Comment!fic assortis
Nothing's more terrifying to the anal-retentive writer than comment!fic, especially when one has no Edit button. Even so, I've managed a few at jim_and_bones in the past few months, and here they are (slightly edited, because I can't leave anything alone). As always, anyone who commented on them there is not expected to comment here, and no one is expected to read them if they don't care to.
Into the Evening (Kirk/McCoy, R+)
(For the location-based prompt "Jim's place when he was an admiral" with bonus birthday!old man sex. Mush alert.)
"Fuck. Where's my green shirt?" The apartment's big, but not so big that Leonard can't hear Jim muttering in the depths of his closet. "Hey, Bones!" he yells. "Have you seen my green shirt?"
"The one you bought in that shop on Deep Space Two?" Leonard yells back without looking up from his padd.
"Yeah."
"The one you wore to Admiral Cartwright's retirement party?"
"Yes."
"I have no idea." More cursing.
Jim loves birthdays--anyone's, but especially his own--and has always celebrated aggressively, as if in defiance of the other thing that happened on that day in 2233. On Jim's birthday there are no long faces schooled into expressions of respectful condolence. Instead, there's bootleg alcohol and hideous gag gifts and hugs and kisses for those who want them, and in 35 years of being perhaps the best-laid man in the galaxy, Leonard has never been better laid than on Jim's birthdays.
Tonight, though, he thinks he'll be lucky if he doesn't end up sleeping on the sofa.
"I can't do this."
Jim appears in the door to their bedroom, wearing well-fitted dress pants but naked from the waist up. His body is a testament to medical science and determination and Leonard's fierce love; it's as beautiful to him as the first day he saw it naked, in a dorm room a kilometer and an age of the universe away.
"Jim," Leonard says, using his Mr. Reasonable voice. "Five very important people have pulled every string in the galaxy to be here. Hell, Sulu let the Excelsior go to Artera Prime without him. I have to go, regardless, and I most definitely don't want to be sitting there, staring into my drink and making awkward conversation like it's your wake and not your 60th birthday. I've been there. Trust me, you'll survive."
The shadow of a smile appears on Jim's lips. "Yeah, but you--you were born old."
There's some truth in that. Gray hair and irascibility fit Leonard like an old glove, but Jim will live forever in blazing youth in the galaxy's collective imagination, no matter how many times Admiral Kirk saves the day from the relative safety of his desk in San Francisco.
Leonard puts down his PADD and rises, puts his hands on Jim's shoulders and looks into the blue eyes that he dreams about even when Jim is sleeping right there beside him. He strokes down Jim's arms, down his lean back where the bones have become sharper and better articulated over the years.
"You could live another 60 years, you know," he says, and cups Jim's ass, because it feels good and because it makes Jim smile.
"Fuck that. The way I feel, only a sadist could want me to live past next week." But Jim circles his arms around Leonard's waist and pulls him a little closer.
"Hey," Leonard says, close to Jim's ear. "Party doesn't start until 7:00. It' s only 6:00 now, and the ride won't take 10 minutes."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but the mission takes longer to plan these days, if you know what I mean." Still, Leonard can feel Jim's body coming alive under his hands.
"The hell it does. Death and taxes and Jim Kirk's cock." And with utter faith in the third, Leonard reaches down, and sure enough, feels Jim already half-hard through the soft wool of his dress pants.
Jim chuckles and walks backward, back into the bedroom, pulling Leonard along, until the backs of Jim's knees hit the bed and he falls heavily into the soft covers of the bed that never got made up that morning. Leonard undoes Jim's belt without looking; can do everything without looking, but he likes looking, especially at Jim's face, as it heats and flushes with desire, at the way his eyes flare when he comes, safe in Leonard's hand and prudently onto a corner of bedspread that Leonard pulls over him to keep his trousers clean.
"Best birthday present ever," Jim says, pulling him down for a kiss.
"Same thing I get you ever year," Leonard says, with a kiss that's a promise. "You know, I think that green shirt might be in my closet."
Jim grins with a hint of that old Kirk magic.
"Bastard," he says, pinching the soft flesh at Leonard's waist. "Just for that, we're walking into that restaurant 15 minutes late."
And they do, because in 35 years Leonard's never learned to say no, and never really wanted to.
Bare Bones (McCoy/Everybody, PG)
(For the prompt "New Year's Resolution: For Bones to lose his shirt on more away missions." Silly.)
Taralon Delta
"Sweet God, that's the coldest rain I've ever felt," Scotty says, and holds out a clean, dry robe to McCoy. "Here, doctor, best to change out of those wet clothes as quickly as possible. Ye'll catch your death."
"That's an old wives' tale," says the doctor, cross as a wet cat. "A hot shower and a stiff drink are what I need."
Scotty's look of disappointment follows him out the door.
Federation Outpost, Fourth Moon of Ephila
"This station is so primitive, it's like a museum." Uhura runs her fingers down an ancient comma console. "But since we're stuck here for a few days, I guess we're going to learn about old Starfleet procedures. Like decon gel." She brightens a little. "Doctor, if you want to do me--that is, we could do each other. I mean, if there's a spot on your back that you can't reach--"
"Decon gel?" the doctor scoffs. "That's stuff's worthless. A sonic shower and a shot of atataxol will take care of any little travelers we've picked up. But if you're looking for an authentic, old-time Starfleet experience, I could give you your shot in the heinie."
Uhura is halfway through a nod before she realizes it was a joke.
Royal Palace of the Primate of Shree
For a pilot with the delicate touch of a butterfly and the reflexes of a cobra, Sulu can be awfully clumsy; the bridge crew tease him about it all the time. That's why it seems perfectly natural when Sulu spills a cup of sludge-black shlampol all down the front of Dr. McCoy's dress tunic.
"Geez, doctor, I'm sorry." A royal minion appears by their elbows in an instant. "This guy can get you a clean shirt, I'll bet, right?" The minion nods enthusiastically.
"What, those things that just a few pieces of shiny thread that end at your navel? I don't think so." He pulls out his phaser. "Haven't you ever tried stunning a stain out of your uniform? Works like a charm." Sulu's admiration for the procedure that follows quells his disappointment, at least a little.
Transporter Room, U.S.S. Enterprise
"The last set of calibrations confirm that the superwisory systems have reached the indeterminacy limit, above which I cannot guarantee transporter safety for substances with a relative density of more than 4.65 atmospheres, doctor." Chekov delivers this completely fictional analysis with what he hopes is convincing concern. Sulu's eyebrows rise in astonishment and admiration.
"Can you repeat that in Standard? Or even Russian?" the doctor growls.
"To ensure your safe transport, I must ask you to remove your clothes." McCoy gives Chekov of look of goggling astonishment.
"If you can't guarantee by damn clothes are going to make it down to the planet, I'm certainly not going to trust it with my precious hide." He stalks off.
"Got to hand it to you," Sulu says to Chekov. "You play for all the marbles."
Engineering Conference Room B, U.S.S. Enterprise
"Aces and eights," McCoy says, laying his cards down a feral smile. The other players groan.
"Three of a kind," Kirk says, bright as Christmas morning.
"God damn it." The whole company stares at McCoy in rapt suspense. He's down to his shorts and undershirt, and either way, they're all about to become winners.
McCoy looks at Kirk in appeal, but the captain just cocks an eyebrow expectantly.
McCoy reaches for the hem of his shirt. The company hold their breath. A few seconds later the doctor is shirtless.
"Góspodi," Chekov whispers, fervent as a prayer. There are eyes bulging, mouths hanging open, tongues cleaving to the roofs of dry mouths.
"What?" McCoy asks, baffled.
Kirk shrugs and turns back to the table and pushes all his winnings toward McCoy.
Call Your Mother (Jim, Winona, G)
(For the New Year's prompt "Jim resolves to call his mom." Angsty.)
She could be anywhere in the galaxy, although as the voice comm is routed, Jim pictures the glass penguin on the hall table lighting up. It was an earnest gift from eight-year-old Sam, and Winona's noises of admiration when she opened it had filled Jim with envy. Winona never withheld appreciation, had always let her boys know she was proud of them, which makes it all the stranger that Jim has so much trouble telling her things.
Well, he'd told Bones, it's complicated. At that, Bones had grunted with the derision. His own family is a Southern Gothic horror show, generations of dark attics and booze-fueled revelations that make a simple communication problem seem trivial by contrast. The Kirk homestead had an attic of its own, full of dusty boxes of off-world souvenirs, old uniforms and odd bits of furniture. Sam and Jim had set up an couple of broken chairs pointing to the gable window and pretended it was a starship.
Maybe that's why Jim and Bones' place in San Francisco is a two-bedroom condo on the top floor.
Jim's palms are sweating and his throat is dry--ridiculous, because Winona is only ever happy to hear from him. She always sounds astonished, which makes Jim feel guilty, and the first minute of his call is usually full of apologies.
It's alright, Jim, I've been busy, too, she says soothingly. But you're busier than all of us, aren't you?
After 40 seconds of open channel, the call enters that shadow zone where it's unlikely that Winona will respond, but ending it will seem like cowardice to Jim, so he hangs on, pictures her running in from the barn, or wiping flour off her hands, though it's a hundred times more likely that she's on an off-world research station.
After 60 seconds, Jim's finger is hovering over the Disconnect button when Winona's voice comes through, clear as if she's standing over his shoulder.
"Jim?" Her voice is still light and girlish, unchanged.
"Hi, mom." He can't quite keep the quaver out of his voice.
"Is something wrong?" She knows he doesn't normally call with anything but news, good or bad.
"No, nothing. I just--" It just occurred to me that we're both in a dangerous profession. I just realized it was time to stop blaming you. I just want to stop feeling guilty. "I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice."
"Oh, Jim." He wishes he could see her smile, but there's not enough bandwidth allotted for personal communications. He hears it, though. "How are you? How's the ship? How's Leonard?"
"They're all fine." That's the gist of it; there's not enough time to talk about treaties and space worms and brink-of-death injuries, but she'll have been following mission reports, anyway. "Where are you?"
"Deep Space Seven, waiting for a transport to Targon Beta." So much for Jim's domestic imaginings.
"God, that place is boring. But the Tellarite restaurant is pretty good."
"Yeah, just as long as you don't ask what's in the stew." They both chuckle, and then there's an awkward pause where Jim feels like he should be saying something profound, but he's not sure what.
"Well. I should go. Three-minute limit, you know."
"I do." Her voice, in spite of everything, is warm. "Thank you for calling, Jim. I appreciate it. I really do."
"'Night, mom." He clicks off, and feels better.
Infinite 8 (Kirk/McCoy/Masters, NC-17)
(Inspired by this gorgeous, comm-locked photo--the middle one. Un-well-thought-out garbagy science.)
"Out of all the asinine things we've ever done, this has got to be the most royally idiotic." McCoy's invective is belied by his tone of voice, which is gravelly and faint. His lips are pale and his ears are red, a reversal of the normal order of things, and he's gripping the upper deck balustrade as if he's about to fall over.
This, Charlene does not mention, will not help.
"The Korbia Infinite 8 a well-tested maneuver and Lt. Masters practically wrote the book on it," the captain says, looking at his PADD and not McCoy. They've got a little less than 5 minutes to get inside the planet's troposphere before the next magnetic storm. Luckily, the captain is a good multi-tasker and can lock in the flight plan, initiate a countdown, and indulge his CMO's phobias, all at the same time.
"It's actually much safer than a routine entry, doctor," Charlene says, "even under normal circumstances." The captain flicks a grateful glance at her. "By minimizing our profile and our exposure time, we reduce the ablation of--"
"It's a god-damn nosedive is what it is," McCoy says, going even paler. "When I see that planet rushing toward us at--" Charlene sees Chekov eye the nearest waste receptacle, ready to lunge for it if the doctor needs it.
"So--don't look," Charlene says. "Sir."
Curiously, this seems to work. McCoy cocks his head, thinks about it for a moment, and then slides into one of the vacant comm chairs, which he swivels in the opposite direction from the viewscreen. Charlene is reminded of her three-year-old nephew, who thinks that it won't be bedtime as long as he doesn't look at the clock.
A minute later, the audible countdown begins. The Enterprise hurtles silently toward Karan Beta at near-warp and executes a momentum-dispelling figure-8 just below the ionosphere, minimizing the effect of the magnetic storm while avoiding a hard entry into the atmosphere. A perfect coordination of thrusters, an exquisitely calibrated firing sequence, and the great ship is as nimble as a hawk coasting on the updrafts on a cloudless day.
Following Mr. Spock's example, Charlene says nothing as the ship alights above its target, ready to beam down the landing party. It is, after all, exactly the outcome they planned for and expected, nothing more.
After a suitable interval she glances up at McCoy, who's slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing hard. Then she looks at the captain, who's looking back at her with one of those effervescent, childlike smiles that make him look exactly 26 years old and no more. What can she do but smile back?
"That," he says, "was awesome."
+++++
"But when you humor him, it just reinforces the behavior. He's getting the reaction he wants from you." She's waited through most of the meal to broach the subject; your boyfriend is neurotic isn't the sort of thing you just drop on someone, let alone the captain.
"He can't help it," Jim says, poking his plate of lukewarm lah'tem with his fork. "And he gets through it in the end, so what does it matter?"
"It makes him miserable. It distracts you." She places her hand on his to stop his fidgeting and make him look at her. "And it gets worse every time, because his brain remembers the fear, not the fact that he didn't die."
"You're a psychologist as well as an engineer, huh?" They've been learning a lot about each other, these past few weeks, but he hasn't learned yet that Charlene doesn't really fit in the mold of Scotty's bluff, hardware-obsessed roustabouts.
"I like understanding how things work. Including the human mind."
"Just one of the human organs you seem to know a lot about," Jim says with his now-familiar false innocence.
"I'm serious," she says. "You're no friend if you let this go on."
"So what do you suggest, Dr. Masters?"
"Positive reinforcement. Break the association with negative stimuli."
"So, what?" Jim picks up the institutional excuse for a chocolate chip cookie on his dessert plate. "Toss him a biscuit every time we leave atmosphere?"
"Not the reward I had in mind." He's quick; she doesn't have to let her eyebrow do the talking.
The grin that spreads across his face would melt butter.
+++++
Charlene enjoys having multiple partners because it's active, because the possibilities are multiple and because there's the arrangement of bodies in motion to consider.
Now, for example, Jim is busy between Leonard's thighs, running his lips over tender skin, lightly grazing his balls no more than every third or fourth pass, keeping Leonard guessing about when he'll next get stimulation. Charlene is enjoying his chest, running her palms over his pectorals, playing with his nipples as he arches and moans. The doctor's body is spectacular, and she's relieved that it's fulfilled the promise of one of the most-scrutinized uniforms on the ship.
At the foot of the bed, where Leonard can see it, is the captain's large vid screen, playing a montage of the Federation's greatest aerial maneuvers. She knows all of them by name; this one, just beginning, is the Lucasian Triple Roll.
"Stop," she says to Jim, and then, to Leonard, "Watch."
This is fourth time through, so he obeys her, watching the Bridge-view of the spiraling starship. The stars spin and Leonard moans, not from pleasure this time.
In response, she brushes her breast against he side of his face, He turns his head, mouthing her nipple, and the sight of those lips against it almost make her lose her concentration.
Almost. The screen goes black again.
At her nod, Jim wraps his lips around the head of Leonard's cock and begins to suck, gently, eyes fluttering half closed. It's very, very pretty, almost as pretty as what's taking place on the screen.
"Look," she says, "Pugachev's Cobra. What are we going to do for that?"
Jim catches her eye and laughs as well as he can with a mouth very full of cock and arches his back, sinuous as a snake. Charlene knows that the permutations of three bodies aren't infinite, but they don't have to be. Judging by the flush on Leonard's face, the way the corners of his mouth curve up, they're more than enough.
Outside (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17)
(From the eponymous prompt.)
Leonard reminds himself that he’s not an exhibitionist, though it’s pitch black outside the penumbra of the dying fire, and there’s no one to see them but little dark-eyed things that squeak and scuffle in the underbrush. He’s not an outdoorsman, which is why they’ve got a six-person tent, microcell mattresses, and a handheld sonic shower, along with a hand axe and an ancient liquid-fuel lighter that belonged to Jim’s dad.
Jim chopped the wood in the golden sun of late afternoon, stripped to the waist with a bandanna hanging out of his pocket and refused to shower afterward. Now he’s insisting that Leonard nail him not to the lumbar-friendly camping mattress, but to the hard ground with only a blanket between the earth and his bare ass. Leonard’s elbows and knees, which are considerably less well padded, are feeling it.
Even without his firm grasp of anatomy, Leonard is familiar enough with Jim’s body to know what he’s fumbling for in the tangle of denim, wool, and warm flesh. He passes a hand over Jim’s abdomen so he can feel the muscles contract as Jim lowers himself down on his back with a grunt.
The lack of access is frustrating; Leonard has a sequence, a series of stops that he likes to make on the road to orgasm. The small of Jim’s back, the nape of his neck and nipples, the backs of his knees are all covered or hard to reach. There is, however, Jim’s cock, rising to prominence like the moon in the velvet sky. Leonard wraps a hand around it and strokes, knowing that it’s just about all the foreplay Jim needs, but less than Leonard wants.
When Leonard’s hand crests the head of his cock Jim gasps and drops his head back, squirming a little to show he’s ready. Leonard’s own well-trained cock responds, urging him to get on with it, but he’s hung up on mechanics and not looking forward to the fumble for lube and the inevitable change in position. He pauses to kiss Jim, get a little hit of warmth off his lips, and consider whether to just go for a blow job instead.
“The Sol system ecliptic isn’t aligned with the galactic plane, you know.” Jim doesn’t even whisper it in his ear, but says it aloud. He’s more than usually full of non sequiturs tonight.
“Oddly enough, they don’t make surgeons study stellar cartography.” Leonard wedges a hand under one of Jim’s cheeks and squeezes to see if that will shut him up.
“In other words, no, you didn’t know. It’s about 60 degrees off, and the galactic center is there--” he points over Leonard’s shoulder. “In Sagittarius. Isn’t that wild? I never knew that until this Starfleet engineer told me, back in Iowa.”
Leonard brushes a thumb along the neutral zone between Jim’s ass and thigh, and tries to pay attention. Jim never mentions Iowa without a reason.
“Really.”
“Yeah. She was trying to get in my pants.”
“Jesus, how old were you?” Leonard doesn’t like this direction; it pings his retroactive fears about Jim’s wandering years, the bright, beautiful boy with a thin veneer of hardness that might have been just enough to protect him, or not.
“Legal. She didn’t have to try hard. But it got me hot, the way she talked about it. I guess I followed my cock into space.”
“But you always said Pike--oh.” He can make out Jim’s leer in the star-soaked darkness. “I’d rather not spend a beautiful evening listening to your admiral-shagging fantasies, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Don’t need to. Look.” He hisses it with such urgency that Leonard twists around, expecting to see a bear or something worse peering at them through the trees, but Jim is pointing at the sky.
Now that the fire has shifted to infrared and his eyes have adjusted, Leonard can see the Milky Way spread out in its full glory above them. The night is crisp and dry; the stars burn with a pure, steady white light.
“Beautiful. I don’t understand why, but they always look better from Earth.”
“Oh my God, meteor!” He grips Leonard’s bicep, excited as a kid. In a second or two, the silver trail is traced across the sky and vanishes. Jim’s enthusiasm is infectious, but like the cool air, it isn’t helping Leonard’s erection any.
“You want to stargaze, let’s stargaze. We can do everything else in the tent, preferably under the covers.” Leonard moves, hopeful, to help Jim pull up his pants.
“Uh-uh. Here.” He catches Leonard’s hand to stop it and grips it, tight, for just a few seconds.
When Leonard, obedient as always, slides inside him, it feels as good as always and maybe a little better for the novelty, cock buried in Jim’s human heat, ass exposed to the cool air, body divided into hemispheres, half in summer and half in winter.
Jim’s eyes are closed as Leonard starts to move inside him, but after a few strokes they open, and Leonard can see starlight.
Into the Evening (Kirk/McCoy, R+)
(For the location-based prompt "Jim's place when he was an admiral" with bonus birthday!old man sex. Mush alert.)
"Fuck. Where's my green shirt?" The apartment's big, but not so big that Leonard can't hear Jim muttering in the depths of his closet. "Hey, Bones!" he yells. "Have you seen my green shirt?"
"The one you bought in that shop on Deep Space Two?" Leonard yells back without looking up from his padd.
"Yeah."
"The one you wore to Admiral Cartwright's retirement party?"
"Yes."
"I have no idea." More cursing.
Jim loves birthdays--anyone's, but especially his own--and has always celebrated aggressively, as if in defiance of the other thing that happened on that day in 2233. On Jim's birthday there are no long faces schooled into expressions of respectful condolence. Instead, there's bootleg alcohol and hideous gag gifts and hugs and kisses for those who want them, and in 35 years of being perhaps the best-laid man in the galaxy, Leonard has never been better laid than on Jim's birthdays.
Tonight, though, he thinks he'll be lucky if he doesn't end up sleeping on the sofa.
"I can't do this."
Jim appears in the door to their bedroom, wearing well-fitted dress pants but naked from the waist up. His body is a testament to medical science and determination and Leonard's fierce love; it's as beautiful to him as the first day he saw it naked, in a dorm room a kilometer and an age of the universe away.
"Jim," Leonard says, using his Mr. Reasonable voice. "Five very important people have pulled every string in the galaxy to be here. Hell, Sulu let the Excelsior go to Artera Prime without him. I have to go, regardless, and I most definitely don't want to be sitting there, staring into my drink and making awkward conversation like it's your wake and not your 60th birthday. I've been there. Trust me, you'll survive."
The shadow of a smile appears on Jim's lips. "Yeah, but you--you were born old."
There's some truth in that. Gray hair and irascibility fit Leonard like an old glove, but Jim will live forever in blazing youth in the galaxy's collective imagination, no matter how many times Admiral Kirk saves the day from the relative safety of his desk in San Francisco.
Leonard puts down his PADD and rises, puts his hands on Jim's shoulders and looks into the blue eyes that he dreams about even when Jim is sleeping right there beside him. He strokes down Jim's arms, down his lean back where the bones have become sharper and better articulated over the years.
"You could live another 60 years, you know," he says, and cups Jim's ass, because it feels good and because it makes Jim smile.
"Fuck that. The way I feel, only a sadist could want me to live past next week." But Jim circles his arms around Leonard's waist and pulls him a little closer.
"Hey," Leonard says, close to Jim's ear. "Party doesn't start until 7:00. It' s only 6:00 now, and the ride won't take 10 minutes."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but the mission takes longer to plan these days, if you know what I mean." Still, Leonard can feel Jim's body coming alive under his hands.
"The hell it does. Death and taxes and Jim Kirk's cock." And with utter faith in the third, Leonard reaches down, and sure enough, feels Jim already half-hard through the soft wool of his dress pants.
Jim chuckles and walks backward, back into the bedroom, pulling Leonard along, until the backs of Jim's knees hit the bed and he falls heavily into the soft covers of the bed that never got made up that morning. Leonard undoes Jim's belt without looking; can do everything without looking, but he likes looking, especially at Jim's face, as it heats and flushes with desire, at the way his eyes flare when he comes, safe in Leonard's hand and prudently onto a corner of bedspread that Leonard pulls over him to keep his trousers clean.
"Best birthday present ever," Jim says, pulling him down for a kiss.
"Same thing I get you ever year," Leonard says, with a kiss that's a promise. "You know, I think that green shirt might be in my closet."
Jim grins with a hint of that old Kirk magic.
"Bastard," he says, pinching the soft flesh at Leonard's waist. "Just for that, we're walking into that restaurant 15 minutes late."
And they do, because in 35 years Leonard's never learned to say no, and never really wanted to.
Bare Bones (McCoy/Everybody, PG)
(For the prompt "New Year's Resolution: For Bones to lose his shirt on more away missions." Silly.)
Taralon Delta
"Sweet God, that's the coldest rain I've ever felt," Scotty says, and holds out a clean, dry robe to McCoy. "Here, doctor, best to change out of those wet clothes as quickly as possible. Ye'll catch your death."
"That's an old wives' tale," says the doctor, cross as a wet cat. "A hot shower and a stiff drink are what I need."
Scotty's look of disappointment follows him out the door.
Federation Outpost, Fourth Moon of Ephila
"This station is so primitive, it's like a museum." Uhura runs her fingers down an ancient comma console. "But since we're stuck here for a few days, I guess we're going to learn about old Starfleet procedures. Like decon gel." She brightens a little. "Doctor, if you want to do me--that is, we could do each other. I mean, if there's a spot on your back that you can't reach--"
"Decon gel?" the doctor scoffs. "That's stuff's worthless. A sonic shower and a shot of atataxol will take care of any little travelers we've picked up. But if you're looking for an authentic, old-time Starfleet experience, I could give you your shot in the heinie."
Uhura is halfway through a nod before she realizes it was a joke.
Royal Palace of the Primate of Shree
For a pilot with the delicate touch of a butterfly and the reflexes of a cobra, Sulu can be awfully clumsy; the bridge crew tease him about it all the time. That's why it seems perfectly natural when Sulu spills a cup of sludge-black shlampol all down the front of Dr. McCoy's dress tunic.
"Geez, doctor, I'm sorry." A royal minion appears by their elbows in an instant. "This guy can get you a clean shirt, I'll bet, right?" The minion nods enthusiastically.
"What, those things that just a few pieces of shiny thread that end at your navel? I don't think so." He pulls out his phaser. "Haven't you ever tried stunning a stain out of your uniform? Works like a charm." Sulu's admiration for the procedure that follows quells his disappointment, at least a little.
Transporter Room, U.S.S. Enterprise
"The last set of calibrations confirm that the superwisory systems have reached the indeterminacy limit, above which I cannot guarantee transporter safety for substances with a relative density of more than 4.65 atmospheres, doctor." Chekov delivers this completely fictional analysis with what he hopes is convincing concern. Sulu's eyebrows rise in astonishment and admiration.
"Can you repeat that in Standard? Or even Russian?" the doctor growls.
"To ensure your safe transport, I must ask you to remove your clothes." McCoy gives Chekov of look of goggling astonishment.
"If you can't guarantee by damn clothes are going to make it down to the planet, I'm certainly not going to trust it with my precious hide." He stalks off.
"Got to hand it to you," Sulu says to Chekov. "You play for all the marbles."
Engineering Conference Room B, U.S.S. Enterprise
"Aces and eights," McCoy says, laying his cards down a feral smile. The other players groan.
"Three of a kind," Kirk says, bright as Christmas morning.
"God damn it." The whole company stares at McCoy in rapt suspense. He's down to his shorts and undershirt, and either way, they're all about to become winners.
McCoy looks at Kirk in appeal, but the captain just cocks an eyebrow expectantly.
McCoy reaches for the hem of his shirt. The company hold their breath. A few seconds later the doctor is shirtless.
"Góspodi," Chekov whispers, fervent as a prayer. There are eyes bulging, mouths hanging open, tongues cleaving to the roofs of dry mouths.
"What?" McCoy asks, baffled.
Kirk shrugs and turns back to the table and pushes all his winnings toward McCoy.
Call Your Mother (Jim, Winona, G)
(For the New Year's prompt "Jim resolves to call his mom." Angsty.)
She could be anywhere in the galaxy, although as the voice comm is routed, Jim pictures the glass penguin on the hall table lighting up. It was an earnest gift from eight-year-old Sam, and Winona's noises of admiration when she opened it had filled Jim with envy. Winona never withheld appreciation, had always let her boys know she was proud of them, which makes it all the stranger that Jim has so much trouble telling her things.
Well, he'd told Bones, it's complicated. At that, Bones had grunted with the derision. His own family is a Southern Gothic horror show, generations of dark attics and booze-fueled revelations that make a simple communication problem seem trivial by contrast. The Kirk homestead had an attic of its own, full of dusty boxes of off-world souvenirs, old uniforms and odd bits of furniture. Sam and Jim had set up an couple of broken chairs pointing to the gable window and pretended it was a starship.
Maybe that's why Jim and Bones' place in San Francisco is a two-bedroom condo on the top floor.
Jim's palms are sweating and his throat is dry--ridiculous, because Winona is only ever happy to hear from him. She always sounds astonished, which makes Jim feel guilty, and the first minute of his call is usually full of apologies.
It's alright, Jim, I've been busy, too, she says soothingly. But you're busier than all of us, aren't you?
After 40 seconds of open channel, the call enters that shadow zone where it's unlikely that Winona will respond, but ending it will seem like cowardice to Jim, so he hangs on, pictures her running in from the barn, or wiping flour off her hands, though it's a hundred times more likely that she's on an off-world research station.
After 60 seconds, Jim's finger is hovering over the Disconnect button when Winona's voice comes through, clear as if she's standing over his shoulder.
"Jim?" Her voice is still light and girlish, unchanged.
"Hi, mom." He can't quite keep the quaver out of his voice.
"Is something wrong?" She knows he doesn't normally call with anything but news, good or bad.
"No, nothing. I just--" It just occurred to me that we're both in a dangerous profession. I just realized it was time to stop blaming you. I just want to stop feeling guilty. "I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice."
"Oh, Jim." He wishes he could see her smile, but there's not enough bandwidth allotted for personal communications. He hears it, though. "How are you? How's the ship? How's Leonard?"
"They're all fine." That's the gist of it; there's not enough time to talk about treaties and space worms and brink-of-death injuries, but she'll have been following mission reports, anyway. "Where are you?"
"Deep Space Seven, waiting for a transport to Targon Beta." So much for Jim's domestic imaginings.
"God, that place is boring. But the Tellarite restaurant is pretty good."
"Yeah, just as long as you don't ask what's in the stew." They both chuckle, and then there's an awkward pause where Jim feels like he should be saying something profound, but he's not sure what.
"Well. I should go. Three-minute limit, you know."
"I do." Her voice, in spite of everything, is warm. "Thank you for calling, Jim. I appreciate it. I really do."
"'Night, mom." He clicks off, and feels better.
Infinite 8 (Kirk/McCoy/Masters, NC-17)
(Inspired by this gorgeous, comm-locked photo--the middle one. Un-well-thought-out garbagy science.)
"Out of all the asinine things we've ever done, this has got to be the most royally idiotic." McCoy's invective is belied by his tone of voice, which is gravelly and faint. His lips are pale and his ears are red, a reversal of the normal order of things, and he's gripping the upper deck balustrade as if he's about to fall over.
This, Charlene does not mention, will not help.
"The Korbia Infinite 8 a well-tested maneuver and Lt. Masters practically wrote the book on it," the captain says, looking at his PADD and not McCoy. They've got a little less than 5 minutes to get inside the planet's troposphere before the next magnetic storm. Luckily, the captain is a good multi-tasker and can lock in the flight plan, initiate a countdown, and indulge his CMO's phobias, all at the same time.
"It's actually much safer than a routine entry, doctor," Charlene says, "even under normal circumstances." The captain flicks a grateful glance at her. "By minimizing our profile and our exposure time, we reduce the ablation of--"
"It's a god-damn nosedive is what it is," McCoy says, going even paler. "When I see that planet rushing toward us at--" Charlene sees Chekov eye the nearest waste receptacle, ready to lunge for it if the doctor needs it.
"So--don't look," Charlene says. "Sir."
Curiously, this seems to work. McCoy cocks his head, thinks about it for a moment, and then slides into one of the vacant comm chairs, which he swivels in the opposite direction from the viewscreen. Charlene is reminded of her three-year-old nephew, who thinks that it won't be bedtime as long as he doesn't look at the clock.
A minute later, the audible countdown begins. The Enterprise hurtles silently toward Karan Beta at near-warp and executes a momentum-dispelling figure-8 just below the ionosphere, minimizing the effect of the magnetic storm while avoiding a hard entry into the atmosphere. A perfect coordination of thrusters, an exquisitely calibrated firing sequence, and the great ship is as nimble as a hawk coasting on the updrafts on a cloudless day.
Following Mr. Spock's example, Charlene says nothing as the ship alights above its target, ready to beam down the landing party. It is, after all, exactly the outcome they planned for and expected, nothing more.
After a suitable interval she glances up at McCoy, who's slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing hard. Then she looks at the captain, who's looking back at her with one of those effervescent, childlike smiles that make him look exactly 26 years old and no more. What can she do but smile back?
"That," he says, "was awesome."
+++++
"But when you humor him, it just reinforces the behavior. He's getting the reaction he wants from you." She's waited through most of the meal to broach the subject; your boyfriend is neurotic isn't the sort of thing you just drop on someone, let alone the captain.
"He can't help it," Jim says, poking his plate of lukewarm lah'tem with his fork. "And he gets through it in the end, so what does it matter?"
"It makes him miserable. It distracts you." She places her hand on his to stop his fidgeting and make him look at her. "And it gets worse every time, because his brain remembers the fear, not the fact that he didn't die."
"You're a psychologist as well as an engineer, huh?" They've been learning a lot about each other, these past few weeks, but he hasn't learned yet that Charlene doesn't really fit in the mold of Scotty's bluff, hardware-obsessed roustabouts.
"I like understanding how things work. Including the human mind."
"Just one of the human organs you seem to know a lot about," Jim says with his now-familiar false innocence.
"I'm serious," she says. "You're no friend if you let this go on."
"So what do you suggest, Dr. Masters?"
"Positive reinforcement. Break the association with negative stimuli."
"So, what?" Jim picks up the institutional excuse for a chocolate chip cookie on his dessert plate. "Toss him a biscuit every time we leave atmosphere?"
"Not the reward I had in mind." He's quick; she doesn't have to let her eyebrow do the talking.
The grin that spreads across his face would melt butter.
+++++
Charlene enjoys having multiple partners because it's active, because the possibilities are multiple and because there's the arrangement of bodies in motion to consider.
Now, for example, Jim is busy between Leonard's thighs, running his lips over tender skin, lightly grazing his balls no more than every third or fourth pass, keeping Leonard guessing about when he'll next get stimulation. Charlene is enjoying his chest, running her palms over his pectorals, playing with his nipples as he arches and moans. The doctor's body is spectacular, and she's relieved that it's fulfilled the promise of one of the most-scrutinized uniforms on the ship.
At the foot of the bed, where Leonard can see it, is the captain's large vid screen, playing a montage of the Federation's greatest aerial maneuvers. She knows all of them by name; this one, just beginning, is the Lucasian Triple Roll.
"Stop," she says to Jim, and then, to Leonard, "Watch."
This is fourth time through, so he obeys her, watching the Bridge-view of the spiraling starship. The stars spin and Leonard moans, not from pleasure this time.
In response, she brushes her breast against he side of his face, He turns his head, mouthing her nipple, and the sight of those lips against it almost make her lose her concentration.
Almost. The screen goes black again.
At her nod, Jim wraps his lips around the head of Leonard's cock and begins to suck, gently, eyes fluttering half closed. It's very, very pretty, almost as pretty as what's taking place on the screen.
"Look," she says, "Pugachev's Cobra. What are we going to do for that?"
Jim catches her eye and laughs as well as he can with a mouth very full of cock and arches his back, sinuous as a snake. Charlene knows that the permutations of three bodies aren't infinite, but they don't have to be. Judging by the flush on Leonard's face, the way the corners of his mouth curve up, they're more than enough.
Outside (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17)
(From the eponymous prompt.)
Leonard reminds himself that he’s not an exhibitionist, though it’s pitch black outside the penumbra of the dying fire, and there’s no one to see them but little dark-eyed things that squeak and scuffle in the underbrush. He’s not an outdoorsman, which is why they’ve got a six-person tent, microcell mattresses, and a handheld sonic shower, along with a hand axe and an ancient liquid-fuel lighter that belonged to Jim’s dad.
Jim chopped the wood in the golden sun of late afternoon, stripped to the waist with a bandanna hanging out of his pocket and refused to shower afterward. Now he’s insisting that Leonard nail him not to the lumbar-friendly camping mattress, but to the hard ground with only a blanket between the earth and his bare ass. Leonard’s elbows and knees, which are considerably less well padded, are feeling it.
Even without his firm grasp of anatomy, Leonard is familiar enough with Jim’s body to know what he’s fumbling for in the tangle of denim, wool, and warm flesh. He passes a hand over Jim’s abdomen so he can feel the muscles contract as Jim lowers himself down on his back with a grunt.
The lack of access is frustrating; Leonard has a sequence, a series of stops that he likes to make on the road to orgasm. The small of Jim’s back, the nape of his neck and nipples, the backs of his knees are all covered or hard to reach. There is, however, Jim’s cock, rising to prominence like the moon in the velvet sky. Leonard wraps a hand around it and strokes, knowing that it’s just about all the foreplay Jim needs, but less than Leonard wants.
When Leonard’s hand crests the head of his cock Jim gasps and drops his head back, squirming a little to show he’s ready. Leonard’s own well-trained cock responds, urging him to get on with it, but he’s hung up on mechanics and not looking forward to the fumble for lube and the inevitable change in position. He pauses to kiss Jim, get a little hit of warmth off his lips, and consider whether to just go for a blow job instead.
“The Sol system ecliptic isn’t aligned with the galactic plane, you know.” Jim doesn’t even whisper it in his ear, but says it aloud. He’s more than usually full of non sequiturs tonight.
“Oddly enough, they don’t make surgeons study stellar cartography.” Leonard wedges a hand under one of Jim’s cheeks and squeezes to see if that will shut him up.
“In other words, no, you didn’t know. It’s about 60 degrees off, and the galactic center is there--” he points over Leonard’s shoulder. “In Sagittarius. Isn’t that wild? I never knew that until this Starfleet engineer told me, back in Iowa.”
Leonard brushes a thumb along the neutral zone between Jim’s ass and thigh, and tries to pay attention. Jim never mentions Iowa without a reason.
“Really.”
“Yeah. She was trying to get in my pants.”
“Jesus, how old were you?” Leonard doesn’t like this direction; it pings his retroactive fears about Jim’s wandering years, the bright, beautiful boy with a thin veneer of hardness that might have been just enough to protect him, or not.
“Legal. She didn’t have to try hard. But it got me hot, the way she talked about it. I guess I followed my cock into space.”
“But you always said Pike--oh.” He can make out Jim’s leer in the star-soaked darkness. “I’d rather not spend a beautiful evening listening to your admiral-shagging fantasies, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Don’t need to. Look.” He hisses it with such urgency that Leonard twists around, expecting to see a bear or something worse peering at them through the trees, but Jim is pointing at the sky.
Now that the fire has shifted to infrared and his eyes have adjusted, Leonard can see the Milky Way spread out in its full glory above them. The night is crisp and dry; the stars burn with a pure, steady white light.
“Beautiful. I don’t understand why, but they always look better from Earth.”
“Oh my God, meteor!” He grips Leonard’s bicep, excited as a kid. In a second or two, the silver trail is traced across the sky and vanishes. Jim’s enthusiasm is infectious, but like the cool air, it isn’t helping Leonard’s erection any.
“You want to stargaze, let’s stargaze. We can do everything else in the tent, preferably under the covers.” Leonard moves, hopeful, to help Jim pull up his pants.
“Uh-uh. Here.” He catches Leonard’s hand to stop it and grips it, tight, for just a few seconds.
When Leonard, obedient as always, slides inside him, it feels as good as always and maybe a little better for the novelty, cock buried in Jim’s human heat, ass exposed to the cool air, body divided into hemispheres, half in summer and half in winter.
Jim’s eyes are closed as Leonard starts to move inside him, but after a few strokes they open, and Leonard can see starlight.