leftwithmybones | (no subject)

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rogue

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McCoy is thinking that maybe he didn't make such a great decision telling Rogue that she could stay with him. First had been the attack. And hell if that wasn't bad enough. McCoy's been drinking pretty heavily since Jim left, so when he wakes up in the middle of the night drunk and being attacked by Rogue, he's thinking that he's made a bad call.

He's tossing and turning, the heat too warm for him. He can't sleep and every time he hears a noise in the other room, he's on high alert.

His own cat is no goddamn help. When he was getting beat up by a girl, the cat just sat there licking its paws and watching. So it's just McCoy and a hypospray full of sedative. He rummages in the bedside drawer for it, just to make sure that he's ready. Just in case.

Until then, he's revisiting the intelligence of this whole plan.

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McCoy is starting to get a creepingly bad feeling about all of this. "Hey," he says, voice thick like it's weighted by molasses, accent growing thick with his nerves. "Rogue, c'mon, what the hell are we playin' at here?"

He was interesting. Clearly there were weaknesses, see: the drinking. There were so many buttons to push, though, and now as much as leaving, she had an interest in seeing what kind of person went through all this trouble without asking anything in return.

Everyone had an angle.

She pressed against his back, tilting her head enough so the tip of her nose brushed the shell of his ear.

"Looks like the oldest game in the book to me."

He jolts away suddenly as if he's been burned, giving her a worried look as he reaches to try and scramble to grab hold of her wrists. It won't do much if she's determined to get the upper hand on him, but he isn't gonna be this man. "Rogue," he growls, getting to the edge of his impatience. "Don't do this."

"Watch who you're addressing," she replied in a bored, flat tone, devoid of accent, and used one improbably flexible leg to draw her knee up between them and plant her foot in his chest, shoving him back.

"What's your hope here, doctor? What are you trying to cure? Or is it having such a rare bug under such a tight lens that's motivating you?"

McCoy's brows raise sharply and he gapes at her, just a little bit curious. "I'm trying to help with a goddamn brain issue that's keeping you awake!" he snaps, aware that he's not talking to her anymore, but stubbornly refusing to speak differently. "Rare bug? Everyone's a rarity, here."

"Inspiring," she replied mockingly.

"You haven't realized how beyond you this is? It's not a chemical imbalance that can be righted with the liberal application of drugs. We're a part of her. She made us a part of her when she touched us." She withdrew her foot and crossed her legs, remaining otherwise still and watching him with a narrow, cold gaze.

"Some more than others. Make a note, doctor, that you will not be ridding her of me."

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