Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
Note
This story was written in response to a newsgroup challenge: Write a story in which the character who's suffered the most at your hands comes after you.
*Got* to go to bed. Well, just one more re-read.
She scrolled back up to the top of the file.
Laughing with delight at her own cleverness, she climbed the stairs, followed by a sleepy little dog. She fell into the big, wide bed and the dog jumped up beside her. She scratched his head and murmured, "Good night, Buster." The dog turned in a circle three times and dropped down against the crook of her legs. She slid easily into dreamless sleep.
Cold. Should've closed the window. Damn. Where's the blanket?
She groped around for it, finally opening her eyes and saw a man sitting in the chair next to the bed. Buster was sitting at his feet, leaning comfortably against his leg. She started to scream but the man moved quickly and clapped one hand over her mouth.
Her eyes opened wide in recognition. He removed his hand and sat back down in the chair as she frantically covered herself with a sheet. They studied each other for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.
"You've been very busy, haven't you, *Jungle Kitty*?"
"You can't be here," she whispered in disbelief. "It's impossible."
"But I am here. And, as a mutual friend of ours would say, to deny that would be illogical. But then, you've never really gotten the hang of writing for him, have you? Mine is the voice you hear. And now you're going to listen to it."
"What do I *want*? I want my life back!" He sprang out of the chair and began pacing at the end of the bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I haven't been on a mission in four months! It's just sex, sex, and more sex."
"Well, the first story was sweet and kind of touching, but--The Edge? Are you *insane*?"
"'A light, funny story about underwear.'" He waved a hand in dismissal. "Yes, I've heard that. You didn't stick around for what happened in sickbay the next day, did you? Bones didn't buy that line about 'consenting adults.'"
"You tell me. After putting us through complete hell, you merrily went off to some other storyline."
"Don't you like Captain Brandt?"
"Of course I like her. But I can't spend the rest of my life on leave just so I can sleep with her. And don't interrupt--I know what you're working on and we're on leave--*again*!"
"The one after that is a mission," she said in a small voice. "I think."
He sat down on the bed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Look. I'm not going to tell you to stop writing." He sighed. "After all, you did let me punch Finnegan. But--give it a rest, will you?"
"I don't know if I can. I don't do this intentionally--you're always in my head, whether I want you there or not. You're the one in charge."
"The writer of 'The 1000th Woman' is telling me *I'm* in charge," he said sarcastically.
"Enjoy it. Right. So how come I ended up tied to the navigational console with a Vulcan dildo up my ass?"
"Very funny. And speaking of logic--I'm going crazy trying to keep Spock from hearing about Captain Brandt. How do you think he's going to react when he finds out?"
"Those are two separate storylines!"
"Not according to the email you sent Killa and Kim."
"Yes. How do *you* like having your privacy invaded?"
"You have no privacy--you're a fictional character!"
"You're the one who said, 'Jim Kirk is the reality. William Shatner is a fictional character.' And, by the way, he's not too happy with you, either."
"Look, I haven't treated you that badly. In my stories, you're always young and handsome and nowhere near the end of the five-year mission."
"You keep forgetting that I know what you're planning." He hummed the first few bars of Danny Boy and nodded at her. "That's right. And don't even think about singing it in recital--unless you want to 'collapse in an anguished lament of pain and sorrow.'" He shook his head. "Talk about purple prose."
She smiled. "I'm flattered that you can quote it."
"Don't be. I've had that stuck in my head for weeks, like a bad song."
"Wait a minute." She frowned as she pointed a finger at him. "Are you saying, if I sing Danny Boy, you'll act out the scenario that I've been imagining--just to get back at me?"
"Then how can you accuse me of controlling you? I'm just giving you an outlet for your subtext! In fact, I should change my byline--By James T. Kirk, as told to Jungle Kitty."
"You think Nogura is making your life miserable in Terminus--what do you think he'll do if I credit you with creating this stuff?"
He paced the width of the room twice and finally sat down next to her. "Kitty. Can't we reach some sort of compromise?"
"Don't pull that Next Generation bullshit on me. James T. Kirk doesn't know the meaning of the word 'compromise.'"
He reached for her hand and gently ran his thumb across her knuckles.
"Is this more like the Jim Kirk you know?" he whispered from under golden lashes. She swallowed and nodded.
He leaned towards her as a slow, seductive smile lit his face. "Is a slow, seductive smile lighting my face?"
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