@rejectory sent: “I caught one back there.” attuma
"---máasima', íitsʾin?"
From his position cradled in the underwater current, K'uk'ulkan grins at Attuma, his expression wide open and relaxed with the laughter he doesn't voice. The leader makes a show of looking where his companion indicates, twisting smoothly in the water and mock-shading his eyes to peer out into open sea, lips pursed and clicking bubbles. He rolls his gaze back to Attuma, leveling the younger Talokanil with an unimpressed look that belies the mirth still lingering in K'uk'ulkan's crinkled eyes.
"... Because from where I'm swimming, it looks like the prey has escaped, and your spear shaft is empty."
everyone has a little bit of the sun and moon in them. everyone has a little bit of man, woman, and animal within them. darks and lights in them. everyone is part of a connected cosmic system. part earth and sea, wind and fire, with some salt and dust swimming in them. we have a universe within ourselves that mimics the universe outside. none of us are just black or white, or never wrong and always right. no one. no one exists without polarities. everyone has good and bad forces working with them, against them, and within them. as the sun awkwardly crawled through his bedroom window, macaulay woke to the warm rays tickling his skin. eyes fluttered open as a smile crept onto his features as he noticed that valentino had stayed the night with him. it was becoming a common place and while it was innocent - macaulay was oddly content with these fleeting visits.
in some way the man was the sun to his moon and that was something that he’d never admit outloud. mac wasn’t a very emotional person and he’d rather focus on things with merit. the witch wasn’t equipped to crave the touch of a man who could only make him weak in the grand scheme of things. the idea of the man was intoxicating and maybe it was because his powers failed to work on the lennox witch? it made him crave val even more and the thought of a simple touch made him hum in appreciation. watching the man sleep next to him, macaulay carefully slid from his place on the california queen and let his bare feet touch the cold marble floor. adjusting his boxer briefs, he walked silently across the room and excused himself with some nominal tasks such as brushing his teeth and making two mugs of coffee. once he finished, he returned to the room with both mugs and sat down at the table next to the window.
still in his boxer briefs, he put down both cups before reaching for his glasses and a book that he’d been reading the afternoon before. mac wasn’t doing much reading, however he didn’t want to make things awkward by staring at valentino when he woke up.
Leonard had made his fair share of assumptions in his life, but this was getting ridiculous.
It began with a passing observation made by his mother, towards the end of his days in Starfleet Academy. Perhaps he had no one but himself to blame—at the time, he admittedly spoke far too much about Jim.
In his defense, their roommate situation often plagued Leonard’s thinning patience. Who the hell else was he going to complain about? Especially the nights that Jim made too much fuss before exams. You may as well have asked Leonard to walk on his hands.
It had gone like this, and in retrospect, Leonard should have realized this was the defining moment that he was fucked.
“—and if you come back down to Georiga, Len, you oughta bring that darlin’ boyfriend of yours—”
“I’ll try to catch a bus there, Ma, but I can’t promise— Hold up. Boyfriend? I’m not datin’ anyone. Jim’s my roommate.”
A similar mistake occurred following their first voyage into space, when Starfleet students murmured the return of the new captain (you know, the one whose father sacrificed himself for all those people) and his boyfriend, the new chief medical officer (you know, the grouchy one).
And wasn’t that just the cherry on top? To be known not just as someone’s boyfriend who he was very much not dating, but as a grouch. When Jim had flashed his stupid, bright, far too endearing smile at him, he wanted to punch him in the face.
Years later, Leonard could not shake off the fairly common speculation. More than once, he questioned whether there was a sign on the back of his shirt informing everyone to treat him with as much tomfuckery as possible. It was to his greatest despair that he realized these presumptions spread because of him, and not a sign.
Matters were quickly about to worsen, and it was in moments like these that Leonard truly wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Leave nothing but a single hair for others to wonder what happened to their poor chief medical officer, you know, the grouch.
Leonard stood in front of Jim, expression contorted with disbelief, surprise, and bubbling frustration. Narrowed eyes wandered the room, whose interior decoration reflected wealth you’d find only in the richest of homes back on Earth. In the center of the room, covered in soft furs and pillows, was a bed. A single bed. One. Fucking. Bed. With flowers, whose yellow and blue hues may have been enchanting were it not for their implication.
“You’ve gotta be f— They gave us the same room, Jim. Everyone else got a separate room. Hell, Tabora and Walters got separate rooms and they’re goddamn married.” Leonard stomped and paced around the room, as if needing more emphasis to convey his astonishment. “And it’s not just that. They thought we were married. We haven’t been on this planet for more than a few hours!”
●︎ when: may 8th, 2019
●︎ where: deadwood park
●︎ with: open thread
the taste of dark-roast coffee stained his breath. it was soon masked by the mint-flavored gum the wytch slipped into his mouth as he adjusted the neat glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. the blonde male spent the past four hours arguing with a client in his office about a particular dark artifact that was impossible to procure; even for him. after some heated exchanges, the two agreed that their behavior was deplorable and would not resurface in future conversations. the two understood the need for respect in their field and they’d dismiss this as a mere lapse in judgment. macaulay knew this man was a true fool not to listen to him, then again he’d move onto the next dealer who promised him this item. he’d eventually succumb to a scam and mac would merely smile as the other housed an inauthentic item. excusing his guest, he packed his bag, and headed to a place in town that brought forth an overwhelming sense of clam. as he approached his favorite bench in a very desolate park, the man took a seat and cleared his throat. “it’s a nice day out isn’t it?” he asked as he took a seat next to them and hoped they were ready for a idle conversation.
dissimulation, secretiveness, appear a necessity to the melancholic. he has complex often veiled relations with others. these feelings of superiority, of inadequacy, of baffled feeling, of not being able to get what he wants, or even name it properly (or consistently) to oneself - these can be felt or masked by a cruel friendliness, or laced with the most scrupulous manipulation. there were moments where the witch felt like he’d never live up to the legendary “mott” surname. thankfully, macaulay wasn’t someone who could be cast out of the fold. he was far too clever for such a deed and without his family's consent - the boy involved himself with work. not one member of his family (with the exception of mabel), knew about his occult black market dealings. the criminal underbelly of deadwood, especially in the supernatural realm was vast and business was particularly booming. at this low-key dive bar - mac ordered himself another round of tequila as he caught the stare of someone sitting next to him. “can you add a drink for them on my tab?” he spoke with a smile now that business was done and he could carry on with some casual conversation.
Well, if this wasn’t any way to start the day. “This weather is about as fickle as any lover,” Leonard growled to what he assumed was the remainder of the landing party. Yet with a short glance over his shoulder, the doctor immediately realized his own loneliness. The rest of the crew had disappeared into the darkness, along with everything else. A jolt of panic and adrenaline crept up his spine. Where the hell had they gone?
Keep your wits, he demanded of himself. Trudging down the most walkable path of the jungle, Leonard strained his ears for any signal of his crew mates. The tricorder strapped across his chest felt heavier with each step. Dread weighed it down like lead.
“Jim?” With the fierce patter of rain and howling wind, his mind began playing tricks on him. Did he hear the captain or was that his own imagination? With the darkening clouds overhead, there was little starlight available to illuminate the ground. More than once, Leonard came close to stumbling over an unearthed root or low-hanging branch.
By sheer luck, the brief thinning of clouds allowed a streak of starlight to shine ahead of him. Leonard glanced up to the skies graciously, and in a fit exasperation, questioned whether anyone on the Enterprise knew what the hell was happening down below.
— “Bones!”
There was no mistaking that voice for a trick of the mind. Leonard rushed towards the sound, stopping short of tripping over a sudden drop. Wide eyes immediately noted Jim’s crouched form, leaning near the rock’s base, and sighed in (short-lived) relief.
“Jim,” he called out, carefully climbing down the stone. The rain made it slippery. “Did you fall? How the hell did you get down here?”
Finally descending all the way down, Leonard dragged a sharp stare down the captain. His eyes stopped at the wound. The doctor instinctively pulled forward and began assessing the injury. “It looks nasty, but not too deep,” he remarked reflexively. Leonard used the tricorder to read Jim’s condition and, once assuring that no major blood vessels were punctured, he set it aside and began wrapping a torn strip of cloth from his shirt around Jim’s leg. “We’ll need to get you to sickbay. It’ll do us no good to have you bleed out in the middle of this damned planet.” Leonard paused shortly, darting a glance to the captain. “How’s your communicator?”
The calls into work in the dead of night had increased, leaving him haggard from earning only a few hours of rest. The captain had scorned Leonard when he made a trivial mistake from his exhaustion, which immediately prompted glee from M’Benga that Leonard fell further from favor. There was an additional influx of traitors to be taken care of, whose presence made Leonard weary each moment they eyed the doctor with disdain, despite his scalpel in hand. It was fine—he didn’t need their fear, didn’t want it. Leonard numbed his mind the moment Kirk had requested the doctor finish his bullshit “evaluation” of the prisoners which amounted more to torture than anything else. By the end of it, with his head a sore tangle of broken thoughts, he could not even remember their faces.
Leonard was tired in the way that exhaustion burrowed deep into your bones until it became part of your DNA. Christine noticed his growing irritability, to which Leonard sighed and ignored her sneers. He hadn’t meant to showcase his exasperation. Recently, it was the only emotion making it past his callous exterior.
With his frustration came desperation, and with his fatigue came errors. After dragging lethargic limbs to his cabin one night, he realized belatedly his last attempt of meddling with the Imperial Starfleet via the computer in his room was not as untraceable as it was meant to be. It led to a brief moment of fear, to bitter acceptance of his likely murder, and lastly to Leonard using his reason to fix the situation. He immediately called off his next shift, citing irreversible exhaustion (which was not a lie), and then spent the next several hours pretending he understood all the complexities of his room’s computer. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. It seemed no one on this damned ship remembered that, least of all him.
Yet he had to do something to vent his retaliation. Even if it was only minor annoyance that the captain would find a mishap in his cargo in the next station they visited for supplies, it was better than sitting idle until his heart ultimately gave out. Better to find a new shipment of innocuous tribbles than the dozens of weapons as originally intended.
His paranoia had continued its cruel touch to Leonard’s senses. Sooner or later he was going to run himself into the ground.
Leonard paced himself to the sickbay for his next shift, the lines on his face more pronounced and stubble coating his lower jaw. No one announced their good mornings to him, just as no one cared as he immediately shut himself away in his office. He jostled a cabinet open and retrieved his flask, took a deep sip, and felt his heart drop away in his ribcage.
“What in the hell,” he hissed, a stare hardening at the person before him. Leonard took several steps back as he observed the person whose appearance was near identical to his own, were it not for him looking like shit and this doppelgänger looking far cleaner and healthier. “What’re you doing in my office? And who the hell sent you here?” Leonard somehow found room for his wits in the chaos of thoughts that now became his mind. He ventured forward, diligent but wary, and peered sourly at the other man. “So what—is this their method of replacing me? Making a clone to somehow run everything in this sickbay? M’Benga will be upset he didn’t get to kill me himself.”
@perankotekru | the adventures of t’venna & mccoy ft. 1000 sighs and mutual complaints of doctor phillip
The air conditioning’s cool breeze flicked against the back of his neck. San Francisco’s heat clung to his nape and crept down the valley between his shoulders; the chill of the medical clinic was never so sweet as the first step inside. Tipping his head in a short nod towards the receptionists, Leonard stalked from the lobby in search of his new office.
The hallways rolled out like a maze at first glance. Whereas nurses and physician assistants moved with ease down the hallways, Leonard’s eyebrows burrowed further and further until he found the door labeled LEONARD MCCOY in black lettering.
Everything felt sterile. The smell of sanitizer was near bitter when he entered the room.
“Home sweet home,” he mumbled to the off-white walls. The last time he stepped inside any hospital setting not as a patient had been in Georgia.
He’d rearranged his possessions during the quiet of last night, vowing to return the next day for his first shift after a day’s load of classes. Leonard discarded his bag, tucked his medical coat underneath his arm alongside his PADD, and fled from the narrow room. First thing was first—caffeine.
Leonard’s nose led him to the staff break room, where several coffee machines shoved against the wall were already brewing. He hadn’t yet glanced to the staffing list for the evening and paid just as little attention to the break room when filling his first cup of coffee for the night. Black. Bitter and disgusting, just as every generic cup of coffee in every hospital across the world. Hell, probably in space, too.
With a pointed look, blue eyes darted up from the rim of his cup to scan the room. The moment his attention caught a somewhat familiar presence, Leonard’s muscles stiffened and tightened. Black acid burnt his tongue when he forgot to swallow. Fuck.
