Fic: Star Trek: And this line, is your path (and this curve, is your neck)
Title: And this line, is your path (and this curve, is your neck)
Characters: Jim/Bones
Rating: PG [a few bad words]
Words: ~1,300
Summary: Jim's standing motionless beside one of the huge, dark windows. He's shed his gold shirt of command, dumped it somewhere, and the black of his undershirt blends with the black seeping in through the viewscreen.
Notes: This was supposed to be neck!porn, but the porn got forgotten somewhere along the way. BRAIN, WHAT. Title taken from (& modified slightly) Kate Bush's Red Shoes, which was playing when I was trying to think of what to call this.
Also, this is totally me trying to find my feet with these boys.
The door sighs shut on the observation desk and McCoy wants to sigh with it. Of course Jim's here.
'I wish you wouldn't do this,' he says loudly, words echoing across the distance between them. Jim doesn't turn. 'Come and hide up here as if I won't come after you.'
Jim's standing motionless beside one of the huge, dark windows. He's shed his gold shirt of command, dumped it somewhere, and the black of his undershirt blends with the black seeping in through the viewscreen.
'I could take it personally,' McCoy continues.
Jim's stance is firm and defensive: his feet are placed well apart, grounded; his hands are in his pockets, his shoulders are pulled back, his eyes staring dead-straight ahead.
'I could think you're avoiding me.'
Yet the line of Jim's neck curves up from his collar, looking unusually bare without the sun-glow of his topshirt; it catches McCoy's eye, beckons him in, and of everything in this empty corridor and guarded attitude it's this wide sweep of open skin that hits McCoy: Jim looks vulnerable.
'I could think you're trying to force me up here.' He walks across the deck to stand next to Jim, shoulders half-turned from the window. 'Does that count as bullying?'
Jim flicks his gaze briefly to McCoy, a tiny crease forming between his eyebrows and staying there as he returns to his study of the stars.
'Okay,' says McCoy abruptly. He folds his arms over his chest, thinks about taking the defensive himself, and doesn't listen to a warning voice in the back of his mind that whispers how this isn't the right way to go about fixing things. 'I get it. I understand - you're cross, and upset about what happened. And I didn't back you up.'
Jim turns to face him, face hard and hard to read.
'But that's my job: to do what's right for the health of the crew, you included.'
Moving suddenly, McCoy steps right up to Jim and catches Jim's face between his hands. He waits until he's sure he's got Jim's attention, until their eyes are locked in contact, then - 'But sometimes I goddamn hate it.'
Jim waits (and if Bones would only kiss him now, Jim'd forgive everything, forget it all, because he understands too, understands too well), but when McCoy does nothing - just stands there, cupping his damned face and staring intently at him - then there's a flash in Jim's eyes. Quick as silver, his hands are up, latching onto McCoy's wrists. Hard. He yanks McCoy's hands away; McCoy resists, and ends up with his palms hovering six inches from Jim's face.
'Don't talk like that,' Jim says - says it like it's an order, like he's Captain James T. Kirk and McCoy is an errant ensign in need of chastising and not Bones. 'It's duty. Like you said, it's your job, and you've got to do it. You've always got to follow orders, Bones, you have to.'
McCoy snorts. 'What, like you do?'
'I'm doing my best. I have the responsibility of the ship and all her crew to consider. You don't.' Quieter, eyes dropping, he adds, 'And trust me, you don't want it.'
McCoy sighs and lets his hands fall away. 'Jim...'
'No. You break orders, you risk court-martial. Disciplinary, at the very least.'
There's a pause, heavy in the empty deck, weighty with the watching solar system. Jim could say, I don't want to lose you, and it wouldn't be sappy at all, and Bones would make some gruff joke about how he's not going anywhere, and the whole thing would blow over - but Jim's all outta words. McCoy stares at the blue eyes that break so many hearts, and thinks about saying and, what, going against you doesn't get me in trouble either? but he's trying, really he is, not to argue with Jim so much these days, and maybe he should just kiss Jim and be done with it. Jim always likes kisses.
'You didn't disobey me,' Jim states, flatly, almost as if he's read McCoy's thoughts. 'You just didn't back me up. Again.'
McCoy scowls. Okay. The thing is this: if he doesn't argue with Jim, no-one else will. Well, no-one else other than Spock and McCoy doesn't want to hand the job over to him of all people. Everybody else does what Jim wants, says yes, Captain, of course, Captain, right away, Captain, and McCoy likes to remind Captain that he's also Jim (dammit), and not totally infallible yet.
So: 'Technicality, Jim,' he says, stomping away a few paces. 'It amounts to the same thing.'
'Does it?'
'Either way, I'm causing unrest on your ship.'
'Are you trying to get yourself in trouble, Doctor?'
'Are you trying to excuse my behaviour?'
The conversation crashes to a halt; Jim doesn't reply. McCoy waits, again, then thinks back to where this had all started from, back to entering the observation deck, and remembers that initial impression of vulnerability he'd had of Jim. He feels his shoulders sagging.
We're bitching over "us" like a pair of teenage girls, he thinks, when in reality the issue is that the away mission was an unmitigated disaster. A full scale cock-up.
'C'mon, Jim,' he sighs, glancing at the window. 'Let's go below.'
Jim turns away, folding his arms over his chest. They're passing close by a comet and the white-gold-green glow of its tail is bright through the viewscreen: it catches hold of Jim's hair and burns a halo about him, shining down the exposed skin of his neck.
'You go,' Jim says, 'I'll follow.'
McCoy hesitates; head and heart bicker - and heart wins. 'You stubborn brat,' he mutters under his breath.
Marching back across the deck, McCoy slips his arms around Jim from behind, making Jim jump. He splays his hands over Jim's stomach and crushes him back against his chest, and turns his face into Jim's neck. Through his eyelids he can still see the glow of the comet, and, God, call him a foolish romantic but it reminds him of Jim.
He kisses Jim's neck. 'You've got it the wrong way round,' he says gruffly. 'I do the following.'
The twitch of muscle against his lips tells McCoy Jim's smiling. He waits a long moment, feeling Jim relax against him, feeling his senses fill up with the smell of Jim; then he very, very deliberately licks up the side of Jim's bare, bare neck, ending with a hot kiss beneath his earlobe.
Jim goes taut in McCoy's arms. He clears his throat.
'Bones. Did you just lick my neck?'
'Sure thing, kid.' He risks peeling open his eyes, sees the comet's almost gone now.
Jim pulls back a little, squinting down at him. 'You just licked my neck on the observation deck.'
'Yes, Captain.'
'Damn.'
'It was a very tempting neck.'
'It was a very tempting lick,' Jim says, and bursts out laughing. His hand comes up, finding McCoy's against his stomach, and he twines their fingers together. He falls quiet.
'Jim,' says McCoy eventually, and the tail of the comet is nothing more than an open wound disappearing on the persistent blackness of space now, 'Stop thinking.'
'Hmmm.'
'Dammit, Jim - ' but he doesn't get any further. Jim pats his hand, pulls out of his embrace and pivots to face him.
'How about if I think of you licking my neck some more? Say, on the bridge? That would be awesome.'
McCoy scowls. 'Dream on, kid,' he says, even as he thinks how Jim's just covering up, and he shouldn't let Jim do that, shouldn't let Jim bottle and hide, but then they'd be back to arguing and that'd be two steps in the wrong direction, so he lets it go.
Jim pouts. 'Ruin my fun. Quarters, then?'
'Maybe,' allows McCoy, all gruff and frowning. 'If you can get me there before I find better things to do.'
'Maximum speed,' Jim says, planting his fists on his hips, and grinning his golden smile before he dances to the door. 'Coming?'
'I guess I'd better.'
As the doors swoosh open, Jim asks, 'How about a sneaky hug in the turbolift?'
'Don't push it,' McCoy growls, walking past. 'I don't do hugs.'
Jim laughs, and follows him, and the doors to the soul-bright observation desk close again.
-------
.
Characters: Jim/Bones
Rating: PG [a few bad words]
Words: ~1,300
Summary: Jim's standing motionless beside one of the huge, dark windows. He's shed his gold shirt of command, dumped it somewhere, and the black of his undershirt blends with the black seeping in through the viewscreen.
Notes: This was supposed to be neck!porn, but the porn got forgotten somewhere along the way. BRAIN, WHAT. Title taken from (& modified slightly) Kate Bush's Red Shoes, which was playing when I was trying to think of what to call this.
Also, this is totally me trying to find my feet with these boys.
The door sighs shut on the observation desk and McCoy wants to sigh with it. Of course Jim's here.
'I wish you wouldn't do this,' he says loudly, words echoing across the distance between them. Jim doesn't turn. 'Come and hide up here as if I won't come after you.'
Jim's standing motionless beside one of the huge, dark windows. He's shed his gold shirt of command, dumped it somewhere, and the black of his undershirt blends with the black seeping in through the viewscreen.
'I could take it personally,' McCoy continues.
Jim's stance is firm and defensive: his feet are placed well apart, grounded; his hands are in his pockets, his shoulders are pulled back, his eyes staring dead-straight ahead.
'I could think you're avoiding me.'
Yet the line of Jim's neck curves up from his collar, looking unusually bare without the sun-glow of his topshirt; it catches McCoy's eye, beckons him in, and of everything in this empty corridor and guarded attitude it's this wide sweep of open skin that hits McCoy: Jim looks vulnerable.
'I could think you're trying to force me up here.' He walks across the deck to stand next to Jim, shoulders half-turned from the window. 'Does that count as bullying?'
Jim flicks his gaze briefly to McCoy, a tiny crease forming between his eyebrows and staying there as he returns to his study of the stars.
'Okay,' says McCoy abruptly. He folds his arms over his chest, thinks about taking the defensive himself, and doesn't listen to a warning voice in the back of his mind that whispers how this isn't the right way to go about fixing things. 'I get it. I understand - you're cross, and upset about what happened. And I didn't back you up.'
Jim turns to face him, face hard and hard to read.
'But that's my job: to do what's right for the health of the crew, you included.'
Moving suddenly, McCoy steps right up to Jim and catches Jim's face between his hands. He waits until he's sure he's got Jim's attention, until their eyes are locked in contact, then - 'But sometimes I goddamn hate it.'
Jim waits (and if Bones would only kiss him now, Jim'd forgive everything, forget it all, because he understands too, understands too well), but when McCoy does nothing - just stands there, cupping his damned face and staring intently at him - then there's a flash in Jim's eyes. Quick as silver, his hands are up, latching onto McCoy's wrists. Hard. He yanks McCoy's hands away; McCoy resists, and ends up with his palms hovering six inches from Jim's face.
'Don't talk like that,' Jim says - says it like it's an order, like he's Captain James T. Kirk and McCoy is an errant ensign in need of chastising and not Bones. 'It's duty. Like you said, it's your job, and you've got to do it. You've always got to follow orders, Bones, you have to.'
McCoy snorts. 'What, like you do?'
'I'm doing my best. I have the responsibility of the ship and all her crew to consider. You don't.' Quieter, eyes dropping, he adds, 'And trust me, you don't want it.'
McCoy sighs and lets his hands fall away. 'Jim...'
'No. You break orders, you risk court-martial. Disciplinary, at the very least.'
There's a pause, heavy in the empty deck, weighty with the watching solar system. Jim could say, I don't want to lose you, and it wouldn't be sappy at all, and Bones would make some gruff joke about how he's not going anywhere, and the whole thing would blow over - but Jim's all outta words. McCoy stares at the blue eyes that break so many hearts, and thinks about saying and, what, going against you doesn't get me in trouble either? but he's trying, really he is, not to argue with Jim so much these days, and maybe he should just kiss Jim and be done with it. Jim always likes kisses.
'You didn't disobey me,' Jim states, flatly, almost as if he's read McCoy's thoughts. 'You just didn't back me up. Again.'
McCoy scowls. Okay. The thing is this: if he doesn't argue with Jim, no-one else will. Well, no-one else other than Spock and McCoy doesn't want to hand the job over to him of all people. Everybody else does what Jim wants, says yes, Captain, of course, Captain, right away, Captain, and McCoy likes to remind Captain that he's also Jim (dammit), and not totally infallible yet.
So: 'Technicality, Jim,' he says, stomping away a few paces. 'It amounts to the same thing.'
'Does it?'
'Either way, I'm causing unrest on your ship.'
'Are you trying to get yourself in trouble, Doctor?'
'Are you trying to excuse my behaviour?'
The conversation crashes to a halt; Jim doesn't reply. McCoy waits, again, then thinks back to where this had all started from, back to entering the observation deck, and remembers that initial impression of vulnerability he'd had of Jim. He feels his shoulders sagging.
We're bitching over "us" like a pair of teenage girls, he thinks, when in reality the issue is that the away mission was an unmitigated disaster. A full scale cock-up.
'C'mon, Jim,' he sighs, glancing at the window. 'Let's go below.'
Jim turns away, folding his arms over his chest. They're passing close by a comet and the white-gold-green glow of its tail is bright through the viewscreen: it catches hold of Jim's hair and burns a halo about him, shining down the exposed skin of his neck.
'You go,' Jim says, 'I'll follow.'
McCoy hesitates; head and heart bicker - and heart wins. 'You stubborn brat,' he mutters under his breath.
Marching back across the deck, McCoy slips his arms around Jim from behind, making Jim jump. He splays his hands over Jim's stomach and crushes him back against his chest, and turns his face into Jim's neck. Through his eyelids he can still see the glow of the comet, and, God, call him a foolish romantic but it reminds him of Jim.
He kisses Jim's neck. 'You've got it the wrong way round,' he says gruffly. 'I do the following.'
The twitch of muscle against his lips tells McCoy Jim's smiling. He waits a long moment, feeling Jim relax against him, feeling his senses fill up with the smell of Jim; then he very, very deliberately licks up the side of Jim's bare, bare neck, ending with a hot kiss beneath his earlobe.
Jim goes taut in McCoy's arms. He clears his throat.
'Bones. Did you just lick my neck?'
'Sure thing, kid.' He risks peeling open his eyes, sees the comet's almost gone now.
Jim pulls back a little, squinting down at him. 'You just licked my neck on the observation deck.'
'Yes, Captain.'
'Damn.'
'It was a very tempting neck.'
'It was a very tempting lick,' Jim says, and bursts out laughing. His hand comes up, finding McCoy's against his stomach, and he twines their fingers together. He falls quiet.
'Jim,' says McCoy eventually, and the tail of the comet is nothing more than an open wound disappearing on the persistent blackness of space now, 'Stop thinking.'
'Hmmm.'
'Dammit, Jim - ' but he doesn't get any further. Jim pats his hand, pulls out of his embrace and pivots to face him.
'How about if I think of you licking my neck some more? Say, on the bridge? That would be awesome.'
McCoy scowls. 'Dream on, kid,' he says, even as he thinks how Jim's just covering up, and he shouldn't let Jim do that, shouldn't let Jim bottle and hide, but then they'd be back to arguing and that'd be two steps in the wrong direction, so he lets it go.
Jim pouts. 'Ruin my fun. Quarters, then?'
'Maybe,' allows McCoy, all gruff and frowning. 'If you can get me there before I find better things to do.'
'Maximum speed,' Jim says, planting his fists on his hips, and grinning his golden smile before he dances to the door. 'Coming?'
'I guess I'd better.'
As the doors swoosh open, Jim asks, 'How about a sneaky hug in the turbolift?'
'Don't push it,' McCoy growls, walking past. 'I don't do hugs.'
Jim laughs, and follows him, and the doors to the soul-bright observation desk close again.
-------
.