new fic: to a man's heart
Title: To a Man's Heart
Author: breakthecitysky
Pairing: Kirk/Bones
Rating: R, for non-explicit sex and a few dirty swears, I guess.
Summary: Kirk attempts to cook. Hilarity ensues. Plus sex. Good times.
Notes: For the space_married fic challenge. With thanks to northatlantic for her fearsome beta action.
He’s not sure why he decides it’s a good idea to try and cook. Jim Kirk is good at a lot of things, hell, he is spectacular at many of them, but cooking has always managed to elude him. Mostly, it’s that he doesn’t care. For a long time food was about fuel, making the machine that is his body work faster and better and harder. And even now, when he’s with someone who has spent a lot of time rather exasperatedly trying to explain to him that food can be as sexy as, well, sex, he’s not inclined to care much. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that on the nights Bones is lecturing him on the subject, he’s licking long fingers or waving his fork around and growling and all Jim can think about is how much of a mess he’ll make if he takes him over the table.
Nevertheless, he’s trying to cook. It’s their first anniversary, and he’s managed to get them a couple days leave and a small cottage on Markab. For most people, that should really probably be enough of an acknowledgement but Jim does stuff like that anyway, when he can, so it doesn’t feel special enough. He figures Bones deserves something truly amazing for putting up with him as long as he has, for patching him up both literally and metaphorically, time and again.
Apparently tradition has it that gifts for a first anniversary are supposed to be paper, which has to be the most ridiculous thing Jim’s ever heard, and what, is he supposed to write Bones some poetry or something?
Dear Bones, roses are red, violets are blue, as long as I’ve known you I’ve wanted to fuck you!
Yeah, no, probably not.
Which is how he ends up in this little kitchen, which it turns out is more equipped for reheating take-out leftovers than actually attempting to assemble a meal from scratch. This is really probably the least of Jim’s concerns given that he doesn’t actually have the first idea what he’s doing. But he’s determined, which has pulled him through situations involving greater risk to life and limb.
Except at this point, two hours have passed and Jim is no closer to anything resembling food than he was when he started, baffled by something that purports to be a recipe and is actually a collection of deceptively complex and ambiguous instructions that only reveal themselves after you have clearly done them wrong. The kitchen is a disaster of epic proportions; sauces and bits of flour and spice are everywhere, including all over Jim, who is wandering around shirtless and covered with bits of the same. His shirt fell victim to a brief and ill-fated battle with a bottle of red wine, most of which he has been drinking since because it’s doing him a hell of a lot more good than the damn sauce it was destined for.
It’s about this time that the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle and he doesn’t even have to turn to know that Bones is standing in the doorway. He sighs, turns to catch bemused eyes watching him and as he’s about to splutter out some sort of explanation the microwave starts to make a very concerning popping noise. Because this whole thing has been doomed from the start, the container of food inside waits to explode until he opens the microwave door. He reaches in to try to see what he can salvage, except the container is just this side of scalding and he ends up making an ungodly high squeak and ditching the whole thing.
Jim Kirk is covered in red sauce. The kitchen is covered in red sauce. There is not enough alcohol in the world for this.
He turns back to Bones, wiping his face off with all the dignity he can muster. “Not a word, or I will totally not make good with the celebratory blowjob I had planned. And trust me, it was going to be amazing.”
Bones’ lips quirk, eyes sparkling now and, damn it, how on earth does he manage to look hot fully 100% of the time, Kirk wonders, hands him a mop sullenly and goes back to consuming his bottle of wine and staring down the half-cooked chicken in front of him like he can cook it with the power of his mind. Like somehow this whole stupid mess of a meal will magically assemble based on sheer will alone.
He is still trying to telepathically salvage things or, alternately, drown his sorrows in liquor, when he feels bits of mop brush over his feet. He scowls at Bones, who smiles sweetly back at him, appears to be humming, actually, which prompts more pouting from Kirk. “Seriously, Bones. I am making a meal here. It’s a surprise,” he says, glares harder at the near giggle that earns.
Bones keeps cleaning, nudging Kirk with the soft strings of the mop now and again to various hisses and curses, teases him until he can’t stand it anymore, that same bemused expression on the sadistic bastard’s face until Jim smacks the mop away and backs Bones into a corner, irritated until he realizes his physical proximity to the now smirking sadistic bastard and suddenly he’s more turned on than anything. Bones is, too, by the feel of things and Jim’s aggravation settles at that, shifts as he props himself up against the wall, hands on either side of Bones’ face. “Think you’re funny, don’t you.”
“Regular comedian,” Bones nods, eyes alight.
“Should probably keep your day job,” Jim mutters, captures that smirking mouth hard and presses him tight to the wall.
“I expect,” Bones exhales, “the same could be said for you.”
Jim growls at that, the two of them jostling for position, all hands and lips and teeth and sauce all over both of them as clothes are shed, and something falls to the floor and shatters as Jim presses Bones against the counter, buries himself deep. The look on Bones’ face, the low, breathy noises he’s making as Jim fucks him hard, the dirty whispers, man, that has to be way sexier than any food ever was, he thinks distantly. He slides down to his knees after he’s come, takes Bones in his mouth, almost chokes when Bones says, “Now blowjobs, on the other hand, you could totally make a living on if Starfleet gets boring.”
They slump against the kitchen cabinets, after, catching their breath. The kitchen is in even worse shape than before, possibly, and Jim starts to laugh as he surveys it, drops his head against Bones’ shoulder and sighs.
“Whatever,” Bones mumbles, kissing his temple and that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. “It’s nice to know there’s one thing in the world Jim Kirk can’t do on his first try.”
Jim smiles lopsidedly at him. “Except we totally don’t have any dinner now, and that was kind of the whole point.”
Bones just smiles at him, that smile that is tender and knowing and has for years now - one year officially - filled up all the empty places inside him and made him whole, and tugs him up and into the main room. There’s pizza and beer on a blanket on the floor and Jim laughs, because he should have known. Bones take care of him, always has, and is always prepared to clean up his messes, good and bad.
Bones stretches out on the blanket and Jim watches him a beat, then sprawls out on top of him, grabs a piece of pie and munches, content. “Happy anniversary,” Bones says, head resting against his.
Jim smiles, bright as the sun.