"Baby-Daddy" (1/1), ST:XI, McCoy/Kirk, McCoy/Chekov, Rated R, Mpreg
Saw 2012 last night. Half the supporting cast of Dark Knight was in it. Three hours long, but it didn't feel like it. I enjoyed the movie. Not the best ever, but for a disaster film, it packed a punch. Not as visceral as Day After Tomorrow, though, I mean . . . a lot of that destruction? Was NYC, my hometown. I fucking cried when that wave hit the Statue of Liberty. And when they had to burn the old books at the main branch of the NY Public Library--
Yeah. Viscerally, DaT was better, but overall, 2012 was very satisfying. And ironic.
Saw the CNP today. More prescriptions for more drugs. Ambien for the insomnia, which is hellassshitdamncrazy out of control (the cirles under my eyes have bags, and those bag? Are carried by other bags, with circles undder their eyes), lorazepem for the anxiety/rage I get during the day (it's called "work"), and a different kind of lithium. Longer-lasting, higher dose, and doubled.
If I wasn't crazy before, I'm likely to be, now. Whatevs, though, as long as my writing isn't effected. And as my flist, if any of you guys notice a decline in my writing, whether just journal entries, or actual fic . . . please let me know. Don't dance around it, or try and be nice, because nice doesn't get anything done. Just hit me with it, so I can fix it. You guys know me, and I trust your opinions and judgment.
Anyfloop, fic! Crack!fic :)
Inspired by a convo I had with vinniebatman at way-the-fuck-later-than-I-should-be-up. Inspired by, written for, and my weird gift to. Which means, in plain language, if you wanna flame someone, flame her. Totally her fault :D
The McKirk prompt fic goes up tomorrow morning, after I've slept. I can't stop tweaking the damn thing and adding stuff. I feel like Chaucer, except marginally less talented.
Baby-Daddy
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI
Pairing: McCoy/Kirk, McCoy/Chekov
Rating: R
Notes/Warnings: Set post movie by a few years. Mpreg. Crack-angst . . . crangst.
Summary: Leonary McCoy gets some startling news. Relevant parties are advised, drama happens. Crack, with a straight face.
“Hey . . . buddy. . . .”
The soft, wary voice immediately follows the soft, wary footsteps into his cubicle. Leonard rolls his eyes and glares up at the ceiling panels, doing his best to ignore Jim Kirk. He's had almost five years of practice at it, so he's pretty good, by now.
The biobed dips slightly on his left side and a warm hand touches his own for a moment. Because Jim's had a similar amount of practice ignoring the fact that Leonard is ignoring him. As per usual, they have what Grampa McCoy mighta called a Mexican standoff (though Lord only knows what a 'Mexica' is).
“So,” Jim says heartily, as if his five year mission is to be the most insipid jackass ever to captain a starship. “How're we feeling?”
“We,” Leonard says without inflection, which is normally enough of a warning sign for Jim to high-tail it out of striking range. Not this time, however, and it's a good thing for him Leonard's too tired and gobsmacked to do more than think murderous thoughts. “We are just dandy, Jim. 'Cordin' to M'Benga, we are about as healthy as can be expected for a man who's two months pregnant.”
“Jesus . . . Jesus, Bones--” Jim sighs, and Leonard resolutely does not look at him. Looking at Jim is pretty much what caused this mess in the first place. Leonard's always been a sucker for that damned devil-may-care grin and those blue-blue eyes . . . always had to work hard not to fall into them, then work even harder to climb out when he fails. . . .
He starts when Jim's hand settles softly on his stomach--reluctantly lowers his gaze and sits up on his elbows.
Jim's watching him like he expects Leonard to give birth right then, clearly torn between curiosity and horror. Leonard's just barely far enough along to be getting morning sickness, and suddenly he really wants to puke. Knows he'd aim without hesitation for Jim.
“Does . . . are you gonna tell anyone besides me?” Jim asks, like a man bracing himself for the worst. There's worry in his eyes, but not the kind that Leonard'd been hoping for, and that nauseated feeling intensifies. For a moment, Leonard wants to curl up in a ball and just cry.
Not that crying ever solved anything. “M'Benga had to inform Starfleet Command, of course, me bein' the first pregnant man in human history. Though I do apologize I hadda go and get knocked up on your watch.”
"Sorry, I--sorry, okay? It just kinda threw me for a loop--"
"Oh, well, I'm also very sorry my pregnancy threw you for a loop. I do so hate to inconvenience you, Jim."
"Oh, shut up, Bones." Jim sighs and when his hand starts moving, slowly, soothingly, Leonard only just notices it's still there. "Really, are you gonna . . . tell anyone else?"
“You mean, am I gonna spread the joyous news hither and yon? Hah. I'm sure that if I decide to keep this . . . baby . . . I'll be shuttled off to some Federation medical facility faster than you can say up-the-duff, so, no. I'm under no obligation to advise anyone else 'cept the other father. And my commanding officer, of course.”
Jim's smile is bitter and ironic. “Of course.”
"And I'm not even sure I'm gonna go through with this, I mean . . . it'd be beyond crazy to keep this baby, no matter how miraculous."
“Crazy isn't even the word . . . Jesus, Bones! You don't even have a freakin' womb. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a pretty important part of the pregnancy recipe, right?" For a moment Jim looks like he's about to cry. Leonard wonders how many times he'll have to lose his best friend before finally losing him completely. "And ovaries, and a uterus, and a birth canal, and a, uh--”
“Yes, I know how pregnancy normally works, Jim.” Leonard peevishly smacks Jim's hand away from his stomach. Hard. But a few seconds later it comes back. It's strangely comforting, despite . . . everything. “Somehow, since my last physical, my body's spontaneously generated all those things. 'Cept the birth canal and the vagina. M'Benga doesn't know how or why, and neither do I.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep, that's generally how babies are made, Cap'n. Even freak-babies, like this one, although . . . I guess there ain't a baby like this one.”
“Don't--don't call it a freak, Bones, Jesus,” Jim says, sounding uncomfortable and offended. He's looking everywhere but at Leonard; at least at first. Then his eyes skitter almost unwillingly back to his stomach and he smiles, just a little. "All babies are perfect. Or so I've heard."
“It ain't perfect, Jim--it's the biggest anomaly in the history of our species! It's a--” mutant, Leonard thinks but doesn't say. Can't make himself say. Life's gonna heap enough cruel names on this poor bastard's shoulders, assuming it gets carried to term. It'd just be cruel if the first names he got called came from his moth--fath--whatever Leonard is.
“It's not the Apocalypse, Bones, it's a . . . a baby. Just a baby,” he says, half disturbed, half laughing. Shakes his head and risks Leonard's gaze again. “Fuck, there's a baby in there. Are you gonna keep it.”
Leonard lays back down again and closes his eyes. Lets Jim's hand soothe him and tries not to think too hard. “I shouldn't. I'm not ready to be a father again. Or a mother, for that matter. This kid can't and shouldn't exist.”
“Well, can't and shouldn't don't mean shit, now, do they?” There's shifting around and before Leonard knows it, Jim's nudging him over, and laying down next to him. Startled, he looks into Jim's eyes and Jim looks right back. Neither of them say anything for a long time, Jim just caresses his stomach and smiles.
Leonard pretends for a few precious minutes that they're back at the Academy, laying in bed together, talking about the future. . . .
“I'm not ready to be a father--to be this child's father,” he whispers, and Jim's smile grows a bit wider. He leans in till their noses brush.
“Neither am I. But maybe . . . maybe we could figure it out together,” he says, and . . . a bunch of pieces have clearly fallen together in the wrong way. The wrongest way, and God damn James T. Kirk to Hell for coming over all sensitive and responsible now.
“Jim--” where the fuck were you two months ago with this concerned, compassionate lover bullshit? Where was this Jim Kirk when I needed him? He leans away for breathing room and thinking space, but Jim's right there, a familiar feel and scent that's all but designed to drive Leonard to distraction. “Jim, God, there's been a big misunderstanding--”
“Yeah, there has, Bones, and the misunderstanding was all mine.” Jim moves even closer, till Leonard can't see that too scared, too vulnerable smile. Till all he can see is cool, electric-blue eyes. Then Jim's kissing him gently, sweetly, like he never has before. “Look, I know we decided to keep things strictly platonic between us. That we decided it was for the best, but . . . there isn't a day that's gone by since that I haven't wondered if maybe I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Sometimes--”
“Jim, you need to stop speaking now. I'm not kidding.” When Leonard shakes his head and tries to turn away, Jim kisses him again, hot and urgent, but still sweet and gentle. Just the kiss Leonard's been waiting five years for, and it's amazing--the kind of kiss one doesn't get, or even see outside of old movies, and it's. . . .
. . . two months too goddamn late.
“See, I know I'm not ready to be anyone's dad. We both know that. But you? You're gonna be an amazing dad.” It's impossible to talk when Jim Kirk's bent on keeping you from talking. Leonard can also admit to himself that he's simply savoring probably the last such kiss they'll ever share, and the way Jim's hand is clenched just slightly, so possessively on his stomach. “So if you decide to have this baby, I'd like to try, to . . . be there for it . . . and you.”
“Listen to me, Jim--” but Jim's looking into his eyes again, and damn the man, but he almost looks . . . thrilled. Scared shitless, but thrilled. Like he'd looked on the day Enterprise officially became his.
“We could . . . you know . . . be a family,” he says hopefully, and any lingering resentment Leonard bore Jim for the way their relationship (and to a certain painful extent, their friendship) imploded two months ago, it's gone like it never was. Because Jim Kirk is, in his own charming and callous way, a titan. A man of great deeds and chink-free armor.
He should be, anyway, but all Leonard sees in front of him at the moment is a Lost Boy trying to create the kind of family that just doesn't happen in the Never-Never Land he's king of.
Leonard shoves Jim away and sits up, unable to look him in the eye. When Jim tries to pull him back into his arms, he shrugs away the hands he's missed. Or tries. But Jim's persistent. Holds him tight and close, and . . . there was a time Leonard might've sold his soul to feel Jim's arms around him again, but that time's passed.
“Let go of me, goddamnit!”
“What--are you mad at me? I mean, maybe we shouldn't have been bare-backing, but c'mon, Bones. We've been doing it for years, and no one coulda predicted this!” One hand drops back down to Leonard's stomach again, sure and possessive. Jim's grinning--Leonard can hear it in his voice--and Leonard feels a strange mix of resentment, regret and sadness that makes him want to be anywhere but here, and with anyone but his best friend. . . .
It's a horrible feeling. Like being sliced open, and having internal organs replaced with anxiety and sadness. But Leonard hasn't cried since he was a kid, and he ain't gonna cry now. Especially not now, in front of Jim.
“No, I ain't mad at you, I . . . Jim, M'Benga notified the other father. And . . . he notified my captain,” Leonard says quietly, forcing himself to catch Jim's gaze and hold it steadily. Till realization penetrates whatever visions of fatherhood are dancing through Jim's head.
If Leonard never sees Jim's face fall that way again, he'll die a happy man. But in the end, Jim's Jim, and he's got a better gameface than most Vulcans. He pulls it together so fast, Leonard wouldn't even be sure of what he saw, but for the way that carefree look doesn't get within spitting distance of Jim's eyes.
“Right. Okay,” he says, then laughs a little, a strange, rapid-fire ah-ha-ha. His arms rebound away like Leonard's a hot rock. “Okay, then, I guess that means I'm off the hook and some other poor bastard's on.”
“I didn't mean for any of this to happen. The pregnancy, the . . . what you thought. Any of it. I apologize,” Leonard adds lamely, wishing he had a blanket or something. He's always felt cold whenever Jim lets him go. He suspects that a lifetime between embraces wouldn't change that.
“No, hey, it's cool.” Jim's standing up, eyes once again darting everywhere but Leonard's face, and mentally? He's already gone. Galaxies and galaxies away. “I should probably, uh, get going so you can tell the other . . . dad. Unless you've told him already?”
Shaking his head no, Leonard tries to smile. “Aside from being my captain, you're still, and always will be my best friend. I asked that you be notified first.”
“Right. Captain, best friend, just not your baby-daddy, I get it. No, it's okay. Really.” Jim cranks that big smile up even bigger, and this situation? Is the antithesis of okay, Leonard knows. What he doesn't know is how to fix it, short of a time machine.
Not that he's responsible for fixing a goddamned thing. If Jim wants to blame someone for this damned baby not being his, he doesn't have to look any farther than the nearest goddamned mirror.
“You were the one who said we were in too deep, and that maybe we should just go back to bein' friends-without-benefits.” And how much'd that hurt? How much does it still hurt? He may not be angry anymore--not exactly--but he's not gonna let Jim make him the bad-buy ex, either. “I told you I loved you, that you were the person I wanted to spend my life with, and you pretty much said, 'gee, Bones, I'm flattered, but no.' Remember?”
“Yes. I remember what I said,” Jim snaps and paces out of the cubicle. Paces back in, that gameface gone again, and replaced by a defensive, angry, hurt expression that still has the power to make Leonard feel like a jerk, never mind that this is Jim, not Jocelyn. “It sure didn't take you long to find someone else. Are you even sure he's the father, whoever he is? I mean, up until that last fight we were fucking pretty much constantly. Even after the fight, we--” that hurt expression changes to something calculating, sultry, and possessive. “Talk about things I never thought I'd say, but--if fucking could ever get a guy pregnant, the last time we fucked would definitely have gotten the job done.”
Determinedly not blushing, Leonard glares--not that that's ever worked on Jim. "You're so goddamn crass."
"You like it when I'm crass. Want a demonstration to remind you just how much you like it?" Jim smirks. Does something that could only be classified as galaxy-class eye-fucking, because he knows exactly what it does to Leonard. Uses the moments of confused arousal and wavering to move closer again. Not kissing-close, but close enough for Leonard to catch his scent, and lean into the touch that ghosts across his cheek.
“Bones, are you sure this isn't my baby,” he asks quietly, this heretofore unexpected want making his voice falter in a way it rarely does. Leonard can only reflect that if he knows Jim Kirk better than anyone, then no one really knows Jim Kirk at all.
“I'm sure.” He catches Jim's hand and kisses the palm, and letting it go with as much finality as he can muster. Without looking up to see it, he can feel the change in Jim's regard, from confiding and charming, to resigned and grim. Somber, almost to the point of reserve. “M'Benga ran a DNA test. I know who the other father is, and . . . it ain't you.”
“Oh. Alright, then.” Jim steps back. Then back some more, till he's barely still in the cubicle. But Sickbay's empty, except for Chapel and M'Benga, who already know enough of Leonard's business that eavesdropping would net them nothing.
He watches Jim pluck at the hem of his shirt--Jim Kirk never fidgets--and tries to will away the nausea, which is back with a vengeance. He doesn't know if lying it all back would make him feel better or worse, but Leonard McCoy never does anything less than complete honesty, and they both know that. Anyway, by now the other father's been notified. Should be showing up any minute. “I'm sorry, Jim. I really am.”
“Why? There's nothing to be sorry for, Bones. I dragged my feet, and a better man won. Life's like that, sometimes.” Jim shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. Watches Leonard for a few seconds then smiles again. For real this time, though it's the most miserable smile Leonard's ever seen. “I guess, uh, congrats. I meant what I said before, about you being a great dad, and . . . congratulations.”
“What, on bein' a bona-fide miracle or on givin' birth to one in seven months?” Leonard grumbles, and that smile gets a bit less horrible. No, their friendship ain't in great shape, and may not be for a long time. But it ain't dead, either, and never will be for lack of trying. “Not that I know if I even wanna keep it, I mean . . . the other father's probably not gonna be jumpin' for joy. Although I could be wrong, weird goddamn Russian. . . .”
"Russian?" Jim demands, squinting and suspicious. "Okay, if he's Russian, other-dad is one of two guys, and I just married Yeoman Haussman and Ensign Kuznetsova last Saturday, so the baby's other father is--"
"Doctor! Doctor!" Ensign Chekov rounds the corner of the cubicle, a split-second behind his urgent bleating. His uniform is askew and his curly hair is unbrushed. He looks like he was just summoned from a sound sleep, and considering that his next shift starts in six hours, that's probably right. Last Leonard saw of Chekov, the kid was hogging two-thirds of his narrow bed, and nine-tenths of the blankets.
And snoring, to boot.
Now, he doesn't look nearly so relaxed. He looks frantic and worried, and he barely notices Jim enough to snap to a hasty attention, before making his way to Leonard's side and sitting exactly where Jim sat.
“Is joke?” he asks, his voice shaking and eyes wide. He looks even younger than his not-quite-twenty years, if that's possible. And that thought leads to the first legitimate ray of sunshine Leonard's had in this crazy mess: if one of them had to get pregnant, better him than this damn kid (who, unlike Jim, is happy to pitch and catch).
“No, is not joke.” Leonard tries to smile, and Chekov tries to smile back, his blue eyes--not likely to breed truer than the McCoy brown--ticking to Leonard's stomach. There's a lot less try, and a lot more smile when he looks back up.
“I am . . . going to be a papa?”
Leonard nods once, and Chekov simply stares and stares . . . before grinning big and bright. “And you are healthy? And our baby is healthy?” he asks, then whoops when Leonard nods a third time. Says something in Russian that sounds . . . excited and happy.
For the first time since he found out a few hours ago, Leonard allows himself to feel something other than anxiety and misery. Quite in spite of himself, he's charmed by Chekov's reaction, his optimism, his . . . touching naivete.
“We are having a baby, oh, Doctor!” Chekov exclaims, hugging Leonard tighter than anyone'd have a right to expect from those long, rangy arms. Then he jumps up and back apologizing for squeezing so tight, asking if Leonard's okay, if he feels alright, if either he or the baby are distressed--
“Park your ass, you ninny, I'm fine and so's this damn baby!” Leonard barks without bite, and Chekov grins sheepishly, sitting down again. He takes Leonard's hand gingerly and kisses it, cradling it against his cheek and looking more overjoyed than just about anyone Leonard's ever seen. Weird goddamn Russian.
“My love, oh, my love . . . I love you so much.”
Not the first time Chekov's said all that, but Leonard always pretends each time is the first. That makes it so much easier to overlook and dismiss. “Listen, don't get caught up in the excitement of bein' someone's papa, kid--”
“But I want to marry you. I think we should get married.”
“--because me and this brat are probably gonna wind up spending the first years of its life on some Starfleet Medical Base, locked up like proper little guinea pigs,” Leonard adds, stepping as neatly as he's able over Chekov's proposal.
“But at least if we are married, they cannot separate us. Wherever you and the baby go, as his other parent, I'm entitled to go with you and look after you.” Chekov kisses Leonard's hand again, lingeringly. “Please, Leonard. I have never wanted anything as much as I want you. And now, our baby.”
And I suppose the idea of, oh, say, terminating this freak-pregnancy, or simply giving the baby to Starfleet to study and raise hasn't occurred to you? Leonard almost snarks, but doesn't. Because neither option would've occurred to Chekov.
Leonard suspects that if he doesn't bring it up, it never will.
Chekov lets go of Leonard's hand and touches his stomach, just the way Jim did. But with reverence instead of reluctance, and happiness instead of hesitation. Like he's been waiting all his life to find out he's Leonard McCoy's baby-daddy. “Oh, wow. There is a baby inside here!” He's lit up, and glowing, and when he darts in to kiss Leonard--awkwardly and a little clumsily because of the angle and the excitement--Leonard is surprised he doesn't get a literal jolt, like an electrical surge.
But there's plenty of figurative jolt, and that's just as good. Okay, partially because Chekov's hand is venturing quite a bit lower than where a baby bump would be, if Leonard had one. Venturing, stroking, squeezing--in general, just doing the kind of dirty cock-tease that can't be healthy for a man in Leonard's delicate condition. . . .
Hormones. Damned pregnancy hormones. That's the only reason he gets so hard, so fast, and is all but dragging Chekov down on top of him.
Neither of them notices when Jim slips quietly out of the cubicle.
They only surface from their make-out meltdown when their eyes meet while Leonard's wrestling with Chekov's fly. Somehow, they're both missing their over-shirts, and Chekov is kneeling on the biobed between Leonard's legs.
“Em.” Chekov blushes beet-red as his pants are carefully rezipped over his boxer-covered erection. Then he sits on his heels, grinning, and returns the favor.
“Yeah,” Leonard agrees, clearing his throat and doing his own best not to blush. Which is damn near impossible when Chekov reaches out and caresses his face tenderly, before touching his stomach again, like a butterfly lighting on a rose petal.
“Our baby, Leonard. How wonderful,” he murmurs, still nothing in him but wonder and happiness, and Leonard looks away from those horny, blissed-out eyes. They're a different blue than he's used to, but no less easy to get lost in. Especially now--though that, too, is probably mostly the hormones. Mostly.
“You don't have to keep touching my stomach all the time, you know. You, uh . . . wouldn't be able to feel it moving around in there till at least the fifth month, or so.”
“Pah! Our baby will have Chekov precociousness and McCoy contrariness, so he will be performing calisthenics by this time next week!” Chekov says proudly, and Leonard rolls his eyes. Smiles just a little.
“God, I hope not. . . .”
*
Continued here, in: Baby-Daddy II
Yeah. Viscerally, DaT was better, but overall, 2012 was very satisfying. And ironic.
Saw the CNP today. More prescriptions for more drugs. Ambien for the insomnia, which is hellassshitdamncrazy out of control (the cirles under my eyes have bags, and those bag? Are carried by other bags, with circles undder their eyes), lorazepem for the anxiety/rage I get during the day (it's called "work"), and a different kind of lithium. Longer-lasting, higher dose, and doubled.
If I wasn't crazy before, I'm likely to be, now. Whatevs, though, as long as my writing isn't effected. And as my flist, if any of you guys notice a decline in my writing, whether just journal entries, or actual fic . . . please let me know. Don't dance around it, or try and be nice, because nice doesn't get anything done. Just hit me with it, so I can fix it. You guys know me, and I trust your opinions and judgment.
Anyfloop, fic! Crack!fic :)
Inspired by a convo I had with vinniebatman at way-the-fuck-later-than-I-should-be-up. Inspired by, written for, and my weird gift to. Which means, in plain language, if you wanna flame someone, flame her. Totally her fault :D
The McKirk prompt fic goes up tomorrow morning, after I've slept. I can't stop tweaking the damn thing and adding stuff. I feel like Chaucer, except marginally less talented.
Baby-Daddy
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI
Pairing: McCoy/Kirk, McCoy/Chekov
Rating: R
Notes/Warnings: Set post movie by a few years. Mpreg. Crack-angst . . . crangst.
Summary: Leonary McCoy gets some startling news. Relevant parties are advised, drama happens. Crack, with a straight face.
“Hey . . . buddy. . . .”
The soft, wary voice immediately follows the soft, wary footsteps into his cubicle. Leonard rolls his eyes and glares up at the ceiling panels, doing his best to ignore Jim Kirk. He's had almost five years of practice at it, so he's pretty good, by now.
The biobed dips slightly on his left side and a warm hand touches his own for a moment. Because Jim's had a similar amount of practice ignoring the fact that Leonard is ignoring him. As per usual, they have what Grampa McCoy mighta called a Mexican standoff (though Lord only knows what a 'Mexica' is).
“So,” Jim says heartily, as if his five year mission is to be the most insipid jackass ever to captain a starship. “How're we feeling?”
“We,” Leonard says without inflection, which is normally enough of a warning sign for Jim to high-tail it out of striking range. Not this time, however, and it's a good thing for him Leonard's too tired and gobsmacked to do more than think murderous thoughts. “We are just dandy, Jim. 'Cordin' to M'Benga, we are about as healthy as can be expected for a man who's two months pregnant.”
“Jesus . . . Jesus, Bones--” Jim sighs, and Leonard resolutely does not look at him. Looking at Jim is pretty much what caused this mess in the first place. Leonard's always been a sucker for that damned devil-may-care grin and those blue-blue eyes . . . always had to work hard not to fall into them, then work even harder to climb out when he fails. . . .
He starts when Jim's hand settles softly on his stomach--reluctantly lowers his gaze and sits up on his elbows.
Jim's watching him like he expects Leonard to give birth right then, clearly torn between curiosity and horror. Leonard's just barely far enough along to be getting morning sickness, and suddenly he really wants to puke. Knows he'd aim without hesitation for Jim.
“Does . . . are you gonna tell anyone besides me?” Jim asks, like a man bracing himself for the worst. There's worry in his eyes, but not the kind that Leonard'd been hoping for, and that nauseated feeling intensifies. For a moment, Leonard wants to curl up in a ball and just cry.
Not that crying ever solved anything. “M'Benga had to inform Starfleet Command, of course, me bein' the first pregnant man in human history. Though I do apologize I hadda go and get knocked up on your watch.”
"Sorry, I--sorry, okay? It just kinda threw me for a loop--"
"Oh, well, I'm also very sorry my pregnancy threw you for a loop. I do so hate to inconvenience you, Jim."
"Oh, shut up, Bones." Jim sighs and when his hand starts moving, slowly, soothingly, Leonard only just notices it's still there. "Really, are you gonna . . . tell anyone else?"
“You mean, am I gonna spread the joyous news hither and yon? Hah. I'm sure that if I decide to keep this . . . baby . . . I'll be shuttled off to some Federation medical facility faster than you can say up-the-duff, so, no. I'm under no obligation to advise anyone else 'cept the other father. And my commanding officer, of course.”
Jim's smile is bitter and ironic. “Of course.”
"And I'm not even sure I'm gonna go through with this, I mean . . . it'd be beyond crazy to keep this baby, no matter how miraculous."
“Crazy isn't even the word . . . Jesus, Bones! You don't even have a freakin' womb. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a pretty important part of the pregnancy recipe, right?" For a moment Jim looks like he's about to cry. Leonard wonders how many times he'll have to lose his best friend before finally losing him completely. "And ovaries, and a uterus, and a birth canal, and a, uh--”
“Yes, I know how pregnancy normally works, Jim.” Leonard peevishly smacks Jim's hand away from his stomach. Hard. But a few seconds later it comes back. It's strangely comforting, despite . . . everything. “Somehow, since my last physical, my body's spontaneously generated all those things. 'Cept the birth canal and the vagina. M'Benga doesn't know how or why, and neither do I.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep, that's generally how babies are made, Cap'n. Even freak-babies, like this one, although . . . I guess there ain't a baby like this one.”
“Don't--don't call it a freak, Bones, Jesus,” Jim says, sounding uncomfortable and offended. He's looking everywhere but at Leonard; at least at first. Then his eyes skitter almost unwillingly back to his stomach and he smiles, just a little. "All babies are perfect. Or so I've heard."
“It ain't perfect, Jim--it's the biggest anomaly in the history of our species! It's a--” mutant, Leonard thinks but doesn't say. Can't make himself say. Life's gonna heap enough cruel names on this poor bastard's shoulders, assuming it gets carried to term. It'd just be cruel if the first names he got called came from his moth--fath--whatever Leonard is.
“It's not the Apocalypse, Bones, it's a . . . a baby. Just a baby,” he says, half disturbed, half laughing. Shakes his head and risks Leonard's gaze again. “Fuck, there's a baby in there. Are you gonna keep it.”
Leonard lays back down again and closes his eyes. Lets Jim's hand soothe him and tries not to think too hard. “I shouldn't. I'm not ready to be a father again. Or a mother, for that matter. This kid can't and shouldn't exist.”
“Well, can't and shouldn't don't mean shit, now, do they?” There's shifting around and before Leonard knows it, Jim's nudging him over, and laying down next to him. Startled, he looks into Jim's eyes and Jim looks right back. Neither of them say anything for a long time, Jim just caresses his stomach and smiles.
Leonard pretends for a few precious minutes that they're back at the Academy, laying in bed together, talking about the future. . . .
“I'm not ready to be a father--to be this child's father,” he whispers, and Jim's smile grows a bit wider. He leans in till their noses brush.
“Neither am I. But maybe . . . maybe we could figure it out together,” he says, and . . . a bunch of pieces have clearly fallen together in the wrong way. The wrongest way, and God damn James T. Kirk to Hell for coming over all sensitive and responsible now.
“Jim--” where the fuck were you two months ago with this concerned, compassionate lover bullshit? Where was this Jim Kirk when I needed him? He leans away for breathing room and thinking space, but Jim's right there, a familiar feel and scent that's all but designed to drive Leonard to distraction. “Jim, God, there's been a big misunderstanding--”
“Yeah, there has, Bones, and the misunderstanding was all mine.” Jim moves even closer, till Leonard can't see that too scared, too vulnerable smile. Till all he can see is cool, electric-blue eyes. Then Jim's kissing him gently, sweetly, like he never has before. “Look, I know we decided to keep things strictly platonic between us. That we decided it was for the best, but . . . there isn't a day that's gone by since that I haven't wondered if maybe I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Sometimes--”
“Jim, you need to stop speaking now. I'm not kidding.” When Leonard shakes his head and tries to turn away, Jim kisses him again, hot and urgent, but still sweet and gentle. Just the kiss Leonard's been waiting five years for, and it's amazing--the kind of kiss one doesn't get, or even see outside of old movies, and it's. . . .
. . . two months too goddamn late.
“See, I know I'm not ready to be anyone's dad. We both know that. But you? You're gonna be an amazing dad.” It's impossible to talk when Jim Kirk's bent on keeping you from talking. Leonard can also admit to himself that he's simply savoring probably the last such kiss they'll ever share, and the way Jim's hand is clenched just slightly, so possessively on his stomach. “So if you decide to have this baby, I'd like to try, to . . . be there for it . . . and you.”
“Listen to me, Jim--” but Jim's looking into his eyes again, and damn the man, but he almost looks . . . thrilled. Scared shitless, but thrilled. Like he'd looked on the day Enterprise officially became his.
“We could . . . you know . . . be a family,” he says hopefully, and any lingering resentment Leonard bore Jim for the way their relationship (and to a certain painful extent, their friendship) imploded two months ago, it's gone like it never was. Because Jim Kirk is, in his own charming and callous way, a titan. A man of great deeds and chink-free armor.
He should be, anyway, but all Leonard sees in front of him at the moment is a Lost Boy trying to create the kind of family that just doesn't happen in the Never-Never Land he's king of.
Leonard shoves Jim away and sits up, unable to look him in the eye. When Jim tries to pull him back into his arms, he shrugs away the hands he's missed. Or tries. But Jim's persistent. Holds him tight and close, and . . . there was a time Leonard might've sold his soul to feel Jim's arms around him again, but that time's passed.
“Let go of me, goddamnit!”
“What--are you mad at me? I mean, maybe we shouldn't have been bare-backing, but c'mon, Bones. We've been doing it for years, and no one coulda predicted this!” One hand drops back down to Leonard's stomach again, sure and possessive. Jim's grinning--Leonard can hear it in his voice--and Leonard feels a strange mix of resentment, regret and sadness that makes him want to be anywhere but here, and with anyone but his best friend. . . .
It's a horrible feeling. Like being sliced open, and having internal organs replaced with anxiety and sadness. But Leonard hasn't cried since he was a kid, and he ain't gonna cry now. Especially not now, in front of Jim.
“No, I ain't mad at you, I . . . Jim, M'Benga notified the other father. And . . . he notified my captain,” Leonard says quietly, forcing himself to catch Jim's gaze and hold it steadily. Till realization penetrates whatever visions of fatherhood are dancing through Jim's head.
If Leonard never sees Jim's face fall that way again, he'll die a happy man. But in the end, Jim's Jim, and he's got a better gameface than most Vulcans. He pulls it together so fast, Leonard wouldn't even be sure of what he saw, but for the way that carefree look doesn't get within spitting distance of Jim's eyes.
“Right. Okay,” he says, then laughs a little, a strange, rapid-fire ah-ha-ha. His arms rebound away like Leonard's a hot rock. “Okay, then, I guess that means I'm off the hook and some other poor bastard's on.”
“I didn't mean for any of this to happen. The pregnancy, the . . . what you thought. Any of it. I apologize,” Leonard adds lamely, wishing he had a blanket or something. He's always felt cold whenever Jim lets him go. He suspects that a lifetime between embraces wouldn't change that.
“No, hey, it's cool.” Jim's standing up, eyes once again darting everywhere but Leonard's face, and mentally? He's already gone. Galaxies and galaxies away. “I should probably, uh, get going so you can tell the other . . . dad. Unless you've told him already?”
Shaking his head no, Leonard tries to smile. “Aside from being my captain, you're still, and always will be my best friend. I asked that you be notified first.”
“Right. Captain, best friend, just not your baby-daddy, I get it. No, it's okay. Really.” Jim cranks that big smile up even bigger, and this situation? Is the antithesis of okay, Leonard knows. What he doesn't know is how to fix it, short of a time machine.
Not that he's responsible for fixing a goddamned thing. If Jim wants to blame someone for this damned baby not being his, he doesn't have to look any farther than the nearest goddamned mirror.
“You were the one who said we were in too deep, and that maybe we should just go back to bein' friends-without-benefits.” And how much'd that hurt? How much does it still hurt? He may not be angry anymore--not exactly--but he's not gonna let Jim make him the bad-buy ex, either. “I told you I loved you, that you were the person I wanted to spend my life with, and you pretty much said, 'gee, Bones, I'm flattered, but no.' Remember?”
“Yes. I remember what I said,” Jim snaps and paces out of the cubicle. Paces back in, that gameface gone again, and replaced by a defensive, angry, hurt expression that still has the power to make Leonard feel like a jerk, never mind that this is Jim, not Jocelyn. “It sure didn't take you long to find someone else. Are you even sure he's the father, whoever he is? I mean, up until that last fight we were fucking pretty much constantly. Even after the fight, we--” that hurt expression changes to something calculating, sultry, and possessive. “Talk about things I never thought I'd say, but--if fucking could ever get a guy pregnant, the last time we fucked would definitely have gotten the job done.”
Determinedly not blushing, Leonard glares--not that that's ever worked on Jim. "You're so goddamn crass."
"You like it when I'm crass. Want a demonstration to remind you just how much you like it?" Jim smirks. Does something that could only be classified as galaxy-class eye-fucking, because he knows exactly what it does to Leonard. Uses the moments of confused arousal and wavering to move closer again. Not kissing-close, but close enough for Leonard to catch his scent, and lean into the touch that ghosts across his cheek.
“Bones, are you sure this isn't my baby,” he asks quietly, this heretofore unexpected want making his voice falter in a way it rarely does. Leonard can only reflect that if he knows Jim Kirk better than anyone, then no one really knows Jim Kirk at all.
“I'm sure.” He catches Jim's hand and kisses the palm, and letting it go with as much finality as he can muster. Without looking up to see it, he can feel the change in Jim's regard, from confiding and charming, to resigned and grim. Somber, almost to the point of reserve. “M'Benga ran a DNA test. I know who the other father is, and . . . it ain't you.”
“Oh. Alright, then.” Jim steps back. Then back some more, till he's barely still in the cubicle. But Sickbay's empty, except for Chapel and M'Benga, who already know enough of Leonard's business that eavesdropping would net them nothing.
He watches Jim pluck at the hem of his shirt--Jim Kirk never fidgets--and tries to will away the nausea, which is back with a vengeance. He doesn't know if lying it all back would make him feel better or worse, but Leonard McCoy never does anything less than complete honesty, and they both know that. Anyway, by now the other father's been notified. Should be showing up any minute. “I'm sorry, Jim. I really am.”
“Why? There's nothing to be sorry for, Bones. I dragged my feet, and a better man won. Life's like that, sometimes.” Jim shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. Watches Leonard for a few seconds then smiles again. For real this time, though it's the most miserable smile Leonard's ever seen. “I guess, uh, congrats. I meant what I said before, about you being a great dad, and . . . congratulations.”
“What, on bein' a bona-fide miracle or on givin' birth to one in seven months?” Leonard grumbles, and that smile gets a bit less horrible. No, their friendship ain't in great shape, and may not be for a long time. But it ain't dead, either, and never will be for lack of trying. “Not that I know if I even wanna keep it, I mean . . . the other father's probably not gonna be jumpin' for joy. Although I could be wrong, weird goddamn Russian. . . .”
"Russian?" Jim demands, squinting and suspicious. "Okay, if he's Russian, other-dad is one of two guys, and I just married Yeoman Haussman and Ensign Kuznetsova last Saturday, so the baby's other father is--"
"Doctor! Doctor!" Ensign Chekov rounds the corner of the cubicle, a split-second behind his urgent bleating. His uniform is askew and his curly hair is unbrushed. He looks like he was just summoned from a sound sleep, and considering that his next shift starts in six hours, that's probably right. Last Leonard saw of Chekov, the kid was hogging two-thirds of his narrow bed, and nine-tenths of the blankets.
And snoring, to boot.
Now, he doesn't look nearly so relaxed. He looks frantic and worried, and he barely notices Jim enough to snap to a hasty attention, before making his way to Leonard's side and sitting exactly where Jim sat.
“Is joke?” he asks, his voice shaking and eyes wide. He looks even younger than his not-quite-twenty years, if that's possible. And that thought leads to the first legitimate ray of sunshine Leonard's had in this crazy mess: if one of them had to get pregnant, better him than this damn kid (who, unlike Jim, is happy to pitch and catch).
“No, is not joke.” Leonard tries to smile, and Chekov tries to smile back, his blue eyes--not likely to breed truer than the McCoy brown--ticking to Leonard's stomach. There's a lot less try, and a lot more smile when he looks back up.
“I am . . . going to be a papa?”
Leonard nods once, and Chekov simply stares and stares . . . before grinning big and bright. “And you are healthy? And our baby is healthy?” he asks, then whoops when Leonard nods a third time. Says something in Russian that sounds . . . excited and happy.
For the first time since he found out a few hours ago, Leonard allows himself to feel something other than anxiety and misery. Quite in spite of himself, he's charmed by Chekov's reaction, his optimism, his . . . touching naivete.
“We are having a baby, oh, Doctor!” Chekov exclaims, hugging Leonard tighter than anyone'd have a right to expect from those long, rangy arms. Then he jumps up and back apologizing for squeezing so tight, asking if Leonard's okay, if he feels alright, if either he or the baby are distressed--
“Park your ass, you ninny, I'm fine and so's this damn baby!” Leonard barks without bite, and Chekov grins sheepishly, sitting down again. He takes Leonard's hand gingerly and kisses it, cradling it against his cheek and looking more overjoyed than just about anyone Leonard's ever seen. Weird goddamn Russian.
“My love, oh, my love . . . I love you so much.”
Not the first time Chekov's said all that, but Leonard always pretends each time is the first. That makes it so much easier to overlook and dismiss. “Listen, don't get caught up in the excitement of bein' someone's papa, kid--”
“But I want to marry you. I think we should get married.”
“--because me and this brat are probably gonna wind up spending the first years of its life on some Starfleet Medical Base, locked up like proper little guinea pigs,” Leonard adds, stepping as neatly as he's able over Chekov's proposal.
“But at least if we are married, they cannot separate us. Wherever you and the baby go, as his other parent, I'm entitled to go with you and look after you.” Chekov kisses Leonard's hand again, lingeringly. “Please, Leonard. I have never wanted anything as much as I want you. And now, our baby.”
And I suppose the idea of, oh, say, terminating this freak-pregnancy, or simply giving the baby to Starfleet to study and raise hasn't occurred to you? Leonard almost snarks, but doesn't. Because neither option would've occurred to Chekov.
Leonard suspects that if he doesn't bring it up, it never will.
Chekov lets go of Leonard's hand and touches his stomach, just the way Jim did. But with reverence instead of reluctance, and happiness instead of hesitation. Like he's been waiting all his life to find out he's Leonard McCoy's baby-daddy. “Oh, wow. There is a baby inside here!” He's lit up, and glowing, and when he darts in to kiss Leonard--awkwardly and a little clumsily because of the angle and the excitement--Leonard is surprised he doesn't get a literal jolt, like an electrical surge.
But there's plenty of figurative jolt, and that's just as good. Okay, partially because Chekov's hand is venturing quite a bit lower than where a baby bump would be, if Leonard had one. Venturing, stroking, squeezing--in general, just doing the kind of dirty cock-tease that can't be healthy for a man in Leonard's delicate condition. . . .
Hormones. Damned pregnancy hormones. That's the only reason he gets so hard, so fast, and is all but dragging Chekov down on top of him.
Neither of them notices when Jim slips quietly out of the cubicle.
They only surface from their make-out meltdown when their eyes meet while Leonard's wrestling with Chekov's fly. Somehow, they're both missing their over-shirts, and Chekov is kneeling on the biobed between Leonard's legs.
“Em.” Chekov blushes beet-red as his pants are carefully rezipped over his boxer-covered erection. Then he sits on his heels, grinning, and returns the favor.
“Yeah,” Leonard agrees, clearing his throat and doing his own best not to blush. Which is damn near impossible when Chekov reaches out and caresses his face tenderly, before touching his stomach again, like a butterfly lighting on a rose petal.
“Our baby, Leonard. How wonderful,” he murmurs, still nothing in him but wonder and happiness, and Leonard looks away from those horny, blissed-out eyes. They're a different blue than he's used to, but no less easy to get lost in. Especially now--though that, too, is probably mostly the hormones. Mostly.
“You don't have to keep touching my stomach all the time, you know. You, uh . . . wouldn't be able to feel it moving around in there till at least the fifth month, or so.”
“Pah! Our baby will have Chekov precociousness and McCoy contrariness, so he will be performing calisthenics by this time next week!” Chekov says proudly, and Leonard rolls his eyes. Smiles just a little.
“God, I hope not. . . .”
*
Continued here, in: Baby-Daddy II