Fic: ST AOS: (K/M): Deck the Bones
Title: Deck the Bones
Author: dragonsquill
Rating: R
Warnings: Silliness, Extremely unscientific science (parenthesis abuse)
Word Count: 3,414
Summary: space_wrapped prompt: During the holiday season, Bones gets hit by some kind of alien whammy/ingests something he shouldn't and it makes him the most pleasant, cheerful person on the ship. It's supposed to last for 24 hours tops, but the niceness lasts for eight (*coughtwelvecough*) whole days. By the end of it, Jim wants to throw himself out an airlock.
A/N: Sorry about cutting it so close. I carefully scheduled this around my school's holiday activities, so of course the huge concert was rescheduled for tonight, and I promised my students I'd be there. -_- Thanks to cassiopeia13 for her help!
Deck the Bones
It started as a normal sort of mission, which should have been a warning in itself. The easiest, best jobs sent the way of the Enterprise and her crew always started in the most bizarre fashion possible: planets based on ancient Rome, sentient rocks, sudden alternate universe visitations - all had been added to the annals of Enterprise legend. Only normal diplomatic missions ended up with princesses stabbing ambassadors or one of the most venerable Vulcans still living nearly dying en route.
Given these earlier experiences, Jim should have known that delivering some Caittian royal cousins to a scientific outpost would end in disaster. Yet, his suspicions were once again undermined by his innate sense of optimism. Jim sometimes grumbled about said optimism, but never in his wildest imaginings could he have imagined the horror in store for his crew. If he had, he would have refused the mission point-blank, favors to Chris Pike notwithstanding (it's not as if Chris could hold "it's only because of me you're even on a ship" forever, right? And Jim deserved bonus because he was sleeping with the man who’d saved the admiral's life).
Unfortunately, all this self analysis in retrospect didn't help Jim in the least. He had accepted the mission, and therefore allowed the greatest terror in the history of his already legendary ship free reign amongst her corridors:
Dr. Leonard McCoy singing Christmas carols (and a few rounds of "Maoz Tzur" now and again; apparently, a Dr. McCoy on Caittian happy drugs embraces a variety of winter holidays; his Hebrew pronunciation made Chekov wince) and wearing the occasional seasonal haberdashery.
"Captain," Spock said as McCoy greeted Uhura with a deep cheeriness that would put Santa to shame, "it has been 18 days since Dr. McCoy's allergic reaction to the menra juice, and he continues to show concerning behavioral changes. Perhaps it is time to put in at Starbase 11 for further medical tests."
Jim Kirk sighed. This entire bout with goodwill insanity had been a result of the aforementioned juice, a fermented Caittian beverage that generally released endorphins and activated the pleasure centers of the brain, resulting in a time of friendly euphoria. It acted a bit like alcohol, except that there was no such thing as a mean menra drunk.
Caittians drank the stuff constantly, and colonies, such as the one the Enterprise had visited, were built purely to grow the fruit's trees. They rarely shared it with outsiders, but the Caittian royal cousin they were delivering as a new governor had enjoyed her time on the Enterprise and insisted that the senior crew partake. In typically grumpy fashion, Bones had insisted on secretly testing the drink first, making sure it wouldn't annoy any known allergies among the senior officers. He had cleared it with his blessing, and enjoyed his own serving so much that he'd had a few more glasses than was strictly customary at a Caittian dinner service.
He broke out in hives the next day.
Jim had done his best not to laugh, and begged permission from Chapel to wield the appropriate hypo (tragically denied: "It would be unprofessional of me to allow juvenile retribution in Sickbay, Sir"). He knew if he did give in to the urge to giggle when Bones's bottom lip started swelling into a permanent pout, he'd pay the price in glares and muttering later, but he hadn't been able to help himself. The chuckle had emerged without his consent, and he'd winced as those sharp hazel eyes shifted his way. He steadied himself for keeping a straight face when Bones inevitably started telling him off with a flopping bottom lip.
Then, Bones laughed.
Threw his head back and guffawed, really, thoroughly amused with the universe at large. "Go ahead and laugh, Jimmy boy!" he'd chortled infectiously. "I know I must look a fright!"
While Bones didn't exactly look like Intergalactic Playboy material (at present; Jim would back him for it any day he wasn't covered in reddish blobs), it wasn't his appearance that frightened Jim and Christine.
"It must be part of the allergic reaction," Christine theorized, and M'Benga seemed to agree for lack of any logical explanation. "His brain's still being affected by the juice. The antihistamine should clear it up. I hope." She'd tried to sound certain, but since antihistamines aren't designed to stop happy bits from floating in a man's brain, her attempt fell a bit flat.
On the plus side, Bones had been hive-free within an hour. On the down side, he had been warm and fuzzy not just for an hour, but for a day. Another day. And then a week. Every day he woke bright and cheerful, tugging playfully at Jim's sheets and tsking over his captain's lazy habits. He made pancakes and muffins down in the mess and brought them up with fresh, hot coffee and provided Jim with cheery morning reading material (where did he even find a bound paper copy of Plomeek Soup for Your Katra?!). He'd head off to work, leaving a bemused Jim wrapped in a soft blue robe Bones had dug up somewhere on day three, and spread his general air of joy and sunshine throughout the ship.
He made house calls to various departments. With flowers. Stellar cartography would never be the same after he decided to take some of their scans and set them around the ship as artwork (admittedly a very nice effect, but Lt. Jefferies had called Jim to ask him to tell the crew they didn't take requests and "we do have work to do down here you know!").
The morning he started handing out dreidels beneath the mistletoe and fussing at Christine for the lack of multi-cultural awareness in their seasonal decorations ("He's too much of a tightass to let us have birthday cards in his precious Sickbay! Now he's hanging poison!" she'd vociferated to an amused Uhura), she'd called Jim and threatened to quit. That had been day 12.
Jim considered courtmartialing Chekov for providing Hanukkah information and Sulu for not only aiding and abetting Chekov, but also procuring the aforementioned mistletoe and some green branches of something resembling pine. "I will not tolerate anyone assisting Bones in this fall into madness!" he'd snapped. He later pretended he hadn't noticed the knowing look they'd thrown each other. He refused to be psychoanalyzed by two officers who passed tricky math equations and sappy love notes across their comm channels when they thought he wasn't looking.
True, there were some members of the crew who seemed almost charmed by Bones' new personality. He knew there were some betting pools about how long it would last, and a few optimistic (and clearly unbalanced) souls had bet on "forever." Bones had always been rather popular among the crew despite his curmudgeon exterior, but now he was greeted with calls and waves; even the junior officers weren't showing any fear of a Bones who all but skipped down the hallways singing carols. Jim Kirk, on the other hand, who might have been believed the first in line for "improving" his best friend's personality, knew the most tragic part of this entire incident.
Happy Bones was the most vanilla sex partner in the history of sex.
He giggled in bed. He practically nodded off during blow jobs. He moved with such exquisite care and tenderness (and not in the way Bones did when he wanted to drive Jim to distraction and make a point about sex and affection working best in tandem) that Jim started dozing halfway through. This was on the couple of nights they'd gotten anywhere at all. Normally, this horrible, happy Bones was so full of love for his fellow men and women that he didn't seem to need any extra human contact like sex. He was much happier talking about his feelings and how being with Jim made him joyful. Crazy Bones clearly didn't understand the "unspoken and understood" nature of their relationship.
Jim was going crazy. He liked sex. Okay, he loved it, especially now that he'd discovered the joys of monogamy with an extremely focused doctor blessed with a surgeon's hands. He didn't like going without it. Going without sex made Jim tetchy, and a tetchy captain affected the entire ship. Therefore, Jim theorized on the morning Spock talked to him about stopping off at the Federation loony bin, it was in the best interests of the Enterprise that Leonard McCoy be returned to his normal, lovable, irascible self, so Jim could get laid.
He pulled together the senior crew, minus Bones but plus Chapel and M'Benga, and brainstormed.
"Does anyone have any ideas for fixing Bones?" he asked, trying not to look pathetically hopeful at his gathered geniuses.
Chekov tilted his obnoxiously adorable head to one side. "The doctor, he is very pleasant. This is a bad thing?" Jim glared at him. Sulu glared at Jim. Jim ignored Sulu. Chekov was untouched by it all, not being a man concerned with being glared at.
"It is always a matter of concern when a member of the crew undergoes a significant change in personality, Ensign," Spock explained, “even when those changes could be considered positive.” Jim’s glare at Spock should have been able to melt glass, but Spock was clearly unaffected.
"Not to mention he's been too busy lacing Sickbay with tinsel to take care of December's bunch of crew physicals," Christine added. "He claims it's not in the holiday spirit to poke and prod people, and we should give them a break." M'Benga shuddered at this. At least Sickbay was firmly on Jim's side.
"Do we know exactly why he's acting this way?" Uhura asked, tapping her long nails against the table thoughtfully. "I know it's the juice gone to his head, but why's it still working?"
M'Benga shook his head, looking annoyed with himself and life in general. "We don't have a clue. We've run tests, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his brain. We even sneaked a bit of an old-school drug called Ritalin into his vitamin shot in hopes it would calm him down some, but it only worked a few hours and he was as cheery as ever."
Silence reigned for a moment as everyone digested this bit of information. "What else have you attempted?" Jim asked. Spock sent him one of those you didn't read the brief, did you? looks that he adored so much.
M'Benga settled in for a detailed medical explanation. He didn't have Bones' talent for simplifying for the layman, and most of the eyes in the room glazed over a bit, though Spock asked several seemingly pertinent questions. Silence followed the recitation. Two breaks in one meeting was not a good sign. Jim usually had a hell of a time getting his senior crew to shut up during inspiration meetings.
Scotty broke the stillness with a suggestion that, it was later agreed, revealed his particular genius had greater depths than the warp chamber. "We should get 'im drunk, Cap'n."
All eyes turned to him. "Say again?"
"Drunk." Scotty shrugged. "This juice, it's an upper. It makes you feel high and cheerful. You counteract that with a a downer, something that slows yer brain down an' calms it. Think of when the nacelles are a bit over-fused," there followed a somewhat complicated extended metaphor, ending with, "the same idea applies. We need to fight the juice with some proper Scotch."
Chekov shook his head. "No, vodka," he said certainly. "Better taste and faster results."
Jim stood. "It's worth a try, gentlemen, but I think we'll let Bones have his bourbon." He grinned, feeling his first wave of characteristic optimism since the night Bones stopped in mid-fellatio because he remembered he'd forgotten to send e-cards to the communications department. "I have some for Christmas. We'll open it early, shall we?"
Thus began Operation Get Bones Plastered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
One would think the operation would have gone off without a hitch, given how Jim and Bones first met, but nothing is ever simple on the good ship Enterprise. For one thing, Bones didn't usually drink to excess; losing everything and getting on a shuttle had been a time of unusual stress. Second, he generally had a glass of bourbon for one of two reasons: to celebrate a success or to unwind after a particularly stressful day. Since cheery Bones wasn't doing much in the way of doctoring, Jim couldn't break out the booze as an "attaboy, you saved another alien race!" Nor did Bones seem to be feeling any stress whatsoever as he arranged calls home for the youngest members of the crew (which he had done the previous Christmas as well, but that time Jim had been firmly sworn to secrecy).
Without one of these two triggers, Jim had been forced to fall back on “friendly drinking,” inviting Bones out to the one bar on-ship with Scotty in tow. Their on-going argument concerning the merits of bourbon vs. Scotch usually encouraged a few tossed-back glasses. New Bones had only smiled and asked Scotty for more information on the process of developing Scotch.
Back to the drawing board, so to speak.
It was Uhura who suggested taking advantage of Bones’ irritating holiday spirit with heavily spiced (and spiked!) eggnog. It took some doing, organizing a small gathering for medical and command (Christine insisted on being on-hand in case of alcohol poisoning), but Jim pulled it off on Christmas Eve. They squeezed into the conference room, which Bones had liberally decorated with twinkling lights and various ornaments made in the shape of ships of the line. It was, if Jim was being more honest with himself and not focusing on being sex-starved, a rather charming and appropriate effect.
Jim declared himself Master of Bones’ Glass, making sure that his CMO received only spiked punch and none of the safe(r) stuff everyone else was drinking. Uhura had done a fair amount of damage to the actual flavor by adding loads of alcohol, but this Bones was much too polite to say anything about it. All she had to do was smile at him and he’d gulp down a pitcher-full. If Bones looked like he was going to give in and feed the stuff to Jim’s unsuspecting house plant, Sulu mentioned how much Chekov had enjoyed helping make the nog, and Bones was putty in their hands.
Bones wasn’t usually a mean drunk, per se, just a melodramatic and scientific one. Bones-on-juice started out filled with Christmas cheer, but round about his fourth glass (“I added wodka for the extra kicks!” Chekov told him adorably, though his eyes promised murder for anyone who dared to call him cute) he started talking about raw eggs throughout history and all the disease they could carry. After his seventh, his eyelids fell to half-mast, and that wonderful gruff quality sneaked its way back into his voice. The tenth glass led to Bones glaring at the stellar cartography art he’d added to the conference room and pronouncing it, with a bit of confusion in his voice, “utterly nauseating.”
Jim felt this was definitely heading in a positive direction, and said so to his compatriots. They agreed.
Bones passed out on his eleventh glass, sending it rolling dramatically across the floor in a stream of what smelled like pure alcohol. Christine and Jim lugged him onto a stretcher and she escorted his carcass to the captain’s quarters. She shot her boss with something to stop the worst of the hangover, insisting that although she generally didn’t hold with hangover cures “it wasn’t his fault this time, not really.” With a quick handshake for luck, Christine disappeared into the hallway and left Jim with his soused spouse.
Jim sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Bones’ snores, and hoped for the best (or worse, according to some of the young engineers who lived in terror of Dr. McCoy’s monthly lectures on “Damn Stupid Engineers and Their Damn Idiotic Lack of Self-Preservation”).
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Jim fell asleep. He was awakened by cold, angry fingertips pressing just there along his ribcage. He yelped at the flash of pain and jerked back, falling to the floor with a jerk. His pride suffered some discomfort, but it would pass. The captain blinked sleepily up at the bed. He’d been having nightmares about a Bones who would give him an ice pack and pet his hair in this situation, so he didn’t complain much about waking up.
Until he remembered that the nightmare might be real. Jim winced. “Bones?” he called carefully, trying not to sound like the sex-starved, hopeful moron he was.
The regulation bedclothes shifted once, twice, and then an unshaven, messy-haired face appeared over the edge of the bed. “You okay, kid?” it asked.
Jim considered this. “Yes?” he guessed, because there was a chance a normal Bones would ask about his health before leaving him to wallow on his sore ass.
“Good. Then shut up and let me go back to sleep. I feel like something crawled in my mouth and died, and I don’t have time to baby you.” The face disappeared under the covers with a muffled expletive.
For a long moment, Jim sprawled frozen on the floor. Then, in one fluid movement, he sprang from the floor to the bed, landing with a solid whoomf against the man contained within. "Bones?!" he crowed, tugging hard at the sad excuse for a comforter Bones had pulled over his head.
He finally succeeded, and Bones glared morosely at him. "What?! I'm not even awake yet you bra-good lord man!" Bones' glare widened a bit. "Brush your teeth!"
Oral hygiene! First thing in the morning! Before sex! Jim beamed at his entirely grouchy spouse in a way that would no doubt earn him a lecture on the inappropriateness of showing life before coffee. "Welcome back!" he cheered, pumping one fist in the air before wriggling down, dragging the blanket along Bones' body, and happily biting a nipple.
"Hey!" Bones snarled, "What're you assaultin' me for? I'm not even awake yet!" He pushed up on his elbows and glowered in Jim's direction. His hair was sticking out from his head, and he had that delicious stubble along his jaw that he invariably let grow on days off. Jim just grinned and wiggled down, licking along all that lovely, slimly muscled stomach. Bones' hips shifted, betraying his facade of annoyance as they always did. "What did you put in my eggnog?"
"Eggnog?" Jim inquired as he nibbled at the dark hair leading down to his ultimate goal. Treasure trail, indeed.
Bones frowned even as his cock bumped lightly against Jim's chin in anticipation. "It was eggnog wasn't it?" he asked, his eyes unfocused, expression confused. "My memory…seems to have been affected. How long has it been since…"
Jim pulled Bones' boxers off in a practiced move, sending them sailing gracefully through the air in the general direction of their hamper.
"Jim, what ha-"
Jim swallowed him down. Musky, hot, hard in his mouth, and Bones, instead of commenting politely on his technique, groaned deep in his chest. Strong hands tangled in Jim's hair, massaging. Jim licked and sucked, lifting his head only long enough to moan out,"There was juice and you drank it and you were so happy it was awful so we got you drunk and now you're an ass again, thank goodness," before sucking happily along the bottom vein.
"Kid," Bones breathed, "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, and I don't care."
Jim lowered his head and swallowed around the cock pushing snuggly into his throat. He lifted slowly, sliding his lips along sensitive skin and lashing with his tongue. He released with a soft pop and turned a smile that could only be described as dreamy on his confused, flushed, messy, quick-tempered husband.
"Good," he said, ever so pleased that Bones didn't feel the need to talk about his feelings right now. "Glad to hear it. Merry Christmas, Bones."
The good doctor rolled his eyes expansively. "Merry damn Christmas to you, you brat, now get back to work!"
This smile was cheeky. "You got it, doc," Jim promised, and did just that. He'd have time to explain everything that had happened later, after this blow job, and an upcoming explosive orgasm when he reminded Bones about being properly drilled into the bed, followed by maybe another blowjob. He was open to possibilities. Then he'd get out the videos of Bones dancing merrily down the hallway.
Bones' face would be epic.
Then there would be more sex.
Epic sex.
(Thankfully, Jim says) the end.
Author: dragonsquill
Rating: R
Warnings: Silliness, Extremely unscientific science (parenthesis abuse)
Word Count: 3,414
Summary: space_wrapped prompt: During the holiday season, Bones gets hit by some kind of alien whammy/ingests something he shouldn't and it makes him the most pleasant, cheerful person on the ship. It's supposed to last for 24 hours tops, but the niceness lasts for eight (*coughtwelvecough*) whole days. By the end of it, Jim wants to throw himself out an airlock.
A/N: Sorry about cutting it so close. I carefully scheduled this around my school's holiday activities, so of course the huge concert was rescheduled for tonight, and I promised my students I'd be there. -_- Thanks to cassiopeia13 for her help!
Deck the Bones
It started as a normal sort of mission, which should have been a warning in itself. The easiest, best jobs sent the way of the Enterprise and her crew always started in the most bizarre fashion possible: planets based on ancient Rome, sentient rocks, sudden alternate universe visitations - all had been added to the annals of Enterprise legend. Only normal diplomatic missions ended up with princesses stabbing ambassadors or one of the most venerable Vulcans still living nearly dying en route.
Given these earlier experiences, Jim should have known that delivering some Caittian royal cousins to a scientific outpost would end in disaster. Yet, his suspicions were once again undermined by his innate sense of optimism. Jim sometimes grumbled about said optimism, but never in his wildest imaginings could he have imagined the horror in store for his crew. If he had, he would have refused the mission point-blank, favors to Chris Pike notwithstanding (it's not as if Chris could hold "it's only because of me you're even on a ship" forever, right? And Jim deserved bonus because he was sleeping with the man who’d saved the admiral's life).
Unfortunately, all this self analysis in retrospect didn't help Jim in the least. He had accepted the mission, and therefore allowed the greatest terror in the history of his already legendary ship free reign amongst her corridors:
Dr. Leonard McCoy singing Christmas carols (and a few rounds of "Maoz Tzur" now and again; apparently, a Dr. McCoy on Caittian happy drugs embraces a variety of winter holidays; his Hebrew pronunciation made Chekov wince) and wearing the occasional seasonal haberdashery.
"Captain," Spock said as McCoy greeted Uhura with a deep cheeriness that would put Santa to shame, "it has been 18 days since Dr. McCoy's allergic reaction to the menra juice, and he continues to show concerning behavioral changes. Perhaps it is time to put in at Starbase 11 for further medical tests."
Jim Kirk sighed. This entire bout with goodwill insanity had been a result of the aforementioned juice, a fermented Caittian beverage that generally released endorphins and activated the pleasure centers of the brain, resulting in a time of friendly euphoria. It acted a bit like alcohol, except that there was no such thing as a mean menra drunk.
Caittians drank the stuff constantly, and colonies, such as the one the Enterprise had visited, were built purely to grow the fruit's trees. They rarely shared it with outsiders, but the Caittian royal cousin they were delivering as a new governor had enjoyed her time on the Enterprise and insisted that the senior crew partake. In typically grumpy fashion, Bones had insisted on secretly testing the drink first, making sure it wouldn't annoy any known allergies among the senior officers. He had cleared it with his blessing, and enjoyed his own serving so much that he'd had a few more glasses than was strictly customary at a Caittian dinner service.
He broke out in hives the next day.
Jim had done his best not to laugh, and begged permission from Chapel to wield the appropriate hypo (tragically denied: "It would be unprofessional of me to allow juvenile retribution in Sickbay, Sir"). He knew if he did give in to the urge to giggle when Bones's bottom lip started swelling into a permanent pout, he'd pay the price in glares and muttering later, but he hadn't been able to help himself. The chuckle had emerged without his consent, and he'd winced as those sharp hazel eyes shifted his way. He steadied himself for keeping a straight face when Bones inevitably started telling him off with a flopping bottom lip.
Then, Bones laughed.
Threw his head back and guffawed, really, thoroughly amused with the universe at large. "Go ahead and laugh, Jimmy boy!" he'd chortled infectiously. "I know I must look a fright!"
While Bones didn't exactly look like Intergalactic Playboy material (at present; Jim would back him for it any day he wasn't covered in reddish blobs), it wasn't his appearance that frightened Jim and Christine.
"It must be part of the allergic reaction," Christine theorized, and M'Benga seemed to agree for lack of any logical explanation. "His brain's still being affected by the juice. The antihistamine should clear it up. I hope." She'd tried to sound certain, but since antihistamines aren't designed to stop happy bits from floating in a man's brain, her attempt fell a bit flat.
On the plus side, Bones had been hive-free within an hour. On the down side, he had been warm and fuzzy not just for an hour, but for a day. Another day. And then a week. Every day he woke bright and cheerful, tugging playfully at Jim's sheets and tsking over his captain's lazy habits. He made pancakes and muffins down in the mess and brought them up with fresh, hot coffee and provided Jim with cheery morning reading material (where did he even find a bound paper copy of Plomeek Soup for Your Katra?!). He'd head off to work, leaving a bemused Jim wrapped in a soft blue robe Bones had dug up somewhere on day three, and spread his general air of joy and sunshine throughout the ship.
He made house calls to various departments. With flowers. Stellar cartography would never be the same after he decided to take some of their scans and set them around the ship as artwork (admittedly a very nice effect, but Lt. Jefferies had called Jim to ask him to tell the crew they didn't take requests and "we do have work to do down here you know!").
The morning he started handing out dreidels beneath the mistletoe and fussing at Christine for the lack of multi-cultural awareness in their seasonal decorations ("He's too much of a tightass to let us have birthday cards in his precious Sickbay! Now he's hanging poison!" she'd vociferated to an amused Uhura), she'd called Jim and threatened to quit. That had been day 12.
Jim considered courtmartialing Chekov for providing Hanukkah information and Sulu for not only aiding and abetting Chekov, but also procuring the aforementioned mistletoe and some green branches of something resembling pine. "I will not tolerate anyone assisting Bones in this fall into madness!" he'd snapped. He later pretended he hadn't noticed the knowing look they'd thrown each other. He refused to be psychoanalyzed by two officers who passed tricky math equations and sappy love notes across their comm channels when they thought he wasn't looking.
True, there were some members of the crew who seemed almost charmed by Bones' new personality. He knew there were some betting pools about how long it would last, and a few optimistic (and clearly unbalanced) souls had bet on "forever." Bones had always been rather popular among the crew despite his curmudgeon exterior, but now he was greeted with calls and waves; even the junior officers weren't showing any fear of a Bones who all but skipped down the hallways singing carols. Jim Kirk, on the other hand, who might have been believed the first in line for "improving" his best friend's personality, knew the most tragic part of this entire incident.
Happy Bones was the most vanilla sex partner in the history of sex.
He giggled in bed. He practically nodded off during blow jobs. He moved with such exquisite care and tenderness (and not in the way Bones did when he wanted to drive Jim to distraction and make a point about sex and affection working best in tandem) that Jim started dozing halfway through. This was on the couple of nights they'd gotten anywhere at all. Normally, this horrible, happy Bones was so full of love for his fellow men and women that he didn't seem to need any extra human contact like sex. He was much happier talking about his feelings and how being with Jim made him joyful. Crazy Bones clearly didn't understand the "unspoken and understood" nature of their relationship.
Jim was going crazy. He liked sex. Okay, he loved it, especially now that he'd discovered the joys of monogamy with an extremely focused doctor blessed with a surgeon's hands. He didn't like going without it. Going without sex made Jim tetchy, and a tetchy captain affected the entire ship. Therefore, Jim theorized on the morning Spock talked to him about stopping off at the Federation loony bin, it was in the best interests of the Enterprise that Leonard McCoy be returned to his normal, lovable, irascible self, so Jim could get laid.
He pulled together the senior crew, minus Bones but plus Chapel and M'Benga, and brainstormed.
"Does anyone have any ideas for fixing Bones?" he asked, trying not to look pathetically hopeful at his gathered geniuses.
Chekov tilted his obnoxiously adorable head to one side. "The doctor, he is very pleasant. This is a bad thing?" Jim glared at him. Sulu glared at Jim. Jim ignored Sulu. Chekov was untouched by it all, not being a man concerned with being glared at.
"It is always a matter of concern when a member of the crew undergoes a significant change in personality, Ensign," Spock explained, “even when those changes could be considered positive.” Jim’s glare at Spock should have been able to melt glass, but Spock was clearly unaffected.
"Not to mention he's been too busy lacing Sickbay with tinsel to take care of December's bunch of crew physicals," Christine added. "He claims it's not in the holiday spirit to poke and prod people, and we should give them a break." M'Benga shuddered at this. At least Sickbay was firmly on Jim's side.
"Do we know exactly why he's acting this way?" Uhura asked, tapping her long nails against the table thoughtfully. "I know it's the juice gone to his head, but why's it still working?"
M'Benga shook his head, looking annoyed with himself and life in general. "We don't have a clue. We've run tests, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his brain. We even sneaked a bit of an old-school drug called Ritalin into his vitamin shot in hopes it would calm him down some, but it only worked a few hours and he was as cheery as ever."
Silence reigned for a moment as everyone digested this bit of information. "What else have you attempted?" Jim asked. Spock sent him one of those you didn't read the brief, did you? looks that he adored so much.
M'Benga settled in for a detailed medical explanation. He didn't have Bones' talent for simplifying for the layman, and most of the eyes in the room glazed over a bit, though Spock asked several seemingly pertinent questions. Silence followed the recitation. Two breaks in one meeting was not a good sign. Jim usually had a hell of a time getting his senior crew to shut up during inspiration meetings.
Scotty broke the stillness with a suggestion that, it was later agreed, revealed his particular genius had greater depths than the warp chamber. "We should get 'im drunk, Cap'n."
All eyes turned to him. "Say again?"
"Drunk." Scotty shrugged. "This juice, it's an upper. It makes you feel high and cheerful. You counteract that with a a downer, something that slows yer brain down an' calms it. Think of when the nacelles are a bit over-fused," there followed a somewhat complicated extended metaphor, ending with, "the same idea applies. We need to fight the juice with some proper Scotch."
Chekov shook his head. "No, vodka," he said certainly. "Better taste and faster results."
Jim stood. "It's worth a try, gentlemen, but I think we'll let Bones have his bourbon." He grinned, feeling his first wave of characteristic optimism since the night Bones stopped in mid-fellatio because he remembered he'd forgotten to send e-cards to the communications department. "I have some for Christmas. We'll open it early, shall we?"
Thus began Operation Get Bones Plastered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
One would think the operation would have gone off without a hitch, given how Jim and Bones first met, but nothing is ever simple on the good ship Enterprise. For one thing, Bones didn't usually drink to excess; losing everything and getting on a shuttle had been a time of unusual stress. Second, he generally had a glass of bourbon for one of two reasons: to celebrate a success or to unwind after a particularly stressful day. Since cheery Bones wasn't doing much in the way of doctoring, Jim couldn't break out the booze as an "attaboy, you saved another alien race!" Nor did Bones seem to be feeling any stress whatsoever as he arranged calls home for the youngest members of the crew (which he had done the previous Christmas as well, but that time Jim had been firmly sworn to secrecy).
Without one of these two triggers, Jim had been forced to fall back on “friendly drinking,” inviting Bones out to the one bar on-ship with Scotty in tow. Their on-going argument concerning the merits of bourbon vs. Scotch usually encouraged a few tossed-back glasses. New Bones had only smiled and asked Scotty for more information on the process of developing Scotch.
Back to the drawing board, so to speak.
It was Uhura who suggested taking advantage of Bones’ irritating holiday spirit with heavily spiced (and spiked!) eggnog. It took some doing, organizing a small gathering for medical and command (Christine insisted on being on-hand in case of alcohol poisoning), but Jim pulled it off on Christmas Eve. They squeezed into the conference room, which Bones had liberally decorated with twinkling lights and various ornaments made in the shape of ships of the line. It was, if Jim was being more honest with himself and not focusing on being sex-starved, a rather charming and appropriate effect.
Jim declared himself Master of Bones’ Glass, making sure that his CMO received only spiked punch and none of the safe(r) stuff everyone else was drinking. Uhura had done a fair amount of damage to the actual flavor by adding loads of alcohol, but this Bones was much too polite to say anything about it. All she had to do was smile at him and he’d gulp down a pitcher-full. If Bones looked like he was going to give in and feed the stuff to Jim’s unsuspecting house plant, Sulu mentioned how much Chekov had enjoyed helping make the nog, and Bones was putty in their hands.
Bones wasn’t usually a mean drunk, per se, just a melodramatic and scientific one. Bones-on-juice started out filled with Christmas cheer, but round about his fourth glass (“I added wodka for the extra kicks!” Chekov told him adorably, though his eyes promised murder for anyone who dared to call him cute) he started talking about raw eggs throughout history and all the disease they could carry. After his seventh, his eyelids fell to half-mast, and that wonderful gruff quality sneaked its way back into his voice. The tenth glass led to Bones glaring at the stellar cartography art he’d added to the conference room and pronouncing it, with a bit of confusion in his voice, “utterly nauseating.”
Jim felt this was definitely heading in a positive direction, and said so to his compatriots. They agreed.
Bones passed out on his eleventh glass, sending it rolling dramatically across the floor in a stream of what smelled like pure alcohol. Christine and Jim lugged him onto a stretcher and she escorted his carcass to the captain’s quarters. She shot her boss with something to stop the worst of the hangover, insisting that although she generally didn’t hold with hangover cures “it wasn’t his fault this time, not really.” With a quick handshake for luck, Christine disappeared into the hallway and left Jim with his soused spouse.
Jim sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Bones’ snores, and hoped for the best (or worse, according to some of the young engineers who lived in terror of Dr. McCoy’s monthly lectures on “Damn Stupid Engineers and Their Damn Idiotic Lack of Self-Preservation”).
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Jim fell asleep. He was awakened by cold, angry fingertips pressing just there along his ribcage. He yelped at the flash of pain and jerked back, falling to the floor with a jerk. His pride suffered some discomfort, but it would pass. The captain blinked sleepily up at the bed. He’d been having nightmares about a Bones who would give him an ice pack and pet his hair in this situation, so he didn’t complain much about waking up.
Until he remembered that the nightmare might be real. Jim winced. “Bones?” he called carefully, trying not to sound like the sex-starved, hopeful moron he was.
The regulation bedclothes shifted once, twice, and then an unshaven, messy-haired face appeared over the edge of the bed. “You okay, kid?” it asked.
Jim considered this. “Yes?” he guessed, because there was a chance a normal Bones would ask about his health before leaving him to wallow on his sore ass.
“Good. Then shut up and let me go back to sleep. I feel like something crawled in my mouth and died, and I don’t have time to baby you.” The face disappeared under the covers with a muffled expletive.
For a long moment, Jim sprawled frozen on the floor. Then, in one fluid movement, he sprang from the floor to the bed, landing with a solid whoomf against the man contained within. "Bones?!" he crowed, tugging hard at the sad excuse for a comforter Bones had pulled over his head.
He finally succeeded, and Bones glared morosely at him. "What?! I'm not even awake yet you bra-good lord man!" Bones' glare widened a bit. "Brush your teeth!"
Oral hygiene! First thing in the morning! Before sex! Jim beamed at his entirely grouchy spouse in a way that would no doubt earn him a lecture on the inappropriateness of showing life before coffee. "Welcome back!" he cheered, pumping one fist in the air before wriggling down, dragging the blanket along Bones' body, and happily biting a nipple.
"Hey!" Bones snarled, "What're you assaultin' me for? I'm not even awake yet!" He pushed up on his elbows and glowered in Jim's direction. His hair was sticking out from his head, and he had that delicious stubble along his jaw that he invariably let grow on days off. Jim just grinned and wiggled down, licking along all that lovely, slimly muscled stomach. Bones' hips shifted, betraying his facade of annoyance as they always did. "What did you put in my eggnog?"
"Eggnog?" Jim inquired as he nibbled at the dark hair leading down to his ultimate goal. Treasure trail, indeed.
Bones frowned even as his cock bumped lightly against Jim's chin in anticipation. "It was eggnog wasn't it?" he asked, his eyes unfocused, expression confused. "My memory…seems to have been affected. How long has it been since…"
Jim pulled Bones' boxers off in a practiced move, sending them sailing gracefully through the air in the general direction of their hamper.
"Jim, what ha-"
Jim swallowed him down. Musky, hot, hard in his mouth, and Bones, instead of commenting politely on his technique, groaned deep in his chest. Strong hands tangled in Jim's hair, massaging. Jim licked and sucked, lifting his head only long enough to moan out,"There was juice and you drank it and you were so happy it was awful so we got you drunk and now you're an ass again, thank goodness," before sucking happily along the bottom vein.
"Kid," Bones breathed, "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, and I don't care."
Jim lowered his head and swallowed around the cock pushing snuggly into his throat. He lifted slowly, sliding his lips along sensitive skin and lashing with his tongue. He released with a soft pop and turned a smile that could only be described as dreamy on his confused, flushed, messy, quick-tempered husband.
"Good," he said, ever so pleased that Bones didn't feel the need to talk about his feelings right now. "Glad to hear it. Merry Christmas, Bones."
The good doctor rolled his eyes expansively. "Merry damn Christmas to you, you brat, now get back to work!"
This smile was cheeky. "You got it, doc," Jim promised, and did just that. He'd have time to explain everything that had happened later, after this blow job, and an upcoming explosive orgasm when he reminded Bones about being properly drilled into the bed, followed by maybe another blowjob. He was open to possibilities. Then he'd get out the videos of Bones dancing merrily down the hallway.
Bones' face would be epic.
Then there would be more sex.
Epic sex.
(Thankfully, Jim says) the end.