A Prophet in His Own Country (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17), 3/3
<< Part 2
Under the curious gaze of the command crew, McCoy made his way, rather sheepishly, out. For all his protest to Kirk, it was odd and uncomfortable to be part of a high-profile relationship. Spock may have been the first to question his motives but would hardly be the last. He remembered the adage about Caesar’s wife and reflected that at least she wasn’t also a senior officer in the Roman army.
He ate lunch. He tried writing reports, but his mind kept wandering. Feeling restless, he headed down to the crew quarters level where he liked to walk laps in the wide, curving hall that spanned the circumference of the saucer section. He found it more relaxing, less hamster-wheelish than being on the treadmill in the gym, surrounded by sweating overachievers. Most of occupants of the ring knew his routine by now and simply nodded in greeting.
He found himself brooding less about Kirk’s questionable judgment about the mission and more about his questionable judgment concerning Spock. At least some of it was likely to be envy; it was disconcerting to think that he’d never have that same level of mental intimacy with Kirk, to know his inner landscape as well as he knew his outer one. On the other hand, humans had their own path to the same end, more circuitous but perhaps more enjoyable because of it. McCoy knew Kirk’s over-the-cliff approach to personal engagement well: a half hour after McCoy's tentative romantic overtures, Kirk had been naked and moaning underneath him. Spock’s initial hostility had thawed and Kirk had apparently responded by laying everything bare, throwing open the doors of his mind and letting Spock in. It might have been shallow, but on reflection McCoy felt that he’d gotten the better deal.
Halfway through his third circumambulation, his comm badge chirped.
“McCoy here.”
“Bones! Get up here. Kirk out.”
“Jim, what-“ but it was too late. In any case, Kirk would have told him if he needed his medical gear.
The change in atmosphere on the bridge was palpable. Instead of a bunch of tense-shouldered specialists peering into their displays, crew members were standing around as relaxed as if they were at a cocktail party.
“Bones!” Kirk was leaning back in the command chair, knees splayed wide, hands idly stroking the controls. “Since you were a major contributor to this effort, I wanted you to be here for the exciting conclusion. In approximately-how long, Mr. Spock?”
“Exactly 42 seconds, captain.”
“In exactly 42 seconds we’re going to have confirmation of our brilliant theory.” He waited a few beats, then checked his chrono. “Well, that went by fast. Mr. Spock?”
“Computer,” Spock said, appearing, ever so slightly, to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight, “what is the purpose of the sensor device?”
“The purpose of the device is to collect and transmit particle, shockwave and electromagnetic data to a device located at 55 mark 118.”
It meant nothing to McCoy, but the bridge erupted in cheers. Sulu and Chekov clapped each other on the shoulder, a group of science officers clustered around the engineering station exchanged collegial handshakes, and out of the corner of his eye, McCoy could see Uhura slide her hand along her station until it was touching Spock’s while she looked nonchalantly in the opposite direction.
“We did it, Bones!” Kirk said expansively. “Uhura figured out that the writing on the device was a short-form military version of Klingon. Spock reverse-engineered the code. Sulu figured out exactly what it was supposed to be measuring, and Chekov got the little sucker on board without disturbing the gyroscopes. And me,” he said, drumming on his chin with his fingers. “What did I do? Oh yes, I asked a lot of intelligent-sounding questions.”
“You were the one who suggested we take the time to examine it in the first place, sir,” Sulu said. He swiveled around to glance at McCoy. “If it had turned out to be nothing, the extra time would have put us way over. But it didn’t turn out to be nothing,” he finished, grinning.
“It’s a Klingon sensor, Bones, part of an array. They’re planning to post 'Keep Out' signs on this sector because they’re turning it into a proving ground. They’re going to be testing new weapons, and we’re going to be watching them do it. Scotty’s rigging up a little traveler we can place on board so that all the data will get sent back to the Admiralty. It’s beautiful.” Kirk slapped the arm of his chair.
“I am unsure of its aesthetic properties,” Spock said, looking almost pleased himself, “but it is indeed a satisfying conclusion to our investigation.” McCoy noticed there wasn’t a hint of I-told-you-so in Kirk’s eyes as they met Spock’s, just a warm and knowing smile.
“Well,” McCoy said, clearing his throat. “That’s good news. What does the admiral say to all this? It’s got to have more value than a planetary catalog.”
“Nothing yet,” Kirk shrugged. “She’s taking a nap or something. As I plan to be very soon.” He spun his chair a quarter turn and back. “Naps for everyone!” Uhura brought her fist to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Kirk’s giddy success was infectious, but if it went on much longer, he might be dancing Uhura around the bridge, to the detriment of all.
“The sooner the better, captain,” McCoy said, trying to look stern. “Now that everything’s under control, I recommend that you go to your quarters and get some sleep.”
“Whatever you say, doctor,” Kirk replied, with that loopy, irresistible smile. “You know I always follow your advice.”
+++++
Exactly a half-hour later, McCoy tapped his computer console. “Computer, what is the location of Captain Kirk?”
“Captain Kirk is the turbolift between decks A and D.” Technically off the bridge, anyway. Still, he planned to do a bed check in five minutes just to be sure. A moment later, the door chimed, and Kirk loped in.
“How does this constitute going to your quarters?” McCoy asked, looking up from his display screen.
“Your quarters, my quarters-have you ever noticed what weird things pronouns are, Bones?” He sauntered over to the desk and began rearranging McCoy’s small collection of knickknacks.
“Are you sure this is just fatigue? Because you seem high as a kite.”
“The admiral showed up about five minutes after you left. She’s thrilled with the sensor scheme. Starfleet Intelligence is drooling. And now we just have to go find a couple more of those sensors instead of a shitload of planets.”
“You can’t argue with success.”
“That’s right! So don’t even try.” He grabbed McCoy by the shoulders and leaned down for a sloppy, slightly off-center kiss. Still, McCoy could feel a faint hum of overstimulation and beneath that, exhaustion.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, standing up and tugging at Kirk’s gold shirt.
“I like where this is going.” McCoy ignored him and backed him toward the bed, shoving him into a sitting position on the bed so he could take off his boots, equestrian style, between his knees. With no further prompting, Kirk flopped back and landed with a thud.
“Bed. Good,” he sighed. “So good.” He patted the mattress weakly. “You, too. C’mon.”
“Jim, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“We’re in space,” he said crankily, voice starting to slur. “It’s midnight somewhere. Now c’mon. No, shirt off. Pants off.”
“Thank god success isn’t going to your head.” But McCoy did as he was told, because the bed and Kirk both looked inviting. Stripped down to his skivvies, he picked up Kirk’s legs and spun him around so he was laid out the right way, then rolled him over to make room. Kirk put up with the manhandling like an amiable sack of flour. As soon as McCoy lay down, Kirk rolled back toward him, hooked an arm around his waist, a leg around his knee, and fell asleep fast as a light switching off, breathing heavy and open-mouthed in his ear. It wasn’t exactly music, but it was close enough.
+++++
McCoy started awake. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but the sol light on his desk-issued to humans to prevent the disorientation of perpetual night-told him it was late afternoon.
It was rare that he could catch Jim sleeping, let alone sleeping deeply. Usually a messy, restless sprawl, he was now curled on his side facing McCoy, one arm under the pillow, the other fist clutched around the sheet. His face was pale and his lips were slightly parted, lashes resting against his cheeks, for once, without a tremble.
Whatever McCoy expected when he closed the final distance to begin sleeping with his best friend, this hadn’t been it. Jocelyn remained, in spite of everything, the template for what Jim derisively referred to as “romance,” but was closer to the ineffable lure of the unknown. Of course, that had been the problem; it had taken McCoy ten years to realize that he’d never really known her, or at least the woman she’d become; that all the things he thought they’d had in common-a love of small-town life, a garden full of prize-winning vegetables, a big dog to keep them warm on cool evenings-were things that she only loved because of him, and grew to hate because of him as well. In the end, McCoy had ended up being the one to pursue the things Jocelyn said she’d craved, adventure and challenge and risk.
Viewed from that perspective, his decision to join Starfleet might have been a means not to run away, but to finally understand her. Then he’d gone and fallen in love with someone who had risk and adventure woven into his DNA, and it ended up seeming as familiar as an old coat. It wasn’t sex that closed the gap, but a short list of minor and prosaic things. Jim always slept on the side of the bed nearest the door. He was a bit of a slob but fanatical about folding every last thing in his drawers, including his socks. He woke up not just with a boner, but a boner of ferocious proportions that on most mornings he somehow managed to ignore in spite of McCoy telling him it was a threat to the crew. The transition had been so easy, it had tricked McCoy into thinking it was next to nothing at all. Nothing, until he watched Jim Kirk asleep in his bed.
Jim woke up the way Jim always did, without preamble. He gave one of his little crooked insinuating smiles and wriggled closer, pushing himself by inches into McCoy’s arms. The other thing about Jim Kirk that was as predictable as death and taxes poked into McCoy’s thigh.
“And it’s not even morning.”
“Close enough.” Jim was still hazed with sleep but the habit of a few weeks was already kicking into gear, and he drowsily reached to stroke McCoy through his underwear while working lazy kisses from the hollow behind his earlobe down to his chin. It was so easy for McCoy to close his eyes and let his body take over, so rare that he allowed it to have any kind of vote at all, even now, when it seemed like such a good idea. But inertia wasn’t the same as momentum. He’d give in now, and then he’d give in again, and another month or two or three would pass, and the mystery would be no closer to being solved. He didn’t pull away, or even flinch, but Jim felt it all the same.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, pulling back a few inches to peer at him. “Not-morning breath?”
“No.” He watched with a pang as Jim’s smooth forehead creased.
“Oh.” Jim disengaged and rolled away far enough to sit up. McCoy already missed the warmth, was already taking a sharp shin-kick from the pleasure center of his brain: stupid, stupid.
“I shouldn’t be making a thing of this,” McCoy said, already remorseful. “You’ve had a hell of a couple of days. This’ll wait.”
“No, it won’t.” Jim cocked up a knee and rested his elbow on it. In the half-light of quarters, his features, strong in profile, were shadowed. “I owe you an answer. Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it.”
McCoy pushed himself up to a sitting position, too, and let his left leg drop to the floor for balance, a too-symbolic half-in, half-out.
“I spend a lot of timing staring at space,” Jim said, not looking at him. “You know how they say, ‘Command is lonely’? Well, sometimes it’s just boring. It’s funny-we collect all this scanning data, and none of it can tell you what’s actually going to happen. Like today. We could have collected every shred of information from every miserable, barren little planet and been no closer to knowing what the Klingons were going to do. Then we hear this little ping from a sensor, this little bird that thinks we’re its mommy, and we have the answer. I could have done the ‘right thing,’ what Spock and Subramanya wanted me to do, and been dead wrong. Do you know what I’m saying? God, I hope so, because I have no idea myself.”
His voice sounded husky; sleeping with his mouth open had parched his throat. McCoy said softly, “Do you want something to drink? Some juice, maybe?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” He waited, staring into the half-darkness, while McCoy went to his small replicator and came back with a glass of orange juice.
“Thanks.” Jim took the glass from him and drained half of it. “What I’m saying is, I could analyze this thing to death and come to the wrong conclusion. It could be eloquent and heartfelt and completely wrong. So I’m just going to follow my instincts. You asked me to tell you what I want? This is what I want. I know it may not seem like much to you-no house, no dog, no kids, just crazy brandy-swilling admirals and mysterious vortices and Klingons shooting at us. I know my standards are low, and I know I’m a selfish dick, but I want you to want this, too. I don’t want you to tolerate it out of loyalty or friendship or whatever. I don’t mind you complaining because at this point if you didn’t I’d think you were dead. But this should be good; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
“But I do appreciate it,” McCoy said with surprise. “Of course I do. Have I given you any other impression? Because if so, then I’m the selfish dick. It’s just that-this wasn’t the plan. It’s like I’m leading somebody else’s life, somebody smarter and braver and more adventurous than me. I was going to be a small-town doctor-you know, broken bones and lollipops and folksy wisdom. When that fell apart I joined Starfleet so someone could tell me what to do, because I knew fuck-all myself at that point. I figured I’d end up on some starbase or outpost, patching up engineers and learning to read Russian novels in Russian. It didn’t matter, as long as it was a few million kilometers away and I didn’t have to care about anything. And then you came along.”
“Sorry I messed up your brilliant plan.”
McCoy took the empty glass from him. “Your middle name is pretty much ‘Messed Up Plan.’ And mine is ‘Fucked Up Relationship.’ Well, not this time. If I’ve given you any reason to doubt, it stops now.” He pushed his hand up under the hem of Jim’s shirt so he could rest it on the small of his back. “I could say you’re two different people, my best friend and this brilliant, handsome starship captain. But you’re not; you’re always the same person, and I’m in just as much love with the starship captain as I am with my old Academy buddy. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect anything of this. But here we are.”
“In love with me?” That got Jim to turn his head.
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No. None at all. Especially since-“
“You don’t have to say it just because I did,” McCoy said quickly. “That’s only a rule in books.”
“I shouldn’t be taking your romantic advice, according to you.”
“That’s probably true. But save it. Trust me, it’s a good thing to hang on to for when you’re really in trouble.”
“Are you scared of me saying it?” Kirk looked merely curious.
“I just don’t want to force you into anything,” McCoy said. Kirk snorted. “Fine. But don’t tell me. Show me.”
McCoy had expected that line to be like pouring gasoline on a fire, but Kirk just slid an arm around his bare shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, slow and soft. Usually Kirk’s kisses were like assaulting the summit of K2; this was something different from his usual horny triumphalism. Jim kissed his mouth thoroughly, taking his time, before working his way back up the line of his chin to his ear. He felt Jim’s breath, hot and damp, blowing lightly, and he shivered. His tongue followed, tracing the contours, before Jim’s teeth deftly grabbed his earlobe and gently tugged. McCoy sighed and felt his back arch, his cock awakening, while he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders as if sinking into a warm bath.
Jim continued his exploration, down the tendon of McCoy’s neck and to the curve of his shoulder. He was naked to the waist, and Jim fully clothed; the exposure was part of the excitement, but he wanted to feel Jim’s skin against his. He slipped a hand under the hem of Jim’s shirt again, not stopping at the small of his back this time but sliding it up over the lean expanse of his back, tracing the hollow of his spine. Jim arched in turn, his mouth pausing for an intake of breath, and took the hint. He gave McCoy a sharp, amused look before pulling the black shirt efficiently over his head.
It was always a bit of a surprise, that sudden expanse of fair skin. Where McCoy was from, men worked outside with their shirts off a good part of the year. Jim’s pale flesh, with its light scattering of freckles, spoke of long, cold winters and northern heritage. Odd that it should matter, here in space where they were both foreigners, that they were from different parts of the same land mass. But that was part of the attraction of coming together, the desire to combine stories, to intertwine genes. Jim’s body was familiar because it was male, and exotic because it was someone else’s.
McCoy ran both hands up Jim’s body, front and back, enjoying the first contact of skin. It was warm from sleep and from being wrapped around McCoy, but Jim shivered, eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to tell Jim what it was like, to be able to touch him this way, but words had failed him a long time ago. Instead, he pushed Jim back against the pillows and began to explore in earnest, feeling unrepentantly possessive. Jim watched him, not passive but not challenging, letting McCoy do what he wanted. When he popped the button on Jim’s trousers he cracked a little smile, and shifted, raising his hips so McCoy could pull them down, pants and underwear at the same time. He tossed them on the floor and sat back on his knees, running light fingertips down Jim’s chest and sides, watching him flinch and shudder. He had all the time in the world now, never had to worry again that the evanescent thing that brought them together would let them drift apart again, never had to worry that any time would be the last time.
He let his touch deepen, stroking Jim’s abs and the slight swell of his belly, the indentations above his hipbones. He was already erect, but that was no surprise; he could count the times he’d seen Jim’s cock in its quiescent state on one hand. He’d pretended to diagnose priapism and offer treatment for it, and Jim had made it clear there was only one treatment he’d accept. Jim’s erect cock was beautiful, long and pale as the rest of him, but for now McCoy carefully avoided it, letting his hands drift down to massage his thighs instead.
Jim tipped his head back and cocked a knee, parting his legs to give McCoy better access. McCoy let his teasing fingertips graze along Jim’s inner thighs, within kissing distance of his balls, still refusing a direct touch. Jim arched and thrust his hips, not resisting but urging McCoy along, impatient. In response, McCoy shook his head a little and ran a finger from the swell of Jim’s cheeks to just behind his balls. His reaction was immediate; he gasped and reached out a lightning-quick hand to grab McCoy’s wrist and direct it where he wanted it to go. Just as fast, McCoy caught the hand and pushed it down firmly on the bed. When Jim, with a rebellious smirk, tried to lift it again, McCoy seized both wrists and climbed over him, forcing them down firmly next to his shoulders. He expected Jim to push back against him, anticipated the pleasure of feeling his lean strength, but Jim’s eyes closed tight and his lips parted in pure pleasure.
“You like that,” McCoy said wonderingly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Assume I like everything. Don’t stop.”
“Yes, sir.” His pants having suddenly gotten uncomfortable, McCoy called a timeout to remove them. Jim didn’t help, just watched with smoky appreciation. He thought that Jim could arouse him with nothing more than his eyes, the absolute focus, intense blueness always a little bloodshot, cool and hot at the same time. Kirk waited patiently, hands up, for McCoy to finish. Naked now, he straddled Jim and circled his obedient wrists with his hands, letting Jim see how the muscles of his chest and shoulders worked as he levered himself up and over, lowering his own erection so it brushed Jim’s, still keeping pure his refusal to touch him with his hands. Jim’s pelvis gave an involuntary jerk, and he shuddered. His eyes locked on McCoy’s and he tried to dare him with a taunting smile. At the feel of McCoy’s erection grazing along his own the smile failed him, and he gasped.
It took control and concentration to tease him this way, but it was worth the strain in his arms, the clenching feeling in his belly, to know that he could do this to Jim. It was not power but agency, the feeling of being the one to do the doing, not the one lost in helpless enjoyment, though that, as Jim was discovering, had its pleasures too. He knew it was likely impossible to come from this, but felt at the same time as if a slight adjustment in his brain, a click of a trigger, could make him if he wanted to. But it was much too soon.
McCoy lowered his body over Jim’s, giving them both relief. Though his wrists were free, Jim held them patiently at his sides for a few moments, waiting for tacit permission to wrap them around the hard, solid expanse of McCoy’s back. McCoy didn’t spare his weight, let it rest fully and heavily on Jim, feeling how they were wedded at groin and belly and chest. Now McCoy began to kiss him, harder than he’d been kissed before. He nipped lightly at Jim’s lips with his own, insinuating his tongue, a little at first and then more as Jim opened his mouth, allowing full access. There was nothing he couldn’t do; that’s what Jim was trying to tell him. The thought sent a jolt to McCoy’s groin and he drew back with a gasp, leaving Jim kissing air, his eyes popping open, blurry and unfocused.
McCoy leaned awkwardly across him to the nightstand, putting his left nipple within range of Jim’s mouth, but Jim showed restraint, waiting for his fumbling hand to find the bottle. With what he needed in his grasp, he settled back on his knees once more, still straddling Jim’s narrow hips but shifting down a little lower, providing clearance for their cocks. He made a production out of pouring some of the viscous liquid into his palm, not able to keep an entirely straight face but not caring, either. Jim watched, almost vibrating with impatience to be touched, but matching McCoy’s smile, amused and aroused in equal measure.
“You have no idea how hot you look right now," Jim whispered. "You could do this to me all night, and I’d let you. I wouldn’t even beg you to touch my cock, I’d let you. Unless you want me to beg. Do you?”
“You don’t have to beg. I’ll give you whatever you want,” McCoy said hoarsely, willing his erection back under control. The dirty talk was new; people Jim seduced tended to stay seduced. It tested his newfound discipline sorely.
The liquid in his palm had warmed to the heat of his body. He cupped the hand under Jim’s sac and stroked upward, coating the underside of his cock in one long, slow stroke. Jim’s reaction was immediate; he gave a breathy gasp and arched half off the bed, grabbing fistfuls of sheet. The first touch was the hardest, McCoy knew, so he smoothed the liquid up to the head and back down, leaving no part of his cock untouched. It glistened, taut and flushed, a miracle of resurrection.
He pressed his free hand to the side of Jim’s hip, hooking his thumb around the hipbone, not to restrain but to anchor. With his sticky right hand he began to stroke again, making a V, rubbing his palm over the balls and up the shaft to finish with a wet twist over the head. He knew what it felt like; his own cock twitched in sympathetic response. He let go of Jim’s hip long enough to tease his foreskin back, gently running his thumb around the exposed head. Jim made a faint mewling sound, and McCoy saw his fingers twitch, as if he were fighting the urge to involve his two very capable and currently idle hands.
He would have been happy to play with Jim’s cock all evening; maybe someday he would. But it wasn’t the long, lazy nighttime and it probably wasn’t fair, since Jim was exhausted and would probably have to drag himself back to the bridge before too long. McCoy grabbed the little bottle again and dripped more fluid onto his fingers. This time he used it on himself, enough to do the job but not so much that he couldn’t enjoy a little of the tight, fiery friction. Jim’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see McCoy position himself over Jim’s rigid cock and carefully lower himself, making sure it didn’t happen too quickly, that Jim got that feeling of being on the threshold for a moment before he popped inside. At the instant of penetration Jim’s eyes flew open, and, as if a spell had been broken, he clutched at McCoy’s arms, which were tight from the strain of resisting the desire to impale himself fully and immediately.
“Holy shit,” Jim said, gasping.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah yeah yeah. Keep going.”
Inch by inch, McCoy let himself slide down, engulfing Jim and taking him inside. His reward was the brush against his prostate, the guttural noises that were issuing from Jim’s red and parted lips. Jim slid his hands down to rest on McCoy’s hips, riding the subtle motion as McCoy began to rise and fall, a matter of centimeters, knowing the slightest movement would be enough. Under Kirk’s gaze, now bright and fully engaged, he wrapped his hand, still just barely slick enough, around his own cock and began to stroke it in the same lazy rhythm.
“Oh, god,” Jim said, with something between a hiccup and a moan. “That’s going to be burned into my brain. That’ll be the last thing I see before I die.”
“Then you better be prepared to finish me off in the afterlife,” McCoy said with a little thrust. He felt a bottomless greed, to take his time and make it last, but Jim’s cock was twitching inside him, his sighs and moans getting more desperate. Rising on his knees he gave three long thrusts and then reached back, brushing the underside of Jim’s balls while he gave himself one hard, decisive jerk. He came first, remembering just in time to aim low, spurting over Jim’s chest and belly, as Jim cried out and gripped his hips tight enough to bruise, and let go. He could feel the pulses as Jim emptied himself, the ecstatic expression on his face filling his own vision before as gray spots tried to crowd in.
They stayed like that for long moments, spent and sticky, until Jim began to make uncomfortable noises; his epic climaxes tended to leave him sore afterward. McCoy detached, the exit a little more painful than the entry, and having no strength to spare, collapsed down again across Jim’s chest.
“Sorry,” he said into his clavicle.
“No problem,” Jim said, voice an octave higher than normal and dreamy. “You’re a heavy guy, but I like the way it feels. You between me and the world.”
McCoy turned his face so he could kiss Jim’s neck, too lazily sated to go for his mouth. “You should go back to sleep. I’ll vouch that it’s medically necessary.”
“If you use that excuse every time you want to fuck me twice, people are going to catch on,” Kirk said, running a slow-motion hand over his hair. “I’m definitely going to need to shower, though. Spock has a nose like a bloodhound.”
“And how I look forward to his wry commentary. Do you think we could arrange an armistice with Spock and Uhura, or maybe a mutual defense treaty? I'm sure the admiral would negotiate it for us.”
“No need. Spock knows what’s going on. He’s known for a long time. I think he’s been pretty discreet, don’t you?”
“Spock knows what?” This was worth McCoy lifting his head, so he could pin Jim with a glare. “Oh, no, no, no. That mind thing did not give Spock free reign to eavesdrop on our sex lives. It didn’t, or I’m going to take back all the nice things I said about you.”
“I assure you, he finds the idea of you having access to my body as distasteful as you find the idea of him having access to my brain. You have nothing to worry about.”
“This is already much more complicated than I want it to be, and it’s been what? An hour?”
“Give us some credit,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “If you start counting from Riverside-which I do, because I know of several cultures where vomiting on someone is considered a proposal of marriage--then it’s been almost half a decade. Wow, this is easy. If I’d known how easy, I could have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“The trouble is part of the fun,” McCoy said, his weight making it no easier for Jim to get out of bed. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
+++++
Spock meditates alone that evening because Nyota Uhura has decided to stay at the impromptu celebration being hosted by the admiral in the observation lounge. When Spock left, Admiral Subramanya was offering instruction in a dance called the merengue, using the captain and Dr. McCoy to demonstrate. Spock understands the human need to memorialize successes in this manner, but does not share it. Moreoever, to the considerable disappointment of Nyota Uhura, Spock does not dance.
There is no skill required to locate Jim’s mind tonight; a Vulcan child could do it. It is clear and bright as a star through the unfiltering medium of space. Spock is careful not to allow Jim’s emotions to transmit to his own. It is a cardinal violation of the mind link to do so. But he feels a deep satisfaction that Jim, after so many days of stress and worry and so many weeks of nameless anxiety over a matter Spock could not and would not try to fathom, is content at last. More than content: he is like a beacon radiating joy and pleasure, for those that have minds to perceive it.
The door swishes open and Nyota steps in noiselessly. Spock almost smiles; he has been so immersed in Jim’s mind that he failed to detect her approach.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she says, bending down to kiss the back of his neck. “I just came to say goodnight. I’ll be going straight to bed; I’m dead on my feet. Not literally,” she adds quickly, not giving him a chance to tease her on the subject of human metaphors.
“I would not suggest that you do otherwise,” Spock says, taking her hand as she sinks to the floor beside him. “The last few days have been most taxing.” He does not add that it has not been so for him; humans do not like to be reminded of their relative weakness.
“I don’t know how he does it,” she says wonderingly. “We go from probable failure to complete, blazing victory in 48 hours, and he manages to charm the pants off the admiral. Figure of speech!” she says, catching his look. “I swear, you’re almost impossible to talk to.”
“I do not believe that it is the admiral’s pants the captain wishes to charm off,” Spock says solemnly. Nyota’s long eyelashes flash upward.
“Was that a joke?” she asks incredulously. “Unbelievable. What’s gotten into you?”
“I do not know,” Spock says, slipping an arm around her slender waist. “But I think that I am happy.”
+++++
Geeky Notes: Boy, did I invite myself a lot of technobabble and canon trouble by introducing a detail-oriented admiral. As there are still no deck plans for the Alternate 1701, this is an awkward mashup between the original 1701, the refit, and the 1701A. The location of the captain's ready room is purposely vague since, if it exists, it's likely on the deck below the bridge, but it's more fun (and makes more sense) to have it adjacent to the bridge. Kids: Don't store your frozen deuterium on the Flight Deck just because people on the Internet do it! That stuff is highly flammable. It’s also total nonsense, because frozen deuterium would be much better kept in an unpressurized cargo hold, but at that point I was too in love with the idea of frozen deuterium to care. For canon!queen northatlantic : the death rate on the Enterprise is TOS canon.
And Sulu/Chekov shippers: that was a joke. Please don’t kill me.
Under the curious gaze of the command crew, McCoy made his way, rather sheepishly, out. For all his protest to Kirk, it was odd and uncomfortable to be part of a high-profile relationship. Spock may have been the first to question his motives but would hardly be the last. He remembered the adage about Caesar’s wife and reflected that at least she wasn’t also a senior officer in the Roman army.
He ate lunch. He tried writing reports, but his mind kept wandering. Feeling restless, he headed down to the crew quarters level where he liked to walk laps in the wide, curving hall that spanned the circumference of the saucer section. He found it more relaxing, less hamster-wheelish than being on the treadmill in the gym, surrounded by sweating overachievers. Most of occupants of the ring knew his routine by now and simply nodded in greeting.
He found himself brooding less about Kirk’s questionable judgment about the mission and more about his questionable judgment concerning Spock. At least some of it was likely to be envy; it was disconcerting to think that he’d never have that same level of mental intimacy with Kirk, to know his inner landscape as well as he knew his outer one. On the other hand, humans had their own path to the same end, more circuitous but perhaps more enjoyable because of it. McCoy knew Kirk’s over-the-cliff approach to personal engagement well: a half hour after McCoy's tentative romantic overtures, Kirk had been naked and moaning underneath him. Spock’s initial hostility had thawed and Kirk had apparently responded by laying everything bare, throwing open the doors of his mind and letting Spock in. It might have been shallow, but on reflection McCoy felt that he’d gotten the better deal.
Halfway through his third circumambulation, his comm badge chirped.
“McCoy here.”
“Bones! Get up here. Kirk out.”
“Jim, what-“ but it was too late. In any case, Kirk would have told him if he needed his medical gear.
The change in atmosphere on the bridge was palpable. Instead of a bunch of tense-shouldered specialists peering into their displays, crew members were standing around as relaxed as if they were at a cocktail party.
“Bones!” Kirk was leaning back in the command chair, knees splayed wide, hands idly stroking the controls. “Since you were a major contributor to this effort, I wanted you to be here for the exciting conclusion. In approximately-how long, Mr. Spock?”
“Exactly 42 seconds, captain.”
“In exactly 42 seconds we’re going to have confirmation of our brilliant theory.” He waited a few beats, then checked his chrono. “Well, that went by fast. Mr. Spock?”
“Computer,” Spock said, appearing, ever so slightly, to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight, “what is the purpose of the sensor device?”
“The purpose of the device is to collect and transmit particle, shockwave and electromagnetic data to a device located at 55 mark 118.”
It meant nothing to McCoy, but the bridge erupted in cheers. Sulu and Chekov clapped each other on the shoulder, a group of science officers clustered around the engineering station exchanged collegial handshakes, and out of the corner of his eye, McCoy could see Uhura slide her hand along her station until it was touching Spock’s while she looked nonchalantly in the opposite direction.
“We did it, Bones!” Kirk said expansively. “Uhura figured out that the writing on the device was a short-form military version of Klingon. Spock reverse-engineered the code. Sulu figured out exactly what it was supposed to be measuring, and Chekov got the little sucker on board without disturbing the gyroscopes. And me,” he said, drumming on his chin with his fingers. “What did I do? Oh yes, I asked a lot of intelligent-sounding questions.”
“You were the one who suggested we take the time to examine it in the first place, sir,” Sulu said. He swiveled around to glance at McCoy. “If it had turned out to be nothing, the extra time would have put us way over. But it didn’t turn out to be nothing,” he finished, grinning.
“It’s a Klingon sensor, Bones, part of an array. They’re planning to post 'Keep Out' signs on this sector because they’re turning it into a proving ground. They’re going to be testing new weapons, and we’re going to be watching them do it. Scotty’s rigging up a little traveler we can place on board so that all the data will get sent back to the Admiralty. It’s beautiful.” Kirk slapped the arm of his chair.
“I am unsure of its aesthetic properties,” Spock said, looking almost pleased himself, “but it is indeed a satisfying conclusion to our investigation.” McCoy noticed there wasn’t a hint of I-told-you-so in Kirk’s eyes as they met Spock’s, just a warm and knowing smile.
“Well,” McCoy said, clearing his throat. “That’s good news. What does the admiral say to all this? It’s got to have more value than a planetary catalog.”
“Nothing yet,” Kirk shrugged. “She’s taking a nap or something. As I plan to be very soon.” He spun his chair a quarter turn and back. “Naps for everyone!” Uhura brought her fist to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Kirk’s giddy success was infectious, but if it went on much longer, he might be dancing Uhura around the bridge, to the detriment of all.
“The sooner the better, captain,” McCoy said, trying to look stern. “Now that everything’s under control, I recommend that you go to your quarters and get some sleep.”
“Whatever you say, doctor,” Kirk replied, with that loopy, irresistible smile. “You know I always follow your advice.”
+++++
Exactly a half-hour later, McCoy tapped his computer console. “Computer, what is the location of Captain Kirk?”
“Captain Kirk is the turbolift between decks A and D.” Technically off the bridge, anyway. Still, he planned to do a bed check in five minutes just to be sure. A moment later, the door chimed, and Kirk loped in.
“How does this constitute going to your quarters?” McCoy asked, looking up from his display screen.
“Your quarters, my quarters-have you ever noticed what weird things pronouns are, Bones?” He sauntered over to the desk and began rearranging McCoy’s small collection of knickknacks.
“Are you sure this is just fatigue? Because you seem high as a kite.”
“The admiral showed up about five minutes after you left. She’s thrilled with the sensor scheme. Starfleet Intelligence is drooling. And now we just have to go find a couple more of those sensors instead of a shitload of planets.”
“You can’t argue with success.”
“That’s right! So don’t even try.” He grabbed McCoy by the shoulders and leaned down for a sloppy, slightly off-center kiss. Still, McCoy could feel a faint hum of overstimulation and beneath that, exhaustion.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, standing up and tugging at Kirk’s gold shirt.
“I like where this is going.” McCoy ignored him and backed him toward the bed, shoving him into a sitting position on the bed so he could take off his boots, equestrian style, between his knees. With no further prompting, Kirk flopped back and landed with a thud.
“Bed. Good,” he sighed. “So good.” He patted the mattress weakly. “You, too. C’mon.”
“Jim, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“We’re in space,” he said crankily, voice starting to slur. “It’s midnight somewhere. Now c’mon. No, shirt off. Pants off.”
“Thank god success isn’t going to your head.” But McCoy did as he was told, because the bed and Kirk both looked inviting. Stripped down to his skivvies, he picked up Kirk’s legs and spun him around so he was laid out the right way, then rolled him over to make room. Kirk put up with the manhandling like an amiable sack of flour. As soon as McCoy lay down, Kirk rolled back toward him, hooked an arm around his waist, a leg around his knee, and fell asleep fast as a light switching off, breathing heavy and open-mouthed in his ear. It wasn’t exactly music, but it was close enough.
+++++
McCoy started awake. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but the sol light on his desk-issued to humans to prevent the disorientation of perpetual night-told him it was late afternoon.
It was rare that he could catch Jim sleeping, let alone sleeping deeply. Usually a messy, restless sprawl, he was now curled on his side facing McCoy, one arm under the pillow, the other fist clutched around the sheet. His face was pale and his lips were slightly parted, lashes resting against his cheeks, for once, without a tremble.
Whatever McCoy expected when he closed the final distance to begin sleeping with his best friend, this hadn’t been it. Jocelyn remained, in spite of everything, the template for what Jim derisively referred to as “romance,” but was closer to the ineffable lure of the unknown. Of course, that had been the problem; it had taken McCoy ten years to realize that he’d never really known her, or at least the woman she’d become; that all the things he thought they’d had in common-a love of small-town life, a garden full of prize-winning vegetables, a big dog to keep them warm on cool evenings-were things that she only loved because of him, and grew to hate because of him as well. In the end, McCoy had ended up being the one to pursue the things Jocelyn said she’d craved, adventure and challenge and risk.
Viewed from that perspective, his decision to join Starfleet might have been a means not to run away, but to finally understand her. Then he’d gone and fallen in love with someone who had risk and adventure woven into his DNA, and it ended up seeming as familiar as an old coat. It wasn’t sex that closed the gap, but a short list of minor and prosaic things. Jim always slept on the side of the bed nearest the door. He was a bit of a slob but fanatical about folding every last thing in his drawers, including his socks. He woke up not just with a boner, but a boner of ferocious proportions that on most mornings he somehow managed to ignore in spite of McCoy telling him it was a threat to the crew. The transition had been so easy, it had tricked McCoy into thinking it was next to nothing at all. Nothing, until he watched Jim Kirk asleep in his bed.
Jim woke up the way Jim always did, without preamble. He gave one of his little crooked insinuating smiles and wriggled closer, pushing himself by inches into McCoy’s arms. The other thing about Jim Kirk that was as predictable as death and taxes poked into McCoy’s thigh.
“And it’s not even morning.”
“Close enough.” Jim was still hazed with sleep but the habit of a few weeks was already kicking into gear, and he drowsily reached to stroke McCoy through his underwear while working lazy kisses from the hollow behind his earlobe down to his chin. It was so easy for McCoy to close his eyes and let his body take over, so rare that he allowed it to have any kind of vote at all, even now, when it seemed like such a good idea. But inertia wasn’t the same as momentum. He’d give in now, and then he’d give in again, and another month or two or three would pass, and the mystery would be no closer to being solved. He didn’t pull away, or even flinch, but Jim felt it all the same.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, pulling back a few inches to peer at him. “Not-morning breath?”
“No.” He watched with a pang as Jim’s smooth forehead creased.
“Oh.” Jim disengaged and rolled away far enough to sit up. McCoy already missed the warmth, was already taking a sharp shin-kick from the pleasure center of his brain: stupid, stupid.
“I shouldn’t be making a thing of this,” McCoy said, already remorseful. “You’ve had a hell of a couple of days. This’ll wait.”
“No, it won’t.” Jim cocked up a knee and rested his elbow on it. In the half-light of quarters, his features, strong in profile, were shadowed. “I owe you an answer. Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it.”
McCoy pushed himself up to a sitting position, too, and let his left leg drop to the floor for balance, a too-symbolic half-in, half-out.
“I spend a lot of timing staring at space,” Jim said, not looking at him. “You know how they say, ‘Command is lonely’? Well, sometimes it’s just boring. It’s funny-we collect all this scanning data, and none of it can tell you what’s actually going to happen. Like today. We could have collected every shred of information from every miserable, barren little planet and been no closer to knowing what the Klingons were going to do. Then we hear this little ping from a sensor, this little bird that thinks we’re its mommy, and we have the answer. I could have done the ‘right thing,’ what Spock and Subramanya wanted me to do, and been dead wrong. Do you know what I’m saying? God, I hope so, because I have no idea myself.”
His voice sounded husky; sleeping with his mouth open had parched his throat. McCoy said softly, “Do you want something to drink? Some juice, maybe?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” He waited, staring into the half-darkness, while McCoy went to his small replicator and came back with a glass of orange juice.
“Thanks.” Jim took the glass from him and drained half of it. “What I’m saying is, I could analyze this thing to death and come to the wrong conclusion. It could be eloquent and heartfelt and completely wrong. So I’m just going to follow my instincts. You asked me to tell you what I want? This is what I want. I know it may not seem like much to you-no house, no dog, no kids, just crazy brandy-swilling admirals and mysterious vortices and Klingons shooting at us. I know my standards are low, and I know I’m a selfish dick, but I want you to want this, too. I don’t want you to tolerate it out of loyalty or friendship or whatever. I don’t mind you complaining because at this point if you didn’t I’d think you were dead. But this should be good; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
“But I do appreciate it,” McCoy said with surprise. “Of course I do. Have I given you any other impression? Because if so, then I’m the selfish dick. It’s just that-this wasn’t the plan. It’s like I’m leading somebody else’s life, somebody smarter and braver and more adventurous than me. I was going to be a small-town doctor-you know, broken bones and lollipops and folksy wisdom. When that fell apart I joined Starfleet so someone could tell me what to do, because I knew fuck-all myself at that point. I figured I’d end up on some starbase or outpost, patching up engineers and learning to read Russian novels in Russian. It didn’t matter, as long as it was a few million kilometers away and I didn’t have to care about anything. And then you came along.”
“Sorry I messed up your brilliant plan.”
McCoy took the empty glass from him. “Your middle name is pretty much ‘Messed Up Plan.’ And mine is ‘Fucked Up Relationship.’ Well, not this time. If I’ve given you any reason to doubt, it stops now.” He pushed his hand up under the hem of Jim’s shirt so he could rest it on the small of his back. “I could say you’re two different people, my best friend and this brilliant, handsome starship captain. But you’re not; you’re always the same person, and I’m in just as much love with the starship captain as I am with my old Academy buddy. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect anything of this. But here we are.”
“In love with me?” That got Jim to turn his head.
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No. None at all. Especially since-“
“You don’t have to say it just because I did,” McCoy said quickly. “That’s only a rule in books.”
“I shouldn’t be taking your romantic advice, according to you.”
“That’s probably true. But save it. Trust me, it’s a good thing to hang on to for when you’re really in trouble.”
“Are you scared of me saying it?” Kirk looked merely curious.
“I just don’t want to force you into anything,” McCoy said. Kirk snorted. “Fine. But don’t tell me. Show me.”
McCoy had expected that line to be like pouring gasoline on a fire, but Kirk just slid an arm around his bare shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, slow and soft. Usually Kirk’s kisses were like assaulting the summit of K2; this was something different from his usual horny triumphalism. Jim kissed his mouth thoroughly, taking his time, before working his way back up the line of his chin to his ear. He felt Jim’s breath, hot and damp, blowing lightly, and he shivered. His tongue followed, tracing the contours, before Jim’s teeth deftly grabbed his earlobe and gently tugged. McCoy sighed and felt his back arch, his cock awakening, while he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders as if sinking into a warm bath.
Jim continued his exploration, down the tendon of McCoy’s neck and to the curve of his shoulder. He was naked to the waist, and Jim fully clothed; the exposure was part of the excitement, but he wanted to feel Jim’s skin against his. He slipped a hand under the hem of Jim’s shirt again, not stopping at the small of his back this time but sliding it up over the lean expanse of his back, tracing the hollow of his spine. Jim arched in turn, his mouth pausing for an intake of breath, and took the hint. He gave McCoy a sharp, amused look before pulling the black shirt efficiently over his head.
It was always a bit of a surprise, that sudden expanse of fair skin. Where McCoy was from, men worked outside with their shirts off a good part of the year. Jim’s pale flesh, with its light scattering of freckles, spoke of long, cold winters and northern heritage. Odd that it should matter, here in space where they were both foreigners, that they were from different parts of the same land mass. But that was part of the attraction of coming together, the desire to combine stories, to intertwine genes. Jim’s body was familiar because it was male, and exotic because it was someone else’s.
McCoy ran both hands up Jim’s body, front and back, enjoying the first contact of skin. It was warm from sleep and from being wrapped around McCoy, but Jim shivered, eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to tell Jim what it was like, to be able to touch him this way, but words had failed him a long time ago. Instead, he pushed Jim back against the pillows and began to explore in earnest, feeling unrepentantly possessive. Jim watched him, not passive but not challenging, letting McCoy do what he wanted. When he popped the button on Jim’s trousers he cracked a little smile, and shifted, raising his hips so McCoy could pull them down, pants and underwear at the same time. He tossed them on the floor and sat back on his knees, running light fingertips down Jim’s chest and sides, watching him flinch and shudder. He had all the time in the world now, never had to worry again that the evanescent thing that brought them together would let them drift apart again, never had to worry that any time would be the last time.
He let his touch deepen, stroking Jim’s abs and the slight swell of his belly, the indentations above his hipbones. He was already erect, but that was no surprise; he could count the times he’d seen Jim’s cock in its quiescent state on one hand. He’d pretended to diagnose priapism and offer treatment for it, and Jim had made it clear there was only one treatment he’d accept. Jim’s erect cock was beautiful, long and pale as the rest of him, but for now McCoy carefully avoided it, letting his hands drift down to massage his thighs instead.
Jim tipped his head back and cocked a knee, parting his legs to give McCoy better access. McCoy let his teasing fingertips graze along Jim’s inner thighs, within kissing distance of his balls, still refusing a direct touch. Jim arched and thrust his hips, not resisting but urging McCoy along, impatient. In response, McCoy shook his head a little and ran a finger from the swell of Jim’s cheeks to just behind his balls. His reaction was immediate; he gasped and reached out a lightning-quick hand to grab McCoy’s wrist and direct it where he wanted it to go. Just as fast, McCoy caught the hand and pushed it down firmly on the bed. When Jim, with a rebellious smirk, tried to lift it again, McCoy seized both wrists and climbed over him, forcing them down firmly next to his shoulders. He expected Jim to push back against him, anticipated the pleasure of feeling his lean strength, but Jim’s eyes closed tight and his lips parted in pure pleasure.
“You like that,” McCoy said wonderingly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Assume I like everything. Don’t stop.”
“Yes, sir.” His pants having suddenly gotten uncomfortable, McCoy called a timeout to remove them. Jim didn’t help, just watched with smoky appreciation. He thought that Jim could arouse him with nothing more than his eyes, the absolute focus, intense blueness always a little bloodshot, cool and hot at the same time. Kirk waited patiently, hands up, for McCoy to finish. Naked now, he straddled Jim and circled his obedient wrists with his hands, letting Jim see how the muscles of his chest and shoulders worked as he levered himself up and over, lowering his own erection so it brushed Jim’s, still keeping pure his refusal to touch him with his hands. Jim’s pelvis gave an involuntary jerk, and he shuddered. His eyes locked on McCoy’s and he tried to dare him with a taunting smile. At the feel of McCoy’s erection grazing along his own the smile failed him, and he gasped.
It took control and concentration to tease him this way, but it was worth the strain in his arms, the clenching feeling in his belly, to know that he could do this to Jim. It was not power but agency, the feeling of being the one to do the doing, not the one lost in helpless enjoyment, though that, as Jim was discovering, had its pleasures too. He knew it was likely impossible to come from this, but felt at the same time as if a slight adjustment in his brain, a click of a trigger, could make him if he wanted to. But it was much too soon.
McCoy lowered his body over Jim’s, giving them both relief. Though his wrists were free, Jim held them patiently at his sides for a few moments, waiting for tacit permission to wrap them around the hard, solid expanse of McCoy’s back. McCoy didn’t spare his weight, let it rest fully and heavily on Jim, feeling how they were wedded at groin and belly and chest. Now McCoy began to kiss him, harder than he’d been kissed before. He nipped lightly at Jim’s lips with his own, insinuating his tongue, a little at first and then more as Jim opened his mouth, allowing full access. There was nothing he couldn’t do; that’s what Jim was trying to tell him. The thought sent a jolt to McCoy’s groin and he drew back with a gasp, leaving Jim kissing air, his eyes popping open, blurry and unfocused.
McCoy leaned awkwardly across him to the nightstand, putting his left nipple within range of Jim’s mouth, but Jim showed restraint, waiting for his fumbling hand to find the bottle. With what he needed in his grasp, he settled back on his knees once more, still straddling Jim’s narrow hips but shifting down a little lower, providing clearance for their cocks. He made a production out of pouring some of the viscous liquid into his palm, not able to keep an entirely straight face but not caring, either. Jim watched, almost vibrating with impatience to be touched, but matching McCoy’s smile, amused and aroused in equal measure.
“You have no idea how hot you look right now," Jim whispered. "You could do this to me all night, and I’d let you. I wouldn’t even beg you to touch my cock, I’d let you. Unless you want me to beg. Do you?”
“You don’t have to beg. I’ll give you whatever you want,” McCoy said hoarsely, willing his erection back under control. The dirty talk was new; people Jim seduced tended to stay seduced. It tested his newfound discipline sorely.
The liquid in his palm had warmed to the heat of his body. He cupped the hand under Jim’s sac and stroked upward, coating the underside of his cock in one long, slow stroke. Jim’s reaction was immediate; he gave a breathy gasp and arched half off the bed, grabbing fistfuls of sheet. The first touch was the hardest, McCoy knew, so he smoothed the liquid up to the head and back down, leaving no part of his cock untouched. It glistened, taut and flushed, a miracle of resurrection.
He pressed his free hand to the side of Jim’s hip, hooking his thumb around the hipbone, not to restrain but to anchor. With his sticky right hand he began to stroke again, making a V, rubbing his palm over the balls and up the shaft to finish with a wet twist over the head. He knew what it felt like; his own cock twitched in sympathetic response. He let go of Jim’s hip long enough to tease his foreskin back, gently running his thumb around the exposed head. Jim made a faint mewling sound, and McCoy saw his fingers twitch, as if he were fighting the urge to involve his two very capable and currently idle hands.
He would have been happy to play with Jim’s cock all evening; maybe someday he would. But it wasn’t the long, lazy nighttime and it probably wasn’t fair, since Jim was exhausted and would probably have to drag himself back to the bridge before too long. McCoy grabbed the little bottle again and dripped more fluid onto his fingers. This time he used it on himself, enough to do the job but not so much that he couldn’t enjoy a little of the tight, fiery friction. Jim’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see McCoy position himself over Jim’s rigid cock and carefully lower himself, making sure it didn’t happen too quickly, that Jim got that feeling of being on the threshold for a moment before he popped inside. At the instant of penetration Jim’s eyes flew open, and, as if a spell had been broken, he clutched at McCoy’s arms, which were tight from the strain of resisting the desire to impale himself fully and immediately.
“Holy shit,” Jim said, gasping.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah yeah yeah. Keep going.”
Inch by inch, McCoy let himself slide down, engulfing Jim and taking him inside. His reward was the brush against his prostate, the guttural noises that were issuing from Jim’s red and parted lips. Jim slid his hands down to rest on McCoy’s hips, riding the subtle motion as McCoy began to rise and fall, a matter of centimeters, knowing the slightest movement would be enough. Under Kirk’s gaze, now bright and fully engaged, he wrapped his hand, still just barely slick enough, around his own cock and began to stroke it in the same lazy rhythm.
“Oh, god,” Jim said, with something between a hiccup and a moan. “That’s going to be burned into my brain. That’ll be the last thing I see before I die.”
“Then you better be prepared to finish me off in the afterlife,” McCoy said with a little thrust. He felt a bottomless greed, to take his time and make it last, but Jim’s cock was twitching inside him, his sighs and moans getting more desperate. Rising on his knees he gave three long thrusts and then reached back, brushing the underside of Jim’s balls while he gave himself one hard, decisive jerk. He came first, remembering just in time to aim low, spurting over Jim’s chest and belly, as Jim cried out and gripped his hips tight enough to bruise, and let go. He could feel the pulses as Jim emptied himself, the ecstatic expression on his face filling his own vision before as gray spots tried to crowd in.
They stayed like that for long moments, spent and sticky, until Jim began to make uncomfortable noises; his epic climaxes tended to leave him sore afterward. McCoy detached, the exit a little more painful than the entry, and having no strength to spare, collapsed down again across Jim’s chest.
“Sorry,” he said into his clavicle.
“No problem,” Jim said, voice an octave higher than normal and dreamy. “You’re a heavy guy, but I like the way it feels. You between me and the world.”
McCoy turned his face so he could kiss Jim’s neck, too lazily sated to go for his mouth. “You should go back to sleep. I’ll vouch that it’s medically necessary.”
“If you use that excuse every time you want to fuck me twice, people are going to catch on,” Kirk said, running a slow-motion hand over his hair. “I’m definitely going to need to shower, though. Spock has a nose like a bloodhound.”
“And how I look forward to his wry commentary. Do you think we could arrange an armistice with Spock and Uhura, or maybe a mutual defense treaty? I'm sure the admiral would negotiate it for us.”
“No need. Spock knows what’s going on. He’s known for a long time. I think he’s been pretty discreet, don’t you?”
“Spock knows what?” This was worth McCoy lifting his head, so he could pin Jim with a glare. “Oh, no, no, no. That mind thing did not give Spock free reign to eavesdrop on our sex lives. It didn’t, or I’m going to take back all the nice things I said about you.”
“I assure you, he finds the idea of you having access to my body as distasteful as you find the idea of him having access to my brain. You have nothing to worry about.”
“This is already much more complicated than I want it to be, and it’s been what? An hour?”
“Give us some credit,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “If you start counting from Riverside-which I do, because I know of several cultures where vomiting on someone is considered a proposal of marriage--then it’s been almost half a decade. Wow, this is easy. If I’d known how easy, I could have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“The trouble is part of the fun,” McCoy said, his weight making it no easier for Jim to get out of bed. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
+++++
Spock meditates alone that evening because Nyota Uhura has decided to stay at the impromptu celebration being hosted by the admiral in the observation lounge. When Spock left, Admiral Subramanya was offering instruction in a dance called the merengue, using the captain and Dr. McCoy to demonstrate. Spock understands the human need to memorialize successes in this manner, but does not share it. Moreoever, to the considerable disappointment of Nyota Uhura, Spock does not dance.
There is no skill required to locate Jim’s mind tonight; a Vulcan child could do it. It is clear and bright as a star through the unfiltering medium of space. Spock is careful not to allow Jim’s emotions to transmit to his own. It is a cardinal violation of the mind link to do so. But he feels a deep satisfaction that Jim, after so many days of stress and worry and so many weeks of nameless anxiety over a matter Spock could not and would not try to fathom, is content at last. More than content: he is like a beacon radiating joy and pleasure, for those that have minds to perceive it.
The door swishes open and Nyota steps in noiselessly. Spock almost smiles; he has been so immersed in Jim’s mind that he failed to detect her approach.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she says, bending down to kiss the back of his neck. “I just came to say goodnight. I’ll be going straight to bed; I’m dead on my feet. Not literally,” she adds quickly, not giving him a chance to tease her on the subject of human metaphors.
“I would not suggest that you do otherwise,” Spock says, taking her hand as she sinks to the floor beside him. “The last few days have been most taxing.” He does not add that it has not been so for him; humans do not like to be reminded of their relative weakness.
“I don’t know how he does it,” she says wonderingly. “We go from probable failure to complete, blazing victory in 48 hours, and he manages to charm the pants off the admiral. Figure of speech!” she says, catching his look. “I swear, you’re almost impossible to talk to.”
“I do not believe that it is the admiral’s pants the captain wishes to charm off,” Spock says solemnly. Nyota’s long eyelashes flash upward.
“Was that a joke?” she asks incredulously. “Unbelievable. What’s gotten into you?”
“I do not know,” Spock says, slipping an arm around her slender waist. “But I think that I am happy.”
+++++
Geeky Notes: Boy, did I invite myself a lot of technobabble and canon trouble by introducing a detail-oriented admiral. As there are still no deck plans for the Alternate 1701, this is an awkward mashup between the original 1701, the refit, and the 1701A. The location of the captain's ready room is purposely vague since, if it exists, it's likely on the deck below the bridge, but it's more fun (and makes more sense) to have it adjacent to the bridge. Kids: Don't store your frozen deuterium on the Flight Deck just because people on the Internet do it! That stuff is highly flammable. It’s also total nonsense, because frozen deuterium would be much better kept in an unpressurized cargo hold, but at that point I was too in love with the idea of frozen deuterium to care. For canon!queen northatlantic : the death rate on the Enterprise is TOS canon.
And Sulu/Chekov shippers: that was a joke. Please don’t kill me.