Domesticity
Just because Kirk could turn his mind away from certain thoughts, just because he often chose compartmentalization as a strategy, did not mean he did not think. But his thought processes were undisciplined, erratic, impetuous. He could plan, and his plans could (sometimes) go off without a hitch. But he was better at on-the-fly decisions, gauging motivations and possibilities and acting on them. Figuring the angle and knowing it was the right one.
Which was why his life Now--the terrain of his life was almost always divided between Before and Now, though the geography shifted to accommodate the last seismic upheaval--was both the most and least comfortable he could remember being in a long time. And, like everything else that had happened lately, McCoy was at the center of that confusion. McCoy and his damned unspoken invitations, the shared meals, showers, bed, gym sessions. Starting awake to find McCoy's arm tossed casually around him, heavy with sleep and undisturbed by his own momentary alarm. Which indicated that his reasoning for not moving it, lest he wake the man, was a bald excuse.
He understood why he prepared food, or let McCoy get it, or why one or the other silently retrieved the dishes or changed the sheets. It was the same reason he took McCoy's cock in as far as he could, feeling it hit the back of his throat. Because it pleased McCoy, and because right now pleasing one damn person on this ship was all he had keeping him from the booth or worse. But it didn't explain why his eyes drifted closed as he lips urged McCoy on, or the nickname, or waking up finally pressed hard to McCoy's back and curled around him, one hand on his hip. He could explain to himself that the things that made him happy would make McCoy happy, make him think he had won something, but it didn't wash. Not forever.
Sure, he got that McCoy got off on the domestic thing, that he got off on Kirk himself, so it made a certain kind of sense. But it made no kind of sense Kirk had ever seen in Starfleet. There were alliances of all kinds and fuck buddies and even more than that, but to be installed here as a hostage/patient and to now be something like a live-in fucktoy/political frontman was just... weird. And Kirk didn't exactly have any experience of long-term co-habitation to fall back on or measure this by. The tables weren't turned, but they were evening. The trust required was equal on both sides. And that, too, was difficult to fathom.
What was equally difficult to fathom was that he liked it. He liked the interruption from his own thoughts. Liked someone else being in the room who wasn't (he'd pretty well established, at least in his case) going to fuck him up without warning. Liked sharing a drink before sex or bed or both, liked the speculative glances of the crewmen in the halls, liked the way McCoy looked at him. He even liked testing him, fighting him, enjoying the give and take of their respective victories and the way McCoy both won and lost without apparent gloating or ire.
But he had no way of knowing what any of it meant, or what it added up to. And it was enough to give him pause, once in awhile. To wonder, if he was out or McCoy was, what the hell was going on. When they were both in the room things made a sort of sense that actually was the lack of needing sense, and he could forget the weirdness and forget Sulu or Chapel or any of the other things he'd seen.
And that, perhaps, was the strangest of all.
Which was why his life Now--the terrain of his life was almost always divided between Before and Now, though the geography shifted to accommodate the last seismic upheaval--was both the most and least comfortable he could remember being in a long time. And, like everything else that had happened lately, McCoy was at the center of that confusion. McCoy and his damned unspoken invitations, the shared meals, showers, bed, gym sessions. Starting awake to find McCoy's arm tossed casually around him, heavy with sleep and undisturbed by his own momentary alarm. Which indicated that his reasoning for not moving it, lest he wake the man, was a bald excuse.
He understood why he prepared food, or let McCoy get it, or why one or the other silently retrieved the dishes or changed the sheets. It was the same reason he took McCoy's cock in as far as he could, feeling it hit the back of his throat. Because it pleased McCoy, and because right now pleasing one damn person on this ship was all he had keeping him from the booth or worse. But it didn't explain why his eyes drifted closed as he lips urged McCoy on, or the nickname, or waking up finally pressed hard to McCoy's back and curled around him, one hand on his hip. He could explain to himself that the things that made him happy would make McCoy happy, make him think he had won something, but it didn't wash. Not forever.
Sure, he got that McCoy got off on the domestic thing, that he got off on Kirk himself, so it made a certain kind of sense. But it made no kind of sense Kirk had ever seen in Starfleet. There were alliances of all kinds and fuck buddies and even more than that, but to be installed here as a hostage/patient and to now be something like a live-in fucktoy/political frontman was just... weird. And Kirk didn't exactly have any experience of long-term co-habitation to fall back on or measure this by. The tables weren't turned, but they were evening. The trust required was equal on both sides. And that, too, was difficult to fathom.
What was equally difficult to fathom was that he liked it. He liked the interruption from his own thoughts. Liked someone else being in the room who wasn't (he'd pretty well established, at least in his case) going to fuck him up without warning. Liked sharing a drink before sex or bed or both, liked the speculative glances of the crewmen in the halls, liked the way McCoy looked at him. He even liked testing him, fighting him, enjoying the give and take of their respective victories and the way McCoy both won and lost without apparent gloating or ire.
But he had no way of knowing what any of it meant, or what it added up to. And it was enough to give him pause, once in awhile. To wonder, if he was out or McCoy was, what the hell was going on. When they were both in the room things made a sort of sense that actually was the lack of needing sense, and he could forget the weirdness and forget Sulu or Chapel or any of the other things he'd seen.
And that, perhaps, was the strangest of all.