FIC: Venite Adoremus
Venite Adoremus 1/1
Pairing Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
rating pg
words approx 3,200 words complete
summary It’s very early Christmas morning; McCoy has a religious experience - kind of.
warnings idolatry and art
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits - this is just for fun.
A/N - The title is from the Latin version of the Christmas carol, ‘Oh come all ye faithful’ and is a partial response to prompt #25 on space_wrapped where Jim and Bones go to church together on Christmas morning (although, this did not take the ‘amusing’ or 'naughty' direction the original prompter intended - sorry, OP!)
intriguing snippet: Leonard wrestles a gloved hand from his pocket and thumbs towards the ‘POW’,
the Place of Worship -- neon lit and squatting apologetically on the corner of Chestnut and Steiner.
“I need to go in here. You want to come? “Leonard asks.
A million thanks to the awesome abigail89 for her encouragement and support and for beta reading so speedily!
on A03
Venite Adoremus
“Jim, I said - stop!”
Leonard watches and waits for his words to sink into Jim’s soused brain, amused by the time lag. They’re heading back to campus after a few hours in various bars downtown and Jim’s worse for wear. He’s a couple of meters ahead and it’s at least half a minute before Jim manages to halt the forward motion after a drunk’s mile of one foot in front of the other, head bent, eyes on the pavement as he sways and stumbles ahead. Leonard’s sure he’s sulking: hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, staring intently at his feet once Leonard made him let go of his arm, insisting, “You’ve been out of diapers a while now and surely can walk unaided.”
Jim turns to look at Leonard, one eye open over the hand-knitted, way too long scarf that’s covering half his face, one end trailing the ground.
“What?” He’s stooping slightly in the cold, ‘Frisco night, and two shots of breath leave his nostrils, melding with the light fog around them.
Leonard wrestles a gloved hand from his pocket and thumbs towards the ‘POW’,
the Place of Worship -- neon lit and squatting apologetically on the corner of Chestnut and Steiner.
“I need to go in here. You want to come? “Leonard asks.
He watches Jim process the flashing sign, dark eyebrows furrowed against pale, almost translucent skin, blood retreated from the cold air, leaving a pink flush on his cheeks and the tips of his nose and ears. Leonard thinks, foolishly, the neon hasn’t got a chance against the divine blue of Jim’s eyes.
POW!
Your one stop shop for all your worship needs!
Discount for Starfleet cadets.
“But we’re nearly home. Come on, Bones, I need to sleep…m’drunk-“
It’s been a short but heavy Christmas Eve for Jim, ‘drinking for two’ as he put it.
“I won’t be long…” Leonard says gruffly.
“You’re kidding?” Jim straightens, huffing out more alcohol-laced breath. “I thought you needed to be on shift in a few hours. ‘s’why you weren’t drinking? You were supposed to go to sleep, that’s what you said.” Jim points an accusing finger.
Leonard shrugs. “This is important.” He takes Jim’s elbow. “Come on - humor me, okay?” He feels himself color, not sure if it’s the cold, anger or embarrassment. One thing he knows for sure, he wants Jim to stay, doesn’t want to go in alone.
Jim considers, resting his head against the doorway. “Guess I could always take a nap.”
Well, Leonard thinks, he can but hope.
Jim rubs an eye and hiccups, sways gently towards Leonard then away again, and allows himself to be pushed through the doorway. The security field clicks to acknowledge their entry, and over-heated air scalds Leonard’s cheeks.
They stand at the back of the POW, taking a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. The place of worship is nearly empty. Despite having diversified more and more over the past few years in an effort to entice the variety of sentient beings passing through San Francisco in an average week, the chain’s struggling against waning popularity. This one’s just like all the others which have sprung up here and there near the city’s pulse points. The POWs are low maintenance and totally lacking in atmosphere, fast food fill up for the soul. The pale green walls, simple white benches, concealed speakers, holo-projectors and cameras, a far cry from the opulent cathedral in Atlanta which Leonard hankers after, scene of the big society wedding the Darnells had insisted on, where Jo-Jo was baptized a mere six months later.
He loosens his scarf, pulls off his gloves and shoves them into his pockets.
Jim shoots Leonard a sideways look, his expression saying, are you sure?
Yeah, he is. This isn’t about God -- Leonard’s agnostic -but on Christmas Eve, his deeply romantic nature hankers after traditions, ritual, and dark places. It’s his first Christmas away from ‘home’ in so long, it’s just him and Jim and he wants something that feels right, that feels like ‘before’.
They take the first booth at the back, slipping into the sterile, white plastic bench seat. The POW’s low maintenance, no need for staff, other than to clean the booths out maybe, though Leonard suspects they’re upended and disinfected automatically after each ‘use’, like public restrooms.
“Any requests?” Leonard asks Jim, watching him clumsily unwind his stupid scarf and drop it to the floor at his feet. Leonard scrolls through the menu: ‘congregation’, ‘temperature’, ‘service type’.
Jim shrugs, eyes darting around. “Erm…” he says, “mostly empty’s good.” Then he adds,” Dark, I like dark, but, yanno…candles, those big ass ones, and some of the smelly stuff…” Jim doesn’t look the type to have seen the inside of any kind of church, but he seems to know exactly what he wants -- as with all things.
Leonard selects incense under ‘olfactory’, keeps the temperature control fairly low, so it ‘feels’ like a cathedral, and selects service, ‘traditional, catholic’ .. He puts a delay on the start to allow Jim to settle down. The kid’s like a goddamned colt or something, veering between extreme high or low maintenance depending on how much physical activity he’s had.
“And Latin, I like Latin,” Jim says, waggling his eyebrows.
“I’ll bet you do,” Leonard says, “brat.”
He makes the change, slides the mini PADD back into the arm rest, once he’s bipped his credit chip.
He’s chosen the ‘admiral’s’ option. Shit, other than Jo-Jo, he hasn’t had anyone to buy presents for this year, he deserves to splash out.
He looks at Jim, aware the kid’s has been staring at his face for some minutes. Leonard brings a hand up to his jaw, wonders if Jim’s noticed a collection of threads from his scarf snagged on his stubble or something. “What? Have I got a booger? Quit staring at me-”
Jim blinks, shakes his head, his tongue flickers across his bottom lip and he unbuttons his midnight blue pea-coat, some other piece of shapeless crap he’s picked up in a thrift shop on one of his shopping excursions with Gaila.
“You are very pretty, Kirk, you make me wet when I see you in big coats.”
Leonard snorts at the memory of Jim impersonating Gaila’s accented standard - he just adores how she says it like it is. Wonders when, if, he’ll summon up the stones to tell Jim that stupid, dumb coat kind of has the same effect on him - metaphorically, of course.
Under the coat, Jim’s wearing a crumpled purple dress shirt, complete with ruffles his idea of Christmas Eve finery: inexpensive, effortlessly stylish (though you’d have to hold a phaser to Leonard’s head before he’d admit Jim looks anything other than a slob when he’s out of his reds.) Tonight, Jim’s eclectic mix of disaster and cool is completed by black velvet pants and unlaced motorbike boots. And Leonard? He’s in his usual, non-descript uniform of black, button-down shirt, loose fitting jeans, a sweater, sneakers - as ever, he looks like he’s tagging along for the ride whenever he’s with Jim.
Fuck, he’s beautiful, Leonard thinks, looking away. Visually, everything about Jim, is a contradiction -- from the acne scarred jaw to the unblemished skin on his throat, from his way too feminine cupid lips to the perfect proportions of his elegant fingers finished off by bitten nails. It shouldn’t work, he should be a mess, but Jim’s just…well, not for the first time in the past few months, Leonard thinks, breathing past the lump in his throat, he’s never seen anything, anyone, so perfect.
There’s a click and a tapestry of holos unravels, bottom up, like a fountain spluttering to life - they exchange wry looks at the shoddy technology. Some of the colors aren’t quite true, there are patches in the ‘scene’ that don’t quite make 3D - but the music at least, is just right, choral, sad, just like Leonard likes it.
The lights dim further, and Leonard can make out a few sparsely arranged fellow ‘worshippers’. He’s selected ‘random’ for preacher, unconcerned if the priest’s a man, woman or other.
Christmas day and he’s in church. Good. When he hears a loud yawn beside him, Leonard resists the urge to tell Jim to quieten down; after all, who the hell’s gonna hear them anyway -- the flickering holo image of a woman and her child way at the front of the church? And the other occupied booths - the ‘customers’ will be experiencing their own religious fantasy, won’t give a damn about the mismatched pair at the back of the POW.
But the staring, Leonard’s got to say something about that.
“Stop. It,” Leonard growls for the umpteenth time since they left campus six hours ago. Jim’s been smoldering innocently at him for the past month or so, least when they’re out drinking and Leonard doesn’t like it one little bit. He doesn’t know what it all means, wondering how Jim can even have the energy left to look his way after getting enough sex from Gaila and his friend Omar . Leonard can’t let himself hope - he’s worked too hard on fixing his heart only to have it shattered again. So he’s slipped into batting away Jim’s hands and avoiding his eyes and generally trying to appear as if he isn’t always half-hard whenever they’re together.
The molten gaze doesn’t waver, but Jim’s lip twitches. He’s pouting again. This combat-trained, hard-ass, extreme-endurance kid, with a brain the size of a goddamn planet, sports a bottom lip worthy of an eight year old girl begging for a pony. So Leonard looks away in case he cracks. He’s made a promise to himself and he’s damn well keeping it. So he slips into default ‘irritable’, covering up lust, annoyance, hunger - feeling too fucking sober by far.
“I’m not doing anything,“ Jim sighs heavily.
Oh, but you are, Leonard thinks. Jim’s silently asking that question again: Do you want me, Bones, because I want you? It’s never spoken, but etched into every lingering touch, every stare Leonard catches when they’re studying, in the set of Jim’s body, in the way he bounces besides Leonard like Tigger. But this is what Jim’s like with everyone, right? All promise and innuendo and flirtation. It doesn’t mean a thing, he’s sure of it. And if it did? What then?
Jim tucks his hands under his armpits, and slides down further into what’s now ‘become’ a mahogany bench with high sides, a dedication in brass on the head rest, prayer cushions at their feet, prayer books on the shallow shelf before them.
“And that’s the way it’s staying, “Leonard grouses, picking up a prayer book. The PADD takes a couple of attempts to boot up, but eventually ‘turns’ to the right page immediately, just as the music fades and the preacher starts her thing - all in Latin. “And show some fuckin’ respect, asshat,” Leonard whispers good naturedly, rapping Jim’s boots with the PADD. The screen flickers momentarily to pale, blue inoffensive font, ALL DAMAGE TO POW EQUIPMENT WILL BE DEDUCTED FROM YOUR CREDIT CHIP AUTOMATICALLY.
Jim lifts both arms up above his head, all elegance and feline grace, yawning with abandon, stretching so his half-buttoned shirt rides up to expose his treasure trail, gray-blond hair, set off by perfect, ice-cream skin Leonard thinks helplessly.
“Okay, I give in. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when it’s all over.” Jim yawns dramatically, one eye open, one closed, rubbing his thumb across his lip, the corner of his mouth, and within seconds he’s fast asleep.
Trying not to smile, Leonard retrieves Jim’s scarf and balls it up into a make shift pillow. He times it perfectly so the next time Jim’s head lolls forward, he’s able to rest it on the back of the pew, and then smiles in satisfaction when Jim’s head moves back, and he’s finally still, settled, supported.
Leonard glances round the POW: the altar’s appeared, as well as altar boys and girls, though the lectern’s shimmering a little, and he can hear the organ cranking up. Yeah, he’s gonna sing, there’s no one’ll hear him and Jim’s fast asleep. He coughs a few times as he gets into his stride, stands up, because the virtual congregation, sparse as it is, has done so, and Leonard follows the rules. Always has. Doesn’t like to stand out in the crowd, unlike the little peacock next to him, long legs stretched up and hooked over the arm rest, but at least he’s not snoring.
Leonard mouths the traditional hymn, in Latin as requested on the PADD:
Adeste fideles,
Laete triumphantes;
Venite, venite
in Bethlehem
Four lines in, he squints over his shoulder and, yep, Jim’s asleep, so Leonard throws back his head and aims his voice to the shadowy recesses of the vaulted ceiling. The music’s right, the architecture’s right, thanks to POW’s one stop, multidenominational, multiple choice menu -- Leonard’s got exactly what he wanted. The organ soars, the ‘choir’ warbles, and Leonard half closes his eyes, basks in the happy glow, feels a warmth in his belly, and the stiffness leave his neck.
The hymn’s over, and Leonard slides back next to Jim, glad he’s not woken to witness his foolishness, but Jim’s so out of it, he looks like he’s died or something. If it weren’t for the tiny little snores, a function of Jim’s near constant rhinitis, Leonard would be tempted to feel for a pulse.
The priest sets to her sermon and Leonard allows his mind to drift - his Latin’s a little rusty, but he’s not here for the words, he’s here for the atmosphere. He leans forward and rests his arms on the pew, settles his cheek on his arm so he can look at Jim while he sleeps. He can’t, doesn’t even try to deny it - it feels good to be here with Jim.
He gazes at Jim’s sleeping face and realized he’s not, in the few months he’s known him, really taken the opportunity to just look. Multi-tasking is their way of life: they eat with one hand, their PADDS propped up on the salt cellars. Eye contact is frequent but brief - Leonard looks away more than he realizes.
Now, it’s like time’s slowed down. The candles flicker, the incense soaks through him. Jim’s out for the count and Leonard’s got the best seat in the house and he settles in.
He feels a little guilty, true, but Leonard’s eyes rake over the sleeping form nevertheless -- a fierce protectiveness making his jaw set with determination. Up until now, he’s recalled images of Jim’s face, his hands, the way he walks, a kaleidoscope of fragmented, but vivid pictures, pasted together by his bullet-proof memory. He thinks about the times he’s held Jim’s face when he’s treated him, how he’s pushed away the sensation, the solidity of Jim’s form, the heat of his skin, the blueness of that lazy blink when Jim watches Leonard work the regen, or stroke ointment onto bruised skin. Leonard feels his breath quicken and his pulse begin to race.
Jim’s head’s canted back, and slightly towards him -- his skin almost preternatural in the amber glow of the candles. Deep shadows frame his eye sockets, set off his strong jaw. Those plush lips are slightly parted, slack in sleep, still pale, not quite returned to their usual rich colour now they’re in the warmth. His eyelids flicker and Leonard wonders what Jim’s dreaming about - wants to run his finger down the strong line of his nose. Jim’s hair needs cutting - the buzz cut growing out- dark lashes twitch, and Leonard realizes that he hasn’t watched anyone sleep in a long time. He feels a little dizzy, and it doesn’t make sense since he’s entirely sober, so he puts it down to the position he’s settled in, not daring to move in case he break the spell, a combination of the chill air outside, and his circulation impeded by the weight of his head on his arms.
He examines the scars on Jim’s cheeks, the stubble passing over his Adam’s apple and down to the hairless dip in his throat. Chipped marble, he thinks, something perfect and smooth, but damaged - he’s shit with words, dammit, but he feels tears prick at his eyes, lets out a quiet, controlled breath as his eyes follow the creases in the pea coat down to Jim’s hands, set off against the dark wool, palms up, vulnerable and soft; he wants to press his mouth to them, feel their coolness against the burn of his lips.
There’s a clatter as the prayer book falls off his lap, damn, but thankfully, Jim doesn’t stir and Leonard reaches down to retrieve it. He freezes when he feels a touch to his head. He turns his eyes upwards and black eyes, coals burning in snow, hold his; Jim’s hand is warm and heavy against the top of his head. This, Leonard realizes, is a significant moment; his face flushes, his heart pounds mockingly, something’s just happened here-
“Bones?”
Leonard clears his throat; he doesn’t want to move, say anything, break the spell, but wants so damn badly to press his face into Jim’s chest, gather him up, curl into him.
“You okay, Bones?”
“Sure,” Leonard croaks, “why d’ya ask? I just dropped the PADD-“ His eyes must have misted over-- Jim looks almost ethereal in this light, and there’s something in his expression Leonard’s too frightened to acknowledge. He straightens beside Jim, feels a pang as Jim’s hand falls away and shifts, his boots thump to the floor but the kid’s gaze is still burning through Leonard who’s on fire inside and out, embarrassed, revealed in his moment of weakness.
“It’s the music-“ Jim says softly, “You know what they call it?”
“I dunno, Bach?”
Jim chuckles. “That’s not what I mean, Bones, you leaking out a tear, old man - it’s Stendhal Syndrome, it’s when-“
What? When he allows sentimentality, loneliness, exhaustion, inappropriate feelings to overwhelm him? Leonard sighs in relief when he sees the show’s over; the POW’s back to normal and he pulls up the collar of his coat, stands.
“So tell me, smart-ass, what’s Stendhal Syndrome?”
Jim’s risen, scarf wound round and round his neck, wiping away the sleep from his eyes, so bright they cut through Leonard like sunshine through stained glass. Leonard huffs and glances at the door, anywhere but into those eyes, in case he’s sucked in, lost.
“It’s a perfectly human response when confronted with overwhelming beauty - brings out a physical response in the onlooker-- shortened breath, a slight dizziness, tears-“
“Well, nothing to look at here, “Leonard says, indicating the sterile surroundings, “we should go-“
“Yeah, let’s go home, Bones,” Jim says, nodding and even before they’re in the street, Jim’s pushed his hand into Leonard’s pocket so their fingers are intertwined against the cold.
For once, Leonard doesn’t shake him off and they make their way back to campus for their first Christmas Day together.
END
+++
a/n - I was inspired to write this by La Pieta , by Michelangelo,
Stendhal Syndrome is for real and can cause intense embarrassment in art galleries if you’re caught out at the wrong time in your cycle. Or in love, like Bones ;D
The hymn is the Latin version of ‘O Come all ye Faithful’ and the title is the line, ‘O come, let us adore Him’.
The photos were taken by me, St Severin, in Paris,
Oh, and the scribbly art is by me too!
Feedback is love!
Pairing Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
rating pg
words approx 3,200 words complete
summary It’s very early Christmas morning; McCoy has a religious experience - kind of.
warnings idolatry and art
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits - this is just for fun.
A/N - The title is from the Latin version of the Christmas carol, ‘Oh come all ye faithful’ and is a partial response to prompt #25 on space_wrapped where Jim and Bones go to church together on Christmas morning (although, this did not take the ‘amusing’ or 'naughty' direction the original prompter intended - sorry, OP!)
intriguing snippet: Leonard wrestles a gloved hand from his pocket and thumbs towards the ‘POW’,
the Place of Worship -- neon lit and squatting apologetically on the corner of Chestnut and Steiner.
“I need to go in here. You want to come? “Leonard asks.
A million thanks to the awesome abigail89 for her encouragement and support and for beta reading so speedily!
on A03
Venite Adoremus
“Jim, I said - stop!”
Leonard watches and waits for his words to sink into Jim’s soused brain, amused by the time lag. They’re heading back to campus after a few hours in various bars downtown and Jim’s worse for wear. He’s a couple of meters ahead and it’s at least half a minute before Jim manages to halt the forward motion after a drunk’s mile of one foot in front of the other, head bent, eyes on the pavement as he sways and stumbles ahead. Leonard’s sure he’s sulking: hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, staring intently at his feet once Leonard made him let go of his arm, insisting, “You’ve been out of diapers a while now and surely can walk unaided.”
Jim turns to look at Leonard, one eye open over the hand-knitted, way too long scarf that’s covering half his face, one end trailing the ground.
“What?” He’s stooping slightly in the cold, ‘Frisco night, and two shots of breath leave his nostrils, melding with the light fog around them.
Leonard wrestles a gloved hand from his pocket and thumbs towards the ‘POW’,
the Place of Worship -- neon lit and squatting apologetically on the corner of Chestnut and Steiner.
“I need to go in here. You want to come? “Leonard asks.
He watches Jim process the flashing sign, dark eyebrows furrowed against pale, almost translucent skin, blood retreated from the cold air, leaving a pink flush on his cheeks and the tips of his nose and ears. Leonard thinks, foolishly, the neon hasn’t got a chance against the divine blue of Jim’s eyes.
POW!
Your one stop shop for all your worship needs!
Discount for Starfleet cadets.
“But we’re nearly home. Come on, Bones, I need to sleep…m’drunk-“
It’s been a short but heavy Christmas Eve for Jim, ‘drinking for two’ as he put it.
“I won’t be long…” Leonard says gruffly.
“You’re kidding?” Jim straightens, huffing out more alcohol-laced breath. “I thought you needed to be on shift in a few hours. ‘s’why you weren’t drinking? You were supposed to go to sleep, that’s what you said.” Jim points an accusing finger.
Leonard shrugs. “This is important.” He takes Jim’s elbow. “Come on - humor me, okay?” He feels himself color, not sure if it’s the cold, anger or embarrassment. One thing he knows for sure, he wants Jim to stay, doesn’t want to go in alone.
Jim considers, resting his head against the doorway. “Guess I could always take a nap.”
Well, Leonard thinks, he can but hope.
Jim rubs an eye and hiccups, sways gently towards Leonard then away again, and allows himself to be pushed through the doorway. The security field clicks to acknowledge their entry, and over-heated air scalds Leonard’s cheeks.
They stand at the back of the POW, taking a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. The place of worship is nearly empty. Despite having diversified more and more over the past few years in an effort to entice the variety of sentient beings passing through San Francisco in an average week, the chain’s struggling against waning popularity. This one’s just like all the others which have sprung up here and there near the city’s pulse points. The POWs are low maintenance and totally lacking in atmosphere, fast food fill up for the soul. The pale green walls, simple white benches, concealed speakers, holo-projectors and cameras, a far cry from the opulent cathedral in Atlanta which Leonard hankers after, scene of the big society wedding the Darnells had insisted on, where Jo-Jo was baptized a mere six months later.
He loosens his scarf, pulls off his gloves and shoves them into his pockets.
Jim shoots Leonard a sideways look, his expression saying, are you sure?
Yeah, he is. This isn’t about God -- Leonard’s agnostic -but on Christmas Eve, his deeply romantic nature hankers after traditions, ritual, and dark places. It’s his first Christmas away from ‘home’ in so long, it’s just him and Jim and he wants something that feels right, that feels like ‘before’.
They take the first booth at the back, slipping into the sterile, white plastic bench seat. The POW’s low maintenance, no need for staff, other than to clean the booths out maybe, though Leonard suspects they’re upended and disinfected automatically after each ‘use’, like public restrooms.
“Any requests?” Leonard asks Jim, watching him clumsily unwind his stupid scarf and drop it to the floor at his feet. Leonard scrolls through the menu: ‘congregation’, ‘temperature’, ‘service type’.
Jim shrugs, eyes darting around. “Erm…” he says, “mostly empty’s good.” Then he adds,” Dark, I like dark, but, yanno…candles, those big ass ones, and some of the smelly stuff…” Jim doesn’t look the type to have seen the inside of any kind of church, but he seems to know exactly what he wants -- as with all things.
Leonard selects incense under ‘olfactory’, keeps the temperature control fairly low, so it ‘feels’ like a cathedral, and selects service, ‘traditional, catholic’ .. He puts a delay on the start to allow Jim to settle down. The kid’s like a goddamned colt or something, veering between extreme high or low maintenance depending on how much physical activity he’s had.
“And Latin, I like Latin,” Jim says, waggling his eyebrows.
“I’ll bet you do,” Leonard says, “brat.”
He makes the change, slides the mini PADD back into the arm rest, once he’s bipped his credit chip.
He’s chosen the ‘admiral’s’ option. Shit, other than Jo-Jo, he hasn’t had anyone to buy presents for this year, he deserves to splash out.
He looks at Jim, aware the kid’s has been staring at his face for some minutes. Leonard brings a hand up to his jaw, wonders if Jim’s noticed a collection of threads from his scarf snagged on his stubble or something. “What? Have I got a booger? Quit staring at me-”
Jim blinks, shakes his head, his tongue flickers across his bottom lip and he unbuttons his midnight blue pea-coat, some other piece of shapeless crap he’s picked up in a thrift shop on one of his shopping excursions with Gaila.
“You are very pretty, Kirk, you make me wet when I see you in big coats.”
Leonard snorts at the memory of Jim impersonating Gaila’s accented standard - he just adores how she says it like it is. Wonders when, if, he’ll summon up the stones to tell Jim that stupid, dumb coat kind of has the same effect on him - metaphorically, of course.
Under the coat, Jim’s wearing a crumpled purple dress shirt, complete with ruffles his idea of Christmas Eve finery: inexpensive, effortlessly stylish (though you’d have to hold a phaser to Leonard’s head before he’d admit Jim looks anything other than a slob when he’s out of his reds.) Tonight, Jim’s eclectic mix of disaster and cool is completed by black velvet pants and unlaced motorbike boots. And Leonard? He’s in his usual, non-descript uniform of black, button-down shirt, loose fitting jeans, a sweater, sneakers - as ever, he looks like he’s tagging along for the ride whenever he’s with Jim.
Fuck, he’s beautiful, Leonard thinks, looking away. Visually, everything about Jim, is a contradiction -- from the acne scarred jaw to the unblemished skin on his throat, from his way too feminine cupid lips to the perfect proportions of his elegant fingers finished off by bitten nails. It shouldn’t work, he should be a mess, but Jim’s just…well, not for the first time in the past few months, Leonard thinks, breathing past the lump in his throat, he’s never seen anything, anyone, so perfect.
There’s a click and a tapestry of holos unravels, bottom up, like a fountain spluttering to life - they exchange wry looks at the shoddy technology. Some of the colors aren’t quite true, there are patches in the ‘scene’ that don’t quite make 3D - but the music at least, is just right, choral, sad, just like Leonard likes it.
The lights dim further, and Leonard can make out a few sparsely arranged fellow ‘worshippers’. He’s selected ‘random’ for preacher, unconcerned if the priest’s a man, woman or other.
Christmas day and he’s in church. Good. When he hears a loud yawn beside him, Leonard resists the urge to tell Jim to quieten down; after all, who the hell’s gonna hear them anyway -- the flickering holo image of a woman and her child way at the front of the church? And the other occupied booths - the ‘customers’ will be experiencing their own religious fantasy, won’t give a damn about the mismatched pair at the back of the POW.
But the staring, Leonard’s got to say something about that.
“Stop. It,” Leonard growls for the umpteenth time since they left campus six hours ago. Jim’s been smoldering innocently at him for the past month or so, least when they’re out drinking and Leonard doesn’t like it one little bit. He doesn’t know what it all means, wondering how Jim can even have the energy left to look his way after getting enough sex from Gaila and his friend Omar . Leonard can’t let himself hope - he’s worked too hard on fixing his heart only to have it shattered again. So he’s slipped into batting away Jim’s hands and avoiding his eyes and generally trying to appear as if he isn’t always half-hard whenever they’re together.
The molten gaze doesn’t waver, but Jim’s lip twitches. He’s pouting again. This combat-trained, hard-ass, extreme-endurance kid, with a brain the size of a goddamn planet, sports a bottom lip worthy of an eight year old girl begging for a pony. So Leonard looks away in case he cracks. He’s made a promise to himself and he’s damn well keeping it. So he slips into default ‘irritable’, covering up lust, annoyance, hunger - feeling too fucking sober by far.
“I’m not doing anything,“ Jim sighs heavily.
Oh, but you are, Leonard thinks. Jim’s silently asking that question again: Do you want me, Bones, because I want you? It’s never spoken, but etched into every lingering touch, every stare Leonard catches when they’re studying, in the set of Jim’s body, in the way he bounces besides Leonard like Tigger. But this is what Jim’s like with everyone, right? All promise and innuendo and flirtation. It doesn’t mean a thing, he’s sure of it. And if it did? What then?
Jim tucks his hands under his armpits, and slides down further into what’s now ‘become’ a mahogany bench with high sides, a dedication in brass on the head rest, prayer cushions at their feet, prayer books on the shallow shelf before them.
“And that’s the way it’s staying, “Leonard grouses, picking up a prayer book. The PADD takes a couple of attempts to boot up, but eventually ‘turns’ to the right page immediately, just as the music fades and the preacher starts her thing - all in Latin. “And show some fuckin’ respect, asshat,” Leonard whispers good naturedly, rapping Jim’s boots with the PADD. The screen flickers momentarily to pale, blue inoffensive font, ALL DAMAGE TO POW EQUIPMENT WILL BE DEDUCTED FROM YOUR CREDIT CHIP AUTOMATICALLY.
Jim lifts both arms up above his head, all elegance and feline grace, yawning with abandon, stretching so his half-buttoned shirt rides up to expose his treasure trail, gray-blond hair, set off by perfect, ice-cream skin Leonard thinks helplessly.
“Okay, I give in. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when it’s all over.” Jim yawns dramatically, one eye open, one closed, rubbing his thumb across his lip, the corner of his mouth, and within seconds he’s fast asleep.
Trying not to smile, Leonard retrieves Jim’s scarf and balls it up into a make shift pillow. He times it perfectly so the next time Jim’s head lolls forward, he’s able to rest it on the back of the pew, and then smiles in satisfaction when Jim’s head moves back, and he’s finally still, settled, supported.
Leonard glances round the POW: the altar’s appeared, as well as altar boys and girls, though the lectern’s shimmering a little, and he can hear the organ cranking up. Yeah, he’s gonna sing, there’s no one’ll hear him and Jim’s fast asleep. He coughs a few times as he gets into his stride, stands up, because the virtual congregation, sparse as it is, has done so, and Leonard follows the rules. Always has. Doesn’t like to stand out in the crowd, unlike the little peacock next to him, long legs stretched up and hooked over the arm rest, but at least he’s not snoring.
Leonard mouths the traditional hymn, in Latin as requested on the PADD:
Adeste fideles,
Laete triumphantes;
Venite, venite
in Bethlehem
Four lines in, he squints over his shoulder and, yep, Jim’s asleep, so Leonard throws back his head and aims his voice to the shadowy recesses of the vaulted ceiling. The music’s right, the architecture’s right, thanks to POW’s one stop, multidenominational, multiple choice menu -- Leonard’s got exactly what he wanted. The organ soars, the ‘choir’ warbles, and Leonard half closes his eyes, basks in the happy glow, feels a warmth in his belly, and the stiffness leave his neck.
The hymn’s over, and Leonard slides back next to Jim, glad he’s not woken to witness his foolishness, but Jim’s so out of it, he looks like he’s died or something. If it weren’t for the tiny little snores, a function of Jim’s near constant rhinitis, Leonard would be tempted to feel for a pulse.
The priest sets to her sermon and Leonard allows his mind to drift - his Latin’s a little rusty, but he’s not here for the words, he’s here for the atmosphere. He leans forward and rests his arms on the pew, settles his cheek on his arm so he can look at Jim while he sleeps. He can’t, doesn’t even try to deny it - it feels good to be here with Jim.
He gazes at Jim’s sleeping face and realized he’s not, in the few months he’s known him, really taken the opportunity to just look. Multi-tasking is their way of life: they eat with one hand, their PADDS propped up on the salt cellars. Eye contact is frequent but brief - Leonard looks away more than he realizes.
Now, it’s like time’s slowed down. The candles flicker, the incense soaks through him. Jim’s out for the count and Leonard’s got the best seat in the house and he settles in.
He feels a little guilty, true, but Leonard’s eyes rake over the sleeping form nevertheless -- a fierce protectiveness making his jaw set with determination. Up until now, he’s recalled images of Jim’s face, his hands, the way he walks, a kaleidoscope of fragmented, but vivid pictures, pasted together by his bullet-proof memory. He thinks about the times he’s held Jim’s face when he’s treated him, how he’s pushed away the sensation, the solidity of Jim’s form, the heat of his skin, the blueness of that lazy blink when Jim watches Leonard work the regen, or stroke ointment onto bruised skin. Leonard feels his breath quicken and his pulse begin to race.
Jim’s head’s canted back, and slightly towards him -- his skin almost preternatural in the amber glow of the candles. Deep shadows frame his eye sockets, set off his strong jaw. Those plush lips are slightly parted, slack in sleep, still pale, not quite returned to their usual rich colour now they’re in the warmth. His eyelids flicker and Leonard wonders what Jim’s dreaming about - wants to run his finger down the strong line of his nose. Jim’s hair needs cutting - the buzz cut growing out- dark lashes twitch, and Leonard realizes that he hasn’t watched anyone sleep in a long time. He feels a little dizzy, and it doesn’t make sense since he’s entirely sober, so he puts it down to the position he’s settled in, not daring to move in case he break the spell, a combination of the chill air outside, and his circulation impeded by the weight of his head on his arms.
He examines the scars on Jim’s cheeks, the stubble passing over his Adam’s apple and down to the hairless dip in his throat. Chipped marble, he thinks, something perfect and smooth, but damaged - he’s shit with words, dammit, but he feels tears prick at his eyes, lets out a quiet, controlled breath as his eyes follow the creases in the pea coat down to Jim’s hands, set off against the dark wool, palms up, vulnerable and soft; he wants to press his mouth to them, feel their coolness against the burn of his lips.
There’s a clatter as the prayer book falls off his lap, damn, but thankfully, Jim doesn’t stir and Leonard reaches down to retrieve it. He freezes when he feels a touch to his head. He turns his eyes upwards and black eyes, coals burning in snow, hold his; Jim’s hand is warm and heavy against the top of his head. This, Leonard realizes, is a significant moment; his face flushes, his heart pounds mockingly, something’s just happened here-
“Bones?”
Leonard clears his throat; he doesn’t want to move, say anything, break the spell, but wants so damn badly to press his face into Jim’s chest, gather him up, curl into him.
“You okay, Bones?”
“Sure,” Leonard croaks, “why d’ya ask? I just dropped the PADD-“ His eyes must have misted over-- Jim looks almost ethereal in this light, and there’s something in his expression Leonard’s too frightened to acknowledge. He straightens beside Jim, feels a pang as Jim’s hand falls away and shifts, his boots thump to the floor but the kid’s gaze is still burning through Leonard who’s on fire inside and out, embarrassed, revealed in his moment of weakness.
“It’s the music-“ Jim says softly, “You know what they call it?”
“I dunno, Bach?”
Jim chuckles. “That’s not what I mean, Bones, you leaking out a tear, old man - it’s Stendhal Syndrome, it’s when-“
What? When he allows sentimentality, loneliness, exhaustion, inappropriate feelings to overwhelm him? Leonard sighs in relief when he sees the show’s over; the POW’s back to normal and he pulls up the collar of his coat, stands.
“So tell me, smart-ass, what’s Stendhal Syndrome?”
Jim’s risen, scarf wound round and round his neck, wiping away the sleep from his eyes, so bright they cut through Leonard like sunshine through stained glass. Leonard huffs and glances at the door, anywhere but into those eyes, in case he’s sucked in, lost.
“It’s a perfectly human response when confronted with overwhelming beauty - brings out a physical response in the onlooker-- shortened breath, a slight dizziness, tears-“
“Well, nothing to look at here, “Leonard says, indicating the sterile surroundings, “we should go-“
“Yeah, let’s go home, Bones,” Jim says, nodding and even before they’re in the street, Jim’s pushed his hand into Leonard’s pocket so their fingers are intertwined against the cold.
For once, Leonard doesn’t shake him off and they make their way back to campus for their first Christmas Day together.
END
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a/n - I was inspired to write this by La Pieta , by Michelangelo,
Stendhal Syndrome is for real and can cause intense embarrassment in art galleries if you’re caught out at the wrong time in your cycle. Or in love, like Bones ;D
The hymn is the Latin version of ‘O Come all ye Faithful’ and the title is the line, ‘O come, let us adore Him’.
The photos were taken by me, St Severin, in Paris,
Oh, and the scribbly art is by me too!
Feedback is love!