FIC: Carry on, Bones - 1/?
Title: Carry on, Bones 1/? (AOS)
Author: sangueuk
Rating: pg-13 - R
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Sulu, Kirk/anyone else who wants to play, also in this and later parts, appearances from Winona, Spock, Gaila, Uhura and, later, some cats.
Wordcount: approx 3,500 words (this part)
Summary: AU set in 23rd century Boston, owing both plot and premise to Jeeves and Wooster; Jim has inherited a lot of money and is leading the life of a gentleman of leisure - he’s got Winona nagging him to get married, can’t seem to remember to keep his clothes on and has just engaged a new butler, one Leonard McCoy.
Warnings: It’s cracky, silly, there's cussing and all those other things you’d expect but I really couldn’t resist writing it! I mean - McCoy as a grouchy butler - what could possibly go wrong?
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits - this is just for fun. And it was fun!
Author’s notes: This was written as a belated birthday gift for the gorgeous skyblue_reverie who is a massive Jeeves and Wooster fan. Hope you like it, bb!
Thanks to abigail89 for beta’ing and being so accepting of my strange notions.
Intriguing snippet: No more fights, he’s promised Winona. Not now. He’s trying for a life with a modicum of respectability. Being ‘upstanding’ - he recalls - that’s what she said he needs to work on: no more senseless fighting, quit drinking, no more promiscuity and definitely No Getting Arrested.
Carry on, Bones
Jim Kirk’s turned over a new leaf.
He’s really trying to be a good little son.
No more fights, he’s promised Winona. Not now. He’s trying for a life with a modicum of respectability. Being ‘upstanding’ - he recalls - that’s what she said he needs to work on: no more senseless fighting, quit drinking, no more promiscuity and definitely No Getting Arrested.
He hasn’t done too badly on the fighting. The drinking’s maybe under control (which makes it easier to avoid the fights). The serial fucking (which he really, really likes ) - well, Mom need never know about that.
Then there’s the small matter of the last thing on that list - the not getting arrested…
“-and a two thousand credit fine payable within forty-eight hours,” the judge says, raising an eyebrow that’s been plucked to make her look more scary and severe than surely she needs to be. Actually, she’s kind of hot now that he thinks about it, and Jim tries one of his trademark (so they tell him) panty-melting grins. She’s having none of it. “Next case,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair and indicating that he should be led from the courtroom.
It’s a long way to Back Bay in the hover-cab; his head throbs, the early morning light has no business being this bright. He glances up and down the tree-lined street. He’s pretty damn sure nobody will spot him, at least, no one likely to inform Winona of his latest indiscretion. Damned inheritance and damned responsibilities. Shit, at least he doesn’t have to work.
He slips through the door of his brownstone, loving the soothing, defused light of the shutters on amber-colored wooden floors and shiny antique furniture, and staggers to the replicator. He hates replicator coffee, hates replicator food but he really can’t handle learning how to cook - it involves too much damned waiting.
His head throbs while he juggles sweet, milky coffee, and kicks off his boots, leaving them where they land. He drops his shirt on the leather couch, untangles his jeans and jumps into the womb of his grandpa’s old bed.
09:30 - Well, if he’s going to work at this being civilized game, he’ll have to make sure he’s never up at this ungodly hour again.
Wearing one cashmere sock and nothing else, his eyes fall shut to the pale blue light of the chrono.
+++
“Computer, tell who ever that is to fuck off,” he mumbles into the drool on his pillow. “And what time is it, anyway?”
“09:32, Mr Kirk,” the computer says soothingly. He’d made sure she had a lovely, breathy tone when he moved in two months ago, but even ‘she’ can’t smooth away the horror of a mere two minutes sleep. “Suggesting visitor fuck off, Mr. Kirk, as requested.”
“NO! Wait!” he scrambles towards the monitor. “Screen on.”
What the hell? Jim doesn’t receive many callers; he’s rarely home other than to sleep and sure, he throws a few parties, but an unannounced guest is rare and he doesn’t think he can deal when his head feels like a moose shat in it.
He squints at the screen. A rangy, dark haired man, sporting a scowl fit to wither a rikka flower at fifty meters, stands, arms folded on the stoop. Jim doesn’t recognize him - but he decides he’d better check - alcohol tends to mess with the old memory. He tiptoes to the nightstand and retrieves his glasses; nope - never seen him before. “Audio to street level door” he says, tapping the screen.
“Good morning, Jim Kirk here. Do I know you?”
A tan face tilts up, looking for the camera. Actually, Jim decides, he kinda wants to know this guy. He’s unshaven, dark eyed and handsome as hell in a country kind of way. In fact, he reminds Jim of some of those farm hands back home in Iowa, the ones he’s checked out the hayloft with. He’s wearing a well-cut suit, but it’s seen better days. Still, he kind of likes the way it hangs on fine, broad shoulders.
“Didn’t the agency comm you? Sir.”
Jim spots the remnants of a southern accent and smiles at the way ‘sir’ sounds more like ‘asshole’.
“Agency?” Ah! “I’ll be right down.”
He strolls down to the door, scratching at his navel on the way, and, in his sleepy, hung-over state, he completely forgets he’s naked - except for the one sock, of course.
The old fashioned door takes a bit of wrestling with - bastard thing still sticks, but preservation law forbids the overt modernization of these buildings.
Jim extends a hand to the guy who ignores it, looks past it, as if he’s staring down a charging heifer, directly at Jim’s dick.
“I was taking a nap, “ Jim says, smirking, “and it’s kind of warm out.” And when the gorgeous bastard clasps Jim’s hand with warm, long fingers, a surprise tingle transports that warmth directly to Jim’s groin.
“Leonard McCoy,” he says, then adds, inclining his head towards Jim’s cock, “I may throw up on you but I’ve seen wors’.” Yeah, deep south alright. Jim lets out a bark of laughter and spins on his socked heel for the drawing room. He settles on the couch and pulls a cushion over his lap - just in case.
“Take a seat, Leonard McCoy.” Jim fights another grin.
“I’m fine standing. Sir.”
There it is again - that undertone of snark. How the hell did this guy even make it through his training?
“I’d offer you coffee, McCoy, but I suck at making coffee-“
“That’ll be why the agency sent me, Mr. Kirk.”
“You make good coffee?” Jim swings his legs up onto the couch and winces when a wave of nausea makes the room tilt.
“Are you in pain?”
“Nah - heavy night - nothing I don’t deserve.”
“I can fix that. May I?” McCoy says, with a slight incline of his jaw to the kitchen.
“Go right ahead.” McCoy steps past his case and walks through, long legs moving easily and with surprising elegance.
Jim rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand. He can hear cupboards opening, what he thinks might be curses, and the fizz of mineral water being opened followed by the whirr or some kitchen appliance which hasn’t been put to use since Jim moved in. McCoy reappears, walks past him and up the stairs without a glance. Two minutes later he’s back with Jim’s dressing gown which he tosses onto the couch with a frown.
“If you’d follow me into the kitchen, sir - I believe I may have something to ease the pain.”
Jim slips on the dressing gown, ties it loosely and follows McCoy into the brightly lit kitchen squinting a little. He rests his spectacles on the counter and reaches for a whiskey glass full of cloudy, golden liquid. He scrunches his nose -
“You sure about this? I thought you’d have a hypo or something - your reference said you’re ex-medical.”
“That may be true, sir, but that would be illegal and I’m not one to break the law-“
Yeah, right - so how come he’s strolling around Boston with a mouth like that?
“Not all miracles of science were born in the 23rd century, Mr Kirk. This is an old Georgian recipe. “
“That’ll explain the smell of peaches, “Jim says taking a sip. Then after a moment to stare incredulously at McCoy, he knocks back the whole glass in one mouthful, licking his lips in wonder. ” Shit, man - I like you already!”
“I wish I could say the same, sir.” Jim could see what he thought might be a secret smile on those plum-colored lips.
“That was a joke, right?” Jim grins, setting the glass down, kind of loving the way McCoy scowls when he uses the back of his hand to wipe the juice from his chin.
“I’ve drawn a bath for you and set out some suitable clothin’ on the bed, sir.”
“How d’ya know where my room was?”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “I’ll unpack and return shortly to begin my duties,” he drawls.
“Your room’s a the top of the…”
“I know, Mr. Kirk.”
Of course - the schematics, kitchen and laundry inventory, that was all part of the information package sent with the post. Nevertheless, the guy seems to know his stuff. Jim hopes he’ll make the grade. Good thing he won’t know the dirty thoughts running through Jim’s mind, he thinks, crossing his legs as McCoy saunters past him.
“And, hey - call me Jim!”
+++
“James, turn the screen on or I’ll transport round there and give you a hiding,”
“Mom, it’s not a good idea,” Jim covers up the long limbs beside him and his eyes bulge when Sulu’s hand snakes around his morning wood (though, from the chrono, it seemed that it should be afternoon wood).
“James!” he knows that tone - Winona Kirk means business.
“Okay, wait!” He covers Sulu’s mouth and bites back a yelp when a tongue tickles his fingers. He stands on the bed, hops down and ambles to the screen, glancing over his shoulder at the raised eyebrow behind him and waves his arms, indicating his lean-limbed best friend cover himself up with the sheets.
“Screen on,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, and running a finger down his left eyebrow in case it’s mussed. “Hi, Mom!”
“Aren’t you dressed yet? You’re twenty-three years old and you’re still in bed at,” she pauses while she checks, “ 15:00. I despair.” She shakes her head.
“I’ve been awake a while, Mom.” Well, it isn’t quite a lie.
“You and I need to talk, young man.”
“What about, Mom? I mean--it’s always nice to catch-up but I have a lot to do today.”
Damn, he really doesn’t like his Mom’s ‘no kidding’ face.
“You’ll see. Meet me for tea. I’m only in town a few more hours and I need to fit a lot of scolding in before I go.” She may have a twinkle in her eye, but Jim still isn’t looking forward to this.
“Afternoon, sir.”
Jim nearly jumps out of skin.
“Who’s that?” Winona says from the screen.
His new butler stands in the doorway, holding a tray, and whatever the hell is under that white cloth, smells amazing.
“Breakfast,” McCoy says without a glance at the bed. He removes the cloth: two coffee cups, bacon, eggs and fresh-baked cornbread.
“That’s Bones,” Jim said, looking back at his mother’s image, “my new butler.”
“Bones?” his mother and McCoy said at the same time.
“Yeah, he’s, you know, medical or something?”
“In what sense medical, James? Do you have a condition you haven’t told me about?”
McCoy and Jim both look down at his still slightly perky cock and Jim’s stomach flutters a little at how McCoy raises an eyebrow and holds his gaze.
“Listen, Mom, great talking to you, but I really need to get going. I have an important meeting later this afternoon. What time you want me?”
“17:00. And if you’re late, I’ll cut you off.”
“That’ll hurt,” a muffled voice says from the bed. A tuft of black hair emerges followed by twinkling eyes.
The screen goes blank. McCoy’s turned it off just in time.
“I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast,” McCoy says pointedly, and the door slams shut behind him. Jim really needs to modernize these doors too.
“Hot butler is jealous!” Sulu grins. “He’s fine, man!”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed-“
And if Jim grips Sulu’s dark hair a little hard while they ‘eat’, he can’t say he’s noticed that either.
+++
Jim yawns in the late afternoon sun. He waits for Sulu to shimmy under the stuffed Sehlat head, the Vulcan beast, that’s become wedged by its saber-like teeth in The Drones Gentleman’s Club doorway. He follows and neither of them comment on how it might have ended up there from its customary position above the ancient, marble fireplace in the games room, nor on how a traditional moose trophy would have been less troublesome.
They part ways and Jim heads for the library for a half hour’s contemplation until he’s due to meet his mother. The room smells musky and old, and Jim sinks into its arms with a sigh. He ignores the rowdy game of ‘baseball’ criss-crossing his line of vision, played with newspaper ‘bat’ and ‘balls’ (the club pays huge sums for traditional paper news for that traditional feel) until he dozes off in a high-backed chair, his fingers curling on old velvet, dreaming of peach trees and stern, molasses laced words.
+++
“Mom, seriously, I’m too young to get married!”
Jim shifts under her glare and toys with the cucumber sandwiches on his plate.
“And stop ogling the waiters, James.” Winona raps his hand with a cake fork. “Concentrate. You’ve got a month. The terms of Tiberius’ will are clear - either you marry before your next birthday or you join Starfleet, or the money’s gone.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“You’ve said that already. Frankly, I don’t care what you do - I just want you to be happy. But, and tell me if I’m wrong here, I don’t think you were happy bussing tables in Iowa either, were you?”
“Actually, I was.” Jim leans forward. “The old bastard’s black-mailing me from the grave.”
Another rap on the hand.
“Ouch, stop doing that!”
“You’re like a child, James, a silly, spoiled child.”
Jim scowls, thinking about his long summers with Uncle Frank once Sam had left; he wonders what the hell was ‘spoiled’ about that but forces a smile. He crosses his legs in his elegant, linen trousers and straightens his tie. Damn McCoy for not letting him choose his own clothes. “You need to make an effort when you meet your mama,” he’d said.
“Look, Mom, I’m not against getting married one day to the right man or woman, but I’m old-fashioned-“
Winona snorts her tea then dabs at her chin with a napkin.
“I can’t believe they say you’re a genius - you haven’t got any formal qualifications to speak of, never held down a job for more than six months and I have yet to meet any of your numerous partners. You’d think it would be like shooting fish in a barrel - but not even a chance encounter. How is the way you conduct your ‘love-life’,” she air quoted with long, manicured fingers, “romantic? Enlighten me.”
“I believe in love,” he said quietly looking down at the sandwich.
She doesn’t say anything for a long minute, then extends her hand to take his.
“You’re more like your dad every day, Jimmy.”
He looks up at her and sees her eyes are wet; then, she seems to gather herself in the space of a breath, and there--it’s back: her trademark steely, don’t-fuck-with-me face.
“You need someone to compliment the deficiencies in your character. Being a romantic won’t get you anywhere, and it’ll get you poor before you’ve even had time to spend a pins-worth of your grandpa’s money. “
“I’m not joining Starfleet.”
“So - get married. I’ve got the perfect candidate for you-“
“There’s no such person. Who is he?”
“It’s a she - Nyota Uhura. She’s intelligent, beautiful and rich.”
“So why isn’t she married already?”
“Same reason you aren’t - she’s a romantic!”
“Mom, I’m twenty-three. I’m not married because I’m twenty-three. Gimme a break!”
She ignores him. “She’s enlisted for Starfleet, starts her program in the fall. She’ll keep you in line.”
“Great.”
“And you’re meeting her tomorrow. You’ve been invited to spend the weekend at their home and you can bring a friend and, no, not that annoying San Fran fly-boy you spend so much time with. Bring someone who can teach you some manners. Someone who can smooth the way?”
He’s given up fighting. There’s really no point against the force of Winona Kirk - the only no-win scenario he’s ever encountered.
“Who do you suggest?”
“How about that lovely young Vulcan friend of yours? What’s his name? Oh, yes…Spock. Bring him.”
+++
People telling Jim how to lead his life was becoming an all-too common occurrence.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with this outfit, Bones.” Jim stands bare-foot in front of the mirror and turns to admire his ass in his close-fitting jeans. “I look hot.”
McCoy continues to iron one of Jim’s shirts in silence.
“You know something, McCoy, I can hear your disapproval even if you aren’t saying a word. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve thrown out all my sneakers except for the black Converse.”
“I had your best interests at heart, sir, and we still need to discuss the atrocity of brown shoes.” McCoy arranges the shirt on a hanger and takes up a white, v-necked t and lays it on the ironing board.
“Don’t iron that!” Jim snatches it from him. “That’s my favorite!”
McCoy glowers but his tone’s even. Almost. “If it’s your favorite, sir, I suggest it’s treated with love and ironed so you look like the elegant gentleman you want to appear to be - to your future wife.”
Jim gapes. He holds out his hand and McCoy retrieves the garment.
“My future wife!? Have you been talking to my mom?”
“We had a very amusing and enlightening conversation. She’s a charming lady - sassy, almost Georgian in her attitude and single-mindedness.”
“Jim. Call me Jim. When--when did you get the chance to talk to her?”
“Yesterday afternoon, sir. Jim.”
Jim slumps onto a nearby chair.
“This isn’t fair. It’s too early for one thing and you’re both operating some kind of pincer movement. I haven’t got a chance in hell, have I? Damn, I really need to brush up on strategy.”
“The hell you do, Jim.”
Jim starts at the sudden slip into deep south. “What do you mean, Bones?”
McCoy hands him his pressed t-shirt. “Now, sir, how many more of your ‘favorites’ do you need me to pack? I counted several in the laundry alone.”
Jim gazes at McCoy’s face. He can’t figure his butler out - on the one hand, he seems to constantly struggle to hide his feelings; McCoy’s face can darken with irritation at the slightest thing, sarcasm broiling under every word. But Jim will be damned if he can even begin to work out what the man’s thinking.
“I’ve made it my business to study the situation in advance. As long as you’re not dumb enough to take matters into your own hands, you’ll. . .well, let me put it this way - you’re not the only romantic in these parts.”
And what the hell does that mean?
Jim pulls the t over his head and wrestles into the sleeves. He catches McCoy looking as he straightens it over his stomach and runs his hands through his hair.
Yeah - Jim would kill to know what this guy’s thinking and thanks his lucky stars his own thoughts, currently telegraphed via his errant cock, are contained and hidden by his too tight jeans.
“I’m going to check over the bike,” Jim says, his voice a little husky.
And Jim could swear he hears McCoy chuckle behind him.
TBC
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Author: sangueuk
Rating: pg-13 - R
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Sulu, Kirk/anyone else who wants to play, also in this and later parts, appearances from Winona, Spock, Gaila, Uhura and, later, some cats.
Wordcount: approx 3,500 words (this part)
Summary: AU set in 23rd century Boston, owing both plot and premise to Jeeves and Wooster; Jim has inherited a lot of money and is leading the life of a gentleman of leisure - he’s got Winona nagging him to get married, can’t seem to remember to keep his clothes on and has just engaged a new butler, one Leonard McCoy.
Warnings: It’s cracky, silly, there's cussing and all those other things you’d expect but I really couldn’t resist writing it! I mean - McCoy as a grouchy butler - what could possibly go wrong?
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits - this is just for fun. And it was fun!
Author’s notes: This was written as a belated birthday gift for the gorgeous skyblue_reverie who is a massive Jeeves and Wooster fan. Hope you like it, bb!
Thanks to abigail89 for beta’ing and being so accepting of my strange notions.
Intriguing snippet: No more fights, he’s promised Winona. Not now. He’s trying for a life with a modicum of respectability. Being ‘upstanding’ - he recalls - that’s what she said he needs to work on: no more senseless fighting, quit drinking, no more promiscuity and definitely No Getting Arrested.
Carry on, Bones
Jim Kirk’s turned over a new leaf.
He’s really trying to be a good little son.
No more fights, he’s promised Winona. Not now. He’s trying for a life with a modicum of respectability. Being ‘upstanding’ - he recalls - that’s what she said he needs to work on: no more senseless fighting, quit drinking, no more promiscuity and definitely No Getting Arrested.
He hasn’t done too badly on the fighting. The drinking’s maybe under control (which makes it easier to avoid the fights). The serial fucking (which he really, really likes ) - well, Mom need never know about that.
Then there’s the small matter of the last thing on that list - the not getting arrested…
“-and a two thousand credit fine payable within forty-eight hours,” the judge says, raising an eyebrow that’s been plucked to make her look more scary and severe than surely she needs to be. Actually, she’s kind of hot now that he thinks about it, and Jim tries one of his trademark (so they tell him) panty-melting grins. She’s having none of it. “Next case,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair and indicating that he should be led from the courtroom.
It’s a long way to Back Bay in the hover-cab; his head throbs, the early morning light has no business being this bright. He glances up and down the tree-lined street. He’s pretty damn sure nobody will spot him, at least, no one likely to inform Winona of his latest indiscretion. Damned inheritance and damned responsibilities. Shit, at least he doesn’t have to work.
He slips through the door of his brownstone, loving the soothing, defused light of the shutters on amber-colored wooden floors and shiny antique furniture, and staggers to the replicator. He hates replicator coffee, hates replicator food but he really can’t handle learning how to cook - it involves too much damned waiting.
His head throbs while he juggles sweet, milky coffee, and kicks off his boots, leaving them where they land. He drops his shirt on the leather couch, untangles his jeans and jumps into the womb of his grandpa’s old bed.
09:30 - Well, if he’s going to work at this being civilized game, he’ll have to make sure he’s never up at this ungodly hour again.
Wearing one cashmere sock and nothing else, his eyes fall shut to the pale blue light of the chrono.
+++
“Computer, tell who ever that is to fuck off,” he mumbles into the drool on his pillow. “And what time is it, anyway?”
“09:32, Mr Kirk,” the computer says soothingly. He’d made sure she had a lovely, breathy tone when he moved in two months ago, but even ‘she’ can’t smooth away the horror of a mere two minutes sleep. “Suggesting visitor fuck off, Mr. Kirk, as requested.”
“NO! Wait!” he scrambles towards the monitor. “Screen on.”
What the hell? Jim doesn’t receive many callers; he’s rarely home other than to sleep and sure, he throws a few parties, but an unannounced guest is rare and he doesn’t think he can deal when his head feels like a moose shat in it.
He squints at the screen. A rangy, dark haired man, sporting a scowl fit to wither a rikka flower at fifty meters, stands, arms folded on the stoop. Jim doesn’t recognize him - but he decides he’d better check - alcohol tends to mess with the old memory. He tiptoes to the nightstand and retrieves his glasses; nope - never seen him before. “Audio to street level door” he says, tapping the screen.
“Good morning, Jim Kirk here. Do I know you?”
A tan face tilts up, looking for the camera. Actually, Jim decides, he kinda wants to know this guy. He’s unshaven, dark eyed and handsome as hell in a country kind of way. In fact, he reminds Jim of some of those farm hands back home in Iowa, the ones he’s checked out the hayloft with. He’s wearing a well-cut suit, but it’s seen better days. Still, he kind of likes the way it hangs on fine, broad shoulders.
“Didn’t the agency comm you? Sir.”
Jim spots the remnants of a southern accent and smiles at the way ‘sir’ sounds more like ‘asshole’.
“Agency?” Ah! “I’ll be right down.”
He strolls down to the door, scratching at his navel on the way, and, in his sleepy, hung-over state, he completely forgets he’s naked - except for the one sock, of course.
The old fashioned door takes a bit of wrestling with - bastard thing still sticks, but preservation law forbids the overt modernization of these buildings.
Jim extends a hand to the guy who ignores it, looks past it, as if he’s staring down a charging heifer, directly at Jim’s dick.
“I was taking a nap, “ Jim says, smirking, “and it’s kind of warm out.” And when the gorgeous bastard clasps Jim’s hand with warm, long fingers, a surprise tingle transports that warmth directly to Jim’s groin.
“Leonard McCoy,” he says, then adds, inclining his head towards Jim’s cock, “I may throw up on you but I’ve seen wors’.” Yeah, deep south alright. Jim lets out a bark of laughter and spins on his socked heel for the drawing room. He settles on the couch and pulls a cushion over his lap - just in case.
“Take a seat, Leonard McCoy.” Jim fights another grin.
“I’m fine standing. Sir.”
There it is again - that undertone of snark. How the hell did this guy even make it through his training?
“I’d offer you coffee, McCoy, but I suck at making coffee-“
“That’ll be why the agency sent me, Mr. Kirk.”
“You make good coffee?” Jim swings his legs up onto the couch and winces when a wave of nausea makes the room tilt.
“Are you in pain?”
“Nah - heavy night - nothing I don’t deserve.”
“I can fix that. May I?” McCoy says, with a slight incline of his jaw to the kitchen.
“Go right ahead.” McCoy steps past his case and walks through, long legs moving easily and with surprising elegance.
Jim rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand. He can hear cupboards opening, what he thinks might be curses, and the fizz of mineral water being opened followed by the whirr or some kitchen appliance which hasn’t been put to use since Jim moved in. McCoy reappears, walks past him and up the stairs without a glance. Two minutes later he’s back with Jim’s dressing gown which he tosses onto the couch with a frown.
“If you’d follow me into the kitchen, sir - I believe I may have something to ease the pain.”
Jim slips on the dressing gown, ties it loosely and follows McCoy into the brightly lit kitchen squinting a little. He rests his spectacles on the counter and reaches for a whiskey glass full of cloudy, golden liquid. He scrunches his nose -
“You sure about this? I thought you’d have a hypo or something - your reference said you’re ex-medical.”
“That may be true, sir, but that would be illegal and I’m not one to break the law-“
Yeah, right - so how come he’s strolling around Boston with a mouth like that?
“Not all miracles of science were born in the 23rd century, Mr Kirk. This is an old Georgian recipe. “
“That’ll explain the smell of peaches, “Jim says taking a sip. Then after a moment to stare incredulously at McCoy, he knocks back the whole glass in one mouthful, licking his lips in wonder. ” Shit, man - I like you already!”
“I wish I could say the same, sir.” Jim could see what he thought might be a secret smile on those plum-colored lips.
“That was a joke, right?” Jim grins, setting the glass down, kind of loving the way McCoy scowls when he uses the back of his hand to wipe the juice from his chin.
“I’ve drawn a bath for you and set out some suitable clothin’ on the bed, sir.”
“How d’ya know where my room was?”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “I’ll unpack and return shortly to begin my duties,” he drawls.
“Your room’s a the top of the…”
“I know, Mr. Kirk.”
Of course - the schematics, kitchen and laundry inventory, that was all part of the information package sent with the post. Nevertheless, the guy seems to know his stuff. Jim hopes he’ll make the grade. Good thing he won’t know the dirty thoughts running through Jim’s mind, he thinks, crossing his legs as McCoy saunters past him.
“And, hey - call me Jim!”
+++
“James, turn the screen on or I’ll transport round there and give you a hiding,”
“Mom, it’s not a good idea,” Jim covers up the long limbs beside him and his eyes bulge when Sulu’s hand snakes around his morning wood (though, from the chrono, it seemed that it should be afternoon wood).
“James!” he knows that tone - Winona Kirk means business.
“Okay, wait!” He covers Sulu’s mouth and bites back a yelp when a tongue tickles his fingers. He stands on the bed, hops down and ambles to the screen, glancing over his shoulder at the raised eyebrow behind him and waves his arms, indicating his lean-limbed best friend cover himself up with the sheets.
“Screen on,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, and running a finger down his left eyebrow in case it’s mussed. “Hi, Mom!”
“Aren’t you dressed yet? You’re twenty-three years old and you’re still in bed at,” she pauses while she checks, “ 15:00. I despair.” She shakes her head.
“I’ve been awake a while, Mom.” Well, it isn’t quite a lie.
“You and I need to talk, young man.”
“What about, Mom? I mean--it’s always nice to catch-up but I have a lot to do today.”
Damn, he really doesn’t like his Mom’s ‘no kidding’ face.
“You’ll see. Meet me for tea. I’m only in town a few more hours and I need to fit a lot of scolding in before I go.” She may have a twinkle in her eye, but Jim still isn’t looking forward to this.
“Afternoon, sir.”
Jim nearly jumps out of skin.
“Who’s that?” Winona says from the screen.
His new butler stands in the doorway, holding a tray, and whatever the hell is under that white cloth, smells amazing.
“Breakfast,” McCoy says without a glance at the bed. He removes the cloth: two coffee cups, bacon, eggs and fresh-baked cornbread.
“That’s Bones,” Jim said, looking back at his mother’s image, “my new butler.”
“Bones?” his mother and McCoy said at the same time.
“Yeah, he’s, you know, medical or something?”
“In what sense medical, James? Do you have a condition you haven’t told me about?”
McCoy and Jim both look down at his still slightly perky cock and Jim’s stomach flutters a little at how McCoy raises an eyebrow and holds his gaze.
“Listen, Mom, great talking to you, but I really need to get going. I have an important meeting later this afternoon. What time you want me?”
“17:00. And if you’re late, I’ll cut you off.”
“That’ll hurt,” a muffled voice says from the bed. A tuft of black hair emerges followed by twinkling eyes.
The screen goes blank. McCoy’s turned it off just in time.
“I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast,” McCoy says pointedly, and the door slams shut behind him. Jim really needs to modernize these doors too.
“Hot butler is jealous!” Sulu grins. “He’s fine, man!”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed-“
And if Jim grips Sulu’s dark hair a little hard while they ‘eat’, he can’t say he’s noticed that either.
+++
Jim yawns in the late afternoon sun. He waits for Sulu to shimmy under the stuffed Sehlat head, the Vulcan beast, that’s become wedged by its saber-like teeth in The Drones Gentleman’s Club doorway. He follows and neither of them comment on how it might have ended up there from its customary position above the ancient, marble fireplace in the games room, nor on how a traditional moose trophy would have been less troublesome.
They part ways and Jim heads for the library for a half hour’s contemplation until he’s due to meet his mother. The room smells musky and old, and Jim sinks into its arms with a sigh. He ignores the rowdy game of ‘baseball’ criss-crossing his line of vision, played with newspaper ‘bat’ and ‘balls’ (the club pays huge sums for traditional paper news for that traditional feel) until he dozes off in a high-backed chair, his fingers curling on old velvet, dreaming of peach trees and stern, molasses laced words.
+++
“Mom, seriously, I’m too young to get married!”
Jim shifts under her glare and toys with the cucumber sandwiches on his plate.
“And stop ogling the waiters, James.” Winona raps his hand with a cake fork. “Concentrate. You’ve got a month. The terms of Tiberius’ will are clear - either you marry before your next birthday or you join Starfleet, or the money’s gone.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“You’ve said that already. Frankly, I don’t care what you do - I just want you to be happy. But, and tell me if I’m wrong here, I don’t think you were happy bussing tables in Iowa either, were you?”
“Actually, I was.” Jim leans forward. “The old bastard’s black-mailing me from the grave.”
Another rap on the hand.
“Ouch, stop doing that!”
“You’re like a child, James, a silly, spoiled child.”
Jim scowls, thinking about his long summers with Uncle Frank once Sam had left; he wonders what the hell was ‘spoiled’ about that but forces a smile. He crosses his legs in his elegant, linen trousers and straightens his tie. Damn McCoy for not letting him choose his own clothes. “You need to make an effort when you meet your mama,” he’d said.
“Look, Mom, I’m not against getting married one day to the right man or woman, but I’m old-fashioned-“
Winona snorts her tea then dabs at her chin with a napkin.
“I can’t believe they say you’re a genius - you haven’t got any formal qualifications to speak of, never held down a job for more than six months and I have yet to meet any of your numerous partners. You’d think it would be like shooting fish in a barrel - but not even a chance encounter. How is the way you conduct your ‘love-life’,” she air quoted with long, manicured fingers, “romantic? Enlighten me.”
“I believe in love,” he said quietly looking down at the sandwich.
She doesn’t say anything for a long minute, then extends her hand to take his.
“You’re more like your dad every day, Jimmy.”
He looks up at her and sees her eyes are wet; then, she seems to gather herself in the space of a breath, and there--it’s back: her trademark steely, don’t-fuck-with-me face.
“You need someone to compliment the deficiencies in your character. Being a romantic won’t get you anywhere, and it’ll get you poor before you’ve even had time to spend a pins-worth of your grandpa’s money. “
“I’m not joining Starfleet.”
“So - get married. I’ve got the perfect candidate for you-“
“There’s no such person. Who is he?”
“It’s a she - Nyota Uhura. She’s intelligent, beautiful and rich.”
“So why isn’t she married already?”
“Same reason you aren’t - she’s a romantic!”
“Mom, I’m twenty-three. I’m not married because I’m twenty-three. Gimme a break!”
She ignores him. “She’s enlisted for Starfleet, starts her program in the fall. She’ll keep you in line.”
“Great.”
“And you’re meeting her tomorrow. You’ve been invited to spend the weekend at their home and you can bring a friend and, no, not that annoying San Fran fly-boy you spend so much time with. Bring someone who can teach you some manners. Someone who can smooth the way?”
He’s given up fighting. There’s really no point against the force of Winona Kirk - the only no-win scenario he’s ever encountered.
“Who do you suggest?”
“How about that lovely young Vulcan friend of yours? What’s his name? Oh, yes…Spock. Bring him.”
+++
People telling Jim how to lead his life was becoming an all-too common occurrence.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with this outfit, Bones.” Jim stands bare-foot in front of the mirror and turns to admire his ass in his close-fitting jeans. “I look hot.”
McCoy continues to iron one of Jim’s shirts in silence.
“You know something, McCoy, I can hear your disapproval even if you aren’t saying a word. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve thrown out all my sneakers except for the black Converse.”
“I had your best interests at heart, sir, and we still need to discuss the atrocity of brown shoes.” McCoy arranges the shirt on a hanger and takes up a white, v-necked t and lays it on the ironing board.
“Don’t iron that!” Jim snatches it from him. “That’s my favorite!”
McCoy glowers but his tone’s even. Almost. “If it’s your favorite, sir, I suggest it’s treated with love and ironed so you look like the elegant gentleman you want to appear to be - to your future wife.”
Jim gapes. He holds out his hand and McCoy retrieves the garment.
“My future wife!? Have you been talking to my mom?”
“We had a very amusing and enlightening conversation. She’s a charming lady - sassy, almost Georgian in her attitude and single-mindedness.”
“Jim. Call me Jim. When--when did you get the chance to talk to her?”
“Yesterday afternoon, sir. Jim.”
Jim slumps onto a nearby chair.
“This isn’t fair. It’s too early for one thing and you’re both operating some kind of pincer movement. I haven’t got a chance in hell, have I? Damn, I really need to brush up on strategy.”
“The hell you do, Jim.”
Jim starts at the sudden slip into deep south. “What do you mean, Bones?”
McCoy hands him his pressed t-shirt. “Now, sir, how many more of your ‘favorites’ do you need me to pack? I counted several in the laundry alone.”
Jim gazes at McCoy’s face. He can’t figure his butler out - on the one hand, he seems to constantly struggle to hide his feelings; McCoy’s face can darken with irritation at the slightest thing, sarcasm broiling under every word. But Jim will be damned if he can even begin to work out what the man’s thinking.
“I’ve made it my business to study the situation in advance. As long as you’re not dumb enough to take matters into your own hands, you’ll. . .well, let me put it this way - you’re not the only romantic in these parts.”
And what the hell does that mean?
Jim pulls the t over his head and wrestles into the sleeves. He catches McCoy looking as he straightens it over his stomach and runs his hands through his hair.
Yeah - Jim would kill to know what this guy’s thinking and thanks his lucky stars his own thoughts, currently telegraphed via his errant cock, are contained and hidden by his too tight jeans.
“I’m going to check over the bike,” Jim says, his voice a little husky.
And Jim could swear he hears McCoy chuckle behind him.
TBC
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