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 just shrugs at that, sitting up and letting the blankets fall around his waist. "Jim's gone," is what he says, voice rough. "My goddamn best friend is gone after my roommate, after Scotty, and Chekov and all the rest. Don't know where to turn these days, but drink's always been good to me."

"This place is like that," she said, voice still soft. She reached over to rest a hand on his forearm.

"No way to predict it, no way to prevent it. Just gotta.... find ways to cope."

"Yeah? And what do you do to cope?" McCoy asks bluntly, looking across the dark distance at Rogue. His eyes are bleary and he's still a little worn from the drink, but he's supposed to talk to her. So here he is, talking away.

"I let go," she told him, sliding closer, dropping her hand from his forearm to the bed- on the other side of his body.

McCoy is starting to get the niggling feeling that something isn't going real right at this point in time. "Rogue, what are you doing?" he asks in a hush, giving her a pointed look.

"Why?" she whispered back, leaning closer still, enough that the wild curling tendrils of her hair brushed his cheek, her arm brushed his arm.

She needed to make sure she could get to that damned hypo thing faster than him. She was almost close enough, so she just had to keep him distracted. Her daughter may not have been as manipulative as Mystique would have hoped, given the hours she put into training her, but she was built for distraction.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"I don't know what you're even doing right now," McCoy has to admit, peering up at her and trying to figure out how to figure out just what the hell is going on with her. "You okay, there? You need a drink, Rogue?"

Maybe he was still drunk.

"For a doctor, you're pretty slow on the uptake," she commented, drawing one hand along his chest to his shoulder, sliding her fingers along his neck, and bringing her mouth closer to his.

Her other hand was snaking with silent accuracy for the drawer.

"Hey," McCoy growls, grasping at her wrists when suddenly he's being groped in the dark. His eyes are a little wild and wide. "Look, Rogue, I know you know I'm with Jean," he drawls, accent getting stronger from the drink and the mood and the shock. "So what the hell d'you think you're doin'?"

She slipped one hand from his grip, the one she needed to get to the drawer, although she made it seem like she was recoiling. She let out a small gasp and set herself to trembling, because that seemed like it would be appropriate.

"What? Ah- Oh, Lord, Ah hardly know," she said, endeavoring to put on the accent now that he was more lucid.

"Ah'm sorry-"

Now she just needed the idiot to make any attempt to comfort her, and she'd snag that damn hypo and be out the door.

McCoy pushes at the blankets as he takes a look at Rogue, leaning over to light one of the lamps, trying to get a little more light into the room. "How long you been awake? Did something stir you?" he asks, sliding back into scientist mode. "Do you want me to call Emma?"

She insinuated herself into his personal space with a smooth twist of her body, hands sliding, palms flat, to rest along his shoulders.

"No," she said, "don't call for anyone."

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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