Fic: Formalities (PG-13)
Title: Formalities
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/Spock, McCoy (TOS)
Disclaimer: All ur boys are blong to Paramount.
Notes/Summary: Written for this kinkmeme prompt. McCoy hates formal dinners, he hates his dress shirt, and his life basically sucks enough as it is, without him having to deal with Kirk and Spock dancing in their bathroom, thank you very much.
If there was one thing in the multiverse guaranteed to incite Dr McCoy to feelings of rage and violence, it was undoubtedly that blue silk monstrosity misnamed a dress uniform tunic. Oh, it wasn't that he disliked the way he looked in full dress - on the contrary, McCoy was forced to admit that he pulled off the effect rather well. It was just that there were so many buttons on the thing, so many zippers and fastenings leading up to that infuriating collar that gripped him like a medieval torture device, that the idea of putting the damn tunic on made McCoy want to weep. He loathed official functions at the best of times, and had done for as long as he could remember. Sitting through the interminable ramblings of some half-cut alien ambassador was difficult enough as it was, without your goddamned collar making breathing a Herculean feat.
And now, just to put the garnish on an evening that was becoming a fiasco in his mind before it had even begun, the top button just wouldn't do up. McCoy had given it the benefit of the doubt; hell, yes. McCoy had wrestled with the damn thing for upwards of ten minutes of real time and it would not, it simply did not want to fasten. And so, since it was all Jim's fault that he had to wrestle himself into the blasted thing in the first place, he had decided that Jim could damn well buckle down and fasten it for him.
In effect, then, it was all the fault of Bones's dress shirt that he now found himself stumbling grumpily down the corridor towards the Captain's quarters; overriding the security command and striding in; coming to a halt by the open bathroom door, an irate "Jim!" now stalled in the back of his throat. It was all because of the goddamn dress shirt that he was here; and it was all because of Jim that the dress shirt was necessary; and it was all because of the dinner function that Jim had issued the order for full uniform.
McCoy stood with his mouth open just a little to the left of the door, and wondered whether it was also because of the dinner function that Jim was apparently leading his First Officer in a slow waltz around their shared bathroom.
McCoy had done enough dancing in his time to recognise a waltz when he saw one. This one should have looked awkward, for a very long list of reasons beginning with the fact that the leading partner was half a head shorter than the man he was leading, and ending with the fact that here was a man leading a man, period. Somehow, though, the whole performance had a degree of accomplishment to it, a sort of fluid grace, that pulled McCoy up short in his tracks, and cut short any sarcastic remark before it could be fully formulated. Spock's long fingers lay easily on Jim's shoulder, half-curled, careful. His thumb rested against Jim's neck, straddling the boundary between uniform collar and bare skin, and something about that tiny detail struck McCoy as so unusually intimate - for a Vulcan - that he was almost more embarrassed to have seen that than Jim's hand firm on Spock's waist; Spock's arm around Jim's back. The two of them moved together slowly, silently, but their rhythm was immaculate, as if they were dancing to music only McCoy could not hear. Spock's dark eyes were warm and black as charcoal, fixed on his Captain's face. At an inch's distance, Jim looked unwaveringly back at him, gold staring into jet. From his position by the door, McCoy was staring, too, at both of them, wondering, incredulous.
Surely Spock wasn't planning on dancing, this evening? McCoy could well understand the Vulcan being unable to dance, since it didn't exactly seem like the kind of pastime that Logic would approve of. What he couldn't understand was what could have driven Spock to a point where he'd felt that this situation had to be rectified, so desperately that the only option was to ask Jim for ballroom dancing lessons conducted impromptu in their quarters, without even any music. The whole situation was - odd, to say the least.
What was most odd about it was the fact that Spock did not seem to be - well - discomfited. McCoy knew from both textbook statement and his own experience that Vulcans and personal contact did not go easily hand-in-hand. Spock did not like to be touched, and would often jerk away rather abruptly if, in the course of a routine examination, McCoy inadvertently made contact with some part of his body that caused an uncomfortable telepathic connection to spark between the two of them. He did not mean to be rude when he did this, but he simply couldn't help it. It was as instinctive as a human's reaction when his hand comes into accidental contact with something hot.
And yet, here was Spock, pressed against his Captain from chest to thigh, and not appearing distressed by it in the least. His hand on Jim's shoulder was perfectly steady. His other hand, McCoy noted, was not in the traditional position in his partner's grip, which he imagined must be in some concession to the incredible sensitivity of Vulcan fingers; but it wasn't as if its position at the small of Jim's back made the situation any better. If anything, it did nothing but force them closer together, so close that they must be able to feel each other's breath on their faces. Close enough, indeed, to kiss.
That, of course, was an unworthy thought, not to mention a ridiculous one, and McCoy batted it hastily away. Dancing was weird enough, and McCoy should probably just retreat as silently as possible and never bring this up again, as it was. The thought that Jim, even Jim, might be brazen enough to kiss a damn' Vulcan was - was -
For a moment, McCoy was completely, entirely convinced that he would never be able to move again. This, he thought vaguely, must be how it felt to be paralysed. This must be how Pike felt, strapped to that damned chair, mind working like fury and limbs completely unable to respond. This must be how it felt, to be powerless to do or say anything at all about the fact that Jim Kirk had just pressed his mouth to Spock's, and Spock was now opening to him easily, languidly, in a way that made it very clear that this was not the first time.
It's official, Bones thought: I will never be able to move again.
The kiss was lazy, warm, deliberate, slow; not the tentative brush of a first touch, nor yet the fierce kiss of a relationship in its very early days, but rather something so familiar that it had moved beyond being practised and into the realms of the instinctive. McCoy couldn't do anything but watch as Spock's fingers shifted upwards, cupping the nape of Jim's neck, sliding into his hair. His thumb traced the point of Jim's jaw, idly, gently. Jim was shifting in his arms, pressing closer, his hands sliding up Spock's back to grip his shoulderblades. For a long moment, McCoy could only watch, and could not move. How had he missed this, he thought, disbelieving. How had he missed this?
And then Jim made a small sound in his throat, and Spock swallowed it, answering it with a sound of his own, and it was as if a switch had been flipped. Suddenly, Jim's hands were everywhere; and just as suddenly Bones found that he had regained the capacity for independent movement. Spock's fingers were flicking open the buttons of Jim's uniform tunic as easily as if they had been magnetic studs, and Bones took a moment to envy this ridiculous dexterity before, remembering himself, he wrenched himself around and hotfooted it for the corridor before he could be noticed.
Not, of course, that either Jim or Spock looked very much in danger of noticing anything, just at the moment. Criminy. And after they'd gone to all the trouble of buttoning up their dress uniforms, too. The whole thing was a damn travesty. Hell, McCoy could have been teasing Spock about this for weeks, already; and instead they had to leave him to find out on his own, and then be so damn sweet about it that the thought of poking fun made McCoy nauseous.
And to top it off, McCoy still hadn't gotten his top button fastened.
"Damn green-blooded hobgoblin," he muttered under his breath, and stomped off to sickbay to see whether Nurse Chapel could be of any more use. Knowing his luck today, he'd probably find her making out with Sulu behind the biobeds.
(He might have said 'making out with Uhura', but then it occurred to him that that would be a good day. And when did McCoy ever have good days?)
*
It took another fifteen minutes of struggling, along with many words of patient recrimination from Chapel, to get McCoy properly into his uniform tunic. By the time he arrived in the function room, a little late and rather out of breath, he was most definitely not in the best of moods. So when Jim wandered over to him, smile wide and uniform immaculate, McCoy could almost feel the thunderclouds forming on his brow.
"There you are, Bones!" Jim's fingers curled around his arm, affectionate, supportive. "We thought you weren't coming, didn't we, Mr Spock?"
Spock inclined an eyebrow. "Indeed, Captain."
McCoy couldn't help himself. "Well, I'm not surprised, Jim," he remarked, helping himself to a generous glug of punch and wishing it were whisky. "Seems I'm the only one not coming, today. Captain. Mr Spock."
And he strode off to the other side of the room in the direction of Scotty and his hipflask, leaving the Captain and Spock to blink at each other in confusion.
Tomorrow, he would explain everything. Maybe. But a little confusion tonight would just serve them right for not explaining anything at all, as far as McCoy was concerned. Only fair that they should stew for a while.
The collar of his dress tunic itched like hell, and he could already hear the drone of ambassadorial conversation. But still, there was whisky in Scotty's pocket, and the Scotsman looked just as uncomfortable as Bones felt. The evening might not be too unbearable.
"That damn Vulcan," Bones muttered under his breath, and knocked back his punch in one irritated swallow.
*
I feel vaguely as if I am spamming my own journal. Ah, well.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/Spock, McCoy (TOS)
Disclaimer: All ur boys are blong to Paramount.
Notes/Summary: Written for this kinkmeme prompt. McCoy hates formal dinners, he hates his dress shirt, and his life basically sucks enough as it is, without him having to deal with Kirk and Spock dancing in their bathroom, thank you very much.
If there was one thing in the multiverse guaranteed to incite Dr McCoy to feelings of rage and violence, it was undoubtedly that blue silk monstrosity misnamed a dress uniform tunic. Oh, it wasn't that he disliked the way he looked in full dress - on the contrary, McCoy was forced to admit that he pulled off the effect rather well. It was just that there were so many buttons on the thing, so many zippers and fastenings leading up to that infuriating collar that gripped him like a medieval torture device, that the idea of putting the damn tunic on made McCoy want to weep. He loathed official functions at the best of times, and had done for as long as he could remember. Sitting through the interminable ramblings of some half-cut alien ambassador was difficult enough as it was, without your goddamned collar making breathing a Herculean feat.
And now, just to put the garnish on an evening that was becoming a fiasco in his mind before it had even begun, the top button just wouldn't do up. McCoy had given it the benefit of the doubt; hell, yes. McCoy had wrestled with the damn thing for upwards of ten minutes of real time and it would not, it simply did not want to fasten. And so, since it was all Jim's fault that he had to wrestle himself into the blasted thing in the first place, he had decided that Jim could damn well buckle down and fasten it for him.
In effect, then, it was all the fault of Bones's dress shirt that he now found himself stumbling grumpily down the corridor towards the Captain's quarters; overriding the security command and striding in; coming to a halt by the open bathroom door, an irate "Jim!" now stalled in the back of his throat. It was all because of the goddamn dress shirt that he was here; and it was all because of Jim that the dress shirt was necessary; and it was all because of the dinner function that Jim had issued the order for full uniform.
McCoy stood with his mouth open just a little to the left of the door, and wondered whether it was also because of the dinner function that Jim was apparently leading his First Officer in a slow waltz around their shared bathroom.
McCoy had done enough dancing in his time to recognise a waltz when he saw one. This one should have looked awkward, for a very long list of reasons beginning with the fact that the leading partner was half a head shorter than the man he was leading, and ending with the fact that here was a man leading a man, period. Somehow, though, the whole performance had a degree of accomplishment to it, a sort of fluid grace, that pulled McCoy up short in his tracks, and cut short any sarcastic remark before it could be fully formulated. Spock's long fingers lay easily on Jim's shoulder, half-curled, careful. His thumb rested against Jim's neck, straddling the boundary between uniform collar and bare skin, and something about that tiny detail struck McCoy as so unusually intimate - for a Vulcan - that he was almost more embarrassed to have seen that than Jim's hand firm on Spock's waist; Spock's arm around Jim's back. The two of them moved together slowly, silently, but their rhythm was immaculate, as if they were dancing to music only McCoy could not hear. Spock's dark eyes were warm and black as charcoal, fixed on his Captain's face. At an inch's distance, Jim looked unwaveringly back at him, gold staring into jet. From his position by the door, McCoy was staring, too, at both of them, wondering, incredulous.
Surely Spock wasn't planning on dancing, this evening? McCoy could well understand the Vulcan being unable to dance, since it didn't exactly seem like the kind of pastime that Logic would approve of. What he couldn't understand was what could have driven Spock to a point where he'd felt that this situation had to be rectified, so desperately that the only option was to ask Jim for ballroom dancing lessons conducted impromptu in their quarters, without even any music. The whole situation was - odd, to say the least.
What was most odd about it was the fact that Spock did not seem to be - well - discomfited. McCoy knew from both textbook statement and his own experience that Vulcans and personal contact did not go easily hand-in-hand. Spock did not like to be touched, and would often jerk away rather abruptly if, in the course of a routine examination, McCoy inadvertently made contact with some part of his body that caused an uncomfortable telepathic connection to spark between the two of them. He did not mean to be rude when he did this, but he simply couldn't help it. It was as instinctive as a human's reaction when his hand comes into accidental contact with something hot.
And yet, here was Spock, pressed against his Captain from chest to thigh, and not appearing distressed by it in the least. His hand on Jim's shoulder was perfectly steady. His other hand, McCoy noted, was not in the traditional position in his partner's grip, which he imagined must be in some concession to the incredible sensitivity of Vulcan fingers; but it wasn't as if its position at the small of Jim's back made the situation any better. If anything, it did nothing but force them closer together, so close that they must be able to feel each other's breath on their faces. Close enough, indeed, to kiss.
That, of course, was an unworthy thought, not to mention a ridiculous one, and McCoy batted it hastily away. Dancing was weird enough, and McCoy should probably just retreat as silently as possible and never bring this up again, as it was. The thought that Jim, even Jim, might be brazen enough to kiss a damn' Vulcan was - was -
For a moment, McCoy was completely, entirely convinced that he would never be able to move again. This, he thought vaguely, must be how it felt to be paralysed. This must be how Pike felt, strapped to that damned chair, mind working like fury and limbs completely unable to respond. This must be how it felt, to be powerless to do or say anything at all about the fact that Jim Kirk had just pressed his mouth to Spock's, and Spock was now opening to him easily, languidly, in a way that made it very clear that this was not the first time.
It's official, Bones thought: I will never be able to move again.
The kiss was lazy, warm, deliberate, slow; not the tentative brush of a first touch, nor yet the fierce kiss of a relationship in its very early days, but rather something so familiar that it had moved beyond being practised and into the realms of the instinctive. McCoy couldn't do anything but watch as Spock's fingers shifted upwards, cupping the nape of Jim's neck, sliding into his hair. His thumb traced the point of Jim's jaw, idly, gently. Jim was shifting in his arms, pressing closer, his hands sliding up Spock's back to grip his shoulderblades. For a long moment, McCoy could only watch, and could not move. How had he missed this, he thought, disbelieving. How had he missed this?
And then Jim made a small sound in his throat, and Spock swallowed it, answering it with a sound of his own, and it was as if a switch had been flipped. Suddenly, Jim's hands were everywhere; and just as suddenly Bones found that he had regained the capacity for independent movement. Spock's fingers were flicking open the buttons of Jim's uniform tunic as easily as if they had been magnetic studs, and Bones took a moment to envy this ridiculous dexterity before, remembering himself, he wrenched himself around and hotfooted it for the corridor before he could be noticed.
Not, of course, that either Jim or Spock looked very much in danger of noticing anything, just at the moment. Criminy. And after they'd gone to all the trouble of buttoning up their dress uniforms, too. The whole thing was a damn travesty. Hell, McCoy could have been teasing Spock about this for weeks, already; and instead they had to leave him to find out on his own, and then be so damn sweet about it that the thought of poking fun made McCoy nauseous.
And to top it off, McCoy still hadn't gotten his top button fastened.
"Damn green-blooded hobgoblin," he muttered under his breath, and stomped off to sickbay to see whether Nurse Chapel could be of any more use. Knowing his luck today, he'd probably find her making out with Sulu behind the biobeds.
(He might have said 'making out with Uhura', but then it occurred to him that that would be a good day. And when did McCoy ever have good days?)
*
It took another fifteen minutes of struggling, along with many words of patient recrimination from Chapel, to get McCoy properly into his uniform tunic. By the time he arrived in the function room, a little late and rather out of breath, he was most definitely not in the best of moods. So when Jim wandered over to him, smile wide and uniform immaculate, McCoy could almost feel the thunderclouds forming on his brow.
"There you are, Bones!" Jim's fingers curled around his arm, affectionate, supportive. "We thought you weren't coming, didn't we, Mr Spock?"
Spock inclined an eyebrow. "Indeed, Captain."
McCoy couldn't help himself. "Well, I'm not surprised, Jim," he remarked, helping himself to a generous glug of punch and wishing it were whisky. "Seems I'm the only one not coming, today. Captain. Mr Spock."
And he strode off to the other side of the room in the direction of Scotty and his hipflask, leaving the Captain and Spock to blink at each other in confusion.
Tomorrow, he would explain everything. Maybe. But a little confusion tonight would just serve them right for not explaining anything at all, as far as McCoy was concerned. Only fair that they should stew for a while.
The collar of his dress tunic itched like hell, and he could already hear the drone of ambassadorial conversation. But still, there was whisky in Scotty's pocket, and the Scotsman looked just as uncomfortable as Bones felt. The evening might not be too unbearable.
"That damn Vulcan," Bones muttered under his breath, and knocked back his punch in one irritated swallow.
*
I feel vaguely as if I am spamming my own journal. Ah, well.