer. He tugs at the sleeves of his long emerald green henley and paces back and forth outside of the farmhouse, trying to find some kind of sanity or sense or calm words that will help him out.

He's got nothing.

Instead, he's going to go in guns blazing. He's going to kick down the door and he's going to let himself be mad as hell. He doesn't bother knocking, using his shoulder as leverage to get the door open. "Hey!" he snaps, voice booming through the house (and probably scaring the cat while he's at it). "Jim Idiot Tiberius Kirk. Where the fuck are you?" he demands, pushing his hand heatedly through his hair one more time and managing to dislodge it from its hold.