"Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy" (5/6)
At this point, I'm literally made of 151.
My friends are all, like, “are you gonna die of alcohol poisoning?”, and I'm, like, “you're not even in my will, so don't ask.”
Why's my skin all clammy?
Why does my keyboard have so many buttons that I don't use, like F11, and Prt Scr/SysRq? Bill Gates is weird.
Never mind. On to the pre-story bits that I wrote before many ounces of rum:
This is going up days later than planned, but it felt like I just couldn't get it quite right. Dunno why. Suddenly, it clicked into place this morning, I tinkered with it at work, and hopefully, it doesn't suck. At least no more than any of the other parts.
Second to lasties for this set of Fortune stories, I'm pretty sure. I'm hoping the next series is much lighter--alien sex!pollen, gender-switching, mirrorverses that are funny, instead of creepy and depressing. Hijinks, et al.
(Sober me is a real kiss-ass. I apologize. Enjoy the almost pr0n. :)
Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy (5/6)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov mentioned, Jim,Bones
Rating: R
Notes: Follow up to Fortune's Favor. Spoilers for the movie. Can be read as a standalone.
Summary: Seriously, I dunno how to summarize this. But there's plenty of talking in it, with a promise of pr0n, and an end to this set of stories in sight.
The eulogy-drafting isn't going well.
Captain James T. Kirk taps his PADD on his lips despondently, pacing his ready room, and literally staring into space. Getting his last glimpses of it before the Enterprise goes into subspace for the next hour.
In the twenty-two odd hours since Ensign Lam's death, Jim's been unable to sleep, between keeping up crew morale, and trying to write her eulogy. Granted, there isn't a person on this ship Jim hasn't met, hasn't had at least one personal conversation with, doesn't know a little something about. And Ensign Lam sticks out in his mind more than most: brave, smart, daring, pretty dark eyes, wicked smile.
But as always, when confronted with the death of a member of his crew, Jim finds himself tongue-tied. At a loss for adequate words that aren't merely expressions of guilt over his own fatal failing as captain, or just a rehashing of the deceased's professional triumphs in the time that he'd known them.
Though there were many such triumphs, (and though he doesn't have to overplay his few personal memories of her, since Sulu, and a few other crewmembers will doubtlessly be doing that) simply listing them seems cold . . . impersonal.
Pike probably didn't have this problem, he thinks, but knows that's likely untrue even as he thinks it. That great captains aren't born, they're made, by time and experience. By failures, most of all. That even Pike had had his bad days, bad missions, and that those bad ones are more responsible for creating the man Jim so admires--even more than he admires his father, and that's saying something--than all of his many success.
He turns away from the lovely view of subspace as the ship sprints into warp. Some days, I don't feel ready for this job at all. If it's not pulling asses out of a fire, or of-the-cuff, one-on-one diplomacy, I'm out of my depth. . . .
Sighing, he sits on his desk and tosses the PADD on it. He still staring at it like it's the enemy when the doors to his ready room whoosh open. He looks up, instantly in ACTION-mode--he'd told Spock he didn't want to be disturbed unless it was dire, and Spock doesn't over-estimate a situation--only to have the surge of adrenaline go flat.
“Oh, it's you,” he says, smiling. He can't imagine Bones taking 'no' for an answer from Spock. Can't imagine Spock bothering to give it. Everyone knows Dr. McCoy has free run of the ready room and the Captain. Bones being Bones, he doesn't tend to abuse the privilege.
Currently, the good doctor is highly agitated, and carrying a tray full of food. Jim stands up just in time to get the tray shoved at him. There's enough there to feed three, which means it should just about do a hungry captain.
“Who's Cap'n Kirk's good little wifey?” Jim coos in his most syrupy tone, and pecks Bones on the cheek--and it's a measure of how distracted Bones is that he merely glares and wipes his face (a little more vigorously than is warranted, in Jim's opinion).
Shrugging--and practically salivating, Jim's eyes drop once more to the tray. A mighty repast, indeed. “How'd you even know I was this hungry?”
Bones steps around Jim, and hurls himself moodily into the Captain's chair. “I didn't.”
“Aw, I'm hurt.”
Patented Bones death-glare. “You're an ass.”
“I refer you to the case of Rubber versus Glue.” Jim places the tray on the table between them and steals a curly sweet potato fry . . . absolutely classic. He sinks into the other, non-Captain-y chair. It isn't as comfortable as his own, but damned if he's going to give Bones the satisfaction of telling him to move his ass. “Well, now that we've gotten the delightful prelims out of the way--and they were delightful--what can I do you for, Bonesy?”
Bones grits his teeth in that way he does, the one that reminds Jim more than a little of his stepdad. "You were right. About everything: I want him. Ensign Chekov. I hope you're happy, now."
Of course, Bones would pick now to come to his senses. There really is no such thing as a free lunch. . . .
Jim picks up half a sandwich. It's tofu on pumpernickel, sauteed in something, with some kind of sprouts and other veggies (also sauteed in something, no doubt). But no fake meat- or cheese-like substances, just straight-up vegetables. Exactly the kind of thing Bones'd eat, and just the kind of awful prank he'd play on a hungry friend. Jerk. "I'm walking on air for you two, in all honesty. Shouldn't you be, too?"
"Because a Russian kid imprinted on me like a baby duck, and I . . . may have had the appallingly bad judgment to reciprocate?" Bones's eyes bug out and that vein in his temple starts to throb. It's like watching performance art, only not boring and pretentious.
"'Imprint'?” Jim takes a cautious bite of the sandwich. It's not half bad. Not half good, either--but definitely better than the nasty wheat-grass shakes Bones used to practically tie him down and funnel down his throat back when they were roommates. (Jim does not miss the awful colon-purgings those shakes spurred almost immediately afterward.) “Is that what all the doctors are calling it, these days?”
Bones makes another face. Not the stepdad-face, but the utterly miserable one, that makes Jim feel ten inches tall--and, incidentally, makes him more than willing to drink all the wheat-grass shakes within viewing distance. “Okay. Tell me what happened. I'm all ears.”
“You're all mouth, and not in the way I appreciate,” Bones corrects, and brightens, just a little. At least, he doesn't look like he's about to atmo-dive without a jump-suit, anymore. “Anyway, Pavel--uh, Ensign Chekov. He, uh. Spent the night. In my quarters.”
“Which would explain why he wasn't on the Bridge this morning." Jim makes an awkward applause gesture without putting down the sandwich. Sprouts rain down on his desk and lap. "Bones, you sly dog! Spock said you comm'd a doctor's note that the kid wasn't well enough to report for duty today--what the hell did you do to him? Or do I wanna know? Jesus, as your captain, I'm of course very, very disappointed in this lapse of judgment, Dr. McCoy, but as your best friend, Bones . . . lemme just say the student has become the master.” He inclines his head in a slight bow.
"You've got the table manners of a goddamned three year old--wipe your mouth!" Glaring, Bones grabs a napkin and flings it hard at Jim, who catches it easily, drops it on the fries, and wipes his face with his sleeve, just to make Bones glare harder. That vein's practically the size of an anaconda, and when Bones gets agitated enough, it's like going to the zoo. "And it wasn't like that.”
Jim rolls his eyes and selects another half sandwich. More tofu, some kinda pesto. Onions. Beans that don't even have the grace to be re-fried. Scandalous.
He takes a bite, feeling very put upon. “Okay, so what was it like, then?”
“He . . . was upset about Ensign Lam's death. Apparently they were close." Bones stares down at his hands. Talented hands that've saved more lives--including Jim's--than even Bones can keep track of. But if anyone knows by now that the weight of all the lives Bones has saved is far less to him than the weight of one life lost . . . it's Jim.
He also knows that if there's comfort to be had after losing a person in one's charge . . . it won't be had even from the closest friend.
"So I've heard. Last night, I figured the two of you were in the officer's lounge getting hammered, as you've become known for doing." Careful, well-modulated. Not at all a judgment. Jim's been quite a drinker in his own right--still is, occasionally. But he's gotten unused to drinking without Bones.
Drinking with Bones and Pavel, however--trapped between all the unresolved sexual tension and heated, yearning glances--is just plain weird.
Hell, I wish they'd get together if only so I could get my best friend back the way he was: a grouchy, asexual, solid guy, Jim thinks, but shelves it somewhere behind his own feelings about Ensign Lam's death. Captains don't have the luxury of falling apart--even in front of their best and oldest friends.
"Maybe we should've been. Maybe I just should've escorted him back to his own quarters,” Bones says quietly, shoulders sagging a little. “But I was drunk, and no fit company for company, or staggering all over Enterprise. And he went to all the trouble of breaking into my quarters. . . .”
Jim laughs a little. He'd considered breaking into Bones's quarters himself--wouldn't be the first or the last time--but had felt this time . . . maybe it wasn't his place to console Bones. And he was right, it seems. It's time to pass the torch on to a successor. "Well. I knew there was a reason I liked that kid."
“You would--he's like a cleaner, smarter, politer, more charming version of you, you sociopath.”
“Jim 2.0 . . . many functions," Jim agrees good-naturedly, doing his best not to crack a smirk at the moony--for Bones--look on his best friend's face. "Unfortunately for him, not better-looking, though.”
“I don't suppose anybody's as attractive as you think you are." Bones snorts. "Anyway, we stayed up half the night, him talking about her, me listening. God, Jim, she was a good kid . . . one who didn't even remotely deserve the kind of awful end she met, and I wish I could've--anyway. Eventually he started to yawn and nod, so I--I picked him up and put him to bed. Laid down next to him. Chivalry or not, I wasn't gonna spend all night on the floor,” Bones adds defensively, and Jim wonders if he realizes how telling that defensiveness is. “It felt damned nice to lay down with someone, to hold him, and know I was a comfort."
“I can see where it would be.” Jim bites his lip. Tries to think of a diplomatic way to phrase his not especially insightful insight. “But I, uh . . . I take it these feelings didn't stop at comfort? For either of you?”
“No, they didn't. They haven't,” Bones amends, leaning back in the captain's chair till he's practically prone. But that chair's sturdy enough to hold the weight of two people, even if they aren't particular about staying still. “He's not even my type, goddamnit! He's too skinny, too pale, too young--and too damned sunny and open--”
“You know what they say about opposites and attraction.” Jim polishes off the sandwich half in two gargantuan bites. Is reaching for another before the last bite is gone. The trick is, he's realized, to not examine the filling too closely. “Besides, speaking as someone who's had the misfortune of meeting your Ex-Wife . . . it seems like the last thing you need is your type.”
Bones laughs bitterly. “Jim, the last thing I need is any type of romantic entanglement. A friendship-with-benefits might not be so risky, but there're precious few people I like well enough to sport-fuck, but also not so well that I would . . . imprint on them. Point of fact, there's only you.”
Jim chews and thinks. Another half-sandwich expires, it's tangy-bitter-sprouty taste lingering like a spiteful poltergeist. He starts on the fries gratefully.
Bones's never made a secret of being attracted to him--no secret that if Jim gave the word, he could have himself a McCoy-flavored, no-strings-attached sex-tacular. And though Jim's never been uncomfortable with that attraction (nor returned it), he's always been bemused by it. Half thinks it's just Bones's weird idea of funny, except . . . that's so not Bones's style. Not at all.
“Bones, you know if I were at all interested in guys, you'd be the first one I'd hurl myself at--”
“Meh.” Bones waves his hand dismissively, impatiently, wearing a smirk of his own. “I think you'd be disappointed, Jim. I'm not half Vulcan.”
For a long time, that last bomb makes absolutely no sense to Jim, genius-level i.q. notwithstanding. But he twigs pretty quickly, at least to whom Bones is referring--if not why, and what Spock's got to do with the price of blood wine on the black market. “What's, uh--what's that supposed to mean?”
“It means, physician, that you must first heal yourself,” Bones says just several tads smugly.
“I don't need healing,” Jim says, eyes narrowing. He pushes the plate away from him, and slouches low in the chair. “Well . . . okay, I do have this gross, scaly patch of skin on my--”
“Dear, God, Jim, this isn't the Academy anymore!" Bones levers the captain's chair up halfway, scowling, pointing one blunt-tipped finger at Jim. “Just go to Sickbay and have any MO who isn't me check your undercarriage for wear and tear! Honestly! For someone I've never had the dubious honor of fucking, I've seen your John Thomas way too many times, and--damnit, we're talking about me for once, so leave your diseased prick out of it!”
“You're diseased.” Jim glares, but it's not a very good glare. It's actually more of a sullen pout. He just hasn't had as much practice at it as Bones. “And a miserable, annoying bastard.”
Another sigh, this one more theatrical than genuine, and Jim could swear Bones is trying not to smile. "It's amazing we've been friends this long, and I haven't once tried to poison you."
"Even you couldn't murder something this pretty." Jim bats his eyelashes, and Bones actually laughs, now. The tension of the last few minutes disappears like it never was.
"Wanna bet?"
"The mood you've been in lately? No takers. Poor Pavel's got his work cut out for him.” It's called bringing a conversation full circle, and Jim's a master at it. Though not a particularly subtle one.
“His accent's goddamned annoying,” Bones grumbles, and Jim quirks a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Liar.”
“I walked in on him jacking off.”
Both eyebrows drift toward Jim's hairline. “Um. What?”
Turning red under that olive complexion, Bones clears his throat, and reclines the chair again, covering his eyes eyes with his forearm. “I was taking him the lunch you're so happily laying waste to. When I got back to my quarters he was on my bed, wearing one of my sweaters, and . . . his hand was down his trousers. . . .” he makes the universal stroking-off gesture, something Jim's never seen him do. It's as intriguing as it is disturbing. “God help me, it was the most erotic thing I've seen in years.”
“And, you being you, you didn't go over and give him a helping hand--” Bones uncovers his eyes just long enough to glare, and Jim sighs. Of course not. “So what did you do?”
“I . . . backed out the door and came here. He didn't see me. He was, uh, in the midst of, uh--you know. When I walked in. Wouldn't have noticed a neon-pink freight train chooglin' through.” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose hard. “Good thing he didn't see me. At this point, all he has to do is give me that innocent I-vant-you-Doktor look and it's like I'm sixteen again, raising wood every time the wind changes and fucking anything that looks good in my goddamned letter jacket.”
Jim snorts, and pours himself a glass of water. Drinks it, and pours another, because that healthy taste really lingers. “So, a hot little Russian has a galaxy-sized crush on you--thinks you're the greatest thing since pattern buffers. He's someone you obviously, to anyone with eyes, want to fuck through his mattress and yours, but . . . you're not spending your lunch hour busting his cherry for him. Can you not see anything wrong with this picture I've just painted?”
Bones groans and levers the chair up suddenly. The look he gives Jim is rueful and resentful--then gone as Bones prowls to the ready room's only window. Unlike Spock's attentive hands-clasped-behind-back stance, Bones tends to stand arms akimbo, like a manager keeping an eye on slacker-employees. "Jesus, have you been paying attention to anything I've said since--ever?”
Jim stands, and joins him at the window, though he's never cared for the view while in subspace. It looks wrong somehow. “Always, Bones. And I listen to what you don't say, too.”
“You know, you're really starting to sound like a certain, nameless, pointy-eared bastard.” It doesn't sound quite like an insult, but it's not a compliment either. Since Bones's been spending a huge portion of his spare time with Pavel, Jim's found himself gravitating toward Spock a bit more after shifts. They haven't got a damned thing in common except consciousness and metabolic processes. But there's also the not-so-small matter of the not-quite bond between them, something the Ambassador had hinted at . . . something that'd burned through the mind-meld despite the other, more pressing issues at hand. Glimpses of himself, but not quite. Older, seen through the Ambassador's eyes. Through Spock's eyes. Colored with something too deep to be anything but love. Multi-faceted and shining, complete and all-consuming.
For a few moments, it'd been like finding some lost part of himself. Like coming home. . . .
But that hadn't been Jim's Spock who felt those things. Jim's Spock is actually Uhura's Spock. The man who could and did feel--and does, holy god, those feelings had the strength of the past, present and future behind them--those incredible things for his Jim, is spending his remaining years helping to rebuild the Vulcan race and civilization.
And anyway, the bottom line is that those feelings were in another life, shared by two other men, so there's no use dwelling on it. The only draw to Jim's Spock, is that at least his romantic life is settled, and doesn't join them for a tension-laden drink after shifts. Not often, anyway. “If Spock were here, Bones, he'd tell you how illogical you're being.”
Bones leans his head against the glass and closes his eyes. Even his profile looks strained. “I can't tell you how much of a selling point that is . . . because it's really not,” he says sarcastically, wearily. “And how logical is it to make an intergalactic case out of some kid's damned crush?”
"He's not a kid, and he's not the only one with a crush."
“So-goddamn-what?” Bones growls fiercely. “I never said I didn't find him . . . tempting. But that doesn't mean anything, except that I need to get laid more. Just not with him. I don't want to break his heart down the road, and I won't let him break mine.”
"You're presuming an awful lot, here--" Jim starts, but is almost immediately cut off.
"I'm really not, Jim. He wants to introduce me to his family! What kid thinks that way? Genius or not?” Dark, harried eyes meet Jim's. “Why he's got his heart so damned set on me I can't figure. There are better-looking, smarter, younger, nicer, soberer guys on this ship--hell, on his deck. Guys that'd throw themselves in front of a phaser blast to have a chance at him. So why me?"
Jim shakes his head. "If you really wanna know the answer, isn't that something you should be asking Pavel?”
"I--" Bones looks out the window again, jaw clenched. “I can't give him what he needs. What he thinks he needs.”
“If you haven't talked to him about it, how do you even know what he needs--let alone whether or not you can give it to him?”
“Believe me, I know, Jim. Complete with how he wants me to hold him when he's sad, and what pieces of furniture he wants me to fuck him on.”
Unable to prevent the mental snapshot that calls up, Jim grimaces. Then grudgingly admits the picture's not as horrifying and eyeball-burning as he might've thought. And he knows firsthand that naked!Bones isn't terribly hard on the eyes. . . .
“Stop picturing him naked, Jim.”
Caught red-handed and red-faced, Jim clears his throat. “Hey--I don't even swing that way.”
“Uh-huh. Pull the other one. It plays Foggy Mountain Break-Down.”
“And even if I did swing that way, I can picture him naked all I want. It's not like anyone else on this ship has a prior claim. . . .”
“Leave the reverse psychology to someone with the finesse to use it properly."
Jim throws up his hands. “Fine. Believe whatever you like, but try and get over your massive self-image issues sometimes this century, or some other guy's gonna get there first. Gonna be the first.”
More clenching of Bones's jaw--Jim's surprised he can't hear enamel shattering. “Good. I wish them joy of each other.”
“Oh, really? Tell me picturing some random sleazebag fucking his cute, virgin ass raw doesn't make you even a little ang--agh! Angry enough to choke th' shit outta yer captain! Leggo, asshole!” Jim gasps out despite Bones's forearm pressing warningly against his throat. The window between him and the creepy infinity that is subspace is ice-cold against his back, but Bones's dark eyes seem to burn like twin coals in a visibly red face. "Damnit--Bones!"
“If I have reason to suspect your dick's been anywhere near him--let alone in him--I'm gonna cut it off and space it before you can say security!” That forearm really presses into Bones's wind-pipe hard for a few seconds, then is gone. Leaving Jim gasping and leaning against the window. For awhile, there's nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, and Bones's unblinking glare.
Jim swallows, and nods, and Bones finally looks away. Turns and gets the glass of water--holds it out to Jim as if he hadn't just nearly crushed his wind-pipe.
“Oh, and don't drag my goddamned self-image into this.”
“You're the one dragging self-image into this!” Jim rasps, snatching the glass and chugging the water. “Somewhere along the line, you let the Ex-Wife con you into believing you were a fixer-upper. Someone to be tolerated and molded into something better and finer than what you are. You started believing that bullshit, and when Ethan left you, that just reinforced it!”
“See, now there's something you and the Ex-Wife have in common, Jim: you both think everything in my life revolves around him.” He turns away, fists bunched like he's working hard not to belt Jim square on the chin.
(Having been belted square on the chin by Bones on one unforgettable occasion--also revolving around the Ex-Wife--Jim certainly appreciates the restraint.)
“There's nothing wrong with you, Bones,” he says hesitantly, reaching out to place his hand on Bones's shoulder. It's like touching rock. “Look, you're the best person I know, and you deserve someone who sees that--who accepts your many, many flaws, and loves you in spite of them. Maybe even because of them.”
Slowly, the shoulder under Jim's hand relaxes somewhat, and finally Bones glances at him, the vaguest suggestion of dimples bracketing his wry smile. “Jim, are you having a lifestyle revelation I should be privy to?”
"Dream on, Jethro. All I'm saying is--you're a catch, and you don't even know it. Maybe that's why you're a catch, I dunno how these things work." Jim shoves Bones's shoulder companionably, and sits in the captain's chair. Adjusts the angle to juuuust the way he likes it. “Don't even know what the hell a 'catch' is, exactly, except that I'm the guy people wanna fuck, and no one in their right mind wants to keep. You're the guy people wanna fuck and keep, hence: a catch. Just ask Pavel. Or your Andorian bartender. Or Yeoman Keough. Or--"
Bones covers his ears, looking aggrieved. "Jesus, stop! I don't wanna know who these people are!"
Jim grins, swinging his feet up onto the desk. It makes Spock cringe when he does that, but Bones doesn't so much as roll his eyes. “Well. It's been like this since the Academy. Half the guys we knew were throwing themselves at you, at one time or another. The other half were probably seriously considering it. You chose to ignore the attention, and I let it slide, because none of those guys put together were worth a third of Pavel Chekov. But I can't hold my piece anymore. Not when I see you about to make the biggest mistake I've ever seen you make.”
“Jim--” Bones sits heavily in the other chair, elbows braced on knees, forearms hanging between them . . . hands dangling like landed fish. “I've got more baggage than even a lover my own age should have to deal with, let alone someone who's never been in a relationship. The both of us could screw each other up and over without even trying. Yes, I like him. In a perfect world, that'd be enough. I'd sweep him up into my arms and we'd ride off into the sunset, like Gary Cooper and Merle Oberon. . . but that's just not the way reality works, Jim. It's all too likely I'll wind up hurting him, despite my best intentions."
“Can't you see that by not trusting him to make his own decisions you're doing just that? Hurting him?” Jim asks, but it's clear that's exactly what Bones can't see. Or he does see, and thinks it's less hurtful than the alternative. “Love isn't magic, Bones. It doesn't make your baggage or his inexperience go away, or not matter. But it does make those things worth overcoming. Worth fighting, because the payoff? Is gonna be so worth it. But you have to be willing to fight for what you want. Am I--am I getting through to you at all?”
Bones hangs his head for a long time. When he looks up, he's smiling though it doesn't reach his tired eyes. “Listen, can I ask a favor?”
Despite being wary of this seeming change of subject, Jim nods once, putting his feet down and leaning forward. The Jim Kirk listening-pose. “Anything. You name it.”
Bones clears throat again and focuses on his hands. Hands that've done more good and will always do more good than any harm Bones thinks himself capable of. “Could I . . . take a personal afternoon? I can make the time up before or after some other shift, I just--there are some things I really need to do--”
“Are you kidding me? Sure, go get 'im, tiger!” Jim tries to catch Bones's eye, but can't. Finally he stands up and puts his hands on Bones's shoulders. “In all seriousness--I've never seen you as happy as you've been since you started palling around with Pavel. I'd like to see you that happy all the time.
“That kid's crazy about you, and you're crazy about him. Find a way to make it work between you two, okay?”
Bones smiles that tired smile again, and squeezes Jim's hands for a moment before gently removing them. He makes eye contact at last, and there's resolve in his gaze. Resolve and something else Jim can't quite read, but can only hope is the light of reason. That love'll save the day, after all.
But he can't help feeling a tickle of unease.
It's a feeling that sticks around, long after Bones and lunch are a distant memory, and Ensign Lam's eulogy, still only half written, mocks him from amidst crumbs and stray fry-fragments.
*
Bones steels himself in front of doors that seem a thousand feet tall, not at all certain about the smartness--the rightness of what he's doing.
He wonders if maybe . . . maybe Jim was right, after all.
Certainly Bones's libido seems to agree with Jim. All he can think about is Pavel Chekov in his bed, hand in his trousers, the creamy, perfect arch of his throat as he throws his head back and the violent pink flush of his face. The brief, pale swatch of stomach as he bucks up and the sweater slips askew, and the vivid scarlet of his bottom lip as he bites it hard, and gasps . . . moaning and moaning Doctor and Leonard, and other things in Russian that Bones couldn't make heads nor tails of, but wants to taste on his lips. . . .
Against this mental snapshot--one that he'll remember fondly on his death-bed--Bones's reasons not to can't stand. He wants Pavel so badly, not having him feels like suffocating. Feels worse than any hangover, only Bones'd gladly swear to never touch another hair of the dog if he could trade that long-time addiction for this sudden one.
He wants to be drunk on this kid, and that . . . is just how it felt to be with Ethan almost from day one: a giddy, natural high that was so damned giddy and high, that the corresponding lows were unbearable. So when Ethan finally left him, it took him six months and innumerable bottles to climb out of that awful valley of death. And he knows himself well enough to be sure that he's most of the way out, yes, but not completely.
Not sufficiently out to take another header right into that same sort of madness again. Not so soon--no, not ever. Not even for Pavel who, Jim was right, would never purposely hurt him.
But Bones knows just what the road to Hell is paved with. And it ain't asphalt.
Never again, he promises himself, leaning his head against the door for a moment. The Pavel in his imagination opens those big, dreamy blue eyes and pouts at him with still-red, bitten lips. He looks completely debauched, and indescribably sexy in Bones's sweater (like it was made for him to appropriate from Bones's closet), but--
Sorry, kid. I can't.
It takes him precisely forever to makes his presence known--petition for entry. It takes half again as long to get a response. In fact, the door opens only a moment before Bones's nerve would've broken entirely under the weight of his conscience.
Blue, blue eyes take him--and the monster of an erection tenting the front of his trousers--in with no more warmth or interest than he supposes he deserves. He feels like the kind of cad he's often accused Jim of being.
“Well. This is an unexpected surprise . . . do you require my assistance, Dr. McCoy?”
“You, uh, could say that,” Bones says lowly, crowding the doorway before he loses his nerve. He receives no reaction, positive or otherwise, but brazens it out. Squares his shoulders and moves even closer, though something--something about that cool, unaffected gaze and infinitesimally disdainful smile makes him feel like a stain on an expensive white carpet. "Look, I. . . ."
Moon-white eyebrows lift gently in politely disinterested query, but other than that, there's still no give. No tell in the form of animated, emotive antennae . . . they simply point unswervingly at Bones.
This isn't going to be cheap. Or easy.
Ah, fuck it. I never did like cheap and easy, anyway, Bones thinks, and bunches his hands in the heavy, coarse fabric of Shrijn's loose-weave shirt--violates normally inviolable personal space with clumsy fingers and a hungry mouth.
At first all he notices is that this is nothing like kissing Pavel. Then he realizes it's nothing like kissing anyone. For too long, there's simply no response. Nothing at all. No softening of that disdainful mouth, or parting of full, forget-me-not lips.
This was a mistake. Bones would've been better off tracking down Yeoman Keough, or--
Then Shrijn's hands land on his wrists in a cool, unbreakable grip, and Bones is dragged him into unfamiliar quarters, into an unfamiliar kiss that's drowning-deep, and licorice-sweet.
6
I'm off to hose off recycled booze. Laterz, enjoy your Independence Day. Or for you bastids that don't like Will Smith movies, enjoy your Saturday. Have loads of weekend-sex, and make your partner call you _beetle_ once, for me.
My friends are all, like, “are you gonna die of alcohol poisoning?”, and I'm, like, “you're not even in my will, so don't ask.”
Why's my skin all clammy?
Why does my keyboard have so many buttons that I don't use, like F11, and Prt Scr/SysRq? Bill Gates is weird.
Never mind. On to the pre-story bits that I wrote before many ounces of rum:
This is going up days later than planned, but it felt like I just couldn't get it quite right. Dunno why. Suddenly, it clicked into place this morning, I tinkered with it at work, and hopefully, it doesn't suck. At least no more than any of the other parts.
Second to lasties for this set of Fortune stories, I'm pretty sure. I'm hoping the next series is much lighter--alien sex!pollen, gender-switching, mirrorverses that are funny, instead of creepy and depressing. Hijinks, et al.
(Sober me is a real kiss-ass. I apologize. Enjoy the almost pr0n. :)
Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy (5/6)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov mentioned, Jim,Bones
Rating: R
Notes: Follow up to Fortune's Favor. Spoilers for the movie. Can be read as a standalone.
Summary: Seriously, I dunno how to summarize this. But there's plenty of talking in it, with a promise of pr0n, and an end to this set of stories in sight.
The eulogy-drafting isn't going well.
Captain James T. Kirk taps his PADD on his lips despondently, pacing his ready room, and literally staring into space. Getting his last glimpses of it before the Enterprise goes into subspace for the next hour.
In the twenty-two odd hours since Ensign Lam's death, Jim's been unable to sleep, between keeping up crew morale, and trying to write her eulogy. Granted, there isn't a person on this ship Jim hasn't met, hasn't had at least one personal conversation with, doesn't know a little something about. And Ensign Lam sticks out in his mind more than most: brave, smart, daring, pretty dark eyes, wicked smile.
But as always, when confronted with the death of a member of his crew, Jim finds himself tongue-tied. At a loss for adequate words that aren't merely expressions of guilt over his own fatal failing as captain, or just a rehashing of the deceased's professional triumphs in the time that he'd known them.
Though there were many such triumphs, (and though he doesn't have to overplay his few personal memories of her, since Sulu, and a few other crewmembers will doubtlessly be doing that) simply listing them seems cold . . . impersonal.
Pike probably didn't have this problem, he thinks, but knows that's likely untrue even as he thinks it. That great captains aren't born, they're made, by time and experience. By failures, most of all. That even Pike had had his bad days, bad missions, and that those bad ones are more responsible for creating the man Jim so admires--even more than he admires his father, and that's saying something--than all of his many success.
He turns away from the lovely view of subspace as the ship sprints into warp. Some days, I don't feel ready for this job at all. If it's not pulling asses out of a fire, or of-the-cuff, one-on-one diplomacy, I'm out of my depth. . . .
Sighing, he sits on his desk and tosses the PADD on it. He still staring at it like it's the enemy when the doors to his ready room whoosh open. He looks up, instantly in ACTION-mode--he'd told Spock he didn't want to be disturbed unless it was dire, and Spock doesn't over-estimate a situation--only to have the surge of adrenaline go flat.
“Oh, it's you,” he says, smiling. He can't imagine Bones taking 'no' for an answer from Spock. Can't imagine Spock bothering to give it. Everyone knows Dr. McCoy has free run of the ready room and the Captain. Bones being Bones, he doesn't tend to abuse the privilege.
Currently, the good doctor is highly agitated, and carrying a tray full of food. Jim stands up just in time to get the tray shoved at him. There's enough there to feed three, which means it should just about do a hungry captain.
“Who's Cap'n Kirk's good little wifey?” Jim coos in his most syrupy tone, and pecks Bones on the cheek--and it's a measure of how distracted Bones is that he merely glares and wipes his face (a little more vigorously than is warranted, in Jim's opinion).
Shrugging--and practically salivating, Jim's eyes drop once more to the tray. A mighty repast, indeed. “How'd you even know I was this hungry?”
Bones steps around Jim, and hurls himself moodily into the Captain's chair. “I didn't.”
“Aw, I'm hurt.”
Patented Bones death-glare. “You're an ass.”
“I refer you to the case of Rubber versus Glue.” Jim places the tray on the table between them and steals a curly sweet potato fry . . . absolutely classic. He sinks into the other, non-Captain-y chair. It isn't as comfortable as his own, but damned if he's going to give Bones the satisfaction of telling him to move his ass. “Well, now that we've gotten the delightful prelims out of the way--and they were delightful--what can I do you for, Bonesy?”
Bones grits his teeth in that way he does, the one that reminds Jim more than a little of his stepdad. "You were right. About everything: I want him. Ensign Chekov. I hope you're happy, now."
Of course, Bones would pick now to come to his senses. There really is no such thing as a free lunch. . . .
Jim picks up half a sandwich. It's tofu on pumpernickel, sauteed in something, with some kind of sprouts and other veggies (also sauteed in something, no doubt). But no fake meat- or cheese-like substances, just straight-up vegetables. Exactly the kind of thing Bones'd eat, and just the kind of awful prank he'd play on a hungry friend. Jerk. "I'm walking on air for you two, in all honesty. Shouldn't you be, too?"
"Because a Russian kid imprinted on me like a baby duck, and I . . . may have had the appallingly bad judgment to reciprocate?" Bones's eyes bug out and that vein in his temple starts to throb. It's like watching performance art, only not boring and pretentious.
"'Imprint'?” Jim takes a cautious bite of the sandwich. It's not half bad. Not half good, either--but definitely better than the nasty wheat-grass shakes Bones used to practically tie him down and funnel down his throat back when they were roommates. (Jim does not miss the awful colon-purgings those shakes spurred almost immediately afterward.) “Is that what all the doctors are calling it, these days?”
Bones makes another face. Not the stepdad-face, but the utterly miserable one, that makes Jim feel ten inches tall--and, incidentally, makes him more than willing to drink all the wheat-grass shakes within viewing distance. “Okay. Tell me what happened. I'm all ears.”
“You're all mouth, and not in the way I appreciate,” Bones corrects, and brightens, just a little. At least, he doesn't look like he's about to atmo-dive without a jump-suit, anymore. “Anyway, Pavel--uh, Ensign Chekov. He, uh. Spent the night. In my quarters.”
“Which would explain why he wasn't on the Bridge this morning." Jim makes an awkward applause gesture without putting down the sandwich. Sprouts rain down on his desk and lap. "Bones, you sly dog! Spock said you comm'd a doctor's note that the kid wasn't well enough to report for duty today--what the hell did you do to him? Or do I wanna know? Jesus, as your captain, I'm of course very, very disappointed in this lapse of judgment, Dr. McCoy, but as your best friend, Bones . . . lemme just say the student has become the master.” He inclines his head in a slight bow.
"You've got the table manners of a goddamned three year old--wipe your mouth!" Glaring, Bones grabs a napkin and flings it hard at Jim, who catches it easily, drops it on the fries, and wipes his face with his sleeve, just to make Bones glare harder. That vein's practically the size of an anaconda, and when Bones gets agitated enough, it's like going to the zoo. "And it wasn't like that.”
Jim rolls his eyes and selects another half sandwich. More tofu, some kinda pesto. Onions. Beans that don't even have the grace to be re-fried. Scandalous.
He takes a bite, feeling very put upon. “Okay, so what was it like, then?”
“He . . . was upset about Ensign Lam's death. Apparently they were close." Bones stares down at his hands. Talented hands that've saved more lives--including Jim's--than even Bones can keep track of. But if anyone knows by now that the weight of all the lives Bones has saved is far less to him than the weight of one life lost . . . it's Jim.
He also knows that if there's comfort to be had after losing a person in one's charge . . . it won't be had even from the closest friend.
"So I've heard. Last night, I figured the two of you were in the officer's lounge getting hammered, as you've become known for doing." Careful, well-modulated. Not at all a judgment. Jim's been quite a drinker in his own right--still is, occasionally. But he's gotten unused to drinking without Bones.
Drinking with Bones and Pavel, however--trapped between all the unresolved sexual tension and heated, yearning glances--is just plain weird.
Hell, I wish they'd get together if only so I could get my best friend back the way he was: a grouchy, asexual, solid guy, Jim thinks, but shelves it somewhere behind his own feelings about Ensign Lam's death. Captains don't have the luxury of falling apart--even in front of their best and oldest friends.
"Maybe we should've been. Maybe I just should've escorted him back to his own quarters,” Bones says quietly, shoulders sagging a little. “But I was drunk, and no fit company for company, or staggering all over Enterprise. And he went to all the trouble of breaking into my quarters. . . .”
Jim laughs a little. He'd considered breaking into Bones's quarters himself--wouldn't be the first or the last time--but had felt this time . . . maybe it wasn't his place to console Bones. And he was right, it seems. It's time to pass the torch on to a successor. "Well. I knew there was a reason I liked that kid."
“You would--he's like a cleaner, smarter, politer, more charming version of you, you sociopath.”
“Jim 2.0 . . . many functions," Jim agrees good-naturedly, doing his best not to crack a smirk at the moony--for Bones--look on his best friend's face. "Unfortunately for him, not better-looking, though.”
“I don't suppose anybody's as attractive as you think you are." Bones snorts. "Anyway, we stayed up half the night, him talking about her, me listening. God, Jim, she was a good kid . . . one who didn't even remotely deserve the kind of awful end she met, and I wish I could've--anyway. Eventually he started to yawn and nod, so I--I picked him up and put him to bed. Laid down next to him. Chivalry or not, I wasn't gonna spend all night on the floor,” Bones adds defensively, and Jim wonders if he realizes how telling that defensiveness is. “It felt damned nice to lay down with someone, to hold him, and know I was a comfort."
“I can see where it would be.” Jim bites his lip. Tries to think of a diplomatic way to phrase his not especially insightful insight. “But I, uh . . . I take it these feelings didn't stop at comfort? For either of you?”
“No, they didn't. They haven't,” Bones amends, leaning back in the captain's chair till he's practically prone. But that chair's sturdy enough to hold the weight of two people, even if they aren't particular about staying still. “He's not even my type, goddamnit! He's too skinny, too pale, too young--and too damned sunny and open--”
“You know what they say about opposites and attraction.” Jim polishes off the sandwich half in two gargantuan bites. Is reaching for another before the last bite is gone. The trick is, he's realized, to not examine the filling too closely. “Besides, speaking as someone who's had the misfortune of meeting your Ex-Wife . . . it seems like the last thing you need is your type.”
Bones laughs bitterly. “Jim, the last thing I need is any type of romantic entanglement. A friendship-with-benefits might not be so risky, but there're precious few people I like well enough to sport-fuck, but also not so well that I would . . . imprint on them. Point of fact, there's only you.”
Jim chews and thinks. Another half-sandwich expires, it's tangy-bitter-sprouty taste lingering like a spiteful poltergeist. He starts on the fries gratefully.
Bones's never made a secret of being attracted to him--no secret that if Jim gave the word, he could have himself a McCoy-flavored, no-strings-attached sex-tacular. And though Jim's never been uncomfortable with that attraction (nor returned it), he's always been bemused by it. Half thinks it's just Bones's weird idea of funny, except . . . that's so not Bones's style. Not at all.
“Bones, you know if I were at all interested in guys, you'd be the first one I'd hurl myself at--”
“Meh.” Bones waves his hand dismissively, impatiently, wearing a smirk of his own. “I think you'd be disappointed, Jim. I'm not half Vulcan.”
For a long time, that last bomb makes absolutely no sense to Jim, genius-level i.q. notwithstanding. But he twigs pretty quickly, at least to whom Bones is referring--if not why, and what Spock's got to do with the price of blood wine on the black market. “What's, uh--what's that supposed to mean?”
“It means, physician, that you must first heal yourself,” Bones says just several tads smugly.
“I don't need healing,” Jim says, eyes narrowing. He pushes the plate away from him, and slouches low in the chair. “Well . . . okay, I do have this gross, scaly patch of skin on my--”
“Dear, God, Jim, this isn't the Academy anymore!" Bones levers the captain's chair up halfway, scowling, pointing one blunt-tipped finger at Jim. “Just go to Sickbay and have any MO who isn't me check your undercarriage for wear and tear! Honestly! For someone I've never had the dubious honor of fucking, I've seen your John Thomas way too many times, and--damnit, we're talking about me for once, so leave your diseased prick out of it!”
“You're diseased.” Jim glares, but it's not a very good glare. It's actually more of a sullen pout. He just hasn't had as much practice at it as Bones. “And a miserable, annoying bastard.”
Another sigh, this one more theatrical than genuine, and Jim could swear Bones is trying not to smile. "It's amazing we've been friends this long, and I haven't once tried to poison you."
"Even you couldn't murder something this pretty." Jim bats his eyelashes, and Bones actually laughs, now. The tension of the last few minutes disappears like it never was.
"Wanna bet?"
"The mood you've been in lately? No takers. Poor Pavel's got his work cut out for him.” It's called bringing a conversation full circle, and Jim's a master at it. Though not a particularly subtle one.
“His accent's goddamned annoying,” Bones grumbles, and Jim quirks a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Liar.”
“I walked in on him jacking off.”
Both eyebrows drift toward Jim's hairline. “Um. What?”
Turning red under that olive complexion, Bones clears his throat, and reclines the chair again, covering his eyes eyes with his forearm. “I was taking him the lunch you're so happily laying waste to. When I got back to my quarters he was on my bed, wearing one of my sweaters, and . . . his hand was down his trousers. . . .” he makes the universal stroking-off gesture, something Jim's never seen him do. It's as intriguing as it is disturbing. “God help me, it was the most erotic thing I've seen in years.”
“And, you being you, you didn't go over and give him a helping hand--” Bones uncovers his eyes just long enough to glare, and Jim sighs. Of course not. “So what did you do?”
“I . . . backed out the door and came here. He didn't see me. He was, uh, in the midst of, uh--you know. When I walked in. Wouldn't have noticed a neon-pink freight train chooglin' through.” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose hard. “Good thing he didn't see me. At this point, all he has to do is give me that innocent I-vant-you-Doktor look and it's like I'm sixteen again, raising wood every time the wind changes and fucking anything that looks good in my goddamned letter jacket.”
Jim snorts, and pours himself a glass of water. Drinks it, and pours another, because that healthy taste really lingers. “So, a hot little Russian has a galaxy-sized crush on you--thinks you're the greatest thing since pattern buffers. He's someone you obviously, to anyone with eyes, want to fuck through his mattress and yours, but . . . you're not spending your lunch hour busting his cherry for him. Can you not see anything wrong with this picture I've just painted?”
Bones groans and levers the chair up suddenly. The look he gives Jim is rueful and resentful--then gone as Bones prowls to the ready room's only window. Unlike Spock's attentive hands-clasped-behind-back stance, Bones tends to stand arms akimbo, like a manager keeping an eye on slacker-employees. "Jesus, have you been paying attention to anything I've said since--ever?”
Jim stands, and joins him at the window, though he's never cared for the view while in subspace. It looks wrong somehow. “Always, Bones. And I listen to what you don't say, too.”
“You know, you're really starting to sound like a certain, nameless, pointy-eared bastard.” It doesn't sound quite like an insult, but it's not a compliment either. Since Bones's been spending a huge portion of his spare time with Pavel, Jim's found himself gravitating toward Spock a bit more after shifts. They haven't got a damned thing in common except consciousness and metabolic processes. But there's also the not-so-small matter of the not-quite bond between them, something the Ambassador had hinted at . . . something that'd burned through the mind-meld despite the other, more pressing issues at hand. Glimpses of himself, but not quite. Older, seen through the Ambassador's eyes. Through Spock's eyes. Colored with something too deep to be anything but love. Multi-faceted and shining, complete and all-consuming.
For a few moments, it'd been like finding some lost part of himself. Like coming home. . . .
But that hadn't been Jim's Spock who felt those things. Jim's Spock is actually Uhura's Spock. The man who could and did feel--and does, holy god, those feelings had the strength of the past, present and future behind them--those incredible things for his Jim, is spending his remaining years helping to rebuild the Vulcan race and civilization.
And anyway, the bottom line is that those feelings were in another life, shared by two other men, so there's no use dwelling on it. The only draw to Jim's Spock, is that at least his romantic life is settled, and doesn't join them for a tension-laden drink after shifts. Not often, anyway. “If Spock were here, Bones, he'd tell you how illogical you're being.”
Bones leans his head against the glass and closes his eyes. Even his profile looks strained. “I can't tell you how much of a selling point that is . . . because it's really not,” he says sarcastically, wearily. “And how logical is it to make an intergalactic case out of some kid's damned crush?”
"He's not a kid, and he's not the only one with a crush."
“So-goddamn-what?” Bones growls fiercely. “I never said I didn't find him . . . tempting. But that doesn't mean anything, except that I need to get laid more. Just not with him. I don't want to break his heart down the road, and I won't let him break mine.”
"You're presuming an awful lot, here--" Jim starts, but is almost immediately cut off.
"I'm really not, Jim. He wants to introduce me to his family! What kid thinks that way? Genius or not?” Dark, harried eyes meet Jim's. “Why he's got his heart so damned set on me I can't figure. There are better-looking, smarter, younger, nicer, soberer guys on this ship--hell, on his deck. Guys that'd throw themselves in front of a phaser blast to have a chance at him. So why me?"
Jim shakes his head. "If you really wanna know the answer, isn't that something you should be asking Pavel?”
"I--" Bones looks out the window again, jaw clenched. “I can't give him what he needs. What he thinks he needs.”
“If you haven't talked to him about it, how do you even know what he needs--let alone whether or not you can give it to him?”
“Believe me, I know, Jim. Complete with how he wants me to hold him when he's sad, and what pieces of furniture he wants me to fuck him on.”
Unable to prevent the mental snapshot that calls up, Jim grimaces. Then grudgingly admits the picture's not as horrifying and eyeball-burning as he might've thought. And he knows firsthand that naked!Bones isn't terribly hard on the eyes. . . .
“Stop picturing him naked, Jim.”
Caught red-handed and red-faced, Jim clears his throat. “Hey--I don't even swing that way.”
“Uh-huh. Pull the other one. It plays Foggy Mountain Break-Down.”
“And even if I did swing that way, I can picture him naked all I want. It's not like anyone else on this ship has a prior claim. . . .”
“Leave the reverse psychology to someone with the finesse to use it properly."
Jim throws up his hands. “Fine. Believe whatever you like, but try and get over your massive self-image issues sometimes this century, or some other guy's gonna get there first. Gonna be the first.”
More clenching of Bones's jaw--Jim's surprised he can't hear enamel shattering. “Good. I wish them joy of each other.”
“Oh, really? Tell me picturing some random sleazebag fucking his cute, virgin ass raw doesn't make you even a little ang--agh! Angry enough to choke th' shit outta yer captain! Leggo, asshole!” Jim gasps out despite Bones's forearm pressing warningly against his throat. The window between him and the creepy infinity that is subspace is ice-cold against his back, but Bones's dark eyes seem to burn like twin coals in a visibly red face. "Damnit--Bones!"
“If I have reason to suspect your dick's been anywhere near him--let alone in him--I'm gonna cut it off and space it before you can say security!” That forearm really presses into Bones's wind-pipe hard for a few seconds, then is gone. Leaving Jim gasping and leaning against the window. For awhile, there's nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, and Bones's unblinking glare.
Jim swallows, and nods, and Bones finally looks away. Turns and gets the glass of water--holds it out to Jim as if he hadn't just nearly crushed his wind-pipe.
“Oh, and don't drag my goddamned self-image into this.”
“You're the one dragging self-image into this!” Jim rasps, snatching the glass and chugging the water. “Somewhere along the line, you let the Ex-Wife con you into believing you were a fixer-upper. Someone to be tolerated and molded into something better and finer than what you are. You started believing that bullshit, and when Ethan left you, that just reinforced it!”
“See, now there's something you and the Ex-Wife have in common, Jim: you both think everything in my life revolves around him.” He turns away, fists bunched like he's working hard not to belt Jim square on the chin.
(Having been belted square on the chin by Bones on one unforgettable occasion--also revolving around the Ex-Wife--Jim certainly appreciates the restraint.)
“There's nothing wrong with you, Bones,” he says hesitantly, reaching out to place his hand on Bones's shoulder. It's like touching rock. “Look, you're the best person I know, and you deserve someone who sees that--who accepts your many, many flaws, and loves you in spite of them. Maybe even because of them.”
Slowly, the shoulder under Jim's hand relaxes somewhat, and finally Bones glances at him, the vaguest suggestion of dimples bracketing his wry smile. “Jim, are you having a lifestyle revelation I should be privy to?”
"Dream on, Jethro. All I'm saying is--you're a catch, and you don't even know it. Maybe that's why you're a catch, I dunno how these things work." Jim shoves Bones's shoulder companionably, and sits in the captain's chair. Adjusts the angle to juuuust the way he likes it. “Don't even know what the hell a 'catch' is, exactly, except that I'm the guy people wanna fuck, and no one in their right mind wants to keep. You're the guy people wanna fuck and keep, hence: a catch. Just ask Pavel. Or your Andorian bartender. Or Yeoman Keough. Or--"
Bones covers his ears, looking aggrieved. "Jesus, stop! I don't wanna know who these people are!"
Jim grins, swinging his feet up onto the desk. It makes Spock cringe when he does that, but Bones doesn't so much as roll his eyes. “Well. It's been like this since the Academy. Half the guys we knew were throwing themselves at you, at one time or another. The other half were probably seriously considering it. You chose to ignore the attention, and I let it slide, because none of those guys put together were worth a third of Pavel Chekov. But I can't hold my piece anymore. Not when I see you about to make the biggest mistake I've ever seen you make.”
“Jim--” Bones sits heavily in the other chair, elbows braced on knees, forearms hanging between them . . . hands dangling like landed fish. “I've got more baggage than even a lover my own age should have to deal with, let alone someone who's never been in a relationship. The both of us could screw each other up and over without even trying. Yes, I like him. In a perfect world, that'd be enough. I'd sweep him up into my arms and we'd ride off into the sunset, like Gary Cooper and Merle Oberon. . . but that's just not the way reality works, Jim. It's all too likely I'll wind up hurting him, despite my best intentions."
“Can't you see that by not trusting him to make his own decisions you're doing just that? Hurting him?” Jim asks, but it's clear that's exactly what Bones can't see. Or he does see, and thinks it's less hurtful than the alternative. “Love isn't magic, Bones. It doesn't make your baggage or his inexperience go away, or not matter. But it does make those things worth overcoming. Worth fighting, because the payoff? Is gonna be so worth it. But you have to be willing to fight for what you want. Am I--am I getting through to you at all?”
Bones hangs his head for a long time. When he looks up, he's smiling though it doesn't reach his tired eyes. “Listen, can I ask a favor?”
Despite being wary of this seeming change of subject, Jim nods once, putting his feet down and leaning forward. The Jim Kirk listening-pose. “Anything. You name it.”
Bones clears throat again and focuses on his hands. Hands that've done more good and will always do more good than any harm Bones thinks himself capable of. “Could I . . . take a personal afternoon? I can make the time up before or after some other shift, I just--there are some things I really need to do--”
“Are you kidding me? Sure, go get 'im, tiger!” Jim tries to catch Bones's eye, but can't. Finally he stands up and puts his hands on Bones's shoulders. “In all seriousness--I've never seen you as happy as you've been since you started palling around with Pavel. I'd like to see you that happy all the time.
“That kid's crazy about you, and you're crazy about him. Find a way to make it work between you two, okay?”
Bones smiles that tired smile again, and squeezes Jim's hands for a moment before gently removing them. He makes eye contact at last, and there's resolve in his gaze. Resolve and something else Jim can't quite read, but can only hope is the light of reason. That love'll save the day, after all.
But he can't help feeling a tickle of unease.
It's a feeling that sticks around, long after Bones and lunch are a distant memory, and Ensign Lam's eulogy, still only half written, mocks him from amidst crumbs and stray fry-fragments.
*
Bones steels himself in front of doors that seem a thousand feet tall, not at all certain about the smartness--the rightness of what he's doing.
He wonders if maybe . . . maybe Jim was right, after all.
Certainly Bones's libido seems to agree with Jim. All he can think about is Pavel Chekov in his bed, hand in his trousers, the creamy, perfect arch of his throat as he throws his head back and the violent pink flush of his face. The brief, pale swatch of stomach as he bucks up and the sweater slips askew, and the vivid scarlet of his bottom lip as he bites it hard, and gasps . . . moaning and moaning Doctor and Leonard, and other things in Russian that Bones couldn't make heads nor tails of, but wants to taste on his lips. . . .
Against this mental snapshot--one that he'll remember fondly on his death-bed--Bones's reasons not to can't stand. He wants Pavel so badly, not having him feels like suffocating. Feels worse than any hangover, only Bones'd gladly swear to never touch another hair of the dog if he could trade that long-time addiction for this sudden one.
He wants to be drunk on this kid, and that . . . is just how it felt to be with Ethan almost from day one: a giddy, natural high that was so damned giddy and high, that the corresponding lows were unbearable. So when Ethan finally left him, it took him six months and innumerable bottles to climb out of that awful valley of death. And he knows himself well enough to be sure that he's most of the way out, yes, but not completely.
Not sufficiently out to take another header right into that same sort of madness again. Not so soon--no, not ever. Not even for Pavel who, Jim was right, would never purposely hurt him.
But Bones knows just what the road to Hell is paved with. And it ain't asphalt.
Never again, he promises himself, leaning his head against the door for a moment. The Pavel in his imagination opens those big, dreamy blue eyes and pouts at him with still-red, bitten lips. He looks completely debauched, and indescribably sexy in Bones's sweater (like it was made for him to appropriate from Bones's closet), but--
Sorry, kid. I can't.
It takes him precisely forever to makes his presence known--petition for entry. It takes half again as long to get a response. In fact, the door opens only a moment before Bones's nerve would've broken entirely under the weight of his conscience.
Blue, blue eyes take him--and the monster of an erection tenting the front of his trousers--in with no more warmth or interest than he supposes he deserves. He feels like the kind of cad he's often accused Jim of being.
“Well. This is an unexpected surprise . . . do you require my assistance, Dr. McCoy?”
“You, uh, could say that,” Bones says lowly, crowding the doorway before he loses his nerve. He receives no reaction, positive or otherwise, but brazens it out. Squares his shoulders and moves even closer, though something--something about that cool, unaffected gaze and infinitesimally disdainful smile makes him feel like a stain on an expensive white carpet. "Look, I. . . ."
Moon-white eyebrows lift gently in politely disinterested query, but other than that, there's still no give. No tell in the form of animated, emotive antennae . . . they simply point unswervingly at Bones.
This isn't going to be cheap. Or easy.
Ah, fuck it. I never did like cheap and easy, anyway, Bones thinks, and bunches his hands in the heavy, coarse fabric of Shrijn's loose-weave shirt--violates normally inviolable personal space with clumsy fingers and a hungry mouth.
At first all he notices is that this is nothing like kissing Pavel. Then he realizes it's nothing like kissing anyone. For too long, there's simply no response. Nothing at all. No softening of that disdainful mouth, or parting of full, forget-me-not lips.
This was a mistake. Bones would've been better off tracking down Yeoman Keough, or--
Then Shrijn's hands land on his wrists in a cool, unbreakable grip, and Bones is dragged him into unfamiliar quarters, into an unfamiliar kiss that's drowning-deep, and licorice-sweet.
6
I'm off to hose off recycled booze. Laterz, enjoy your Independence Day. Or for you bastids that don't like Will Smith movies, enjoy your Saturday. Have loads of weekend-sex, and make your partner call you _beetle_ once, for me.