FIC: nc-17, Waiting, 1/1
Title: Waiting 1/1
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, mild Kirk/OC
Wordcount: approx 3,200 words complete
Summary: Two weeks after their first meeting in the shuttle, Kirk and McCoy bump into each other in a bar. The following day, Jim remembers the night before. He’s kind of squirming in his seat.
Warnings: There’s to and fro between flash-back and the present (and shift from present to past tense.)
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes: This was originally a comment fic in our private, Team Jones, battle-post, theme - ‘First Times.’
Many thanks to abigail89 for her tireless beta reading!
Also, dedicated to awarrington who maybe, kind of likes first-time k/mc.
Intriguing snippet: McCoy turned around, leaned his hip on the bar, looked Jim up and down, like he was a scientific discovery or something. That’s how he’d looked at Jim on the shuttle that time. Now he let himself think about it, yeah, that had annoyed and intrigued him then too.
Also posted on Archive of Our Own
Waiting
“Guess I’ll see you around, “Jim had said, and that was that. They’d gone their separate ways, McCoy to medical and Jim to see if admin could squeeze him into any of the dorms.
It’s been two weeks since he’s seen McCoy and, it took nearly as long for Jim to completely scrub the smell of puke off his boots. He kinda misses it.
Now, sitting in the lecture hall, hard as hell, his lap covered by a PADD, every word floats right over his head. Jim thinks about the night before, and glances at the chrono for the millionth time.
Four hours. Just four hours to go…he shifts in his seat, mouth dry and mind drawn incessantly back to the feel of McCoy’s tongue, the taste of his skin. Fuck. This is new…
+++
Jim had fallen in with a rowdy crowd almost immediately, hard drinkers with roaming hands. That night, he crushed alongside them on a bench. The birthday boy, Omari, slung his arm around Jim’s neck and was whispering promises into his ear. Jim paid no heed, Omari was free with his declarations and Jim could take or leave them.
They were two of a kind.
‘Three’ of a kind, with Gaila opposite of him, sipping a ridiculous looking cocktail that clashed horribly with her skin tone.
So what if it was a Thursday night and they had classes in the morning? Someone had got hold of an alcohol neutralizer from somewhere, so even though nothing would get back lost sleep, they were all set.
Gaila stood and made for the rest-room, so now Jim had a clear view of the half-empty lounge and, there he was, Leonard McCoy, divorcee and cantankerous old fuck, sitting with a group from medical. He was on a chair at one end of the table his long legs stretched out to one side while he fiddled with his comm. He still hadn’t cut his hair but at least he’d taken a shave.
Maybe he should go over and say hi…
+++
Jim shifts about some more. Three hours fifty minutes.
He remembers the way McCoy’s dark eyes bored into him, how he’d…fuck - he’s going to have to do something about this, he can’t think straight.
Jim takes off his uniform jacket and rests it across his lap. The lecture hall’s dark but even with his sometime lack of brain cell, he’s not that dumb. This wood isn’t going anywhere, not when he’s got thoughts like this roiling through his mind, stirring him up - only a full on Klingon attack would distract him now, certainly not a dull lecture.
Three hours forty-five minutes.
+++
Jim saw Gaila walking back, and made one last attempt at telepathy. Omari’s tongue flickered into Jim’s ear in perfect synch with McCoy looking up, catching Jim’s eye and raising his eyebrow. Fuck. He’d forgotten about that. Then his line of vision was interrupted by the Orion beauty and Jim leaned to the side, away from Omari, not ‘cause he was rejecting him, so he could sneak another look.
+++
Jim walks down the steps, nods at the professor, clutches his jacket in front and braves a shit-eating smile. He’s coming right back, honest, just as soon as he can do something about this.
Three hours, twenty-five minutes.
+++
McCoy sauntered right past their table. It wasn’t even a direct route to the bar. His eyes darted towards Jim as he passed.
“Fuck, there’s that hot doctor guy,” Omari slurred. “I’d hit that.”
Jim smiled, didn’t say anything as he followed the fine, denim clad ass the short distance to the bar.
“Omari, why would you strike him when he’s an attractive man in his prime?” Gaila said, and the table erupted into alcohol-fuelled laughter. She looked at Jim and he winked at her. He knew she was whip-smart and her play on her literal interpretation of standard was her way of cracking jokes.
“Yeah, with my big ol’ club!” Omari snickered, easing away from Jim, “Hey, baby, come and sit next to me, Jim won’t mind.”
So Jim swapped seats with her, flipped the chair round so he could sit cowboy style and took a moment to check out the doctor’s rear view for another precious second.
+++
Jim slams the cubicle door shut and groans when he’s finally got his cock in his hand, leans back on the wall, bites his lip, cups his balls with his other hand. He thinks about McCoy’s voice, the way he’d leaned into the side of Jim’s head and whispered,
“I’ve been thinking about you.” His breath hot and whiskey soaked.
“Really?” That wasn’t a squeak, was it?
Three hours, fifteen minutes.
+++
“So, you two an item?”
“What? Me, and Omari, er…no, we’re friends. It’s his birthday.“ Like this explained anything.
“Figures,“ McCoy says, turning away, running his finger down his glass.
What the fuck did that mean? What ‘figured’, exactly? He didn’t get McCoy - he’d thought about this on the shuttle; McCoy had this way about him, like he was blunt about everything yet never spoke about what was really going on in that beautiful head of his.
McCoy turned around, leaned his hip on the bar, looked Jim up and down, like he was a scientific discovery or something. That’s how he’d looked at Jim on the shuttle that time. Now he let himself think about it, yeah, that had annoyed and intrigued him then too. McCoy wasn’t judging him, he was pretty sure of that. It was curiosity maybe…and something else he couldn’t work out. Why did the word ‘fear’ keep popping into his head? Why would this broad-shouldered man, eye-to-eye with him, have anything to fear from Jim Kirk?
“So, I haven’t seen you around.“ Jim had had two drinks so far. He wished it had been more - it might have drowned the uncomfortable feelings of confusion.
Now he was closer to McCoy, he could see the dark, evening shadow on his jaw and Jim had this image of licking it, wondering how the bastard would react, whether his crankiness would crumple.
It might have been the Omari-effect, maybe it had reminded Jim which part of the Venn-diagram sector he swung, but Jim didn’t tend to think about attraction and why his cock was on red alert. This was one part of his life he didn’t need to analyse or understand. When he wanted someone, he wanted them. When he didn’t, he didn’t.
McCoy caught his eye, held the look, blew out a ‘knowing’ breath. What was he ‘saying’? I got your number?
“Nice seein’ you again, kid.”
Yeah, he wanted McCoy and the unfamiliar sensation of needing to know why was bugging the hell out of him.
Jim was glad he was wearing his shirt loose over his t. Maybe it hid his boner as he went back to join his group.
+++
Jim recalls the tension between them, the spark of lust he felt when McCoy’s shirt sleeve fell open and his eyes went to the veins at his wrist. Jim’s a meat and potatoes guy when it comes to sex: big tits, blow-jobs, saliva, come, thanks, I’ll see you around. In the fumbled exchanges there’s no time for his eyes to linger on moles and lip colour; who cares about detail when fucking was immediate, needed no diagrams, no planning, no emotion other than an innocent ‘I’ll scratch yours, you scratch mine’?
Yet, unasked, Jim’s photographic memory had done its work. It doesn’t ever happen during sex.
This is how it goes with Jim Kirk; after Jim fucks someone, he can’t remember faces, names, numbers. Most importantly, he doesn’t want them to remember him. It’s like he doesn’t exist, in those seconds when he makes someone come, and they always come, Jim stops thinking about who he is, what he wants, what’s missing. And he’s just there, connected to someone, then he can let go. And they let go of him. He’s on his own, he’s free. It’s the way he likes it.
And he really doesn’t fucking like this, he thinks, in the stall, one elbow against the wall, feet braced, as he runs his hand up and down. He doesn’t want to remember any of it, but his mind won’t do as it’s told. So he remembers the exact angle of McCoy’s head, when he contemplated Jim’s face, Jim’s cock in his hand, the other on the back of Jim’s neck, keeping him still, like he could sense that some part of Jim wanted to escape, it’s all right here, now. So it’s like Jim can see him as if he was here, now. This isn’t good. But he just wants more. Fuck. He needs more.
“So, you been thinkin’ about me, cadet? Thinkin’ ‘bout me doin’ this, huh?”
That dirty voice, like honey straight from the hive, decadent and too damn much.
Three hours.
+++
Later, the bar was pretty full. Jim hadn’t thought too hard about why his eyes were constantly drawn to the table across the way since drink number five, or was it six? He looked down at his shot glass and concentrated really hard on bringing his hand in one smooth motion towards it. He knocks it back, and there - he caught McCoy’s eye again but, before he could process this, Omri and Gaila had got him by the wrists and were dragging him to the tiny dance floor,
“Two men dancing is most pleasing, “ Gaila explained into his ear as she pulled his hand to Omari’s shoulders and turned him so they’re facing each other, least he thought that’s what she said. There must have been ‘something’ in that jug filled with blue shit Gaila had insisted he try, because his hearing didn’t seem to work quite right, everything was muffled, had been for sometime now. And he couldn’t quite see properly; the colours in the room had all washed out and he was all focused on the dryness in his mouth and how heavy his limbs felt and he was hard as hell, feeling McCoy’s presence like he was The Big Bad Wolf and Jim was trying to make it a few more steps down the path, till he would be home safe. Shit, he really needed to get someone to call him a cab.
Right after this dance.
+++
Jim tucks himself away. There, that was that out of the way. Back to work.
He looks at himself in the mirror when he washes his hands. His pupils are enormous, a dead give away, so he waits, tries to wipe the grin off his face, the one that’s got him punched in the mouth so many times, but all he can think about is McCoy and that’s not helping one little bit. Least he’s not hard anymore. He slips his jacket on, leaves the restroom.
Two hours, fifty minutes.
+++
Fuck, Omari smells good, Jim thought. There’s one of his senses that still worked. He felt Omari’s talented tongue on his neck, and he grinds up against Jim. He had one hand on Omari’s hip the other in the air. Must be drunk, he’s actually not thinking about how he looks when he’s dancing for once. It feels loose and easy and then he’s turned around and pressing his ass back against his partner, Omari’s tall and rested his chin on Jim’s shoulder, soft, afro hair tickling his throat when Jim leans back to kiss him. He’d wrapped one arm around Jim’s chest and with the other Omari’s edged Jim’s t up so his belly’s exposed and the hand’s heading south.
Because Jim’s a control freak, he hadn’t looked in that direction for the duration of the song yet he knew he didn’t want to resist anymore. McCoy’s dead centre of the group, there’s shoulder punching and riotous laughter around him, but his body was still, his eyes intent on Jim. He was the eye of the hurricane.
+++
Jim likes being seen, he realises. Likes being chosen. McCoy appeared to be at ease in company, at that level, he could chat and dust off the anecdotes, but Jim had been watching him all night. He saw how McCoy was always apart from the others on his table. Everything was an act. While he spoke his legs were making barriers between him and the others, his arms were folded, he rolled his eyes. No one touched him and he touched no one all night, no hand-shakes, no taps on the shoulder to get past.
It thrills Jim to think that McCoy’s thumb hooking onto his lower lip and sliding across as his free hand unbuttoned Jim’s jeans, made him the first person he’d maybe touched in hours.
He hadn’t thought about this then, mostly too busy keening into him, grunting his need into McCoy’s chest to form actual sentences and thoughts.
Jim considers how tactile he is by contrast, how he touches everyone all the time; it’s easy, it’s how he is. Touch them first, make sure they’re there, then let go - all on his terms. Take control of the space.
Two bodies, moving towards each other across that room.
Fuck, now he’s half-hard again.
Thankfully the lecture’s over - the bustle around him tells him that. He gathers up his PADD, pulls his stylus out of his mouth and drops them into his bag.
Two and a half hours.
+++
Jim steered Omari towards Gaila, planted a kiss on both their lips then made his apologies. Yeah, he was too drunk, early class and, as he swayed towards McCoy’s table, he cursed himself for forgetting to pick up the neutraliser - damn, he was going to pay for this in the morning.
“I’ll see you around,” he shouted over the music, licked his lips, pulled his leather jacket over his shoulders, and headed for the restroom, glancing over his shoulder to see if McCoy was coming.
+++
Maybe having a shower was a mistake. Now Jim’s running his soapy hands up and down his chest, stroking his cock again, slipping one finger into himself, imaging it’s McCoy. Remembers that stare McCoy gave him when he’d looked back and left the dance floor, how McCoy’s eyes went to the ceiling for a second then a grin split his face at the same time as dark intent soaked his eyes. Fuck, Jim thinks… so close…
Looks like he’s met his match here.
At last.
Two hours to go.
+++
The cubicle door nudges open and McCoy was there. When Jim saw the tall, rangy figure up close, saw him run his long fingers through the hair falling over his forehead, Jim had never felt more sure of himself, nor more frightened of what he wanted.
McCoy kicked the door shut, locked it and firm hands were on Jim, McCoy’s mouth in his hair as he shoved Jim’s jacket off his shoulders so it was wrapped around the tops of his arms, his breath scalding Jim’s ears then his throat as he bit his jaw and neck and fumbled at his belt.
Breath smelling of whisky and corn chips,
“You teasing me, there, kid, tryin’ to make me hard for you?”
Yeah. Yeah he was.
“I-“ Jim managed, before their mouths clashed and there was nothing left to discuss. And fuck, McCoy was a good kisser, long, lazy licks across his lips, teeth tugging gently then velvet tongue probing deep into him, sucking hard then soft, hands either side of Jim’s face, pulling him in, closer, closer like it was just them, and nothing else existed.
Jim wasn’t sure he liked it the way he seemed to have no say in the matter when McCoy forced his jeans down to his thighs, and his fingers were rough against his length, cool and assured as he jerked him, hard and fast, nodding his head in amusement when he sees Jim’s wearing no underwear.
“Well, it’s probably obligatory on commando track,“ he chuckled and McCoy punished him for the lame joke by lifting Jim’s arms above his head, pinning them against the wall with his arm as he pulled harder and faster at him. Jim knew to leave his arms right there and didn’t protest when McCoy cupped the back of his head with his left hand and growled,
“Need to get this out of outta your system, so you can go back to your friends-“
“I’m fine here, really…shit…god that’s good…right there…”
+++
It’s a two and half kilometres to the hospital, Jim walks because he needs to get a grip. It’s dark, misty and he’s glad it’s a little cold, makes him feel like he’s awake and this isn’t some long, drawn out dream where he’s gonna wake up, hard as hell and wishing he wasn’t alone.
He remembers the look on McCoy’s face as he jerked Jim off, the intent concentration, the curiosity, the lust, and he wonders for the umpteenth time that day why McCoy had left it there, why he hadn’t let Jim reciprocate.
+++
“Now that’s a damned, pretty sight,” McCoy hissed through kiss swollen lips when he contemplated Jim’s face with hooded eyes and bared teeth,
“Fuck…I’m gonna…I…”
“Yeah. Do it. Come. Let go.”
And it was with an ache and a longing, broken moan, bucking into McCoy’s hand. His arms had dropped to McCoy’s shoulders and he’d pulled him close, gasping through the long, shattering orgasm. Despite the booze, Jim had felt it right down to his toes, straight through his spine and chest and, (fuck this) his heart.
His legs slumped and he felt McCoy’s arms rearrange to support him then he leaned in and kissed him gently, slowly and Jim thought he was going to be sick his head empty of blood and proper function.
“Bones, what about you, I should…” he mumbled into McCoy’s mouth.
“I can wait a little while longer,” he whispered “Can you?”
No, not exactly.
+++
Jim checks his comm.
Five minutes.
“I finish my shift at 19:00,” McCoy had said, as he straightened up his shirt, checking round the door before he left. “Come and meet me and we can do something.” Then he’d closed the door on Jim, left him to clean himself up, “Oh, and-“ he opened the door a crack so Jim could hear him, “I kinda like my new name.”
Jim’s not one for clichés; he’s too smart, revels too much in his easy use of language, his vast vocabulary and fountain of cultural reference points means he’s always got something new to say but, seriously, the only way he can describe it, when at last, time’s up and Bones is standing right there in front of him, his heart misses a fucking beat.
“Hi,“ he says, and Jim’s voice must sound awkward.
Bones nods, shifts his messenger bag on his shoulder,
“How’s your day been, kid?” he says.
Shit, Jim can’t remember the last time someone asked him that.
“Where we going?” McCoy asks, falling into step beside him.
“I dunno,“ Jim says, “Let’s just see where we end up.”
“Sounds good to me.”
~FIN~
The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, mild Kirk/OC
Wordcount: approx 3,200 words complete
Summary: Two weeks after their first meeting in the shuttle, Kirk and McCoy bump into each other in a bar. The following day, Jim remembers the night before. He’s kind of squirming in his seat.
Warnings: There’s to and fro between flash-back and the present (and shift from present to past tense.)
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes: This was originally a comment fic in our private, Team Jones, battle-post, theme - ‘First Times.’
Many thanks to abigail89 for her tireless beta reading!
Also, dedicated to awarrington who maybe, kind of likes first-time k/mc.
Intriguing snippet: McCoy turned around, leaned his hip on the bar, looked Jim up and down, like he was a scientific discovery or something. That’s how he’d looked at Jim on the shuttle that time. Now he let himself think about it, yeah, that had annoyed and intrigued him then too.
Also posted on Archive of Our Own
Waiting
“Guess I’ll see you around, “Jim had said, and that was that. They’d gone their separate ways, McCoy to medical and Jim to see if admin could squeeze him into any of the dorms.
It’s been two weeks since he’s seen McCoy and, it took nearly as long for Jim to completely scrub the smell of puke off his boots. He kinda misses it.
Now, sitting in the lecture hall, hard as hell, his lap covered by a PADD, every word floats right over his head. Jim thinks about the night before, and glances at the chrono for the millionth time.
Four hours. Just four hours to go…he shifts in his seat, mouth dry and mind drawn incessantly back to the feel of McCoy’s tongue, the taste of his skin. Fuck. This is new…
+++
Jim had fallen in with a rowdy crowd almost immediately, hard drinkers with roaming hands. That night, he crushed alongside them on a bench. The birthday boy, Omari, slung his arm around Jim’s neck and was whispering promises into his ear. Jim paid no heed, Omari was free with his declarations and Jim could take or leave them.
They were two of a kind.
‘Three’ of a kind, with Gaila opposite of him, sipping a ridiculous looking cocktail that clashed horribly with her skin tone.
So what if it was a Thursday night and they had classes in the morning? Someone had got hold of an alcohol neutralizer from somewhere, so even though nothing would get back lost sleep, they were all set.
Gaila stood and made for the rest-room, so now Jim had a clear view of the half-empty lounge and, there he was, Leonard McCoy, divorcee and cantankerous old fuck, sitting with a group from medical. He was on a chair at one end of the table his long legs stretched out to one side while he fiddled with his comm. He still hadn’t cut his hair but at least he’d taken a shave.
Maybe he should go over and say hi…
+++
Jim shifts about some more. Three hours fifty minutes.
He remembers the way McCoy’s dark eyes bored into him, how he’d…fuck - he’s going to have to do something about this, he can’t think straight.
Jim takes off his uniform jacket and rests it across his lap. The lecture hall’s dark but even with his sometime lack of brain cell, he’s not that dumb. This wood isn’t going anywhere, not when he’s got thoughts like this roiling through his mind, stirring him up - only a full on Klingon attack would distract him now, certainly not a dull lecture.
Three hours forty-five minutes.
+++
Jim saw Gaila walking back, and made one last attempt at telepathy. Omari’s tongue flickered into Jim’s ear in perfect synch with McCoy looking up, catching Jim’s eye and raising his eyebrow. Fuck. He’d forgotten about that. Then his line of vision was interrupted by the Orion beauty and Jim leaned to the side, away from Omari, not ‘cause he was rejecting him, so he could sneak another look.
+++
Jim walks down the steps, nods at the professor, clutches his jacket in front and braves a shit-eating smile. He’s coming right back, honest, just as soon as he can do something about this.
Three hours, twenty-five minutes.
+++
McCoy sauntered right past their table. It wasn’t even a direct route to the bar. His eyes darted towards Jim as he passed.
“Fuck, there’s that hot doctor guy,” Omari slurred. “I’d hit that.”
Jim smiled, didn’t say anything as he followed the fine, denim clad ass the short distance to the bar.
“Omari, why would you strike him when he’s an attractive man in his prime?” Gaila said, and the table erupted into alcohol-fuelled laughter. She looked at Jim and he winked at her. He knew she was whip-smart and her play on her literal interpretation of standard was her way of cracking jokes.
“Yeah, with my big ol’ club!” Omari snickered, easing away from Jim, “Hey, baby, come and sit next to me, Jim won’t mind.”
So Jim swapped seats with her, flipped the chair round so he could sit cowboy style and took a moment to check out the doctor’s rear view for another precious second.
+++
Jim slams the cubicle door shut and groans when he’s finally got his cock in his hand, leans back on the wall, bites his lip, cups his balls with his other hand. He thinks about McCoy’s voice, the way he’d leaned into the side of Jim’s head and whispered,
“I’ve been thinking about you.” His breath hot and whiskey soaked.
“Really?” That wasn’t a squeak, was it?
Three hours, fifteen minutes.
+++
“So, you two an item?”
“What? Me, and Omari, er…no, we’re friends. It’s his birthday.“ Like this explained anything.
“Figures,“ McCoy says, turning away, running his finger down his glass.
What the fuck did that mean? What ‘figured’, exactly? He didn’t get McCoy - he’d thought about this on the shuttle; McCoy had this way about him, like he was blunt about everything yet never spoke about what was really going on in that beautiful head of his.
McCoy turned around, leaned his hip on the bar, looked Jim up and down, like he was a scientific discovery or something. That’s how he’d looked at Jim on the shuttle that time. Now he let himself think about it, yeah, that had annoyed and intrigued him then too. McCoy wasn’t judging him, he was pretty sure of that. It was curiosity maybe…and something else he couldn’t work out. Why did the word ‘fear’ keep popping into his head? Why would this broad-shouldered man, eye-to-eye with him, have anything to fear from Jim Kirk?
“So, I haven’t seen you around.“ Jim had had two drinks so far. He wished it had been more - it might have drowned the uncomfortable feelings of confusion.
Now he was closer to McCoy, he could see the dark, evening shadow on his jaw and Jim had this image of licking it, wondering how the bastard would react, whether his crankiness would crumple.
It might have been the Omari-effect, maybe it had reminded Jim which part of the Venn-diagram sector he swung, but Jim didn’t tend to think about attraction and why his cock was on red alert. This was one part of his life he didn’t need to analyse or understand. When he wanted someone, he wanted them. When he didn’t, he didn’t.
McCoy caught his eye, held the look, blew out a ‘knowing’ breath. What was he ‘saying’? I got your number?
“Nice seein’ you again, kid.”
Yeah, he wanted McCoy and the unfamiliar sensation of needing to know why was bugging the hell out of him.
Jim was glad he was wearing his shirt loose over his t. Maybe it hid his boner as he went back to join his group.
+++
Jim recalls the tension between them, the spark of lust he felt when McCoy’s shirt sleeve fell open and his eyes went to the veins at his wrist. Jim’s a meat and potatoes guy when it comes to sex: big tits, blow-jobs, saliva, come, thanks, I’ll see you around. In the fumbled exchanges there’s no time for his eyes to linger on moles and lip colour; who cares about detail when fucking was immediate, needed no diagrams, no planning, no emotion other than an innocent ‘I’ll scratch yours, you scratch mine’?
Yet, unasked, Jim’s photographic memory had done its work. It doesn’t ever happen during sex.
This is how it goes with Jim Kirk; after Jim fucks someone, he can’t remember faces, names, numbers. Most importantly, he doesn’t want them to remember him. It’s like he doesn’t exist, in those seconds when he makes someone come, and they always come, Jim stops thinking about who he is, what he wants, what’s missing. And he’s just there, connected to someone, then he can let go. And they let go of him. He’s on his own, he’s free. It’s the way he likes it.
And he really doesn’t fucking like this, he thinks, in the stall, one elbow against the wall, feet braced, as he runs his hand up and down. He doesn’t want to remember any of it, but his mind won’t do as it’s told. So he remembers the exact angle of McCoy’s head, when he contemplated Jim’s face, Jim’s cock in his hand, the other on the back of Jim’s neck, keeping him still, like he could sense that some part of Jim wanted to escape, it’s all right here, now. So it’s like Jim can see him as if he was here, now. This isn’t good. But he just wants more. Fuck. He needs more.
“So, you been thinkin’ about me, cadet? Thinkin’ ‘bout me doin’ this, huh?”
That dirty voice, like honey straight from the hive, decadent and too damn much.
Three hours.
+++
Later, the bar was pretty full. Jim hadn’t thought too hard about why his eyes were constantly drawn to the table across the way since drink number five, or was it six? He looked down at his shot glass and concentrated really hard on bringing his hand in one smooth motion towards it. He knocks it back, and there - he caught McCoy’s eye again but, before he could process this, Omri and Gaila had got him by the wrists and were dragging him to the tiny dance floor,
“Two men dancing is most pleasing, “ Gaila explained into his ear as she pulled his hand to Omari’s shoulders and turned him so they’re facing each other, least he thought that’s what she said. There must have been ‘something’ in that jug filled with blue shit Gaila had insisted he try, because his hearing didn’t seem to work quite right, everything was muffled, had been for sometime now. And he couldn’t quite see properly; the colours in the room had all washed out and he was all focused on the dryness in his mouth and how heavy his limbs felt and he was hard as hell, feeling McCoy’s presence like he was The Big Bad Wolf and Jim was trying to make it a few more steps down the path, till he would be home safe. Shit, he really needed to get someone to call him a cab.
Right after this dance.
+++
Jim tucks himself away. There, that was that out of the way. Back to work.
He looks at himself in the mirror when he washes his hands. His pupils are enormous, a dead give away, so he waits, tries to wipe the grin off his face, the one that’s got him punched in the mouth so many times, but all he can think about is McCoy and that’s not helping one little bit. Least he’s not hard anymore. He slips his jacket on, leaves the restroom.
Two hours, fifty minutes.
+++
Fuck, Omari smells good, Jim thought. There’s one of his senses that still worked. He felt Omari’s talented tongue on his neck, and he grinds up against Jim. He had one hand on Omari’s hip the other in the air. Must be drunk, he’s actually not thinking about how he looks when he’s dancing for once. It feels loose and easy and then he’s turned around and pressing his ass back against his partner, Omari’s tall and rested his chin on Jim’s shoulder, soft, afro hair tickling his throat when Jim leans back to kiss him. He’d wrapped one arm around Jim’s chest and with the other Omari’s edged Jim’s t up so his belly’s exposed and the hand’s heading south.
Because Jim’s a control freak, he hadn’t looked in that direction for the duration of the song yet he knew he didn’t want to resist anymore. McCoy’s dead centre of the group, there’s shoulder punching and riotous laughter around him, but his body was still, his eyes intent on Jim. He was the eye of the hurricane.
+++
Jim likes being seen, he realises. Likes being chosen. McCoy appeared to be at ease in company, at that level, he could chat and dust off the anecdotes, but Jim had been watching him all night. He saw how McCoy was always apart from the others on his table. Everything was an act. While he spoke his legs were making barriers between him and the others, his arms were folded, he rolled his eyes. No one touched him and he touched no one all night, no hand-shakes, no taps on the shoulder to get past.
It thrills Jim to think that McCoy’s thumb hooking onto his lower lip and sliding across as his free hand unbuttoned Jim’s jeans, made him the first person he’d maybe touched in hours.
He hadn’t thought about this then, mostly too busy keening into him, grunting his need into McCoy’s chest to form actual sentences and thoughts.
Jim considers how tactile he is by contrast, how he touches everyone all the time; it’s easy, it’s how he is. Touch them first, make sure they’re there, then let go - all on his terms. Take control of the space.
Two bodies, moving towards each other across that room.
Fuck, now he’s half-hard again.
Thankfully the lecture’s over - the bustle around him tells him that. He gathers up his PADD, pulls his stylus out of his mouth and drops them into his bag.
Two and a half hours.
+++
Jim steered Omari towards Gaila, planted a kiss on both their lips then made his apologies. Yeah, he was too drunk, early class and, as he swayed towards McCoy’s table, he cursed himself for forgetting to pick up the neutraliser - damn, he was going to pay for this in the morning.
“I’ll see you around,” he shouted over the music, licked his lips, pulled his leather jacket over his shoulders, and headed for the restroom, glancing over his shoulder to see if McCoy was coming.
+++
Maybe having a shower was a mistake. Now Jim’s running his soapy hands up and down his chest, stroking his cock again, slipping one finger into himself, imaging it’s McCoy. Remembers that stare McCoy gave him when he’d looked back and left the dance floor, how McCoy’s eyes went to the ceiling for a second then a grin split his face at the same time as dark intent soaked his eyes. Fuck, Jim thinks… so close…
Looks like he’s met his match here.
At last.
Two hours to go.
+++
The cubicle door nudges open and McCoy was there. When Jim saw the tall, rangy figure up close, saw him run his long fingers through the hair falling over his forehead, Jim had never felt more sure of himself, nor more frightened of what he wanted.
McCoy kicked the door shut, locked it and firm hands were on Jim, McCoy’s mouth in his hair as he shoved Jim’s jacket off his shoulders so it was wrapped around the tops of his arms, his breath scalding Jim’s ears then his throat as he bit his jaw and neck and fumbled at his belt.
Breath smelling of whisky and corn chips,
“You teasing me, there, kid, tryin’ to make me hard for you?”
Yeah. Yeah he was.
“I-“ Jim managed, before their mouths clashed and there was nothing left to discuss. And fuck, McCoy was a good kisser, long, lazy licks across his lips, teeth tugging gently then velvet tongue probing deep into him, sucking hard then soft, hands either side of Jim’s face, pulling him in, closer, closer like it was just them, and nothing else existed.
Jim wasn’t sure he liked it the way he seemed to have no say in the matter when McCoy forced his jeans down to his thighs, and his fingers were rough against his length, cool and assured as he jerked him, hard and fast, nodding his head in amusement when he sees Jim’s wearing no underwear.
“Well, it’s probably obligatory on commando track,“ he chuckled and McCoy punished him for the lame joke by lifting Jim’s arms above his head, pinning them against the wall with his arm as he pulled harder and faster at him. Jim knew to leave his arms right there and didn’t protest when McCoy cupped the back of his head with his left hand and growled,
“Need to get this out of outta your system, so you can go back to your friends-“
“I’m fine here, really…shit…god that’s good…right there…”
+++
It’s a two and half kilometres to the hospital, Jim walks because he needs to get a grip. It’s dark, misty and he’s glad it’s a little cold, makes him feel like he’s awake and this isn’t some long, drawn out dream where he’s gonna wake up, hard as hell and wishing he wasn’t alone.
He remembers the look on McCoy’s face as he jerked Jim off, the intent concentration, the curiosity, the lust, and he wonders for the umpteenth time that day why McCoy had left it there, why he hadn’t let Jim reciprocate.
+++
“Now that’s a damned, pretty sight,” McCoy hissed through kiss swollen lips when he contemplated Jim’s face with hooded eyes and bared teeth,
“Fuck…I’m gonna…I…”
“Yeah. Do it. Come. Let go.”
And it was with an ache and a longing, broken moan, bucking into McCoy’s hand. His arms had dropped to McCoy’s shoulders and he’d pulled him close, gasping through the long, shattering orgasm. Despite the booze, Jim had felt it right down to his toes, straight through his spine and chest and, (fuck this) his heart.
His legs slumped and he felt McCoy’s arms rearrange to support him then he leaned in and kissed him gently, slowly and Jim thought he was going to be sick his head empty of blood and proper function.
“Bones, what about you, I should…” he mumbled into McCoy’s mouth.
“I can wait a little while longer,” he whispered “Can you?”
No, not exactly.
+++
Jim checks his comm.
Five minutes.
“I finish my shift at 19:00,” McCoy had said, as he straightened up his shirt, checking round the door before he left. “Come and meet me and we can do something.” Then he’d closed the door on Jim, left him to clean himself up, “Oh, and-“ he opened the door a crack so Jim could hear him, “I kinda like my new name.”
Jim’s not one for clichés; he’s too smart, revels too much in his easy use of language, his vast vocabulary and fountain of cultural reference points means he’s always got something new to say but, seriously, the only way he can describe it, when at last, time’s up and Bones is standing right there in front of him, his heart misses a fucking beat.
“Hi,“ he says, and Jim’s voice must sound awkward.
Bones nods, shifts his messenger bag on his shoulder,
“How’s your day been, kid?” he says.
Shit, Jim can’t remember the last time someone asked him that.
“Where we going?” McCoy asks, falling into step beside him.
“I dunno,“ Jim says, “Let’s just see where we end up.”
“Sounds good to me.”
~FIN~
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