“Be careful out there,” McCoy says as Jim heads toward the transporter room at a dead run, with klaxons sounding and red lights flashing all around him. The man has no sense of self-preservation, and worse, no understanding that there are people on board this ship who actually want him to come back in one piece.
Jim stops suddenly, his boots sliding across the smooth floor, and looks back over his shoulder for a moment, studying McCoy's face as if he's seeing something for the first time. “I’ll be fine, Bones,” he says with a smile. Then he’s gone.
McCoy straightens up and runs a hand over his face. “Dammit, Jim,” he says under his breath. This -- keeping his feelings to himself, which is where they belong -- would be a lot easier if Jim weren’t so fucking smart.
By the time Jim comes back from the planet, there’s blood and gore to see to and McCoy’s actually glad to have an excuse to avoid him, and then that pisses him off.
“Medical, status report,” his comm says, in Jim’s voice.
“I’m a little busy right now, Captain,” he snaps back without thinking about it, because he’s in the middle of repairing Rodriguez’s severed Achilles tendon and it’s delicate work. For a second they’re okay, everything’s normal.
“You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know,” Jim’s voice softens just a touch and McCoy winces. Not normal at all. Not even close.
"Chapel--" he yells, without turning off his comm or looking away from the Crewman’s ankle, because if he makes one mistake here this man will have to be discharged or stuck on desk duty for the rest of his natural life. “Casualty report to the bridge,” he tells her when she responds.
Of course she’s on top of it; she could run the medbay without his help any day of the week. He gets back to work on Rodriguez and pushes Jim out of his mind.
When he’s finally done, McCoy scrubs down and goes straight to his quarters without visiting the bridge or the lounge or any other damn place. He wants nothing more than a hot meal and some solitude.
He uses the replicator in his quarters to make pot roast and collard greens. It’s comfort food, he’ll admit that, but he tells himself it’s because of the Achilles and the other injuries to today’s away team.
Knowing Jim, there are only a few more minutes of blissful denial available to him, and he’s going to use them all to their fullest potential.
The flavors take him back to the memory of a place he hasn't seen in years, green trees and wide verandahs and hot, sticky breezes: the old home. Some of the happiest hours of his life were spent there, a stark contrast to the routine drudgery and blind panic of the Enterprise. And yet... some disloyal part of his brain points out that if he went back there today, he'd go stir-crazy within a week.
Not to mention, this boat has a few things that good ol’ Earth is lacking. Such as Jim himself.
That thought is well outside the neutral zone McCoy's been steering his own personal course through, but before he can correct himself, there's a knock on the door.
Time's up.
McCoy stands up and pours himself a drink as the door whooshes open. He's gonna need it.
When McCoy turns around, ice clinking in his glass, Jim is sprawled loosely on his couch. His knees are spread wide, his spine curved into the cushions as if he's been there for hours, and his eyes are sharp and vividly blue. "Hey," he says, looking completely at ease, "what's going on?"
It's more than a simple courtesy, McCoy is sure. Jim knows that he's hiding something, and he won't give up until he's dug it out and exposed it to the world. McCoy looks at him without meeting his eyes, focusing closely on the junction where his gold uniform tunic meets the exposed neckband of his black undershirt. Then Jim swallows and McCoy realizes his mistake, watching the muscles pulse and flex even as he can't look away.
"Nothing," he says gruffly, taking a sip of his bourbon and grateful that he thought to pour it. "Just a long day at the office is all."
"Bones." Jim's voice is soft and quiet, uncharacteristically so for a man who's always running at full power, dashing from one adventure to the next. It's that element of strangeness that makes McCoy look up and meet his eyes, bright blue in the soft cabin light. "We've been friends for how long now? I think I know when something's up with you."
And that's the rub: Jim always knows. McCoy has tried to keep things from him before, but it simply never works. Jim's so goddamned perceptive that he knows right away there's something he's not being told.
"Don't s'pose I could ask you to drop it," he ventures. There is nothing he wants less than to have a heartwarming talk about his feelings with Jim Kirk. A hole could open up in the cabin wall and suck him out into the cold darkness of space and it'd be preferable to this.
Jim just cocks his head and looks at him with those sharp eyes that seem to see right through to the heart of the matter.
"Get the fuck out of here," McCoy says. He's not angry, just sick and tired of fighting this. If Jim would leave, McCoy could let his guard down and try to regain that equilibrium where he doesn't think about him all the time.
Jim stands, and for a second McCoy thinks he's heading for the door, but instead he takes a step closer. "Is that really what you want?"
"Yes," McCoy says right away, but his throat is suddenly dry and the word comes out funny, like a croak. He licks his lips and swallows, but it's too late: he's given himself away. Like always, Jim disregards the snapped-out rejection and instead follows his own instinct for what McCoy needs, instead of what he wants. Jim is already walking closer, invading his personal space.
There are a thousand reasons why he shouldn't get involved with Jim Kirk. He struggles to hold on to one. The closer Jim gets, the less he remembers. By the time he's close enough to touch, all McCoy can think of is his own carefully guarded fantasies about this man, and the very real intent in his eyes right now.
He's a man who never does anything halfway, and McCoy knows it. Still, he's more than a little surprised when Jim simply leans in and grabs his head with both hands, holding McCoy in place as he presses an enthusiastic kiss to his mouth. It only takes him a second to return the kiss; despite everything he knows, he can't help doing at least that. It feels good: heated and tender and aggressive all at once, like Jim himself, and McCoy finds it impossible not to give in for a moment.
Jim pulls back a few inches and grins happily. "See? That wasn't so bad." This close, his smile is absolutely blinding.
McCoy shakes his head, wondering how many other people have fallen for this smile, that kiss, those blue eyes. "Dammit, Jim, this is a bad idea and you know it." He doesn't gamble with his life like this; it'd be easier if Jim could just leave it alone, overlook something for once.
It's a miscalculation. Jim doesn't believe in the no-win scenario; this is tantamount to a challenge. "I'll leave right now if that's what you want, and you can spend your life wondering," Jim says, his voice without a hint of uncertainty. He knows what he's doing, like always. It's infuriating.
McCoy closes his eyes for a moment. "I don't have to wonder," he says, and when he opens them again Jim is right there in front of him again. "I know what happens when things go wrong between two people."
"You're that sure it'll go wrong." Jim's not smiling anymore, which is something. He steps back and watches with those vivid blue eyes, head cocked to one side. His thoughts in motion are practically visible as he calculates the tactical and logistical implications of this situation and determines a strategic approach. It's the same expression he wears on the bridge, dealing with hostile Klingons or obstinate colonists. McCoy has the feeling that he might be outmatched.
Neither one of them has said anything about feelings or hopes or desires, and McCoy would like to keep it that way. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "In my experience, they usually do," he says. For God's sake, his divorce was so rough he had to leave the damned planet. "Just drop it, all right? We're fine the way we are, without all that." He gestures between them to indicate the kiss, the closeness, and whatever slip he made earlier that started all this.
"No," Jim says, and McCoy gets a weirdly inappropriate flashback to him standing on the bridge in his black undershirt, arguing with Spock about whether to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet. "No, I won't drop it, and no, we're not fine the way we are."
They are already close enough to touch; McCoy could step backward and put some more distance between them if he wanted to, but he doesn't. If he is entirely honest with himself, which he isn't as a rule, he'd say that he likes it here just fine. He can feel the heat from Jim's body, smell the tang of his cologne. The thing is, Jim is right. They haven't been fine for a long time. He's been avoiding Jim, trying to stay away from situations where he'll just have to watch him drape himself all over some alien priestess or farm girl, staying away from the bridge, even having other medical staff perform his physicals. They're futile attempts to save himself some pain.
"Bones," Jim says, placing one hand gently on his shoulder in a weird approximation of his normal clap, "do you always look before you leap?"
"Someone has to around here," McCoy answers. He's always been the careful one, the cautious one. With Jim, with Jocelyn, even growing up in a pack of cousins, he's always been the one to look out for everyone else's health, to step back from a fight and rein in the reckless ones. His role is to give the warning, and to patch up the wounds after.
It's not his way to dive into something head first, to let go of his entire support system and change everything with one roll of the dice. Jim's always been there to balance him out in that respect. Today is no different.
Jim leans in slowly, giving McCoy enough time to shove him away, and stops just a hair's breadth away. When he speaks, McCoy can feel his breath against his own lips, as if each word carries its own force and gravity as it travels through the space between them. "Sometimes," he says, one hand sliding across McCoy's shoulder, traveling up the bare skin of his neck to cup the back of his head, "you have to take a leap of faith."
And then he waits. Jim Kirk, full-power, maximum-warp, all-thrusters-ahead Jim Kirk: stops.
They stand absolutely still for a long moment, nearly frozen.
McCoy knows it's up to him now. Jim's read his signals -- read his mind, nearly -- and done everything in his power to get them to this point. They're three millimeters away from a kiss that will change everything. All Jim would have to do is lean forward and close that tiny distance and McCoy would go along with it; they both know he'd follow Jim anywhere. But that's not what Jim wants -- not what either of them wants.
McCoy has to be the one to throw caution to the wind this time, on his own terms.
He thinks about stepping backward, about putting a stop to this and walking away. Jim would let him go, he knows, and would only let the hurt show in his eyes for a minute. McCoy would go back to watching his words and guarding his feelings, keeping everything inside. They'd carry on like they have been, avoiding each other when they can and being carefully friendly when they can't, acting as if nothing is wrong. Everything will be careful and cautious and fine.
In that moment, McCoy feels his heart break a little bit at the prospect. He can't live with that again, not knowing he had a chance at more and missed it. So he does the only thing he can, the only thing that will keep that hurt look from Jim's blue eyes and the forced cheer out of the officers' mess.
He takes a leap of faith. He kisses his best friend, rolls the dice and changes everything about his comfortable, safe existence.
Jim's mouth is soft under his at first, passive, letting him take the lead. But McCoy isn't looking for sweet and gentle; if he were, he wouldn't be interested in Jim Kirk. If they're going to do this, they'll go all in. He pushes for more, kissing Jim hungrily until their teeth knock together, his fingers digging into Jim's shoulders through the gold tunic, closing the distance between their bodies until they smash together.
It doesn't take long for Jim to catch on; he's always been a quick study. He surges forward and soon they're struggling together, negotiating misplaced elbows and noses, each trying to elicit the bigger and louder reaction, to get the upper hand. It's kind of a draw: McCoy is bigger, with broader shoulders and more powerful legs, but Jim is scrappy and surprisingly enthusiastic.
McCoy is painfully, awkwardly hard, and even if he tried to deny it to himself it would be obvious how much he wants this, and has for a long time. Jim is finally here in his arms, stubble grating against his lips, painful enough that he must be real. He feels a wall at his back and leans against it, letting his legs fall open. He growls low in his throat, wraps his arms around Jim's hips and pulls him close between his thighs so their bodies are flush against each other. Jim's got one hand buried in his hair, pulling a little, and he's kissing his way down McCoy's neck like his life depends on it.
He shifts his hips just an inch to the left and then Jim's cock lines up with his own, rubbing roughly through several layers of fabric, and McCoy tips his head back against the wall and lets his eyelids flutter shut and holds on tight. His body just takes over, and finally he can shut down his brain and stop worrying about what will happen if his secret is revealed. It's done now, and whatever happens, the point of no return is long past.
Jim tweaks one nipple through the fabric of his uniform and brushes his teeth over the sensitive skin behind his ear, and McCoy reaches inside the waistband of Jim's ridiculously tight pants and palms his ass, pulling him closer in, and then they're both gasping and shuddering and coming together, fully dressed like high school kids fumbling around behind the gym, which if anyone asks never actually happened.
Jim rests his head on McCoy's shoulder and laughs, and McCoy feels him shaking more than he can actually hear the laughter. "Fuck, Bones," he says, voice thick and sated. "That wasn't in the plan."
McCoy still has one hand down the back of his pants, and the other tangled in the fabric of his gold tunic, which has separated a bit at the seams. His blood is still pounding in his ears, and his nostrils are full of the scents of sex and Jim's spicy cologne. He can barely see, let alone think. "You had a plan?" he asks.
"A plan, a backup and an ace in the hole," Jim says, quoting Tactics 101, and McCoy doesn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.
"Am I supposed to find that flattering?" he asks, but he doesn't move his hand off of Jim's ass.
"There were going to be candles, and seduction."
He snorts back a laugh. "I'm not a woman, Jim." He did all that once for Jocelyn, back when he was trying to save their marriage. Needless to say, it didn't work. Fucking fire hazard. Tonight was a hell of a lot better, and not just because there was actual sex.
"Yeah, well," Jim says, bending his head to nibble at McCoy's collarbone. "Next time, maybe."
He feels his heart leap in spite of himself. "Next time?"
"It'll be great," Jim says, his voice muffled by what his mouth is doing. "Have a little faith, Bones."
It's probably crazy, and he knows he'll live to regret it, but he does.
Summary: This -- keeping his feelings to himself, which is where they belong -- would be a lot easier if Jim weren't so fucking smart.
Categories: Star Trek Characters: James T. Kirk, Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Chapters: 1 Table of Contents | Completed: No | Word count: 2876 | Read Count: 238
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Story Notes:
Inspired in part by a fanvid by colls, jedibuttercup's theories on Kirk's emotional instinctiveness, Karl Urban's hotness and Starbucks Coffee's fine product line. Thanks also to thistlerose, florahart and jumperkid for assistance, encouragement and general awesomeness.