fic: so wait for the stone at your window, part 1/(2?)
this is my comment-fic-a-day-all-through-december type story. each section is based off a daily captain, daily doctor post at jim_and_bones , starting on 11/30/10.
title: so wait for the stone on your window.
pairings: kirk/mccoy, possible eventual others.
warnings: other than blatant nondescription of what their actual jobs are? none, thus far.
summary: jim works for pike. mccoy works for pike. it's like a match made in heaven.
disclaimer: if they were mine, it'd be canon. also, title is from the decemberists' o, valencia!. i don't own that either.
~
NOVEMBER 30th
"Alyssa, babe, I'm just going to step out for a cigarette, okay?" He whispers it into his date's ear, enjoying the way she shivers a little before smiling brightly and nodding. He slips out the back door and into the alley, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He doesn't smoke much, but functions like this, where every third person wants something from him or his...connections--sometimes he just needs the nicotine relief.
He's been there for five minutes, has already tossed the cigarette to the road and ground it out with the toe of his dress shoe, is considering going back inside, when someone comes darting around the corner. The guy's thin, asian, with dark hair and wild eyes. He glances once over at Jim but keeps going, and Jim watches with interest as the guy's footsteps fade away and another man comes tearing around the corner.
This guy stops. He sees Jim and pulls up short, hands immediately going to the lapels of his suit jacket, straightening his shoulders. Jim doesn't pretend to not notice him, because how could you? The guy is all crisp, straight lines, despite the hair that's gone all bed-heady and floppy from running. He's a little scruffy, too, which Jim thinks is really hot. In fact, all of him is really hot. Jim tries not to give him the once-over, but it's --difficult.
"Goddamnit," the guy swears, his voice gravelly and a deliciously southern. He glares over at Jim, like it's all his fault that the guy got away. "You see a scrawny asian jackass go by?"
Jim shrugs. "What's it to you?" He shouldn't fuck with this guy, he realizes belatedly, because that's clearly a gun, unless he's just happy to see Jim. Which, considering the wattage of that glare, he probably isn't.
The guy steps closer, in what is probably supposed to be a menacing manner, but it doesn't really work. "I don't know who you think you are, kid, but no one in this town is stupid enough to get on the wrong side of they guy I work for. So you should just shut the hell up and tell me which way Sulu went."
Jim cracks up at that. The guy watches him with angry bemusement for a second. "What the hell is so funny?"
When he finally gets his shit together, Jim takes a gasping breath and explains, "Sulu? As in, Hikaru Sulu? Dude, you work for Pike, don't you?" He wipes tears from his eyes and pulls out his wallet, showing the guy his card. He knows the guy recognizes the curved triangle insignia that Pike's employees carry--the one that Jim keeps saying looks like a spaceship--and he knows the guy understands why it's gold. He blanches visibly, steps back.
Most people would be apologizing by now, but this guy looks like "sorry" isn't a word he has in his vocabulary, so he seems to be settling for awkward shuffling. He manages it well. Jim knows he should probably let the guy go after Sulu, since Pike's been looking for him for months, but instead he just grins at the guy. "What's your name?"
"McCoy," says the guy, gruffly, tugging at his tie. He looks like the kind of guy who is exceptionally uncomfortable in anything that constricts his neck. Jim has to agree-- it's a damn fine neck. "Leonard McCoy."
Jim snorts. "Leonard? You must have gotten made fun of so much when you were a kid."
"I was never a kid," McCoy mutters, "I've always been a forty-something."
He's probably only a few years older than Jim. "Well, listen, Leonard," he continues, "Sulu went that way, but--" And before he gets the chance to say something suave and inviting and maybe get the guy to kiss him--hey, Jim's a twenty-five year old teenager, and he totally wants to make out with this guy--before any of this can happen, McCoy takes off running in the direction Jim's pointing. He disappears around a corner before Jim can mentally catalogue how great the man's ass looks in those pants.
Jim huffs a laugh, shakes his head. He'll ask Pike tomorrow why Leonard McCoy was assigned to the Sulu case alone, what the guy's backstory is, and where he can be found on a friday night. Pike knows these kinds of things. Pike knows everything.
DECEMBER 1st
As it turns out, Alyssa is very energetic in bed. As a result, Jim runs late for his meeting with Pike. He's steeling himself for another "I dare you to do better" lecture as he nudges the door open with his hip--he sticks his tongue out at Pike's bodyguards, who don't make a move to help him--and then slumps down in the chair across from Pike's desk. "Sorry I'm late," he mutters.
Across from him, Christopher Pike clears his throat and
glares at him. "Kirk. How the hell did you get in the way of an investigation at a dinner party?"
Jim tries not to glower like a kid caught smoking weed. Which reminds him--"I mean it's not like it's all that important, the guy's just been growing mass amounts of pot in his spare time-- it's not like you're the police--"
"I want him on my team, Kirk. He may be kind of a misguided botanist, but he's also a really brilliant strategist and with the guys in New York acting up I need all the help I can get. Now. Explain?" His voice tilts up, but it isn't really a question. Jim thinks, sulkily, that as second-in-command of whatever this company/mob family is, he should be getting a little more respect around here. But Pike raises an eyebrow and taps his fingers against the top of his desk so Jim explains what happened last night.
He's just getting into the details about how attractive his date was when the door swings open without a knock. "Sorry I'm late," comes a gruff voice, and suddenly McCoy, Leonard McCoy is slumping down in the chair next to Jim in much the same manner as he'd entered minutes before. He looks just as exhausted, possibly even more so, and the stubble from last night is working its way towards becoming an almost-beard. He's also wearing the same suit, like maybe he slept in it. In, like, an alleyway. "Traffic," he explains to Pike, who merely smiles indulgently and nods to Kirk.
"McCoy, this is James Kirk."
"We've met," says Jim, mustering up a flirtatious grin. McCoy simply scrunches farther down in his chair and does his best to imitate a cranky four-year-old. It's a pretty hilarious visual.
"Yes, well," says Pike, "I want the two of you to team up and catch Sulu before he flees the goddamned country."
McCoy splutters. "Excuse me? I almost had him last night. I can do it again. I don't need his help!"
In other instances, Jim would take offense. Now, however, he's too busy doing his own freaking out. "Pike! I don't do field work anymore--"
Pike looks like he's going to threaten to call Jim's mother, however, so he shuts up. "Leonard. Please catch both of us up to speed on what you've got so far." Sighing, McCoy reluctantly briefs them on the details. Sulu is admittedly really great at keeping under the radar; he's been selling mass amounts of marijuana and it's only been recently that Pike (and the police, but they caught on much later) has been going after him. According to McCoy, he's only in town for a few more days, and maybe less, now that he knows his cover's been blown.
"We have an guy undercover," Pike butts in, "But he's half in-love with Sulu, so we're really not sure how reliable his information is."
"So," continues McCoy, "I think I can corner him in the back-up hotel room he's booked. And I don't need a partner--"
"Too bad," says Pike, severely. "Jim is actually smarter than he looks. And," he looks over at Jim, "I don't want him going soft on us."
Jim considers making a penis joke, but thinks better of it.
Later, when Pike has kicked the two of them out in favor of taking a phone call from his wife, McCoy takes off abruptly down the hall. Jim jogs to keep up. "So do you really hate this job, or are you just naturally grumpy?"
"Fuck off."
"No, listen. I'm curious! How'd Pike rope you into working for him?"
McCoy pauses just long to toss a disbelieving look in his direction. "Do you really think I'd tell you something like that?"
Which totally means Pike's blackmailing him.
McCoy stalks out of the building, and Jim doubles back to Pike's office, where he waits until Pike's gone to lunch to pick the lock and then hack into his employee files. And then he abruptly loses his shit because Pike has apparently been blackmailing McCoy with pictures of him deep-throating a fucking microphone. He's about to investigate further--because, really, that's a fucking great punchline and he would love to know the joke--but then one of Pike's bodyguards comes back and he has to slip out quietly.
He leaves Pike's internet open on porn, though, just for kicks.
DECEMBER 2nd
"So," says Jim, swinging a leg over the bench McCoy is currently hunched over, straddling it and slapping his hands on his knees. McCoy ignores him, and Jim realizes it's because he's digging into a sandwich of unknown innards. He considers waiting for McCoy to acknowledge him but thinks that realistically he'd be here for a while, so he asks, "What's the plan?"
McCoy swallows. "The plan," he says, voice gruff with sandwich, a sound which goes straight to Jim's gut, "Is I catch Sulu and you keep out of the way." Jim purses his lips and frowns, and McCoy rolls his eyes. "Fine. Well. Sulu is going to be at the Kennedy Ballroom tomorrow night, so we're going. Dress nice."
With that, he stands up, tosses the rest of the sandwich in the trash, and walks off.
Jim grins. From what he can tell, the guy doesn't seem like "dressing nice" is something he can do. From Jim's limited experience with McCoy, he's pretty sure his definition of "dressing nice" is putting on a suit. Jim stands up and decides two things: 1. McCoy is hilarious when he's pissed off, so Jim won't have much trouble getting him there, and 2. He is so totally going to show the man up in the fashion department.
~
In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have taken that nap.
McCoy doesn't open the company car door for him, but that's okay; Jim takes a second to check himself out in the reflection on the window before he gets in the car. "Jesus Christ, kid, who dressed you, your little sister? You look ridiculous."
"I just woke up, okay? I had to get dressed quickly." He glances over at McCoy but it's hard to tell what he's wearing in the darkness. Jim settles on gazing morosely out the window.
If he were a truly honest man, Jim would admit that he's kind of bummed out that he and McCoy aren't instant BFFs forever. He kind of feels like they're supposed to be, which is weird, since McCoy seems like kind of a grumpy bastard. But Jim's never been one to back down from a challenge. He just needs to figure out the missing variable, as it were, in their equation (Jim + Leonard + (x) = Epic Bromance). "McCoy, you got a nickname?"
"No."
Figures. "You need one, man. Leonard is a terrible name. And I can't keep calling you McCoy."
"Yeah, well," McCoy mutters, "Get used to it, kid."
The car pulls up outside the Ballroom and McCoy gets out before the driver can open the door. He then proceeds to move around the car and open Jim's door. He looks fucking awesome. He's shaved sometime in the recent past, so the stubble on his face is sort of this artfully composed addition to his already really nice face--Jim realizes that McCoy has intentionally smoothed out the scowl and is now looking at him instead with a half-smile, and it's so great--and he's wearing an impeccable dark navy suit that makes his eyes so dark. Jim gapes at him for a moment, and then lets him pull him out of the car. Then he's being sort of shunted toward the front door, McCoy's hand on his back. "What--"
The usher outside looks at them blankly. "Urban," says McCoy, "Karl Urban. And my plus-one." He's suddenly developed this flawless Australian-type accent and Jim tries really hard not to gape at him. The woman smiles and checks them off the list and waves them in. McCoy nods to her and pushes Chris gently towards the door.
"Who the hell is Karl Urban? And why am I--"
"Neither one of us brought dates, dumbass," hisses McCoy, "So we're here together. And some of us do actual work, and in this business that involves certain changes. Will you shut the hell up? Your name is Chris Pine and we've been on two dates and don't know much about each other. Got it?"
Jim swallows, very aware of the warmth from McCoy's hand on the small of his back. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good. C'mon, we're sitting over here." When Jim stays where he is, McCoy hisses, "Jim!"
Jim leers at him. "It's Chris, remember? What, you fuck a guy once and then forget his name? Harsh, man." He grins at the pink that spreads across McCoy's mostly stoic face and brushes past him to go sit down at their table.
It's going to be a long night.
DECEMBER 3rd
The people at their table are pretty nice, actually. Jim flawlessly introduces himself as Chris, nudges McCoy a little with his foot when McCoy snorts. They're at a table of seven; besides Jim and McCoy, there's the Groudels, a charming middle-aged couple with four children and a dog, the obligatory little old asian woman, and the recently engaged Ellen and Mike, who seem unaware that they have company after the first introductions are made.
Nothing much happens for the first hour or so. Sulu is two tables over, sitting with an adorably curly-headed man-child who McCoy informs Jim is Pavel Chekov, their undercover agent. Even from this far away, he's clearly besotted. Jim finds the whole thing incredibly endearing, but doesn't let himself glance over again because neither one of them can afford to be caught staring. Thankfully, Sulu doesn't seem to recognize or notice Jim, or McCoy, but he might be acting, so neither makes any kind of move to detain him. Instead, they eat their dinners and talk with the old lady sitting next to Jim.
Her placecard reads "Judith", but she asks them to call her Judy, and she's every bit the wise old grandmother Jim's always wished he'd had. She flirts outrageously with McCoy and keeps calling Jim "dear", and Jim thinks he might be in love. McCoy looks horrified.
He's just taken a sip of his chardonnay when Judy asks, "So how long have you two been together?" and winks at them.
Jim, to his credit, doesn't choke. Instead, he swallows and cuts in smoothly before McCoy can answer. "Not long," he says, putting his on his best day-dream face. "This is our third date." He looks over at McCoy and smiles, ducks his head down in what he hopes is a suitably shy manner. It seems to work on Judy, though, because she crows and claps her hands together.
"Oh, he likes you," she says to McCoy. "Too, bad, really; I was starting to hope I'd get a chance with you, buster."
McCoy actually grins. "I'd drop him in an instant for you, Miss Judy."
She hoots at that. "Come on, Karl, let's dance."
They head out to the dance floor, where McCoy looks adorably awkward. Jim watches them for awhile, tapping his fingers on the back of McCoy's vacated chair, feeling strangely third-wheel.
Around the time McCoy dips Miss Judy back and then twirls her around, laughing, Hikaru Sulu slides into the chair next to Jim.
DECEMBER 4th
"So," says Pike, reclining back in his chair, "Where does this get us?"
McCoy shrugs. "I don't think he's ID'd us, so--"
"--I can always take him up on the offer," Jim suggests, grinning. "Sulu's pretty hot, I gotta say--"
"We already have Chekov undercover--"
Pike interrupts McCoy. "You should do it, Jim. He'll be considerably more vulnerable-- nobody takes security on a first date."
McCoy snorts. "if you honestly believe that, Pike, you're not the man everyone says you are."
"So it's settled, then?" Jim folds his arms, grins. "I can't say I've ever gone on a date with a drug man before; this should be fun."
"Just try your best not to say something stupid and blow the whole operation, okay? God knows it'll be difficult." McCoy looks grumpy.
Grinning sideways at him, Jim slumps down in his seat so he can stuff his hands into his pockets. "You're just jealous that I got a hot date out of last night and you only got one dance with that old lady."
Surprisingly, McCoy has the grace to look a little embarrassed. His eyebrows go up and his mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Yeah, well," he says, but doesn't get much farther, because one of Pike's bodyguards ducks his head in the door and announces Ambassador Spock's arrival.
McCoy and Jim stand up and pull on their jackets. "Jim, take him up on his offer," Pike instructs, "Leonard, make sure he's covered. Got it?"
"Yeah," says McCoy, gruffly, "but I still think this is a terrible idea."
"Good thing I'm calling the shots, not you, then," Pike replies smoothly. "I'll hear from you gentlemen tomorrow."
"Sure," says Jim. He makes sure he gets to the door first so he can hold it open for McCoy. "See ya, Pike."
DECEMBER 5th
Leonard sighs and closes the door behind himself. "Sorry I'm late."
"Don't worry about it," says Pike, "I was just attempting to figure out what those idiots out in New York are trying to do."
"That what you called me in for?"
Pike shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. "No. You know what I want to talk to you about."
"No, not really.”
“Yes, you do. It’s about Jim.”
Of course. “Fuck off, Chris.”
“Look,” says Pike, “I put him on the Sulu thing with you because I know you’ve been pining over him for years. I was kind of expecting you to make use of the opportunity, now that he knows you exist.”
Of all the-“I haven’t been pining--”
“Shut up, Len. You’re being stupid. Now, get out of my office. I’ve got work, and it doesn’t include pleading with you to grow a pair.”
Leonard leaves, trying not to mutter. Finnegan smirks at him from his position outside Pike’s door, and he glowers. Goddamned bodyguards. Goddamned bosses. Goddamned Jim Fucking Kirk.
~
He’d been sitting outside Pike’s office the first time Jim Kirk had made it onto his radar. The kid had come waltzing in out of the rain, dropped his umbrella at Finnegan’s feet with a “Thanks, Cupcake,” and then smoothly cut into the room. Leonard had bristled, since he’d been waiting for half an hour, and had then been forced to sit there for another twenty minutes while he strained to unobtrusively listen in on the conversation happening inside.
Eventually, the kid had come barreling out again. He’d barely glanced his way, just snagged the umbrella back and went loping down the hall. Leonard had snorted and gone into Pike’s office, and forgotten the incident.
Later, though, when he woke up drenched in sweat and the guy’s brilliant blue eyes fading into the darkness of his bedroom, he’d concluded that he was fucked, and that was that.
~
He makes Jim come with him on a surveillance trip, so they can make sure they can get Jim out again tomorrow night if Sulu takes him back to any one of his three apartments. Jim looks positively elated. Leonard feels like kicking puppies.
“I feel like James Bond,” Jim whispers, while they’re crouched on a nearby rooftop. Chekov had provided them with a basic set-up of the apartment, but Leonard wants to make sure he knows exactly what they’re getting into here. “I mean, we’re dressed in all black, and we’ve got gadgets.”
“Shut up, Jim,” Leonard growls, glancing sideways at him. In the darkness, Jim looks kind of like an overgrown panther, despite his inane chatter. His hair’s been slicked back with some kind of gel because he seems to take the whole ‘spy’ thing overly seriously, and his black-on-black-on-black shirt and jacket combination fits just right, even if it is slightly inappropriate for this particular venture. Goddamn, but Leonard wants to jump him.
He doesn’t, of course. Pike was right: he’s a fucking coward.
DECEMBER 6th
Jim brings McCoy pizza around lunchtime. The guy's wound tight as a piano wire, and just as serious, and Jim thinks maybe he needs a little something to break up the monotony.
"I don't like pepperoni," McCoy mutters, but takes a piece anyway. Jim watches him eat it, his teeth sinking into the crust, adam's apple working as he swallows it down. To distract himself, he takes his own piece, plops down next to him on the floor.
"Is there a reason you're not using your perfectly fine desk, McCoy?" He still can't quite bring himself to say Leonard.
"I have more space to spread out on the floor." McCoy gestures at the papers around him; Jim guiltily shifts and pulls a few out from under his ass. "I'm ignoring the insane amount of germs and microbes probably festering in this rug."
Jim grins into his pizza. Then he remembers why he's here.
"So do we have the appropriate personnel set up?"
"I think so," McCoy mutters. He points to the plans set out on the floor in front of him. "We'll have guys stationed here, here, and here, and I'll be here. You'll get to wear a microphone--Scotty down in engineering's made up this teeny thing that you can take down under a band-aid." He takes another bite of his pizza. "We'll give you a set of code words so you can keep us informed on what's going on inside."
Jim grins. "Like a safeword? I guess you didn't strike me as a kinky sort of guy, but now that I'm looking for it..."
McCoy raises his eyebrows, mouth pinched together in what appears to be an attempt at keeping a bemused smile under wraps. "Shut up, kid."
"If you get to call me 'kid', I get to call you Bones," Jim counters.
"What? Why?"
It's totally a word he's just picked arbitrarily from the dictionary in his head, so he's pretty proud of himself that he doesn't miss a beat. "'Cause you're about as cheery as a skeleton. Plus, Leonard's just about the worst name ever."
"I happen to like my name," McCoy says, "And you can call me whatever you want, but it's the only name I'm responding to."
"Not even 'baby'? What about 'sugar pie'?"
McCoy snorts, but Jim doesn't fail to notice the flush that's creeping up his neck. When McCoy goes to reach for another piece of pizza, Jim intentionally does the same, brushing their fingers together for just a second.
He watches in amazement as McCoy actually jolts, snatching his hand back and looking away.
Fascinating.
DECEMBER 7th
“So how do I look?” Jim asks, spreading his hands wide for McCoy’s benefit. He grins charmingly and cocks his head to the side, tugging at his tie.
McCoy doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and goes back to muttering at his phone. He’s apparently finalizing a few last details for tonight-which makes Jim think about parties, and McCoy planning parties, and McCoy being one of those professional party planners, like they have on tv, and McCoy being on tv, in one of those really awful soaps, which makes Jim snort-earning him a suitably amused-slash-uninterested-slash-questioning look from McCoy-and then he’s thinking about soap operas and their questionable content, which gets him thinking about sex, and McCoy, and oh boy, not helping right now.
“Will you stop fiddling with that tie?” McCoy is glaring at him from across the room. Jim grimaces at him and intentionally undoes it, sticks his tongue out at him. “Whatever,” says McCoy, “Not my problem if you look terrible for your first date.”
“Not my first date,” Jim mutters. Then he frowns down at his tie.
McCoy notices, of course. For someone who seems to be either pissed off or asleep, he’s surprisingly observant. Like earlier, when Jim hadn’t noticed the chair leg and almost tripped, only to be steered out of the way by McCoy’s grip on his elbow. Or yesterday, when McCoy had snorted after a girl had blatantly checked Jim out and then corrected his “What? I captivated her with my lovely green eyes.” with a “You have blue eyes, dumbass.”
Point being, McCoy’s been paying attention. Jim wonders if he does this with everybody.
Or if it’s just him.
Either way, he shouldn’t have undone his tie. It always takes him forever to tie it, and now McCoy is actually grinning at him in a way that tells Jim he thinks he’s a pretty hilarious moron. It actually doesn’t suck too much because it’s the first time Jim’s seen him actually grin-previous to now everything’s just been Pissed Off or, very occasionally, Awkwardly Embarrassed.
“Anyway,” he says, fiddling with it again halfheartedly, “I think you’re just jealous because my suit looks awesome on me and yours…” He trails off, lets McCoy fill in the blanks.
He doesn’t take the bait. “Not all of us spend their weekends shopping at the mall with our best friends, checking out all the cute boys,” He says, pulling his gun out of the top drawer of his desk and slipping it into the holster at his waist, under his jacket. Jim isn’t nervous around guns, not at all, because contrary to what McCoy seems to think, he’d worked his way up from the bottom to get where he is, and he’s wielded them before. But something about McCoy with a gun terrifies him a little inside, because he’s pretty sure that if you pushed the guy’s buttons enough, McCoy could turn into a lethal fucking killer. You know. Real Terminator stuff.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” McCoy huffs, eyebrows furrowed, and then he comes around in front of Jim and bats his fingers away from his tie.
He tugs at it and straightens it and then starts to tie it, knuckles brushing against Jim’s chest every so often, and Jim tries not to suck in a breath too obviously. This close, he can smell McCoy’s aftershave, and with McCoy’s attention focused on Jim’s tie, he has free reign to take in the nuances of his face, the very slight scruff, the way his hair flops up just a bit in the front. “Are you sure you actually know how to tie a tie?” Jim asks, teasingly, because McCoy is huffing frustrated noises and fucking this up.
“I can tie my own goddamned tie,” he mutters, “Never had to tie anyone else’s before.”
“Let me turn around, then,” Jim says, knowing this is a bad idea. He steps back and turns around, not bending his knees, knowing McCoy is weighing the options behind him. They’re about the same height, so he’ll have to get close, which is what Jim is hoping for, but he’s not sure McCoy’ll go for it.
He does, which is awesome. With an annoyed groan, he comes up close behind Jim and wraps his arms around his shoulders, his chin just hovering over his left shoulder, his fingers circling the tie and deftly tying it. The heat of his body seeps into Jim’s back and it still makes him shiver, like it’s cold.
McCoy steps away too soon, and Jim contemplates following him out the door when he leaves. Instead, he straightens his collar around the tie, flips the lock on the door, and heads out to the company car.
DECEMBER 8th
Jim looks like a kid when Leonard hands him his microphone, sliding it under his collar and pinning it, grinning ear to ear. He says something that Pike can’t hear, but it must be inappropriate from the impish smile on his face and the scowl it provokes on Leonard’s. From up here, it’s hard to completely distinguish what’s happening on the ground two stories below Chris’s office window, but he can tell Leonard is berating Jim about something.
Chris sighs. He has better things to do than play matchmaker to his second-in-command and one of his oldest friends. He and Leonard go way back, true, but he’s practically a politician, in everything but name, and he can’t spend all his time trying to herd Leonard into actually saying anything.
It had come out one night when they’d gotten drunk together in Chris’s apartment, after the Nerada incident. Chris had been waxing poetic about how he knew his runner-up was perfect for the job and he wanted to retire soon and probably other more embarrassing things when Leonard had mumbled something into his drink about Jim being perfect in general and things had gone south from there.
So now he has two glorified teenage girls on his hands and he’s starting to think maybe he shouldn’t’ve assigned them to this project; Sulu’s so much more than just a big-deal pot dealer. He’s the one that got away, in a sense-Pike worked with his father years ago and Sulu still knows all his best secrets, the ones which could ruin him. And he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be dangling Jim in front of him like a carrot. He knew Sulu would bite, back when this whole thing started. But he can’t quite quell the guilt about the whole thing. It’s a dangerous business, this life.
And now he’s put this into the hands of two kids, really, no matter how much Leonard gripes about being an old man.
Lord help him.
DECEMBER 9th
Things go pear-shaped pretty quickly. As it turns out, Sulu’s programmed some kind of jammer that makes the microphone feed go static the moment Jim follows him into his apartment. Leonard has spent two and a half hours sitting in a dark car outside the restaurant, stewing with what he won’t admit to anyone is jealousy, and now he’s here in a side alley just west of the apartment, his gut in his throat, eyes locked on the video screen. There’s live feed facing all the possible exits to the complex that Scotty set up ages ago, and none of the doors are opening, and he doesn’t know what is happening inside and he can’t very well barge in on his own; who knows what other security measures Sulu’s got.
He radios Olsen, who Pike assigned him as back-up. The guy’s kind of an idiot, but it’s worth a try. “You got anything?”
“Nope,” Olsen replies, eagerly, like it’s all fun and games. This is his first real run, Pike had said, keep an eye on him. But Leonard’s got more important things to worry about, like the continued health and safety of James Fucktard Kirk. This isn’t the time to be babysitting. He remembers, belatedly, that he’s supposed to be listening to the guy as he blabbers on through the radio about kicking ass and being awesome (sometimes, Leonard sees Jim’s more annoying traits in other people and it makes him want to throw up on someone), but he’s too busy watching the flickering videos on the screen in front of him.
Then one of the doors opens.
His heart jumps fucking rope.
“You seeing this, Olsen? That’s your door.” He watches as Jim barrels out the door, the picture fuzzy but the intensity of motion apparent. “Olsen! Get your fucking ass in gear!”
“Yeah, yeah,” says the moron, his voice tinny across the radio. Leonard can taste his fear like bile that rises up in his throat as somebody follows Jim out the door, gun cocked. She’s tall, and thin, and fucking scary, and what’s worse is she isn’t even hurrying, like she somehow thinks Jim has nowhere to go. Ice shivers down Leonard’s neck.
“Olsen!” The guy doesn’t seem to be doing fucking much of anything, and he has no way of getting in contact with the guys he’s stationed around the building. So he revs his car into gear and peels into the street, heading towards the building.
Jim comes tearing around a corner, eyes narrowed in focus, mouth slack like he’s just out for a run and not running for his life. Leonard pulls over to the side of the road and shoves the passenger door open, letting Jim tumble inside. He drives off before Jim even really has much of a chance to get the door closed behind him.
“Jesus Christ,” Jim swears, catching his breath. He scrambles a little to right himself in the seat, tugging at the seatbelt, and Leonard spares a glance over at him. He’s decidedly rumpled-the tie’s missing altogether, shirt somewhat unbuttoned, hair mussed. Leonard hopes irrationally that it’s just from the running.
“So how’d it go?” he asks, and can’t help the relieved smile in response that slides over his face when Jim grins at him from the passenger seat.
DECEMBER 10th
“So this is Chez Bones, eh?” He says as Leonard lets him into his apartment.
Predictably, he gets an eyeroll. “C’mon, Jim,” Leonard says, tugging him into a small kitchen, pushing Jim toward the kitchen table and pulling a box down from a cupboard. “Sit.”
“Yes sir.” But he does sit down, shrugging off his suit jacket. He winces and then sighs in a translucent attempt to distract.
“Tell me what happened,” Leonard orders, pulling his own jacket off and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He’s not oblivious to the way Jim watches the movement, but he’s also not oblivious to the scratches on Jim’s forehead and palms, and that’s more important right now.
Jim sighs again. “I fucking tripped, man.” He has the grace to look embarrassed.
Leonard snorts, sits down next to him. Ignoring Jim, he sorts through the medkit and comes up with antiseptic and cotton swabs. “Is it just your face and your hands?” When Jim doesn’t respond, he looks up. “Oh, for the love of-Jim, if I’m not looking at you, how’m I supposed to know you’re nodding? Use your words, darlin’.”
The endearment slips out before he can help it, something he’s whispered before when he’s alone in his bedroom but nothing he would ever consider saying out loud to Jim. They stare at each other for a full five seconds-Jim’s mouth falls open a little-before he ducks his head. “Anyway, you sure? You didn’t scrape up your knees or anything?”
“Sure,” says Jim, holding out his palms. “This is it.”
“Okay,” says Leonard, and sets to work cleaning out the scrapes. Jim winces but stays otherwise silent, which surprises him; Leonard was sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Jim would be overly vocal and complaining. He cups the back of Jim’s hand with his own but doesn’t try to do anything else to soothe the pain.
When he’s done with the right hand he searches through the box for something to wrap the wound with. “I’d probably say you should just let these breathe,” he explains, “But somehow I think you’d end up just infecting them. God knows where those hands have been.”
Jim winks. “I don’t think he wants to,” he says, in what he apparently thinks is a flirting tone. It just comes out sounding stupid.
“Yeah, well, here. If I wrap them in gauze you think you can take care of yourself?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, so Leonard ties his hand up lightly. Then he reaches for Jim’s other hand, cleans that one, too. He tries not to acknowledge the interested twitch his cock makes when Jim gasps at a particularly rough swipe of the cotton ball. “Ow, man. Take it easy on me. That shit stings.”
“Quit being a baby,” Leonard says. Then he cuts another strip of gauze and wraps the second hand, too.
Then he looks up. “C’mere,” he says, and Jim shifts closer. Leonard spreads his knees on the chair so Jim’s can come between them and Leonard can reach for his face. He tries valiantly to ignore their proximity and does his best to be completely removed from everything except swabbing at the scrapes around Jim’s eye. It’s tough, though. Jim’s eyes are surprisingly dark in the light of the kitchen, and he doesn’t take his eyes from Leonard’s face. It’s all Leonard can do not to shift just a little closer.
Eventually, though, he pulls back, pulls out some bandaids, slaps them on haphazardly. “There. Good as new.”
Jim smiles. “Thanks, Bones.”
He clears his throat, stands up. “Right. Well, you’re going to have to hide out here for a little while. I just talked to Pike, and-“
“I know,” Jim interrupts, in a voice that reminds Leonard that he is, in fact, higher up on the metaphorical food chain, “Uhura’s a fucking ex-assassin or some shit, so it’s best I stay under the radar.” He grins. “So which way to the bedroom?”
DECEMBER 11th
That night, they order pizza and watch reruns of Glee because neither one of them feels like cooking and McCoy seems to like bitching at the characterization. “That chick is fucking off her rocker all the time,” he says, mouth half-full of pizza, “Why is she even on the show?”
“Why is this show even on TV?” Jim asks, taking a swig of his beer.
Jim realizes that this, whatever this is, is so much more McCoy’s natural environment than the suit-and-tie scenario of their everyday existence, working for Pike. He considers asking how he got there, but decides not to. Instead, he leans back on the couch and listens with a half-smile to McCoy’s continued ranting.
Later, things get awkward.
“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” Jim asks, after they’ve turned the television off and thrown away the pizza boxes.
“Uh, yeah,” says McCoy, making an aborted move toward the bedroom. “Uh, and I’ll get you some blankets.”
Jim sits down on the couch, pulls off his socks. “Thanks,” he says, when a pair of flannel pants and what looks like a bowling shirt land next to him, along with a couple of pillows and a blanket. Then he strips out of his clothes without regard for McCoy-well, actually, with complete regard to the fact that the man’s standing right there because Jim’s body is one of his wildcards in the Jim Kirk Seduction Maneuver. In fact, it seems to be working, because McCoy is standing in the doorway to his bedroom in his tank top and boxers looking a little bewildered and what Jim hopes is turned on.
He doesn’t say anything about it, however. Instead, he gestures towards the hall. “Bathroom’s that-a-way. Glasses in above the sink if you want water. Um. Good night.” Then he ducks into his room and nearly slams the door.
Jim pauses, shrugs the pants on. Then he leans back against the couch and folds his arms over his chest.
Grins.
DECEMBER 12th
He wakes up before McCoy does, so he lazes around on the couch for a few minutes before padding into the kitchen in search of breakfast. He doesn’t find much, but after a few minutes he comes up with half a pound of bacon in the freezer and some fruit juice. By the time McCoy comes blearily from his bedroom, Jim’s got the bacon sizzling on the tiny stove and some possibly stale bread toasting. “Morning,” he says, taking in the way McCoy looks like he didn’t sleep a wink all night.
“Morning, Jim,” he replies, and slumps down onto the table. “Stop looking so cheery.”
“No can do, Bones.” Jim flips the bacon onto a plate and drops it on the table in front of him. “You got any coffee around here? I couldn’t find any.”
McCoy points in a vague direction. “Under the sink,” he mutters.
“What the hell? You are so weird, Bones.”
“Stop calling me that.” He takes a piece of bacon from the plate and eats it, closing his eyes. Then he sighs, opens them again, looks up at Jim, oddly serious. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he says, “You’re the guest; I should be making the breakfast.”
Jim flashes him his patented lopsided grin. “No problemo, Bones-y. Besides, you get to do the dishes.” Then he flops down in a chair next to him and presents him with some burnt toast. “And also the coffee? I don’t know how.”
DECEMBER 13th
McCoy goes into work around noon, since he’s not on the run from semi-harmless criminals with severely-harmful girl-buddies, so Jim takes the opportunity to putter around the apartment and learn as much as he possibly can about the man before he gets home.
Leonard McCoy seems to be very boring, is what Jim decides. He’s got a small collection of books, mostly medical dramas, in the living area, along with a few framed photographs. These seem to be mostly family members, although there is one photo of McCoy with a little girl. His daughter? Jim thinks, and files that away to ask about later. He’s still wondering about those pictures on Pike’s computer.
Around five he has an intense craving for a smoke, but he’s not sure if McCoy does, and he doesn’t really want to get yelled at for going outside for one, so instead he turns on the television and fidgets. He considers calling Pike, since he doesn’t have McCoy’s number, but he’s pretty sure Chris would just laugh at him, so he doesn’t.
By the time the lock flips on the front door, Jim has worked himself to near distraction. He hasn’t had a smoke since yesterday morning and he needs the nicotine relief like now. But he tries to stay cool about it. “Hey, Bones,” he says, as McCoy shrugs his coat off in the front hall.
McCoy grunts a hello and heads into the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. “You do anything stupid while I was gone?”
Jim shrugs. “I took a nap in your bed,” he supplies, his mouth quirking into a smile when McCoy scowls, “But otherwise I’ve mostly just worked myself up into a nicotine-needing mess. You got any cigarettes?”
McCoy snorts, but he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pack. “You can’t smoke in here,” he says, turning towards the bedroom, “But hold on.”
Then he’s back with a box of cigars and a lighter. “C’mon. We’ll go up to the roof.” He gestures for Jim to follow, so Jim pulls on his shoes, which look ridiculous under the jeans and white tee McCoy leant him this morning, and follows him out into the hallway. They climb three flights of stairs and then McCoy pulls something from the cigar box.
“Bones, is that-“ He gapes as McCoy sinks to his knees and picks the lock with some surety. “Wow, man. I was not expecting that.”
McCoy looks back at him over his shoulder. “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, Jim,” he says, and the sight of him, on his knees, looking up at him… Jim pulls a cigarette from the box and distracts himself with the anticipation.
They climb one last flight and then McCoy leads him out onto the roof. If Jim were a more patient man he’d probably take a moment to admire the sheer blue of the sky, but instead he just holds out his hand for the lighter McCoy has and lights the cigarette gratefully. Then he leans back against the railing of the roof, ignoring McCoy’s protests-“You’re gonna fucking fall off, dumbass,”-and taking a long, relieving drag. Then he tucks his hand into his pocket and breathes out slowly. “Oh, that’s good.”
It’s warm up here, with the sun just beginning to dip towards the horizon, but it’s windy. The breeze tugs at McCoy’s hair and flips it up as he takes the lighter back from Jim and lights the cigar. He looks fucking hot like this, the wind pushing his black tie around, his lips wrapped around the cigar. Jim’s glad he has the taste of the cigarette to distract him from how fucking tempting McCoy looks just in this moment.
They stay mostly silent. Jim watches McCoy surreptitiously and breathes deep.
DECEMBER 14th
Jim’s world gets too small too quickly. Tonight, for example, is winding down Day Three of Confinement, and he’s fucking bored.
McCoy is in the kitchen yelling into the phone, and ten minutes ago Jim had been listening with avid attention, but even that has lost its excitement, since it’s mostly just one long tirade of insults and quick snaps to the intelligence of whoever’s on the other end. He sighs and turns off the television and rolls over onto his stomach on the couch, considering a nap.
He’s just dozing off when abruptly, there is silence. McCoy shuffles into the living room and drops himself into the chair. Blinking blearily over at him, Jim takes in the way his legs are slung wide, his hand resting on the top of his thigh. “Motherfuck,” McCoy growls, “Olsen is really dumb.”
Jim frowns and licks his lips. “What happened?”
“Well, there’s the whole bit with him being a fucktard outside the apartment, you know, and then now he’s managed to get us the wrong information about Uhura, and she showed up at the office today with Ambassador Spock’s son-“
“Oh, shit.”
“Right? And proceeded to be perfectly respectable and un-assassin-like, even while we all knew she was checking out the layout of the place.”
Jim rolls over onto his back and sits up. “You think she’s planning something?”
McCoy shrugs. “Could be. Who knows. I’m starting to think there’s more to this Sulu guy than Pike’s letting on-we’ve been chasing him for ages and there’s no way it’s just for his strategy skills.”
“I don’t know,” Jim interjects, “Having a sexy assassin in his arsenal without even our guy, what’s his name-“
“Chekov.”
“Chekov, without him knowing, that takes some strategy.” The last light from the setting sun blinks out behind a building outside the window, and McCoy is suddenly cast in darkness. Jim bites his lip but otherwise doesn’t react. “Besides,” he continues, “Pike tells me everything.”
McCoy smirks. “Not everything, kid.”
Before Jim can react, someone knocks on the door. They both jump to their feet, and McCoy’s hand goes to his hip, where Jim supposes he might otherwise have a gun. But no one knows Jim’s here, except the two of them and Pike, so… “I’ll just hang out in the bed room, shall I?”
McCoy snorts, and then moves toward the door. Jim ducks out of sight.
DECEMBER 15th
He hasn't shaved in a long while, he realizes, as he leans against the wall of the bedroom and tries to listen in on the conversation going on in the other room.
Chekov hasn't asked where Jim is, but McCoy hasn't called him back into the room, so Jim figures Chekov's not supposed to know he's here. Right now, they're most likely still hovering near the front door, McCoy standing there with his legs planted wide and his arms crossed, sleeves rolled up on those delicious arms. "Well, now that we know, can you get any goddamned information?"
"I am trying," says Chekov, sounding Russian and too young. Jim makes a note to find out how young he is exactly, and whether or not he should even be in the business--although Pike would never hire someone who couldn't throw their weight around. "I am trying, but it is difficult. It is...complicated."
McCoy snorts. Jim imagines the way his mouth is pinched together and his eyebrows are climbing into his hair, tries to decide where his hands are now, if he's still got his arms folded or if he's moved them to his pockets. "Kid, if it's about Sulu--"
"It is not," Chekov interjects, "It is complicated because I do not have full, what is the word, confidence, and I cannot risk getting my cover sucked by getting caught...snooping."
Jim has to practically pin his lips together to keep from laughing at the misuse of the word. He wonders how McCoy is faring with keeping his cool.
"Look. My advice? That's what you came here for, I assume, although it's kind of fucking stupid, you might have been followed--"
"I wasn't."
"--My advice is to do your fucking best to get our hands on whatever information is pertinent, and relay it over to me the minute you learn it."
"I have been doing my best," says Chekov, quietly, and Jim kind of feels bad for the guy, who seems like he might actually be really smart, although Jim's not sure why he thinks this.
McCoy sighs. Apparently he's thinking along the same lines as Jim. "Okay, okay, I know. Look, I know in-field work isn't really your thing, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but try not to fall too hard for the guy, alright? Work relationships don't tend to work out too well." Especially when you're an undercover agent, isn't said, but it's implicit.
"Yes," says Chekov. "I am sorry to barge in. I will leave. But may I use your bathroom before I--?"
There is the sound of footsteps, and then Chekov's voice, decidedly nearer to the bedroom. "This is where the bathroom is, yes?"
Then a choked, "No, wait--" Chekov is clearly not supposed to know Jim's here. Either McCoy doesn't trust him or Pike doesn't or both, but Jim isn't about to fuck around with that.
Thinking fast, he does the first thing that comes to him: he strips off his shirt. It lands somewhere on the floor as he throws himself onto the bed, the covers mostly unmade, and buries his head in the pillows.
There is a gasp as the door opens, and then silence for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I will use the bathroom elsewhere--"
"What--"
Jim doesn't turn over. He knows the picture he makes; hair tousled against the pillows, that and his bare back the only thing visible above the sheets. McCoy clearly thinks quickly on his feet, because he slams the door shut and Jim can hear him simultaneously berating and shooing Chekov out the door. Jim smirks and doesn't move. If McCoy wants him out of his really freaking comfortable bed, he'll have to push him out himself.
[ part two here.]
title: so wait for the stone on your window.
pairings: kirk/mccoy, possible eventual others.
warnings: other than blatant nondescription of what their actual jobs are? none, thus far.
summary: jim works for pike. mccoy works for pike. it's like a match made in heaven.
disclaimer: if they were mine, it'd be canon. also, title is from the decemberists' o, valencia!. i don't own that either.
~
NOVEMBER 30th
"Alyssa, babe, I'm just going to step out for a cigarette, okay?" He whispers it into his date's ear, enjoying the way she shivers a little before smiling brightly and nodding. He slips out the back door and into the alley, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He doesn't smoke much, but functions like this, where every third person wants something from him or his...connections--sometimes he just needs the nicotine relief.
He's been there for five minutes, has already tossed the cigarette to the road and ground it out with the toe of his dress shoe, is considering going back inside, when someone comes darting around the corner. The guy's thin, asian, with dark hair and wild eyes. He glances once over at Jim but keeps going, and Jim watches with interest as the guy's footsteps fade away and another man comes tearing around the corner.
This guy stops. He sees Jim and pulls up short, hands immediately going to the lapels of his suit jacket, straightening his shoulders. Jim doesn't pretend to not notice him, because how could you? The guy is all crisp, straight lines, despite the hair that's gone all bed-heady and floppy from running. He's a little scruffy, too, which Jim thinks is really hot. In fact, all of him is really hot. Jim tries not to give him the once-over, but it's --difficult.
"Goddamnit," the guy swears, his voice gravelly and a deliciously southern. He glares over at Jim, like it's all his fault that the guy got away. "You see a scrawny asian jackass go by?"
Jim shrugs. "What's it to you?" He shouldn't fuck with this guy, he realizes belatedly, because that's clearly a gun, unless he's just happy to see Jim. Which, considering the wattage of that glare, he probably isn't.
The guy steps closer, in what is probably supposed to be a menacing manner, but it doesn't really work. "I don't know who you think you are, kid, but no one in this town is stupid enough to get on the wrong side of they guy I work for. So you should just shut the hell up and tell me which way Sulu went."
Jim cracks up at that. The guy watches him with angry bemusement for a second. "What the hell is so funny?"
When he finally gets his shit together, Jim takes a gasping breath and explains, "Sulu? As in, Hikaru Sulu? Dude, you work for Pike, don't you?" He wipes tears from his eyes and pulls out his wallet, showing the guy his card. He knows the guy recognizes the curved triangle insignia that Pike's employees carry--the one that Jim keeps saying looks like a spaceship--and he knows the guy understands why it's gold. He blanches visibly, steps back.
Most people would be apologizing by now, but this guy looks like "sorry" isn't a word he has in his vocabulary, so he seems to be settling for awkward shuffling. He manages it well. Jim knows he should probably let the guy go after Sulu, since Pike's been looking for him for months, but instead he just grins at the guy. "What's your name?"
"McCoy," says the guy, gruffly, tugging at his tie. He looks like the kind of guy who is exceptionally uncomfortable in anything that constricts his neck. Jim has to agree-- it's a damn fine neck. "Leonard McCoy."
Jim snorts. "Leonard? You must have gotten made fun of so much when you were a kid."
"I was never a kid," McCoy mutters, "I've always been a forty-something."
He's probably only a few years older than Jim. "Well, listen, Leonard," he continues, "Sulu went that way, but--" And before he gets the chance to say something suave and inviting and maybe get the guy to kiss him--hey, Jim's a twenty-five year old teenager, and he totally wants to make out with this guy--before any of this can happen, McCoy takes off running in the direction Jim's pointing. He disappears around a corner before Jim can mentally catalogue how great the man's ass looks in those pants.
Jim huffs a laugh, shakes his head. He'll ask Pike tomorrow why Leonard McCoy was assigned to the Sulu case alone, what the guy's backstory is, and where he can be found on a friday night. Pike knows these kinds of things. Pike knows everything.
DECEMBER 1st
As it turns out, Alyssa is very energetic in bed. As a result, Jim runs late for his meeting with Pike. He's steeling himself for another "I dare you to do better" lecture as he nudges the door open with his hip--he sticks his tongue out at Pike's bodyguards, who don't make a move to help him--and then slumps down in the chair across from Pike's desk. "Sorry I'm late," he mutters.
Across from him, Christopher Pike clears his throat and
glares at him. "Kirk. How the hell did you get in the way of an investigation at a dinner party?"
Jim tries not to glower like a kid caught smoking weed. Which reminds him--"I mean it's not like it's all that important, the guy's just been growing mass amounts of pot in his spare time-- it's not like you're the police--"
"I want him on my team, Kirk. He may be kind of a misguided botanist, but he's also a really brilliant strategist and with the guys in New York acting up I need all the help I can get. Now. Explain?" His voice tilts up, but it isn't really a question. Jim thinks, sulkily, that as second-in-command of whatever this company/mob family is, he should be getting a little more respect around here. But Pike raises an eyebrow and taps his fingers against the top of his desk so Jim explains what happened last night.
He's just getting into the details about how attractive his date was when the door swings open without a knock. "Sorry I'm late," comes a gruff voice, and suddenly McCoy, Leonard McCoy is slumping down in the chair next to Jim in much the same manner as he'd entered minutes before. He looks just as exhausted, possibly even more so, and the stubble from last night is working its way towards becoming an almost-beard. He's also wearing the same suit, like maybe he slept in it. In, like, an alleyway. "Traffic," he explains to Pike, who merely smiles indulgently and nods to Kirk.
"McCoy, this is James Kirk."
"We've met," says Jim, mustering up a flirtatious grin. McCoy simply scrunches farther down in his chair and does his best to imitate a cranky four-year-old. It's a pretty hilarious visual.
"Yes, well," says Pike, "I want the two of you to team up and catch Sulu before he flees the goddamned country."
McCoy splutters. "Excuse me? I almost had him last night. I can do it again. I don't need his help!"
In other instances, Jim would take offense. Now, however, he's too busy doing his own freaking out. "Pike! I don't do field work anymore--"
Pike looks like he's going to threaten to call Jim's mother, however, so he shuts up. "Leonard. Please catch both of us up to speed on what you've got so far." Sighing, McCoy reluctantly briefs them on the details. Sulu is admittedly really great at keeping under the radar; he's been selling mass amounts of marijuana and it's only been recently that Pike (and the police, but they caught on much later) has been going after him. According to McCoy, he's only in town for a few more days, and maybe less, now that he knows his cover's been blown.
"We have an guy undercover," Pike butts in, "But he's half in-love with Sulu, so we're really not sure how reliable his information is."
"So," continues McCoy, "I think I can corner him in the back-up hotel room he's booked. And I don't need a partner--"
"Too bad," says Pike, severely. "Jim is actually smarter than he looks. And," he looks over at Jim, "I don't want him going soft on us."
Jim considers making a penis joke, but thinks better of it.
Later, when Pike has kicked the two of them out in favor of taking a phone call from his wife, McCoy takes off abruptly down the hall. Jim jogs to keep up. "So do you really hate this job, or are you just naturally grumpy?"
"Fuck off."
"No, listen. I'm curious! How'd Pike rope you into working for him?"
McCoy pauses just long to toss a disbelieving look in his direction. "Do you really think I'd tell you something like that?"
Which totally means Pike's blackmailing him.
McCoy stalks out of the building, and Jim doubles back to Pike's office, where he waits until Pike's gone to lunch to pick the lock and then hack into his employee files. And then he abruptly loses his shit because Pike has apparently been blackmailing McCoy with pictures of him deep-throating a fucking microphone. He's about to investigate further--because, really, that's a fucking great punchline and he would love to know the joke--but then one of Pike's bodyguards comes back and he has to slip out quietly.
He leaves Pike's internet open on porn, though, just for kicks.
DECEMBER 2nd
"So," says Jim, swinging a leg over the bench McCoy is currently hunched over, straddling it and slapping his hands on his knees. McCoy ignores him, and Jim realizes it's because he's digging into a sandwich of unknown innards. He considers waiting for McCoy to acknowledge him but thinks that realistically he'd be here for a while, so he asks, "What's the plan?"
McCoy swallows. "The plan," he says, voice gruff with sandwich, a sound which goes straight to Jim's gut, "Is I catch Sulu and you keep out of the way." Jim purses his lips and frowns, and McCoy rolls his eyes. "Fine. Well. Sulu is going to be at the Kennedy Ballroom tomorrow night, so we're going. Dress nice."
With that, he stands up, tosses the rest of the sandwich in the trash, and walks off.
Jim grins. From what he can tell, the guy doesn't seem like "dressing nice" is something he can do. From Jim's limited experience with McCoy, he's pretty sure his definition of "dressing nice" is putting on a suit. Jim stands up and decides two things: 1. McCoy is hilarious when he's pissed off, so Jim won't have much trouble getting him there, and 2. He is so totally going to show the man up in the fashion department.
~
In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have taken that nap.
McCoy doesn't open the company car door for him, but that's okay; Jim takes a second to check himself out in the reflection on the window before he gets in the car. "Jesus Christ, kid, who dressed you, your little sister? You look ridiculous."
"I just woke up, okay? I had to get dressed quickly." He glances over at McCoy but it's hard to tell what he's wearing in the darkness. Jim settles on gazing morosely out the window.
If he were a truly honest man, Jim would admit that he's kind of bummed out that he and McCoy aren't instant BFFs forever. He kind of feels like they're supposed to be, which is weird, since McCoy seems like kind of a grumpy bastard. But Jim's never been one to back down from a challenge. He just needs to figure out the missing variable, as it were, in their equation (Jim + Leonard + (x) = Epic Bromance). "McCoy, you got a nickname?"
"No."
Figures. "You need one, man. Leonard is a terrible name. And I can't keep calling you McCoy."
"Yeah, well," McCoy mutters, "Get used to it, kid."
The car pulls up outside the Ballroom and McCoy gets out before the driver can open the door. He then proceeds to move around the car and open Jim's door. He looks fucking awesome. He's shaved sometime in the recent past, so the stubble on his face is sort of this artfully composed addition to his already really nice face--Jim realizes that McCoy has intentionally smoothed out the scowl and is now looking at him instead with a half-smile, and it's so great--and he's wearing an impeccable dark navy suit that makes his eyes so dark. Jim gapes at him for a moment, and then lets him pull him out of the car. Then he's being sort of shunted toward the front door, McCoy's hand on his back. "What--"
The usher outside looks at them blankly. "Urban," says McCoy, "Karl Urban. And my plus-one." He's suddenly developed this flawless Australian-type accent and Jim tries really hard not to gape at him. The woman smiles and checks them off the list and waves them in. McCoy nods to her and pushes Chris gently towards the door.
"Who the hell is Karl Urban? And why am I--"
"Neither one of us brought dates, dumbass," hisses McCoy, "So we're here together. And some of us do actual work, and in this business that involves certain changes. Will you shut the hell up? Your name is Chris Pine and we've been on two dates and don't know much about each other. Got it?"
Jim swallows, very aware of the warmth from McCoy's hand on the small of his back. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good. C'mon, we're sitting over here." When Jim stays where he is, McCoy hisses, "Jim!"
Jim leers at him. "It's Chris, remember? What, you fuck a guy once and then forget his name? Harsh, man." He grins at the pink that spreads across McCoy's mostly stoic face and brushes past him to go sit down at their table.
It's going to be a long night.
DECEMBER 3rd
The people at their table are pretty nice, actually. Jim flawlessly introduces himself as Chris, nudges McCoy a little with his foot when McCoy snorts. They're at a table of seven; besides Jim and McCoy, there's the Groudels, a charming middle-aged couple with four children and a dog, the obligatory little old asian woman, and the recently engaged Ellen and Mike, who seem unaware that they have company after the first introductions are made.
Nothing much happens for the first hour or so. Sulu is two tables over, sitting with an adorably curly-headed man-child who McCoy informs Jim is Pavel Chekov, their undercover agent. Even from this far away, he's clearly besotted. Jim finds the whole thing incredibly endearing, but doesn't let himself glance over again because neither one of them can afford to be caught staring. Thankfully, Sulu doesn't seem to recognize or notice Jim, or McCoy, but he might be acting, so neither makes any kind of move to detain him. Instead, they eat their dinners and talk with the old lady sitting next to Jim.
Her placecard reads "Judith", but she asks them to call her Judy, and she's every bit the wise old grandmother Jim's always wished he'd had. She flirts outrageously with McCoy and keeps calling Jim "dear", and Jim thinks he might be in love. McCoy looks horrified.
He's just taken a sip of his chardonnay when Judy asks, "So how long have you two been together?" and winks at them.
Jim, to his credit, doesn't choke. Instead, he swallows and cuts in smoothly before McCoy can answer. "Not long," he says, putting his on his best day-dream face. "This is our third date." He looks over at McCoy and smiles, ducks his head down in what he hopes is a suitably shy manner. It seems to work on Judy, though, because she crows and claps her hands together.
"Oh, he likes you," she says to McCoy. "Too, bad, really; I was starting to hope I'd get a chance with you, buster."
McCoy actually grins. "I'd drop him in an instant for you, Miss Judy."
She hoots at that. "Come on, Karl, let's dance."
They head out to the dance floor, where McCoy looks adorably awkward. Jim watches them for awhile, tapping his fingers on the back of McCoy's vacated chair, feeling strangely third-wheel.
Around the time McCoy dips Miss Judy back and then twirls her around, laughing, Hikaru Sulu slides into the chair next to Jim.
DECEMBER 4th
"So," says Pike, reclining back in his chair, "Where does this get us?"
McCoy shrugs. "I don't think he's ID'd us, so--"
"--I can always take him up on the offer," Jim suggests, grinning. "Sulu's pretty hot, I gotta say--"
"We already have Chekov undercover--"
Pike interrupts McCoy. "You should do it, Jim. He'll be considerably more vulnerable-- nobody takes security on a first date."
McCoy snorts. "if you honestly believe that, Pike, you're not the man everyone says you are."
"So it's settled, then?" Jim folds his arms, grins. "I can't say I've ever gone on a date with a drug man before; this should be fun."
"Just try your best not to say something stupid and blow the whole operation, okay? God knows it'll be difficult." McCoy looks grumpy.
Grinning sideways at him, Jim slumps down in his seat so he can stuff his hands into his pockets. "You're just jealous that I got a hot date out of last night and you only got one dance with that old lady."
Surprisingly, McCoy has the grace to look a little embarrassed. His eyebrows go up and his mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Yeah, well," he says, but doesn't get much farther, because one of Pike's bodyguards ducks his head in the door and announces Ambassador Spock's arrival.
McCoy and Jim stand up and pull on their jackets. "Jim, take him up on his offer," Pike instructs, "Leonard, make sure he's covered. Got it?"
"Yeah," says McCoy, gruffly, "but I still think this is a terrible idea."
"Good thing I'm calling the shots, not you, then," Pike replies smoothly. "I'll hear from you gentlemen tomorrow."
"Sure," says Jim. He makes sure he gets to the door first so he can hold it open for McCoy. "See ya, Pike."
DECEMBER 5th
Leonard sighs and closes the door behind himself. "Sorry I'm late."
"Don't worry about it," says Pike, "I was just attempting to figure out what those idiots out in New York are trying to do."
"That what you called me in for?"
Pike shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. "No. You know what I want to talk to you about."
"No, not really.”
“Yes, you do. It’s about Jim.”
Of course. “Fuck off, Chris.”
“Look,” says Pike, “I put him on the Sulu thing with you because I know you’ve been pining over him for years. I was kind of expecting you to make use of the opportunity, now that he knows you exist.”
Of all the-“I haven’t been pining--”
“Shut up, Len. You’re being stupid. Now, get out of my office. I’ve got work, and it doesn’t include pleading with you to grow a pair.”
Leonard leaves, trying not to mutter. Finnegan smirks at him from his position outside Pike’s door, and he glowers. Goddamned bodyguards. Goddamned bosses. Goddamned Jim Fucking Kirk.
~
He’d been sitting outside Pike’s office the first time Jim Kirk had made it onto his radar. The kid had come waltzing in out of the rain, dropped his umbrella at Finnegan’s feet with a “Thanks, Cupcake,” and then smoothly cut into the room. Leonard had bristled, since he’d been waiting for half an hour, and had then been forced to sit there for another twenty minutes while he strained to unobtrusively listen in on the conversation happening inside.
Eventually, the kid had come barreling out again. He’d barely glanced his way, just snagged the umbrella back and went loping down the hall. Leonard had snorted and gone into Pike’s office, and forgotten the incident.
Later, though, when he woke up drenched in sweat and the guy’s brilliant blue eyes fading into the darkness of his bedroom, he’d concluded that he was fucked, and that was that.
~
He makes Jim come with him on a surveillance trip, so they can make sure they can get Jim out again tomorrow night if Sulu takes him back to any one of his three apartments. Jim looks positively elated. Leonard feels like kicking puppies.
“I feel like James Bond,” Jim whispers, while they’re crouched on a nearby rooftop. Chekov had provided them with a basic set-up of the apartment, but Leonard wants to make sure he knows exactly what they’re getting into here. “I mean, we’re dressed in all black, and we’ve got gadgets.”
“Shut up, Jim,” Leonard growls, glancing sideways at him. In the darkness, Jim looks kind of like an overgrown panther, despite his inane chatter. His hair’s been slicked back with some kind of gel because he seems to take the whole ‘spy’ thing overly seriously, and his black-on-black-on-black shirt and jacket combination fits just right, even if it is slightly inappropriate for this particular venture. Goddamn, but Leonard wants to jump him.
He doesn’t, of course. Pike was right: he’s a fucking coward.
DECEMBER 6th
Jim brings McCoy pizza around lunchtime. The guy's wound tight as a piano wire, and just as serious, and Jim thinks maybe he needs a little something to break up the monotony.
"I don't like pepperoni," McCoy mutters, but takes a piece anyway. Jim watches him eat it, his teeth sinking into the crust, adam's apple working as he swallows it down. To distract himself, he takes his own piece, plops down next to him on the floor.
"Is there a reason you're not using your perfectly fine desk, McCoy?" He still can't quite bring himself to say Leonard.
"I have more space to spread out on the floor." McCoy gestures at the papers around him; Jim guiltily shifts and pulls a few out from under his ass. "I'm ignoring the insane amount of germs and microbes probably festering in this rug."
Jim grins into his pizza. Then he remembers why he's here.
"So do we have the appropriate personnel set up?"
"I think so," McCoy mutters. He points to the plans set out on the floor in front of him. "We'll have guys stationed here, here, and here, and I'll be here. You'll get to wear a microphone--Scotty down in engineering's made up this teeny thing that you can take down under a band-aid." He takes another bite of his pizza. "We'll give you a set of code words so you can keep us informed on what's going on inside."
Jim grins. "Like a safeword? I guess you didn't strike me as a kinky sort of guy, but now that I'm looking for it..."
McCoy raises his eyebrows, mouth pinched together in what appears to be an attempt at keeping a bemused smile under wraps. "Shut up, kid."
"If you get to call me 'kid', I get to call you Bones," Jim counters.
"What? Why?"
It's totally a word he's just picked arbitrarily from the dictionary in his head, so he's pretty proud of himself that he doesn't miss a beat. "'Cause you're about as cheery as a skeleton. Plus, Leonard's just about the worst name ever."
"I happen to like my name," McCoy says, "And you can call me whatever you want, but it's the only name I'm responding to."
"Not even 'baby'? What about 'sugar pie'?"
McCoy snorts, but Jim doesn't fail to notice the flush that's creeping up his neck. When McCoy goes to reach for another piece of pizza, Jim intentionally does the same, brushing their fingers together for just a second.
He watches in amazement as McCoy actually jolts, snatching his hand back and looking away.
Fascinating.
DECEMBER 7th
“So how do I look?” Jim asks, spreading his hands wide for McCoy’s benefit. He grins charmingly and cocks his head to the side, tugging at his tie.
McCoy doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and goes back to muttering at his phone. He’s apparently finalizing a few last details for tonight-which makes Jim think about parties, and McCoy planning parties, and McCoy being one of those professional party planners, like they have on tv, and McCoy being on tv, in one of those really awful soaps, which makes Jim snort-earning him a suitably amused-slash-uninterested-slash-questioning look from McCoy-and then he’s thinking about soap operas and their questionable content, which gets him thinking about sex, and McCoy, and oh boy, not helping right now.
“Will you stop fiddling with that tie?” McCoy is glaring at him from across the room. Jim grimaces at him and intentionally undoes it, sticks his tongue out at him. “Whatever,” says McCoy, “Not my problem if you look terrible for your first date.”
“Not my first date,” Jim mutters. Then he frowns down at his tie.
McCoy notices, of course. For someone who seems to be either pissed off or asleep, he’s surprisingly observant. Like earlier, when Jim hadn’t noticed the chair leg and almost tripped, only to be steered out of the way by McCoy’s grip on his elbow. Or yesterday, when McCoy had snorted after a girl had blatantly checked Jim out and then corrected his “What? I captivated her with my lovely green eyes.” with a “You have blue eyes, dumbass.”
Point being, McCoy’s been paying attention. Jim wonders if he does this with everybody.
Or if it’s just him.
Either way, he shouldn’t have undone his tie. It always takes him forever to tie it, and now McCoy is actually grinning at him in a way that tells Jim he thinks he’s a pretty hilarious moron. It actually doesn’t suck too much because it’s the first time Jim’s seen him actually grin-previous to now everything’s just been Pissed Off or, very occasionally, Awkwardly Embarrassed.
“Anyway,” he says, fiddling with it again halfheartedly, “I think you’re just jealous because my suit looks awesome on me and yours…” He trails off, lets McCoy fill in the blanks.
He doesn’t take the bait. “Not all of us spend their weekends shopping at the mall with our best friends, checking out all the cute boys,” He says, pulling his gun out of the top drawer of his desk and slipping it into the holster at his waist, under his jacket. Jim isn’t nervous around guns, not at all, because contrary to what McCoy seems to think, he’d worked his way up from the bottom to get where he is, and he’s wielded them before. But something about McCoy with a gun terrifies him a little inside, because he’s pretty sure that if you pushed the guy’s buttons enough, McCoy could turn into a lethal fucking killer. You know. Real Terminator stuff.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” McCoy huffs, eyebrows furrowed, and then he comes around in front of Jim and bats his fingers away from his tie.
He tugs at it and straightens it and then starts to tie it, knuckles brushing against Jim’s chest every so often, and Jim tries not to suck in a breath too obviously. This close, he can smell McCoy’s aftershave, and with McCoy’s attention focused on Jim’s tie, he has free reign to take in the nuances of his face, the very slight scruff, the way his hair flops up just a bit in the front. “Are you sure you actually know how to tie a tie?” Jim asks, teasingly, because McCoy is huffing frustrated noises and fucking this up.
“I can tie my own goddamned tie,” he mutters, “Never had to tie anyone else’s before.”
“Let me turn around, then,” Jim says, knowing this is a bad idea. He steps back and turns around, not bending his knees, knowing McCoy is weighing the options behind him. They’re about the same height, so he’ll have to get close, which is what Jim is hoping for, but he’s not sure McCoy’ll go for it.
He does, which is awesome. With an annoyed groan, he comes up close behind Jim and wraps his arms around his shoulders, his chin just hovering over his left shoulder, his fingers circling the tie and deftly tying it. The heat of his body seeps into Jim’s back and it still makes him shiver, like it’s cold.
McCoy steps away too soon, and Jim contemplates following him out the door when he leaves. Instead, he straightens his collar around the tie, flips the lock on the door, and heads out to the company car.
DECEMBER 8th
Jim looks like a kid when Leonard hands him his microphone, sliding it under his collar and pinning it, grinning ear to ear. He says something that Pike can’t hear, but it must be inappropriate from the impish smile on his face and the scowl it provokes on Leonard’s. From up here, it’s hard to completely distinguish what’s happening on the ground two stories below Chris’s office window, but he can tell Leonard is berating Jim about something.
Chris sighs. He has better things to do than play matchmaker to his second-in-command and one of his oldest friends. He and Leonard go way back, true, but he’s practically a politician, in everything but name, and he can’t spend all his time trying to herd Leonard into actually saying anything.
It had come out one night when they’d gotten drunk together in Chris’s apartment, after the Nerada incident. Chris had been waxing poetic about how he knew his runner-up was perfect for the job and he wanted to retire soon and probably other more embarrassing things when Leonard had mumbled something into his drink about Jim being perfect in general and things had gone south from there.
So now he has two glorified teenage girls on his hands and he’s starting to think maybe he shouldn’t’ve assigned them to this project; Sulu’s so much more than just a big-deal pot dealer. He’s the one that got away, in a sense-Pike worked with his father years ago and Sulu still knows all his best secrets, the ones which could ruin him. And he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be dangling Jim in front of him like a carrot. He knew Sulu would bite, back when this whole thing started. But he can’t quite quell the guilt about the whole thing. It’s a dangerous business, this life.
And now he’s put this into the hands of two kids, really, no matter how much Leonard gripes about being an old man.
Lord help him.
DECEMBER 9th
Things go pear-shaped pretty quickly. As it turns out, Sulu’s programmed some kind of jammer that makes the microphone feed go static the moment Jim follows him into his apartment. Leonard has spent two and a half hours sitting in a dark car outside the restaurant, stewing with what he won’t admit to anyone is jealousy, and now he’s here in a side alley just west of the apartment, his gut in his throat, eyes locked on the video screen. There’s live feed facing all the possible exits to the complex that Scotty set up ages ago, and none of the doors are opening, and he doesn’t know what is happening inside and he can’t very well barge in on his own; who knows what other security measures Sulu’s got.
He radios Olsen, who Pike assigned him as back-up. The guy’s kind of an idiot, but it’s worth a try. “You got anything?”
“Nope,” Olsen replies, eagerly, like it’s all fun and games. This is his first real run, Pike had said, keep an eye on him. But Leonard’s got more important things to worry about, like the continued health and safety of James Fucktard Kirk. This isn’t the time to be babysitting. He remembers, belatedly, that he’s supposed to be listening to the guy as he blabbers on through the radio about kicking ass and being awesome (sometimes, Leonard sees Jim’s more annoying traits in other people and it makes him want to throw up on someone), but he’s too busy watching the flickering videos on the screen in front of him.
Then one of the doors opens.
His heart jumps fucking rope.
“You seeing this, Olsen? That’s your door.” He watches as Jim barrels out the door, the picture fuzzy but the intensity of motion apparent. “Olsen! Get your fucking ass in gear!”
“Yeah, yeah,” says the moron, his voice tinny across the radio. Leonard can taste his fear like bile that rises up in his throat as somebody follows Jim out the door, gun cocked. She’s tall, and thin, and fucking scary, and what’s worse is she isn’t even hurrying, like she somehow thinks Jim has nowhere to go. Ice shivers down Leonard’s neck.
“Olsen!” The guy doesn’t seem to be doing fucking much of anything, and he has no way of getting in contact with the guys he’s stationed around the building. So he revs his car into gear and peels into the street, heading towards the building.
Jim comes tearing around a corner, eyes narrowed in focus, mouth slack like he’s just out for a run and not running for his life. Leonard pulls over to the side of the road and shoves the passenger door open, letting Jim tumble inside. He drives off before Jim even really has much of a chance to get the door closed behind him.
“Jesus Christ,” Jim swears, catching his breath. He scrambles a little to right himself in the seat, tugging at the seatbelt, and Leonard spares a glance over at him. He’s decidedly rumpled-the tie’s missing altogether, shirt somewhat unbuttoned, hair mussed. Leonard hopes irrationally that it’s just from the running.
“So how’d it go?” he asks, and can’t help the relieved smile in response that slides over his face when Jim grins at him from the passenger seat.
DECEMBER 10th
“So this is Chez Bones, eh?” He says as Leonard lets him into his apartment.
Predictably, he gets an eyeroll. “C’mon, Jim,” Leonard says, tugging him into a small kitchen, pushing Jim toward the kitchen table and pulling a box down from a cupboard. “Sit.”
“Yes sir.” But he does sit down, shrugging off his suit jacket. He winces and then sighs in a translucent attempt to distract.
“Tell me what happened,” Leonard orders, pulling his own jacket off and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He’s not oblivious to the way Jim watches the movement, but he’s also not oblivious to the scratches on Jim’s forehead and palms, and that’s more important right now.
Jim sighs again. “I fucking tripped, man.” He has the grace to look embarrassed.
Leonard snorts, sits down next to him. Ignoring Jim, he sorts through the medkit and comes up with antiseptic and cotton swabs. “Is it just your face and your hands?” When Jim doesn’t respond, he looks up. “Oh, for the love of-Jim, if I’m not looking at you, how’m I supposed to know you’re nodding? Use your words, darlin’.”
The endearment slips out before he can help it, something he’s whispered before when he’s alone in his bedroom but nothing he would ever consider saying out loud to Jim. They stare at each other for a full five seconds-Jim’s mouth falls open a little-before he ducks his head. “Anyway, you sure? You didn’t scrape up your knees or anything?”
“Sure,” says Jim, holding out his palms. “This is it.”
“Okay,” says Leonard, and sets to work cleaning out the scrapes. Jim winces but stays otherwise silent, which surprises him; Leonard was sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Jim would be overly vocal and complaining. He cups the back of Jim’s hand with his own but doesn’t try to do anything else to soothe the pain.
When he’s done with the right hand he searches through the box for something to wrap the wound with. “I’d probably say you should just let these breathe,” he explains, “But somehow I think you’d end up just infecting them. God knows where those hands have been.”
Jim winks. “I don’t think he wants to,” he says, in what he apparently thinks is a flirting tone. It just comes out sounding stupid.
“Yeah, well, here. If I wrap them in gauze you think you can take care of yourself?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, so Leonard ties his hand up lightly. Then he reaches for Jim’s other hand, cleans that one, too. He tries not to acknowledge the interested twitch his cock makes when Jim gasps at a particularly rough swipe of the cotton ball. “Ow, man. Take it easy on me. That shit stings.”
“Quit being a baby,” Leonard says. Then he cuts another strip of gauze and wraps the second hand, too.
Then he looks up. “C’mere,” he says, and Jim shifts closer. Leonard spreads his knees on the chair so Jim’s can come between them and Leonard can reach for his face. He tries valiantly to ignore their proximity and does his best to be completely removed from everything except swabbing at the scrapes around Jim’s eye. It’s tough, though. Jim’s eyes are surprisingly dark in the light of the kitchen, and he doesn’t take his eyes from Leonard’s face. It’s all Leonard can do not to shift just a little closer.
Eventually, though, he pulls back, pulls out some bandaids, slaps them on haphazardly. “There. Good as new.”
Jim smiles. “Thanks, Bones.”
He clears his throat, stands up. “Right. Well, you’re going to have to hide out here for a little while. I just talked to Pike, and-“
“I know,” Jim interrupts, in a voice that reminds Leonard that he is, in fact, higher up on the metaphorical food chain, “Uhura’s a fucking ex-assassin or some shit, so it’s best I stay under the radar.” He grins. “So which way to the bedroom?”
DECEMBER 11th
That night, they order pizza and watch reruns of Glee because neither one of them feels like cooking and McCoy seems to like bitching at the characterization. “That chick is fucking off her rocker all the time,” he says, mouth half-full of pizza, “Why is she even on the show?”
“Why is this show even on TV?” Jim asks, taking a swig of his beer.
Jim realizes that this, whatever this is, is so much more McCoy’s natural environment than the suit-and-tie scenario of their everyday existence, working for Pike. He considers asking how he got there, but decides not to. Instead, he leans back on the couch and listens with a half-smile to McCoy’s continued ranting.
Later, things get awkward.
“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” Jim asks, after they’ve turned the television off and thrown away the pizza boxes.
“Uh, yeah,” says McCoy, making an aborted move toward the bedroom. “Uh, and I’ll get you some blankets.”
Jim sits down on the couch, pulls off his socks. “Thanks,” he says, when a pair of flannel pants and what looks like a bowling shirt land next to him, along with a couple of pillows and a blanket. Then he strips out of his clothes without regard for McCoy-well, actually, with complete regard to the fact that the man’s standing right there because Jim’s body is one of his wildcards in the Jim Kirk Seduction Maneuver. In fact, it seems to be working, because McCoy is standing in the doorway to his bedroom in his tank top and boxers looking a little bewildered and what Jim hopes is turned on.
He doesn’t say anything about it, however. Instead, he gestures towards the hall. “Bathroom’s that-a-way. Glasses in above the sink if you want water. Um. Good night.” Then he ducks into his room and nearly slams the door.
Jim pauses, shrugs the pants on. Then he leans back against the couch and folds his arms over his chest.
Grins.
DECEMBER 12th
He wakes up before McCoy does, so he lazes around on the couch for a few minutes before padding into the kitchen in search of breakfast. He doesn’t find much, but after a few minutes he comes up with half a pound of bacon in the freezer and some fruit juice. By the time McCoy comes blearily from his bedroom, Jim’s got the bacon sizzling on the tiny stove and some possibly stale bread toasting. “Morning,” he says, taking in the way McCoy looks like he didn’t sleep a wink all night.
“Morning, Jim,” he replies, and slumps down onto the table. “Stop looking so cheery.”
“No can do, Bones.” Jim flips the bacon onto a plate and drops it on the table in front of him. “You got any coffee around here? I couldn’t find any.”
McCoy points in a vague direction. “Under the sink,” he mutters.
“What the hell? You are so weird, Bones.”
“Stop calling me that.” He takes a piece of bacon from the plate and eats it, closing his eyes. Then he sighs, opens them again, looks up at Jim, oddly serious. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he says, “You’re the guest; I should be making the breakfast.”
Jim flashes him his patented lopsided grin. “No problemo, Bones-y. Besides, you get to do the dishes.” Then he flops down in a chair next to him and presents him with some burnt toast. “And also the coffee? I don’t know how.”
DECEMBER 13th
McCoy goes into work around noon, since he’s not on the run from semi-harmless criminals with severely-harmful girl-buddies, so Jim takes the opportunity to putter around the apartment and learn as much as he possibly can about the man before he gets home.
Leonard McCoy seems to be very boring, is what Jim decides. He’s got a small collection of books, mostly medical dramas, in the living area, along with a few framed photographs. These seem to be mostly family members, although there is one photo of McCoy with a little girl. His daughter? Jim thinks, and files that away to ask about later. He’s still wondering about those pictures on Pike’s computer.
Around five he has an intense craving for a smoke, but he’s not sure if McCoy does, and he doesn’t really want to get yelled at for going outside for one, so instead he turns on the television and fidgets. He considers calling Pike, since he doesn’t have McCoy’s number, but he’s pretty sure Chris would just laugh at him, so he doesn’t.
By the time the lock flips on the front door, Jim has worked himself to near distraction. He hasn’t had a smoke since yesterday morning and he needs the nicotine relief like now. But he tries to stay cool about it. “Hey, Bones,” he says, as McCoy shrugs his coat off in the front hall.
McCoy grunts a hello and heads into the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. “You do anything stupid while I was gone?”
Jim shrugs. “I took a nap in your bed,” he supplies, his mouth quirking into a smile when McCoy scowls, “But otherwise I’ve mostly just worked myself up into a nicotine-needing mess. You got any cigarettes?”
McCoy snorts, but he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pack. “You can’t smoke in here,” he says, turning towards the bedroom, “But hold on.”
Then he’s back with a box of cigars and a lighter. “C’mon. We’ll go up to the roof.” He gestures for Jim to follow, so Jim pulls on his shoes, which look ridiculous under the jeans and white tee McCoy leant him this morning, and follows him out into the hallway. They climb three flights of stairs and then McCoy pulls something from the cigar box.
“Bones, is that-“ He gapes as McCoy sinks to his knees and picks the lock with some surety. “Wow, man. I was not expecting that.”
McCoy looks back at him over his shoulder. “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, Jim,” he says, and the sight of him, on his knees, looking up at him… Jim pulls a cigarette from the box and distracts himself with the anticipation.
They climb one last flight and then McCoy leads him out onto the roof. If Jim were a more patient man he’d probably take a moment to admire the sheer blue of the sky, but instead he just holds out his hand for the lighter McCoy has and lights the cigarette gratefully. Then he leans back against the railing of the roof, ignoring McCoy’s protests-“You’re gonna fucking fall off, dumbass,”-and taking a long, relieving drag. Then he tucks his hand into his pocket and breathes out slowly. “Oh, that’s good.”
It’s warm up here, with the sun just beginning to dip towards the horizon, but it’s windy. The breeze tugs at McCoy’s hair and flips it up as he takes the lighter back from Jim and lights the cigar. He looks fucking hot like this, the wind pushing his black tie around, his lips wrapped around the cigar. Jim’s glad he has the taste of the cigarette to distract him from how fucking tempting McCoy looks just in this moment.
They stay mostly silent. Jim watches McCoy surreptitiously and breathes deep.
DECEMBER 14th
Jim’s world gets too small too quickly. Tonight, for example, is winding down Day Three of Confinement, and he’s fucking bored.
McCoy is in the kitchen yelling into the phone, and ten minutes ago Jim had been listening with avid attention, but even that has lost its excitement, since it’s mostly just one long tirade of insults and quick snaps to the intelligence of whoever’s on the other end. He sighs and turns off the television and rolls over onto his stomach on the couch, considering a nap.
He’s just dozing off when abruptly, there is silence. McCoy shuffles into the living room and drops himself into the chair. Blinking blearily over at him, Jim takes in the way his legs are slung wide, his hand resting on the top of his thigh. “Motherfuck,” McCoy growls, “Olsen is really dumb.”
Jim frowns and licks his lips. “What happened?”
“Well, there’s the whole bit with him being a fucktard outside the apartment, you know, and then now he’s managed to get us the wrong information about Uhura, and she showed up at the office today with Ambassador Spock’s son-“
“Oh, shit.”
“Right? And proceeded to be perfectly respectable and un-assassin-like, even while we all knew she was checking out the layout of the place.”
Jim rolls over onto his back and sits up. “You think she’s planning something?”
McCoy shrugs. “Could be. Who knows. I’m starting to think there’s more to this Sulu guy than Pike’s letting on-we’ve been chasing him for ages and there’s no way it’s just for his strategy skills.”
“I don’t know,” Jim interjects, “Having a sexy assassin in his arsenal without even our guy, what’s his name-“
“Chekov.”
“Chekov, without him knowing, that takes some strategy.” The last light from the setting sun blinks out behind a building outside the window, and McCoy is suddenly cast in darkness. Jim bites his lip but otherwise doesn’t react. “Besides,” he continues, “Pike tells me everything.”
McCoy smirks. “Not everything, kid.”
Before Jim can react, someone knocks on the door. They both jump to their feet, and McCoy’s hand goes to his hip, where Jim supposes he might otherwise have a gun. But no one knows Jim’s here, except the two of them and Pike, so… “I’ll just hang out in the bed room, shall I?”
McCoy snorts, and then moves toward the door. Jim ducks out of sight.
DECEMBER 15th
He hasn't shaved in a long while, he realizes, as he leans against the wall of the bedroom and tries to listen in on the conversation going on in the other room.
Chekov hasn't asked where Jim is, but McCoy hasn't called him back into the room, so Jim figures Chekov's not supposed to know he's here. Right now, they're most likely still hovering near the front door, McCoy standing there with his legs planted wide and his arms crossed, sleeves rolled up on those delicious arms. "Well, now that we know, can you get any goddamned information?"
"I am trying," says Chekov, sounding Russian and too young. Jim makes a note to find out how young he is exactly, and whether or not he should even be in the business--although Pike would never hire someone who couldn't throw their weight around. "I am trying, but it is difficult. It is...complicated."
McCoy snorts. Jim imagines the way his mouth is pinched together and his eyebrows are climbing into his hair, tries to decide where his hands are now, if he's still got his arms folded or if he's moved them to his pockets. "Kid, if it's about Sulu--"
"It is not," Chekov interjects, "It is complicated because I do not have full, what is the word, confidence, and I cannot risk getting my cover sucked by getting caught...snooping."
Jim has to practically pin his lips together to keep from laughing at the misuse of the word. He wonders how McCoy is faring with keeping his cool.
"Look. My advice? That's what you came here for, I assume, although it's kind of fucking stupid, you might have been followed--"
"I wasn't."
"--My advice is to do your fucking best to get our hands on whatever information is pertinent, and relay it over to me the minute you learn it."
"I have been doing my best," says Chekov, quietly, and Jim kind of feels bad for the guy, who seems like he might actually be really smart, although Jim's not sure why he thinks this.
McCoy sighs. Apparently he's thinking along the same lines as Jim. "Okay, okay, I know. Look, I know in-field work isn't really your thing, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but try not to fall too hard for the guy, alright? Work relationships don't tend to work out too well." Especially when you're an undercover agent, isn't said, but it's implicit.
"Yes," says Chekov. "I am sorry to barge in. I will leave. But may I use your bathroom before I--?"
There is the sound of footsteps, and then Chekov's voice, decidedly nearer to the bedroom. "This is where the bathroom is, yes?"
Then a choked, "No, wait--" Chekov is clearly not supposed to know Jim's here. Either McCoy doesn't trust him or Pike doesn't or both, but Jim isn't about to fuck around with that.
Thinking fast, he does the first thing that comes to him: he strips off his shirt. It lands somewhere on the floor as he throws himself onto the bed, the covers mostly unmade, and buries his head in the pillows.
There is a gasp as the door opens, and then silence for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I will use the bathroom elsewhere--"
"What--"
Jim doesn't turn over. He knows the picture he makes; hair tousled against the pillows, that and his bare back the only thing visible above the sheets. McCoy clearly thinks quickly on his feet, because he slams the door shut and Jim can hear him simultaneously berating and shooing Chekov out the door. Jim smirks and doesn't move. If McCoy wants him out of his really freaking comfortable bed, he'll have to push him out himself.
[ part two here.]