Contact (Happy Late Birthday Aiden)
This is a (late) birthday present for monsieurbleu - this was gonna be lighthearted cuddling or something and then I remembered that Bones is surly and doesn't do cuddling, and Jim is fucked up and probably doesn't do cuddling either. But I still think it's adorable, even if I made it emo and awkward.
Title: Contact
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Summary: He'd forgotten what to say to someone when you were hugging them, but maybe Jim had forgotten the words too.
It was Friday afternoon, a glass of Bourbon sat untouched at the edge of his desk and McCoy's head was in his hands, fingers rubbing at his temples as if he could rub away everything that had happened in the past 24 hours. Outside his office, Nurse Chapel was smoothing down the sheets of a newly-made bed, her hands steady but her face grim.
Taking a sharp, steadying breath, McCoy reached for his half-finished report and scrolled through what he'd written so far. It didn't quite meet 'fleet literacy standards, but it would be good enough for Jim. The faster he got it done, the sooner he could go to bed drunk and forget about everything for a while.
The spread of infection he wrote, and then he went back and deleted it. The infection spread to the patient's lungs before... he paused, his thumb tapping against the side of the PADD, and deleted the line again. Tossing the PADD down onto his desk, he reached for the glass of Bourbon and curled his fingers around it. The cold, smooth surface of the glass was solid against the palm of his hand. Something that he could touch and move around. Something he had control over.
He picked up the glass and threw it with all his strength against the far wall. Chapel nearly jumped out of her skin when it smashed against the plexiglass, and McCoy felt a little twinge of guilt as she glared at him and marched out of sickbay. He watched her leave through the mess of Bourbon that trickled down the plexiglass and it started to dawn on him that he'd just ruined a perfectly good drink.
“Probably for the best,” he muttered, picking up the damn medical report and trying to think of a professional way to say The virus screwed us over so hard that by the time we'd even figured out what it was, the kid was coughing his lungs up all over my Sickbay.
That was how Jim found him, half an hour later, not so much still working on the same damn sentence as staring into space and wondering why he chose a career in which people kept dying on him all the damn time. McCoy heard the doors open but ignored them; it was pretty obvious he wanted to be left alone and whoever it was could probably figure that out and get the fuck out of his office.
Sometimes he forgot that he had a friend now; he couldn't just project a “fuck off and leave me alone” aura without any consequences. Jim came up behind him, rested his ass on McCoy's desk and leaned back until he was forced to make eye contact.
“That make you feel any better?” he asked, glancing at the broken glass on the floor.
Damn him. He may be Captain of this ship, but that didn't give him the right to barge into McCoy's office whenever the fuck he wanted. McCoy shoved at his hip until he was forced to either stand up or fall over.
“Fuck off, Jim,” he muttered, unable to find it in him to shout. His last burst of energy had been used up in throwing his drink across the room and now he just wanted to finish the bottle and fall asleep at his desk until the next crisis happened.
He half expected an “Is that any way to talk to your Captain?” or maybe a half-assed attempt to cheer him up. Over the years, Jim had employed an arsenal of methods to raise his moods, some of which worked and most of which resulted in him being thrown by the scruff of the neck out of McCoy's dorm room and having the door locked behind him.
He'd heard “cheer up, it's not the end of the world” and “it might never happen'”and his least favourite: “hey Bones, I know what'll cheer you up” which usually ended with an attempt to set him up with someone or an invitation to a party. Then there was “I brought you a present” which actually worked pretty often if the present was alcoholic. There'd been a couple attempts along the lines of “would a blowjob help?” and “how about we get out of here for a few days?” and he'd always turned down the former out of principle but sometimes accepted the latter. It didn't matter what usually worked, anyway; none of Jim's pestering could bring Lt Summers back to life. Once he got bored he'd probably leave, or bring him something helpful like the rest of the bottle and leave him to it.
What he didn't expect was the two warm arms that enveloped him from behind and the soft cheek that slid against his. Jim murmured something about stubble and turned his face so that his nose was pressed into the hollow of McCoy's neck, tucked underneath his chin.
It took a second for McCoy to realise that he was being hugged. It'd been so long since he'd touched anyone non-professionally that he'd forgotten what you're supposed to say to someone who's nuzzling at your neck like a Goddamn puppy.
He cleared his throat. “Your nose is cold.”
Jim tightened his arms around McCoy's torso and didn't say anything. Maybe he'd forgotten what you were supposed to say to people when you were hugging them. Maybe there weren't any words, and that was why the idiot had his arms around him like he was a damn life raft. It was only then that McCoy remembered the Lieutenant had been part of Jim's crew, his responsibility. Shit.
“Fuck's sake, c'mere,” he muttered, grabbing Jim's arms and turning in his chair. It wasn't graceful, but he managed to position them so that they were both on the floor with their arms around each other, heads resting on each others shoulders. Jim snuffled a little in his ear and pressed a kiss against his neck.
McCoy gave it a reasonable amount of time, and then left it a bit longer because Jim's arms were warm and strong and his hair was soft against McCoy's cheek. When his knees started to ache, he figured they'd had enough hugging and started to extricate himself from his friend's grip. Jim took back his arms and sagged backwards so that he was sitting on the floor of McCoy's office looking pathetic. Damn him twice.
“I need a drink,” McCoy said, his voice gruff. His hand reached out of its own accord and did something with Jim's hair - straightened it out, maybe stroked it a little; he had no idea what he was doing. But then, maybe Jim was as out of his depth here as he was, because he looked so lost when he turned his head and rested his cheek against McCoy's palm.
This should've been the part when they kissed, but McCoy was damned if he was going to do something as stupid as that without a drink in him first. He took his hand away, picked himself up off the floor and held his hand out to Jim to help him up. It was waved away as the big Starship Captain pushed himself up by himself and straightened his uniform.
“I have whiskey in my quarters,” he said, his face a mask of perfect confidence, and damn if McCoy didn't believe it for a second there.
“Now you're speaking my language,” he said with an almost-smile. He didn't dare reach out and take Jim's hand as they walked side-by-side out of his office, but as his neck burned with the memory of the kiss, he was starting to think that maybe there would be a chance for that later.
Title: Contact
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Summary: He'd forgotten what to say to someone when you were hugging them, but maybe Jim had forgotten the words too.
It was Friday afternoon, a glass of Bourbon sat untouched at the edge of his desk and McCoy's head was in his hands, fingers rubbing at his temples as if he could rub away everything that had happened in the past 24 hours. Outside his office, Nurse Chapel was smoothing down the sheets of a newly-made bed, her hands steady but her face grim.
Taking a sharp, steadying breath, McCoy reached for his half-finished report and scrolled through what he'd written so far. It didn't quite meet 'fleet literacy standards, but it would be good enough for Jim. The faster he got it done, the sooner he could go to bed drunk and forget about everything for a while.
The spread of infection he wrote, and then he went back and deleted it. The infection spread to the patient's lungs before... he paused, his thumb tapping against the side of the PADD, and deleted the line again. Tossing the PADD down onto his desk, he reached for the glass of Bourbon and curled his fingers around it. The cold, smooth surface of the glass was solid against the palm of his hand. Something that he could touch and move around. Something he had control over.
He picked up the glass and threw it with all his strength against the far wall. Chapel nearly jumped out of her skin when it smashed against the plexiglass, and McCoy felt a little twinge of guilt as she glared at him and marched out of sickbay. He watched her leave through the mess of Bourbon that trickled down the plexiglass and it started to dawn on him that he'd just ruined a perfectly good drink.
“Probably for the best,” he muttered, picking up the damn medical report and trying to think of a professional way to say The virus screwed us over so hard that by the time we'd even figured out what it was, the kid was coughing his lungs up all over my Sickbay.
That was how Jim found him, half an hour later, not so much still working on the same damn sentence as staring into space and wondering why he chose a career in which people kept dying on him all the damn time. McCoy heard the doors open but ignored them; it was pretty obvious he wanted to be left alone and whoever it was could probably figure that out and get the fuck out of his office.
Sometimes he forgot that he had a friend now; he couldn't just project a “fuck off and leave me alone” aura without any consequences. Jim came up behind him, rested his ass on McCoy's desk and leaned back until he was forced to make eye contact.
“That make you feel any better?” he asked, glancing at the broken glass on the floor.
Damn him. He may be Captain of this ship, but that didn't give him the right to barge into McCoy's office whenever the fuck he wanted. McCoy shoved at his hip until he was forced to either stand up or fall over.
“Fuck off, Jim,” he muttered, unable to find it in him to shout. His last burst of energy had been used up in throwing his drink across the room and now he just wanted to finish the bottle and fall asleep at his desk until the next crisis happened.
He half expected an “Is that any way to talk to your Captain?” or maybe a half-assed attempt to cheer him up. Over the years, Jim had employed an arsenal of methods to raise his moods, some of which worked and most of which resulted in him being thrown by the scruff of the neck out of McCoy's dorm room and having the door locked behind him.
He'd heard “cheer up, it's not the end of the world” and “it might never happen'”and his least favourite: “hey Bones, I know what'll cheer you up” which usually ended with an attempt to set him up with someone or an invitation to a party. Then there was “I brought you a present” which actually worked pretty often if the present was alcoholic. There'd been a couple attempts along the lines of “would a blowjob help?” and “how about we get out of here for a few days?” and he'd always turned down the former out of principle but sometimes accepted the latter. It didn't matter what usually worked, anyway; none of Jim's pestering could bring Lt Summers back to life. Once he got bored he'd probably leave, or bring him something helpful like the rest of the bottle and leave him to it.
What he didn't expect was the two warm arms that enveloped him from behind and the soft cheek that slid against his. Jim murmured something about stubble and turned his face so that his nose was pressed into the hollow of McCoy's neck, tucked underneath his chin.
It took a second for McCoy to realise that he was being hugged. It'd been so long since he'd touched anyone non-professionally that he'd forgotten what you're supposed to say to someone who's nuzzling at your neck like a Goddamn puppy.
He cleared his throat. “Your nose is cold.”
Jim tightened his arms around McCoy's torso and didn't say anything. Maybe he'd forgotten what you were supposed to say to people when you were hugging them. Maybe there weren't any words, and that was why the idiot had his arms around him like he was a damn life raft. It was only then that McCoy remembered the Lieutenant had been part of Jim's crew, his responsibility. Shit.
“Fuck's sake, c'mere,” he muttered, grabbing Jim's arms and turning in his chair. It wasn't graceful, but he managed to position them so that they were both on the floor with their arms around each other, heads resting on each others shoulders. Jim snuffled a little in his ear and pressed a kiss against his neck.
McCoy gave it a reasonable amount of time, and then left it a bit longer because Jim's arms were warm and strong and his hair was soft against McCoy's cheek. When his knees started to ache, he figured they'd had enough hugging and started to extricate himself from his friend's grip. Jim took back his arms and sagged backwards so that he was sitting on the floor of McCoy's office looking pathetic. Damn him twice.
“I need a drink,” McCoy said, his voice gruff. His hand reached out of its own accord and did something with Jim's hair - straightened it out, maybe stroked it a little; he had no idea what he was doing. But then, maybe Jim was as out of his depth here as he was, because he looked so lost when he turned his head and rested his cheek against McCoy's palm.
This should've been the part when they kissed, but McCoy was damned if he was going to do something as stupid as that without a drink in him first. He took his hand away, picked himself up off the floor and held his hand out to Jim to help him up. It was waved away as the big Starship Captain pushed himself up by himself and straightened his uniform.
“I have whiskey in my quarters,” he said, his face a mask of perfect confidence, and damn if McCoy didn't believe it for a second there.
“Now you're speaking my language,” he said with an almost-smile. He didn't dare reach out and take Jim's hand as they walked side-by-side out of his office, but as his neck burned with the memory of the kiss, he was starting to think that maybe there would be a chance for that later.