FIC: The Ringmaster - Part 4a/4
Title: The Ringmaster, 4a
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 7,000 words (this part)
Summary: A circus AU set sometime in the late 19C. McCoy, escaping his failed marriage, has fallen in with Enterprise Circus and works as a hobo clown, as well as crew and animal doctor when needed. This part takes up a few months after he and ringmaster and circus boss, Jim Kirk, spend their first night together. McCoy does not ‘take’ to new trapeze artist, Sulu. This part probably stands alone but would be enjoyed more if you read previous parts so you can ‘enjoy’ the UST. These boys really must stop using sex as a form of communication. What’s wrong with words, I ask you?
Warnings: angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in part 4b.
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:
It’s the AU that won’t go away! I thought I was done with this but then it was Christmas, and I wanted to contribute another fic for space_wrapped , and I got to thinking, and they got angsty and had more man-sex. I am powerless to resist -- so here’s the final, final part in two installments. 4a posted today, and 4b in a couple of days time. There may be one or two continuity issues with previous parts that the more astute reader will notice. But, yanno, just enjoy the man-sex. It is the season, after all. ;D Hopefully, all circus slang will make sense in context.
Thanks to southern belle, abigail89 for beta reading at this busy time of the year! Darling, you are a diamond!
Intriguing snippet: Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
Links to previous parts:
part 1
part 2
part3
Feed-back is love!
The Ringmaster - part 4a
“-- and give her some cod liver oil and spinach,” McCoy finishes, snapping his medical bag shut, and unfurling the chimp’s rough hand from his coat sleeve. Victoria, one arm round Chekov’s neck, turns her head between them as if to follow their conversation.
“Where I getting spinach this time of year?” Chekov mumbles, “I think impossible, yes?”
“How should I know, kid? Use your damned imagination- find a substitute. You just need to build her up is all; she’s weak from all the sickness-“
“I think wodka then-“
“Over my dead body,” McCoy snarls good-naturedly. “We don’t need another alcoholic primate on the lot.“
Chekov blinks baby-blues, like he’s wondering if he’s been insulted or not, and McCoy smiles privately to himself while batting the chimp’s hand away. He softens his tone to address the ape:
“Right, Victoria, let me know if he slips anything into your water, you hear me? God knows he’s fool enough.“ Victoria bares yellow teeth in agreement then pouts at McCoy, letting out a little grunt which, he fancies, indicates some kind of gratitude, or maybe flirtation - damned if he knows - he’ll never understand females, that’s for sure. Who’s he kidding? He doesn’t understand males any better. “Who’s the fancy horse belong to?” McCoy stands up from his crouching position and gestures towards the big top.
“Ah, is big star of trapeze, come to see captain - The Great Hikaru!” Chekov’s voice rises dramatically when he says the name, like McCoy ought to give a damn.
“Never heard of him,” McCoy says, squinting in the low morning sun. “What’s he want? We’re ‘bout to shut down for the winter.”
Chekov shrugs and McCoy experiences a prickle of irritation since he’s sure the boy has every idea; he just isn’t about to share with someone like him, someone with no standing, impromptu animal doctor or not. “Well, thanks for nothing, kid. I’ll remember how helpful you were next time you get one of your headaches and come a-running to me for my special elixir…”
Chekov flashes him a look of alarm but doesn’t concede. “Go see -- he in top with Kirk.” So that’s where Jim’s gotten to… Chekov pronounces the name with a twist, Koork, making it sound like an alcohol. And as harmful and alluring, McCoy thinks, with an annoying flare in his groin.
“I might jus’ do that, least I can take a good look at that horse; delicate looking animal like that’s bound to need pampering. Might as well get a head start.”
McCoy taps his hat and strides towards the Big Top, kicking oak leaves aside in his path, his heart quickening. He reaches out a hand to the horse waiting patiently where it’s tied to one of the pegs. It shuffles nervously when he approaches, but shakes its head and snorts when McCoy runs the back of his hand down a sleek muzzle, its fine coat soft against his chilled fingers.
“Whoah there, fella, here - lookit what I got for you.”
The animal nudges McCoy’s shoulder while he searches in his pocket for an apple he picked up in the cook shack. He watches it munch, examines the expensive as hell saddle, while his ears strain to pick up Kirk’s voice in the hubbub coming from the top. He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees Chekov walking in the opposite direction, McCoy pats the horse’s neck and dips through the tent flaps into the arena. He flinches and steps back when a pair of show horses push past him, Gaila astride the pair, Roman-style legs splayed so she’s got one foot on each animal.
“Doctor Leonard!” she smiles broadly and he quirks an eyebrow in reply.
McCoy scours the various acts warming up and rehearsing in and around the ring: the dog act jumping through obstacles on the sawdust, the tumblers stretching and turning flip-flaps to the side.He nods politely at the other clowns running through their routines in front of the seats.
McCoy sees the damned fool, when his ears follow the sound of a loud guffaw.
Jim grins when he catches sight of McCoy, and swings back and forth in a lazy arc from the rope. McCoy’s long ceased to be surprised by the eccentric captain who’d as soon swagger into the lion’s cage as offer himself up as a practice target for Chekov’s knife throwing act. Well so, he thought, until he takes in the sight of Jim hanging by the ankles from the trapeze, bare-chested and wearing tights, his body pale and vulnerable in the diffused light. Jim’s shoulder-length hair hangs in a thick, honeyed mass beneath his smirking, upside down head.
McCoy clears his throat as he feels a familiar quickening in his belly. He takes half a dozen long strides to the side of the ring, eyes flickering towards a louche figure dressed in a pale blue wool suit, sitting astride a chair, cowboy style, chin on hands, while he contemplates Jim’s antics with a lazy grin.
“Aren’t you cold?” McCoy says, not catching Jim’s eye and feeling a little helpless when his gaze stops at the pebbled nipples. He has to look somewhere because, Christ, those tights leave nothing to the- and did Jim just wink at him, in front of someone else?
“Hey, Bones! Meet Mr. Sulu - he’s our new flyer! Sulu - McCoy…” His face is a little flushed from being upside down, and the trapeze sways when Jim gestures between them.
“’morning, McCoy. Looks like I should be the one hiring here, don’t you think, instead of the other way around I mean?”
The flyer’s young, handsome, exuding self-confidence which makes McCoy feel an irrational desire to punch his flawless skin. Instead, he inclines his head in return, drawing in a silent breath when he sees Kirk’s stomach muscles flex and twist as he easily pulls himself upright on the bar, the sight triggering a memory of the night before, of Jim naked on his bed. . .
“Well, I got work to do.It was a real pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Sulu.” Grinding his teeth, McCoy pulls his coat around him, spins on his heel and leaves the tent.
+++
With Sulu settled in a small trailer at the back of the lot, Jim returns to his own, passing by McCoy’s, unsure whether to knock on the half opened door or not. He frowns at the empty trunk propped against the steps, and wonders if Bones is planning on moving on after all. Jim shakes the thought away, decides he’s just taking an opportunity to air it in the weak December sun; after all, Bones would have said something surely, if he was planning such a thing. Then again, when they are together, they don’t say much that’s coherent, given the circumstances.
Jim leaves his door open while he dresses, hoping Bones will swing by, although he doesn’t hold out much hope. In the three months since things changed between them, Bones has, if anything, become even more of an ornery, slippery snake of a bastard than when he first joined the troupe. It’s something Jim can’t figure out.
He pulls on his britches and tucks in his shirt tails, while he thinks about it all. In private, McCoy continues to fight and wrestle for dominance in bed, yet in the end, always concedes to Jim: biting lips become soft and eager, fists become caresses, grumbles soften into moans. Jim closes his eyes momentarily, bringing back a series of images and sensations that have him half-hard so that he has to adjust himself. He curses, buttons up his flies and reaches for his vest. They’ve fallen asleep together in McCoy’s tiny bed every time, but it’s pretty clear Bones wants Jim out and back in his own bed by sun up. And Bones hasn’t so much as put a toe past Jim’s doorway since this all began.
He checks George Kirk’s pocket watch, snaps it shut and hooks it onto his vest. Thinks about how he’s never told anyone else whose it was, other than Bones.
But, when he thinks about it, it’s no surprise they don’t see much of each other in daylight. Jim’s day varies from sleeping in, business meetings with Chekov, negotiating the route, taking on local youths to put up and dismantle the top, organizing bill posters, watching the acts train and so forth. And McCoy’s increasingly busy tending to the many ailments and minor injuries of the crew and the circus animals, as well as keeping up his walk-about, hobo-clown act. Truth be told, Jim barely has time to think about Bones, not until he unexpectedly catches sight of his rangy, furrow-browed figure, and Jim’s body trips him up, so to speak, like now, desire twisting through him and about as difficult to ignore as stomach cramps.
And Jim’s noticed how, while Bones never spurns him in private, he also doesn’t appear to seek Jim out in public. He doesn’t sit next to Jim in the cook shack, barely looks at him when they’re in public like earlier. Why was Bones in the top in the first place if not to find him? Yet he up and left just like that, as if Jim equated to a bad smell.
Of course, he could just ask, Jim thinks, while he pulls on his velvet ringmaster’s coat. But Jim’s worked out one thing about Bones - he doesn’t like to talk, not about his life at least, about why the hell a doctor’s even ended up in a circus of all places. And maybe that’s why he fits right in - everyone here’s got their story. And no one asks awkward questions. Jim stands on his steps, gazes up at the pale, damp December sky and experiences a flood of joy, followed by dread -- he can’t make heads or tails of any of this.
He should be nothing but happy. Theirs is one of the first acts to play the recently opened City Park, New Orleans - another turnaway, all tickets sold two days ago. Yeah, Enterprise Circus is getting big time, turning a profit. And now he’s enticed Sulu to join them: the flyer’s such a draw, he’ll have to consider a larger top, maybe two rings working two acts at the same time. But, it’s not enough and he can’t help looking over the heads of the few who haven’t taken their seats yet, at McCoy’s wagon.
He wonders whether he should knock on McCoy’s door, see if he’s still there - it’s been hours since they were together, after all. Jim feels that dread again, examines that train of thought. Yep,‘together’ seems entirely the ‘wrong’ word for whatever the hell this strange dance between them is.
“Hey, Captain, wanna come by and watch the jump? It’s pretty smooth now!”
“Yeah, right behind you.” Jim slams his door shut, pushes his top hat at a rakish angle and, crop in hand, follows the trotting horse past the line of late-comers, nodding, touching his hat as he walks, his eyes fixed on Gaila’s buttocks, the lift, where they bounce up and down on the horse’s back.
Since it’s the day before Christmas Eve, and the last of the season, they’ve squeezed in two specs, an early matinee and an afternoon one so they’re through before sunset. He’s negotiated an extra week’s rental in City Park to see them into New Year’s when the crew can kick back, and rest up before they head to winter quarters in California.
The glorious smell of chestnuts, popcorn and cotton candy surround him from the now deserted food stalls, most of the crowd having taken their seats or in line. Then he spots McCoy in costume, rounding the back of the souvenir stall, locked up until after the show end. He’s taking a short cut to the back yard, the performers’ entrance. Jim doubles back.
The space between the stand and a nearby trailer, is narrow and in shadow, and with the sound of the band warming up in the top, Jim stretches out a gloved hand and grabs McCoy by the shoulder, spins him round and backs him up against the wooden partition.
“Dammit, Jim,” but it’s half-hearted, like all his protestations are. Jim licks his lips when he sees how McCoy glowers but doesn’t attempt to shake free.
He runs a finger across McCoy’s stubbled cheek. “You’ve been avoiding me-“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.“ Bones is eye to eye with him, same height, practically the same build, whip smart and, with that unwavering gaze, fuck, Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Jim whispers close to his ear, inhaling the scent of cigars in McCoy’s hair, the cloying odor of pan stick on his skin. “You’re worse than Keenser to keep a hold of.” And to make his point he works his free hand under McCoy’s coat, rests it on his hip, holds him still. Bones arches into Jim’s touch, just as his glare pushes away.
“You’re about as easy to avoid as the pox in a whore-house,” McCoy huffs, eyes raking Jim’s face, his hands resting on, but not holding onto, Jim’s arms.
“Not for you.” Jim drags a thumb across McCoy’s lower lip, reveling in how those slim hips cant almost imperceptibly towards him, even as the ever defiant chin juts forward. Jesus, the man’s a shitty actor.
“Was I avoidin’ you when you came to me last night like an incubus?” McCoy’s accent gives away his desire, as always. Jim struggles against the need to grind his hips forward, aware of how teasing seems to anger McCoy and, much to his amusement, inflame him, too.
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.“ Jim works a knee between McCoy’s thighs and lifts it gently to press against him.
“Jim, I…” McCoy croaks, glances over Kirk’s shoulder. “We’ll be seen-“
“So fucking what?” Kirk’s hand strays to the waistband of McCoy’s loose, hobo pants. He hooks a thumb proprietarily inside but doesn’t respond to the unconscious invitation, the tilt of McCoy’s hips; Jim wants to tease, make Bones want more.
“You’re like an infant, one with raging priapism.“
“Well,whose fault is that?” It’s true-- that voice, that drawl…
“I don’t know, Jim, seems to me that’s your usual state of affairs, whether I’m here or not, and”-- then McCoy’s voice dips to a harsh whisper--“we can’t do this here, not in broad daylight -- we’ll be seen.”
Jim stills when he detects genuine reluctance for the first time, in his voice, in the way Bones shoots a look over his shoulder. So, despite being achingly hard, Jim brushes his lips against McCoy’s, and reluctantly lets go. For now.
+++
Throughout the opening parade, McCoy, in his hobo clown costume and make-up, sits on the edge of the ring, warming his hands by one of the braziers lighting up the chilly interior. It’s all part of his act, his downbeat look and posture, the way he pretends to toast his boots above the flames for his supper, the way he shivers and tucks his hands under his armpits.
He’s just color, he needs no special skill or training; he simply wanders through the crowd doing little tricks, making kids laugh for nickels and dimes. And it’s all he needs - the rent on his trailer, waived since he became lion doctor and hangover dispenser, mender of broken limbs and fixer of stake bites when drunken dumbasses shred their ankles stumbling through the lot in the dark, and, he thinks with a sickening lurch in his guts, the ringmaster’s woman. He’s pretty sure no one knows about them; well, maybe Spock and his supernatural ability to glean what the hell’s going on in people’s minds and hearts. Hell, the sallow skinned bastard’s mighty tight with Jim and gives him some damned pointed looks, that’s for sure.
Kirk’s voice, as he announces all the acts in the Grand Entry to cheers and applause, cuts through McCoy, brings him back to that which has been crowding out most thoughts of late. Loud, preening, annoying-as-hell Jim Kirk - filling up space in his head and heart just like he commands the five hundred people in the top, beautiful and impossible to ignore.
McCoy hadn’t intended to stay longer than another month or so but here he is, part of the scenery, maybe part of… he looks up at a kid sitting in the front row who’s pointing at him, saying something to his Mom, so McCoy holds up his boot as if he’s offering to share his ‘meal’, and the kid laughs, offers his cotton candy in return. McCoy swallows, looks away from the innocent face that’s all filled up with Christmas awe, glances at the kid’s dad to his side and wishes, well, he wishes for something that’s never to be, looks like.
Two more shows, and he’ll burn these boots for real, see about finding something else to do, maybe even see if a practice will take him on, now he’s found his sea legs again, so to speak. Nothing for him here, nothing that’ll withstand the cruel scrutiny of daylight leastways. And, yeah, he’s known that all along…
The last act on before the interval is Spock’s oracle act. He performs at the front of the ring so the big cat act can set up behind him, the cages and complex run ways to and from the arena.
“No one is safe, ladies and gentlemen!” Jim announces in full ringmaster boom, “Your secrets are not safe, the skeletons will come bursting from their closets - for now, from yet undiscovered lands in the Far East, I give to you -- mind reader, Spock the Oracle!”
Chekov’s violin, from the orchestra, begins a plaintive wail and a thudding drum accompanies Spock’s glide to his spot at the front of the crowd. The clowns scatter and stumble away as Spock approaches, dragging each other by their coat tails, some gripping their heads in ‘fear’, abandoning their unicycles and props in their hurry to escape The Oracle’s probing mind. He appears not to notice them, stops when he reaches an ornamental table on top of which rests an immense glass bowl filled with opaque envelopes the size of calling cards.
McCoy stays where he is, pretending to sleep until Spock’s hand hovers over his sleeping head and McCoy starts, ‘bites his nails’ and rushes to the front row where he clings to an old lady who swats him with her gloves. McCoy pulls out a bunch of flowers from his pocket and she takes them blushing heavily, pushing a coin into his hand.
Spock raises an eyebrow and an excited hush descends upon the audience just as the music stops.
Spock closes his eyes and holds his hands above the cards, leaves them hanging there as if he’s listening to silent music emanating from then and, finally opens his eyes and appears to come back to himself. The only sounds are an occasional cough from the audience and, dramatically, a roar from the lions waiting in their pens outside the tent. McCoy watches, his heart pounding despite himself, as Spock finally selects one of the multitude of cards crammed within the bowl, and draws it out between finger and thumb holding it aloft. He transfers the card so it nestles between the palms of his hands while he scans the circle of faces in the front row.
McCoy’s heart beats hard as he waits for Spock to open the first, wonders if this is what every one of the crowd is experiencing too.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Spock says, the audience leaning automatically towards him to pick up his modulated tones, “I have here the questions you placed in the bowl as you entered the big top.” He regards the sealed envelope, and tosses the first card to the sawdust. There’s a faint gasp, followed by ripples of laughter when he continues to extract cards from deep within the bowl and throw those aside too. Finally he takes one and narrows his eyes in approval, moves it in a wide arc for the audience to see.
McCoy sneaks a glance at Jim but he can’t make out his expression, he’s too far away, so he concentrates on the performance as the crowd falls into silence again. Spock has them.
“I have simple answers to life’s difficult questions,” Spock says, inclining his head to read the initials written on the card. “A.C. - make yourself known!”
A cry form the back seats, a woman’s voice, and they wait as McCoy finds her, part of his job to act as the limelight temporarily falling on the chosen subject. He winds through the seats, and his shoulders slump as he becomes his character, something McCoy’s noticed he’s finding harder over the past few weeks - the trademark shuffle and bowed head, all part of the hobo act and once second nature, now a conscious effort.
He resists looking over his shoulder to check if Kirk’s eyes are following him, and he fancies he can feel them boring into his back, even among the hundreds of other eyes following his progress. Once he’s located A.C. and the crowd’s clapping its encouragement when she stands, McCoy steps away and takes up a position before some bored looking children. He adopts his best plaintive face and flutters his eyes at their cotton candy.
“Mommy, the poor clown’s hung-wee!” a little girl says, pointing a sticky finger at him. McCoy pulls out a colored ball from his pocket and the mother laughs, hands him a coin.
“You want to know… “ Spock speaks finally, feigning concentration by bringing his fingers to his brow, “…forgive me, madam… is… does your query concern travel?”
McCoy doesn’t need to look to know that the woman’s mouth will have dropped open in delighted surprise. Fools, the whole lot of them, he thinks, hanging onto every thread of hope, believing that there is indeed purpose in the universe, rather than chaos, loneliness and occasional illusions of connection.
The crowd oo-es and McCoy strides deeper within them pulling coins out from behind children’s ears, removing a kid, about four or five years old, from a chair and plonking her onto her father’s lap so he can ‘steal’ her seat. He crosses his legs and leans his head on the little girl’s shoulders, ignoring the way his heart squeezes when he inadvertently inhales the scent from her dark, wavy hair that reminds him of…
“In that case, madam,” Spock’s baritone fills the arena, McCoy had no idea how, because he doesn’t technically raise it, “I would advise you take the journey which is your heart’s desire.”
McCoy sees him bow and the crowd cheers its approval, and Spock reaches for another card. He waits for the applause to die down before he speaks.
“L.H.M,“ he calls next and McCoy freezes. He’s only trying to catch the tigh-assed bastard out; he even had trouble thinking of the question - not that it matters, he tells himself, Spock never actually opens the envelopes. Nevertheless, McCoy doesn’t stand up and identify himself, hoping his silence will encourage Spock to move onto another victim, yet he wonders at himself, and what should compel him to mess with fate like this.
McCoy knows Spock won’t be able to see his expression this far back, won’t take any pleasure in his discomfort, not that this mysterious man, from God knows where, has ever expressed any pleasure in anything so far as McCoy knows from their few, tepid interactions. Yet again, he succumbs to the instinct to run away, so he abandons his ‘stolen’ seat and, when Spock looks in his direction, McCoy flumps down onto his haunches and pretends to hide under the front of his baggy coat, much to the to amusement of the couple next to him. They toss him a coin and he bites it, earning another laugh, and tucks it in his vest pocket.
“L.H.M. - identify yourself!”
Damn, why was Spock looking in his direction? How could he know? He’s never told anyone his middle name for one thing. McCoy wonders not for the first time how these tricks work. He’s watched Spock mingle with the line as they showed their tickets, an eyebrow arched while he listens to their conversations. He has a prodigious memory for detail and McCoy’s certain he doesn’t read the correct initials out, but selects audience members based solely on his eavesdropping, memorizing their names when he’s overheard them, using the initials that match rather than read the ones off the envelope. And Jim plays his part. He knows they discuss and plan the act together, exchanging ideas and techniques so they can read people, work out what they want and need.
Still, how can Spock know that McCoy put a card in the bowl, when he’d ensured the man was nowhere in sight at the time? Maybe Spock is telepathic after all, he considers not for the first time since he’s seen the act. Then he reminds himself again that, if he did believe in anything not explained by the sciences, it would be Bad Luck.
“It appears LHM has left the big top,” Spock stares directly at McCoy, “but since someone here may be acquainted with him, I will answer the question nevertheless.”
McCoy retreats further until he’s behind the last row of seats and he watches, listens, heart beating, from his place by the canvas. He finds himself, yet again, searching for Jim, wondering if he’d be interested should Spock, through some miracle, come up with an answer.
“Your question concerns travel also, not of the kind associated with trains and carriages. Instead, this is a journey of the spirit, a leap of faith,” Spock pauses for dramatic effect. “I say to you, LHM, follow The Green Fairy.”
There’s a shocked gasp from the audience, believing erroneously, that Spock’s referring to absinthe. It can’t be. But he has his own theory… McCoy experiences a wave of nausea and, for the second time that day, he finds himself rushing to escape the tent, gasping for calming breaths as he looks up at the darkening skies for answers.
What the hell did that mean? This is Jim’s nickname for Gaila. What on earth can Gaila do to help him decide?
+++
“Wake up, McCoy!”
Scotty. Well, bless his soul.
“Fuck off!” McCoy bellows, burrowing his head under the pillow. It’s now pitch dark in his trailer, the tea light he’d lit long burned away. The feathers don’t muffle out the sounds of revelry entirely and he wishes he’d pushed ear plugs in. It’s too late for that, he thinks bitterly, when the persistent knocking has him considering digging out his scalpels, showing Scotty how Chekov isn’t the only one who knows how to use knives.
“Something wrong with your ears, you Scottish-“ McCoy throws his pillow in the general direction of the door. The knocking stops.
“Missy wants ya.“
“Liar,” he growls, sitting up in bed, running a hand through his hair.
“Well, doctor, if I hadn’t drunk half a bottle of whiskey I’d take that the wrong way, but I can tell ya worked it out, so, okay -- it’s the captain. He’s mighty sore you’re not there.“
“I’m busy…I need to sleep. I’ve got a train to catch tomorrow.”
There’s quiet while Scotty considers this.
“McCoy, I’m telling yous, the Captain’s in the Christmas spirit and he wants his whole family around him when he’s having a good time. I don’t want to be the one tae tell him you’ve turned him down.”
But he’s not family. McCoy gave up that dream the day he left Jocelyn, his daughter, and traveled north. Yet, he wavers and throws back the blankets, the feeling of someone wanting him around, something he’s not experienced in a long, long while, compelling him. And he should see Jim one last time, he owes him that at least, a proper goodbye.
“I’m leaving in the mornin’, Monty, pointless me coming. I need to get some rest.”
The door’s thrown open and the pale-skinned Scotsman waltzes in wearing a wife-beater and a kilt despite the cool evening air. “Come on, you arsehole, trust me, you want to be in the Big ‘Un; Kirk’s dancing and that’s something every fucker needs to see before they pop their clogs, trust me!”
“You’re a fucking bully, Monty, anyone ever tell you that?” McCoy grumbles, but his feet are already on the floor. “Did he send you?”
Scotty fixes his eyes on a point over McCoy’s shoulder. “Not in so many words but I know him, better than I know those cats of mine and, well, he’s a miserable git when he doesn’t get his own way. Man hates Christmas, that’s why he puts so much bloody effort into it - he believes in hitting the enemy hard, if you follow my drift?”
“Fine, you’ve talked me into it. I’m getting up, I’m coming. Fine.” Jesus, he doubts he’ll fall asleep now anyway.
Scotty hands him a half-full bottle of bourbon and backs out of the trailer, putting his cap back on once he’s outside.
McCoy glances at his pocket watch: it’s 8pm which means he’s slept right through the second show, and they’ll all have had a couple of hours head start on him drinking. By the sound of things, he’ll be up all night. He takes a slug of the bourbon and considers pulling on a clean shirt but he knows everyone will still be in costume since the festivities would have started the second the last punter was off the lot, so decides against it and just grabs his coat, knocking back mouthfuls of booze on his way to the tent.
When he lifts the flap this time, despite the soft lighting, he spots the goddamned show off immediately. He’s dancing with Gaila in the centre of the ring and McCoy feels a flash of desire at his easy elegance, the way his face glows in the light of the candles, his coat tails swinging as he moves.
The chairs from the stands are now arranged in groups round the outside of the ring. Chekov’s standing on the low, perimeter wall, violin under his chin. He bucks and sways with the passion of the tango he’s playing. Jim’s in full performance mode and swings Gaila back and forth, the onlookers whooping and cheering them on.
McCoy grabs a tumbler from a trestle table laden with bottles and mismatched glasses and crockery brought by the crew. He considers taking something to line his stomach from the array of food: an enormous pot of gumbo, bread, cheeses, pies and pastries ordered in from the city, but he finds his appetite’s gone. He pours himself a drink, takes a couple of mouthfuls, and finds a seat next to Uhura who smiles and strokes her snake, Keenser, soothingly when he becomes excited at McCoy’s presence. McCoy tickles the snake under the chin and sits back, crossing one leg over the other, marveling at the strangeness of what constitutes ‘normal’ in circus life.
“Dancing’s another of his talents, I see?”
“They say he worked in the dance halls, making a living out of those old ladies when he first left Iowa,” Uhura explains.
McCoy processes this, wonders what the hell brought Jim to circus life in the first place when, looks like, he could turn his hand to anything if he put his mind to it.
Jim hasn’t seen him; the arrogant bastard’s too wrapped up in Gaila. Then McCoy turns when hears a familiar voice.
“Hey Gaila, try me. Kirk’s too old and stiff!”
It’s Sulu, snake hipped and elegant in coat tails and a wing collared shirt. Damn him, why’s he still here? Hasn’t he got a home to go to over the holidays? McCoy glares as Sulu strides towards Gaila. He clicks his heels, bows, then offers his elbow.
Gaila makes a show of pushing Jim away and he tumbles to the floor with as much panache as the most accomplished clown. The crew bellow with laughter when he feigns offence. Jim gets up unsteadily, brushes off his red jacket and slips it off, handing it to the nearest pair of hands. Then he removes his cufflinks, puts them in his vest pocket and rolls up his sleeves, his gold brocade vest accentuating his slender frame, making him look so damned handsome, McCoy wants to down his bottle in one pull.
Sulu takes Gaila’s hand and swings her in a wide arc and she snaps her red heels to the ground, her green costume sparkling as she turns, tosses her head ready to dance with him.
Meanwhile, Jim advances towards the pair and there’s a dramatic Oooh! from the onlookers. Chekov’s violin is silent while he waits for Kirk to cut in. To everyone’s surprise, Jim advances on Sulu rather than Gaila, and McCoy feels a pit form in his stomach as he watches Jim’s feet slide as if he’s still dancing, and the pit deepens still when Jim places a hand on the flyer’s shoulder. McCoy’s reminded of the feel of those fingers on his face earlier and pours himself another glass, almost spits it out across his lap when he sees Sulu release Gaila, who brings her fingers to her brow in a pantomime sob and runs from the ring to loud applause.
The tension’s palpable while Sulu and Kirk stare each other down like bullfighters, then a tentative note from the violin is the pair’s cue to move-- they turn side on and McCoy watches Kirk’s hand snake to Sulu’s hip where he grips him and turns him until they begin their tango, eye to eye, cheek to cheek, much to the delight of everyone present. Except McCoy who feels a wave of unexpected possessiveness that somehow communicates to Keenser, who stretches towards him, tongue rippling between them.
So that’s how it is? McCoy thinks, unable to look away as the two beautiful men move elegantly about the dance area. Jim, of course, is leading, his hand sliding across Sulu’s back as they turn, their legs snapping up and back, feet clicking in unison, so wrapped up in each other they’re seemingly oblivious to the whoops and cheers ringing through the top.
Uhura touches McCoy’s arm and he nudges it off gently, when in reality he wants to upend the table, punch both the men in the face and drag Jim from the tent by the hair. He feels a touch on his shoulder and senses a wave of empathy from a warm hand. It’s Spock but the hand’s gone before McCoy can react to the invasion.
“They are old friends,” he hears Spock say. No shit.
When their faces draw close, then their heads snap back in unison, McCoy begins to feel a little light-headed, shame lighting up his neck and ears and he’s glad no one’s looking at him and can witness his humiliation.
So this is what Spock meant, the green fairy was Gaila. He was right all along. She would show him the answer to his question: Who has the ringmaster’s heart? It’s with the young, preening, elegant, energetic, confident-as-Jim upstart, The Great fucking Hikaru. This is why Jim wanted him here, so he could send this message. Alright, there is a place for me in this family, McCoy thinks, looking round at the laughing, appreciative, doting expressions on everyone’s face present, directed at their leader. But he, L.H. fucking M., is low down the pecking order and no one, but no one makes Leonard McCoy second best. Least he’s found his pride again-- hell, he guesses that’s something to salvage from the ashes.
He’s about to stand, take the bourbon with him, when the violin stops abruptly and he looks back at Jim and Sulu. Sulu’s diagonal to the floor, his body across Jim’s and Jim’s forehead is almost pressed to his when Jim suddenly looks in McCoy’s direction, unblinking, ardent. All eyes turn towards him so that McCoy almost looks over his shoulder to see what the hell’s caught the idiot’s eye.
He holds his breath, and Jim finally folds Sulu further back, almost brings his lips to his, then drops him unceremoniously to the saw dust to wild, appreciative laughter. Jim steps over his abandoned dance partner, and strides towards McCoy. They’re two foot apart; the top’s silent, waiting for one of them to move or say something. McCoy can feel sweat at his neck, wishes he’d taken off his goddamned coat, wishes he’d left earlier, but he can’t tear his eyes off Jim’s face where he looms above him. What the hell…
Jim’s frowning, and it’s real, not acting. Jim’s large hands clench by his side and McCoy feels a crackle of tension as Jim goes out of focus. He feels those hands grabbing him by the hair as warm, angry lips bite and lick at his, as if Jim’s life depends on it. McCoy is dimly aware of someone removing the bottle of bourbon from his fingers before he drops it, and then he’s pulling Jim as hard as the other man’s pushing, the sound of spontaneous applause drowning out the drumming of his heart in his throat.
+++
They stumble the short distance between the big top and McCoy’s trailer, stopping every few steps to grind against each other. Kirk’s uncharacteristically quiet, the sweat from the dance cooling on his body, too much wine and adrenaline, the taste of Bones making him euphoric, and he doesn’t trust what he’ll say, but eventually he pulls his mouth away from Bones’, manages to speak.
“Jesus, Bones,” he harshes out between kisses as Bones backs up the steps, fumbling with the catch behind him. “You fucking glower at me like that again in front of the crew, I…fuck…won’t be responsible for what I do to you.”
They fall through the door, tearing at each others‘ clothes, Jim cursing when his britches tangle around his boots again. Bones hasn’t said a word since that first kiss, other than the occasional gasped curse. Now he’s dropped to his knees, holding Jim steady as he licks and bites along his hip bones, nuzzles his face into the hair over his erect cock. Jim cups the back of his head, rocks gently into Bones’ mouth, dimly wondering if they’ve even closed the door; moonlight fills the tiny area so that McCoy’s thick, dark hair shines like lacquer, his own fingers white, almost translucent in the eerie light. Shit, he’s had way too much to drink, and it’s Christmas Eve already and another successful run’s done and… ”Bones - stop! Fuck, stop! “
And the response is muffled even though, mercifully, Bones has taken a break from swallowing him whole so as he can leave a trail of rough kisses along Jim’s balls, while his hand keeps his cock hard and aching. “You ever gonna get the simple fact that I don’t do what you tell me, idiot?” McCoy grinds out.
Jim nods stupidly, even as he recognizes that, well, that this, the brutal suction is precisely what Bones would be doing every waking hour if he was the one pulling the strings. But Jim feels like he lost all control or good sense the minute he saw Bones watching him dance with Gaila. He remembers the look of confused possessiveness, the angry need, the way Bones gripped his tumbler of bourbon in one hand, the bottle in the other, the way, yet again all of Bones’ pleasures were wound up with some kind of struggle first. Why couldn’t he just let go? Why does everything have to be a battle? he wonders even as Bones is the one rolling him onto the unmade bed, prowling over him, muttering, “Damned fool, damned strutting…”
Their eyes meet and Jim keens as Bones slides an arm under his shoulders, rolls them both over onto their sides and lines up their cocks, working a leg behind Jim’s thighs to bring him closer. Jim grips his arms, shifts to untangle his open shirt and vest that have caught and twisted under an armpit and Bones’ long fingers hold them both tight.
“Harder, Bones, shit…” So naturally, because he’s an ornery SOB, Bones slows the pace, strong hands sliding up and down both their cocks at the same time, helped by the pre-come leaking, the musky scent of their arousal making Jim dizzy with need.
Bones rests his lips against Jim’s, not kissing him, just smothering him in warm, moist bourbon laced breath. He regards Jim as he tortures him for endless minutes, watching his reactions, until Jim comes suddenly, in long, helpless spasms. Bones growls, groans long and hard, sealing their mouths together, choking through his own orgasm, until he stills, panting, his forehead wet with perspiration, sliding hot against Jim’s throat
They collapse on their backs, sweat slicked and breathless, both staring at the low ceiling. Jim’s aware something’s changed, although he’s unsure what the hell that might be. Still unable to say if this was goodbye or something else.
“I’m not comfortable with public shows of affection, Jim,” Bones says eventually into the darkness.
Affection? That’s not quite what he’d call what just happened, but Jim grunts, pushes his ass into Bones’ slippery groin and pretends to fall asleep, too tired to remove his boots or his crumpled clothing, but happy in some kind of way he’s unable to fathom.
+++
When McCoy wakes in the morning, Jim’s gone.
FINAL PART
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A/N - the next part is almost done and should be up in a few days! Just doing last edits but I wanted to get this part up for Christmas Day!
Feedback is love!
The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 7,000 words (this part)
Summary: A circus AU set sometime in the late 19C. McCoy, escaping his failed marriage, has fallen in with Enterprise Circus and works as a hobo clown, as well as crew and animal doctor when needed. This part takes up a few months after he and ringmaster and circus boss, Jim Kirk, spend their first night together. McCoy does not ‘take’ to new trapeze artist, Sulu. This part probably stands alone but would be enjoyed more if you read previous parts so you can ‘enjoy’ the UST. These boys really must stop using sex as a form of communication. What’s wrong with words, I ask you?
Warnings: angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in part 4b.
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:
It’s the AU that won’t go away! I thought I was done with this but then it was Christmas, and I wanted to contribute another fic for space_wrapped , and I got to thinking, and they got angsty and had more man-sex. I am powerless to resist -- so here’s the final, final part in two installments. 4a posted today, and 4b in a couple of days time. There may be one or two continuity issues with previous parts that the more astute reader will notice. But, yanno, just enjoy the man-sex. It is the season, after all. ;D Hopefully, all circus slang will make sense in context.
Thanks to southern belle, abigail89 for beta reading at this busy time of the year! Darling, you are a diamond!
Intriguing snippet: Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
Links to previous parts:
part 1
part 2
part3
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The Ringmaster - part 4a
“-- and give her some cod liver oil and spinach,” McCoy finishes, snapping his medical bag shut, and unfurling the chimp’s rough hand from his coat sleeve. Victoria, one arm round Chekov’s neck, turns her head between them as if to follow their conversation.
“Where I getting spinach this time of year?” Chekov mumbles, “I think impossible, yes?”
“How should I know, kid? Use your damned imagination- find a substitute. You just need to build her up is all; she’s weak from all the sickness-“
“I think wodka then-“
“Over my dead body,” McCoy snarls good-naturedly. “We don’t need another alcoholic primate on the lot.“
Chekov blinks baby-blues, like he’s wondering if he’s been insulted or not, and McCoy smiles privately to himself while batting the chimp’s hand away. He softens his tone to address the ape:
“Right, Victoria, let me know if he slips anything into your water, you hear me? God knows he’s fool enough.“ Victoria bares yellow teeth in agreement then pouts at McCoy, letting out a little grunt which, he fancies, indicates some kind of gratitude, or maybe flirtation - damned if he knows - he’ll never understand females, that’s for sure. Who’s he kidding? He doesn’t understand males any better. “Who’s the fancy horse belong to?” McCoy stands up from his crouching position and gestures towards the big top.
“Ah, is big star of trapeze, come to see captain - The Great Hikaru!” Chekov’s voice rises dramatically when he says the name, like McCoy ought to give a damn.
“Never heard of him,” McCoy says, squinting in the low morning sun. “What’s he want? We’re ‘bout to shut down for the winter.”
Chekov shrugs and McCoy experiences a prickle of irritation since he’s sure the boy has every idea; he just isn’t about to share with someone like him, someone with no standing, impromptu animal doctor or not. “Well, thanks for nothing, kid. I’ll remember how helpful you were next time you get one of your headaches and come a-running to me for my special elixir…”
Chekov flashes him a look of alarm but doesn’t concede. “Go see -- he in top with Kirk.” So that’s where Jim’s gotten to… Chekov pronounces the name with a twist, Koork, making it sound like an alcohol. And as harmful and alluring, McCoy thinks, with an annoying flare in his groin.
“I might jus’ do that, least I can take a good look at that horse; delicate looking animal like that’s bound to need pampering. Might as well get a head start.”
McCoy taps his hat and strides towards the Big Top, kicking oak leaves aside in his path, his heart quickening. He reaches out a hand to the horse waiting patiently where it’s tied to one of the pegs. It shuffles nervously when he approaches, but shakes its head and snorts when McCoy runs the back of his hand down a sleek muzzle, its fine coat soft against his chilled fingers.
“Whoah there, fella, here - lookit what I got for you.”
The animal nudges McCoy’s shoulder while he searches in his pocket for an apple he picked up in the cook shack. He watches it munch, examines the expensive as hell saddle, while his ears strain to pick up Kirk’s voice in the hubbub coming from the top. He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees Chekov walking in the opposite direction, McCoy pats the horse’s neck and dips through the tent flaps into the arena. He flinches and steps back when a pair of show horses push past him, Gaila astride the pair, Roman-style legs splayed so she’s got one foot on each animal.
“Doctor Leonard!” she smiles broadly and he quirks an eyebrow in reply.
McCoy scours the various acts warming up and rehearsing in and around the ring: the dog act jumping through obstacles on the sawdust, the tumblers stretching and turning flip-flaps to the side.He nods politely at the other clowns running through their routines in front of the seats.
McCoy sees the damned fool, when his ears follow the sound of a loud guffaw.
Jim grins when he catches sight of McCoy, and swings back and forth in a lazy arc from the rope. McCoy’s long ceased to be surprised by the eccentric captain who’d as soon swagger into the lion’s cage as offer himself up as a practice target for Chekov’s knife throwing act. Well so, he thought, until he takes in the sight of Jim hanging by the ankles from the trapeze, bare-chested and wearing tights, his body pale and vulnerable in the diffused light. Jim’s shoulder-length hair hangs in a thick, honeyed mass beneath his smirking, upside down head.
McCoy clears his throat as he feels a familiar quickening in his belly. He takes half a dozen long strides to the side of the ring, eyes flickering towards a louche figure dressed in a pale blue wool suit, sitting astride a chair, cowboy style, chin on hands, while he contemplates Jim’s antics with a lazy grin.
“Aren’t you cold?” McCoy says, not catching Jim’s eye and feeling a little helpless when his gaze stops at the pebbled nipples. He has to look somewhere because, Christ, those tights leave nothing to the- and did Jim just wink at him, in front of someone else?
“Hey, Bones! Meet Mr. Sulu - he’s our new flyer! Sulu - McCoy…” His face is a little flushed from being upside down, and the trapeze sways when Jim gestures between them.
“’morning, McCoy. Looks like I should be the one hiring here, don’t you think, instead of the other way around I mean?”
The flyer’s young, handsome, exuding self-confidence which makes McCoy feel an irrational desire to punch his flawless skin. Instead, he inclines his head in return, drawing in a silent breath when he sees Kirk’s stomach muscles flex and twist as he easily pulls himself upright on the bar, the sight triggering a memory of the night before, of Jim naked on his bed. . .
“Well, I got work to do.It was a real pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Sulu.” Grinding his teeth, McCoy pulls his coat around him, spins on his heel and leaves the tent.
+++
With Sulu settled in a small trailer at the back of the lot, Jim returns to his own, passing by McCoy’s, unsure whether to knock on the half opened door or not. He frowns at the empty trunk propped against the steps, and wonders if Bones is planning on moving on after all. Jim shakes the thought away, decides he’s just taking an opportunity to air it in the weak December sun; after all, Bones would have said something surely, if he was planning such a thing. Then again, when they are together, they don’t say much that’s coherent, given the circumstances.
Jim leaves his door open while he dresses, hoping Bones will swing by, although he doesn’t hold out much hope. In the three months since things changed between them, Bones has, if anything, become even more of an ornery, slippery snake of a bastard than when he first joined the troupe. It’s something Jim can’t figure out.
He pulls on his britches and tucks in his shirt tails, while he thinks about it all. In private, McCoy continues to fight and wrestle for dominance in bed, yet in the end, always concedes to Jim: biting lips become soft and eager, fists become caresses, grumbles soften into moans. Jim closes his eyes momentarily, bringing back a series of images and sensations that have him half-hard so that he has to adjust himself. He curses, buttons up his flies and reaches for his vest. They’ve fallen asleep together in McCoy’s tiny bed every time, but it’s pretty clear Bones wants Jim out and back in his own bed by sun up. And Bones hasn’t so much as put a toe past Jim’s doorway since this all began.
He checks George Kirk’s pocket watch, snaps it shut and hooks it onto his vest. Thinks about how he’s never told anyone else whose it was, other than Bones.
But, when he thinks about it, it’s no surprise they don’t see much of each other in daylight. Jim’s day varies from sleeping in, business meetings with Chekov, negotiating the route, taking on local youths to put up and dismantle the top, organizing bill posters, watching the acts train and so forth. And McCoy’s increasingly busy tending to the many ailments and minor injuries of the crew and the circus animals, as well as keeping up his walk-about, hobo-clown act. Truth be told, Jim barely has time to think about Bones, not until he unexpectedly catches sight of his rangy, furrow-browed figure, and Jim’s body trips him up, so to speak, like now, desire twisting through him and about as difficult to ignore as stomach cramps.
And Jim’s noticed how, while Bones never spurns him in private, he also doesn’t appear to seek Jim out in public. He doesn’t sit next to Jim in the cook shack, barely looks at him when they’re in public like earlier. Why was Bones in the top in the first place if not to find him? Yet he up and left just like that, as if Jim equated to a bad smell.
Of course, he could just ask, Jim thinks, while he pulls on his velvet ringmaster’s coat. But Jim’s worked out one thing about Bones - he doesn’t like to talk, not about his life at least, about why the hell a doctor’s even ended up in a circus of all places. And maybe that’s why he fits right in - everyone here’s got their story. And no one asks awkward questions. Jim stands on his steps, gazes up at the pale, damp December sky and experiences a flood of joy, followed by dread -- he can’t make heads or tails of any of this.
He should be nothing but happy. Theirs is one of the first acts to play the recently opened City Park, New Orleans - another turnaway, all tickets sold two days ago. Yeah, Enterprise Circus is getting big time, turning a profit. And now he’s enticed Sulu to join them: the flyer’s such a draw, he’ll have to consider a larger top, maybe two rings working two acts at the same time. But, it’s not enough and he can’t help looking over the heads of the few who haven’t taken their seats yet, at McCoy’s wagon.
He wonders whether he should knock on McCoy’s door, see if he’s still there - it’s been hours since they were together, after all. Jim feels that dread again, examines that train of thought. Yep,‘together’ seems entirely the ‘wrong’ word for whatever the hell this strange dance between them is.
“Hey, Captain, wanna come by and watch the jump? It’s pretty smooth now!”
“Yeah, right behind you.” Jim slams his door shut, pushes his top hat at a rakish angle and, crop in hand, follows the trotting horse past the line of late-comers, nodding, touching his hat as he walks, his eyes fixed on Gaila’s buttocks, the lift, where they bounce up and down on the horse’s back.
Since it’s the day before Christmas Eve, and the last of the season, they’ve squeezed in two specs, an early matinee and an afternoon one so they’re through before sunset. He’s negotiated an extra week’s rental in City Park to see them into New Year’s when the crew can kick back, and rest up before they head to winter quarters in California.
The glorious smell of chestnuts, popcorn and cotton candy surround him from the now deserted food stalls, most of the crowd having taken their seats or in line. Then he spots McCoy in costume, rounding the back of the souvenir stall, locked up until after the show end. He’s taking a short cut to the back yard, the performers’ entrance. Jim doubles back.
The space between the stand and a nearby trailer, is narrow and in shadow, and with the sound of the band warming up in the top, Jim stretches out a gloved hand and grabs McCoy by the shoulder, spins him round and backs him up against the wooden partition.
“Dammit, Jim,” but it’s half-hearted, like all his protestations are. Jim licks his lips when he sees how McCoy glowers but doesn’t attempt to shake free.
He runs a finger across McCoy’s stubbled cheek. “You’ve been avoiding me-“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.“ Bones is eye to eye with him, same height, practically the same build, whip smart and, with that unwavering gaze, fuck, Jim thinks, he’s met his match, finally. He leans close, wanting more, just as Bones appears not to concede a damned thing. It’s fucking intoxicating.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Jim whispers close to his ear, inhaling the scent of cigars in McCoy’s hair, the cloying odor of pan stick on his skin. “You’re worse than Keenser to keep a hold of.” And to make his point he works his free hand under McCoy’s coat, rests it on his hip, holds him still. Bones arches into Jim’s touch, just as his glare pushes away.
“You’re about as easy to avoid as the pox in a whore-house,” McCoy huffs, eyes raking Jim’s face, his hands resting on, but not holding onto, Jim’s arms.
“Not for you.” Jim drags a thumb across McCoy’s lower lip, reveling in how those slim hips cant almost imperceptibly towards him, even as the ever defiant chin juts forward. Jesus, the man’s a shitty actor.
“Was I avoidin’ you when you came to me last night like an incubus?” McCoy’s accent gives away his desire, as always. Jim struggles against the need to grind his hips forward, aware of how teasing seems to anger McCoy and, much to his amusement, inflame him, too.
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.“ Jim works a knee between McCoy’s thighs and lifts it gently to press against him.
“Jim, I…” McCoy croaks, glances over Kirk’s shoulder. “We’ll be seen-“
“So fucking what?” Kirk’s hand strays to the waistband of McCoy’s loose, hobo pants. He hooks a thumb proprietarily inside but doesn’t respond to the unconscious invitation, the tilt of McCoy’s hips; Jim wants to tease, make Bones want more.
“You’re like an infant, one with raging priapism.“
“Well,whose fault is that?” It’s true-- that voice, that drawl…
“I don’t know, Jim, seems to me that’s your usual state of affairs, whether I’m here or not, and”-- then McCoy’s voice dips to a harsh whisper--“we can’t do this here, not in broad daylight -- we’ll be seen.”
Jim stills when he detects genuine reluctance for the first time, in his voice, in the way Bones shoots a look over his shoulder. So, despite being achingly hard, Jim brushes his lips against McCoy’s, and reluctantly lets go. For now.
+++
Throughout the opening parade, McCoy, in his hobo clown costume and make-up, sits on the edge of the ring, warming his hands by one of the braziers lighting up the chilly interior. It’s all part of his act, his downbeat look and posture, the way he pretends to toast his boots above the flames for his supper, the way he shivers and tucks his hands under his armpits.
He’s just color, he needs no special skill or training; he simply wanders through the crowd doing little tricks, making kids laugh for nickels and dimes. And it’s all he needs - the rent on his trailer, waived since he became lion doctor and hangover dispenser, mender of broken limbs and fixer of stake bites when drunken dumbasses shred their ankles stumbling through the lot in the dark, and, he thinks with a sickening lurch in his guts, the ringmaster’s woman. He’s pretty sure no one knows about them; well, maybe Spock and his supernatural ability to glean what the hell’s going on in people’s minds and hearts. Hell, the sallow skinned bastard’s mighty tight with Jim and gives him some damned pointed looks, that’s for sure.
Kirk’s voice, as he announces all the acts in the Grand Entry to cheers and applause, cuts through McCoy, brings him back to that which has been crowding out most thoughts of late. Loud, preening, annoying-as-hell Jim Kirk - filling up space in his head and heart just like he commands the five hundred people in the top, beautiful and impossible to ignore.
McCoy hadn’t intended to stay longer than another month or so but here he is, part of the scenery, maybe part of… he looks up at a kid sitting in the front row who’s pointing at him, saying something to his Mom, so McCoy holds up his boot as if he’s offering to share his ‘meal’, and the kid laughs, offers his cotton candy in return. McCoy swallows, looks away from the innocent face that’s all filled up with Christmas awe, glances at the kid’s dad to his side and wishes, well, he wishes for something that’s never to be, looks like.
Two more shows, and he’ll burn these boots for real, see about finding something else to do, maybe even see if a practice will take him on, now he’s found his sea legs again, so to speak. Nothing for him here, nothing that’ll withstand the cruel scrutiny of daylight leastways. And, yeah, he’s known that all along…
The last act on before the interval is Spock’s oracle act. He performs at the front of the ring so the big cat act can set up behind him, the cages and complex run ways to and from the arena.
“No one is safe, ladies and gentlemen!” Jim announces in full ringmaster boom, “Your secrets are not safe, the skeletons will come bursting from their closets - for now, from yet undiscovered lands in the Far East, I give to you -- mind reader, Spock the Oracle!”
Chekov’s violin, from the orchestra, begins a plaintive wail and a thudding drum accompanies Spock’s glide to his spot at the front of the crowd. The clowns scatter and stumble away as Spock approaches, dragging each other by their coat tails, some gripping their heads in ‘fear’, abandoning their unicycles and props in their hurry to escape The Oracle’s probing mind. He appears not to notice them, stops when he reaches an ornamental table on top of which rests an immense glass bowl filled with opaque envelopes the size of calling cards.
McCoy stays where he is, pretending to sleep until Spock’s hand hovers over his sleeping head and McCoy starts, ‘bites his nails’ and rushes to the front row where he clings to an old lady who swats him with her gloves. McCoy pulls out a bunch of flowers from his pocket and she takes them blushing heavily, pushing a coin into his hand.
Spock raises an eyebrow and an excited hush descends upon the audience just as the music stops.
Spock closes his eyes and holds his hands above the cards, leaves them hanging there as if he’s listening to silent music emanating from then and, finally opens his eyes and appears to come back to himself. The only sounds are an occasional cough from the audience and, dramatically, a roar from the lions waiting in their pens outside the tent. McCoy watches, his heart pounding despite himself, as Spock finally selects one of the multitude of cards crammed within the bowl, and draws it out between finger and thumb holding it aloft. He transfers the card so it nestles between the palms of his hands while he scans the circle of faces in the front row.
McCoy’s heart beats hard as he waits for Spock to open the first, wonders if this is what every one of the crowd is experiencing too.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Spock says, the audience leaning automatically towards him to pick up his modulated tones, “I have here the questions you placed in the bowl as you entered the big top.” He regards the sealed envelope, and tosses the first card to the sawdust. There’s a faint gasp, followed by ripples of laughter when he continues to extract cards from deep within the bowl and throw those aside too. Finally he takes one and narrows his eyes in approval, moves it in a wide arc for the audience to see.
McCoy sneaks a glance at Jim but he can’t make out his expression, he’s too far away, so he concentrates on the performance as the crowd falls into silence again. Spock has them.
“I have simple answers to life’s difficult questions,” Spock says, inclining his head to read the initials written on the card. “A.C. - make yourself known!”
A cry form the back seats, a woman’s voice, and they wait as McCoy finds her, part of his job to act as the limelight temporarily falling on the chosen subject. He winds through the seats, and his shoulders slump as he becomes his character, something McCoy’s noticed he’s finding harder over the past few weeks - the trademark shuffle and bowed head, all part of the hobo act and once second nature, now a conscious effort.
He resists looking over his shoulder to check if Kirk’s eyes are following him, and he fancies he can feel them boring into his back, even among the hundreds of other eyes following his progress. Once he’s located A.C. and the crowd’s clapping its encouragement when she stands, McCoy steps away and takes up a position before some bored looking children. He adopts his best plaintive face and flutters his eyes at their cotton candy.
“Mommy, the poor clown’s hung-wee!” a little girl says, pointing a sticky finger at him. McCoy pulls out a colored ball from his pocket and the mother laughs, hands him a coin.
“You want to know… “ Spock speaks finally, feigning concentration by bringing his fingers to his brow, “…forgive me, madam… is… does your query concern travel?”
McCoy doesn’t need to look to know that the woman’s mouth will have dropped open in delighted surprise. Fools, the whole lot of them, he thinks, hanging onto every thread of hope, believing that there is indeed purpose in the universe, rather than chaos, loneliness and occasional illusions of connection.
The crowd oo-es and McCoy strides deeper within them pulling coins out from behind children’s ears, removing a kid, about four or five years old, from a chair and plonking her onto her father’s lap so he can ‘steal’ her seat. He crosses his legs and leans his head on the little girl’s shoulders, ignoring the way his heart squeezes when he inadvertently inhales the scent from her dark, wavy hair that reminds him of…
“In that case, madam,” Spock’s baritone fills the arena, McCoy had no idea how, because he doesn’t technically raise it, “I would advise you take the journey which is your heart’s desire.”
McCoy sees him bow and the crowd cheers its approval, and Spock reaches for another card. He waits for the applause to die down before he speaks.
“L.H.M,“ he calls next and McCoy freezes. He’s only trying to catch the tigh-assed bastard out; he even had trouble thinking of the question - not that it matters, he tells himself, Spock never actually opens the envelopes. Nevertheless, McCoy doesn’t stand up and identify himself, hoping his silence will encourage Spock to move onto another victim, yet he wonders at himself, and what should compel him to mess with fate like this.
McCoy knows Spock won’t be able to see his expression this far back, won’t take any pleasure in his discomfort, not that this mysterious man, from God knows where, has ever expressed any pleasure in anything so far as McCoy knows from their few, tepid interactions. Yet again, he succumbs to the instinct to run away, so he abandons his ‘stolen’ seat and, when Spock looks in his direction, McCoy flumps down onto his haunches and pretends to hide under the front of his baggy coat, much to the to amusement of the couple next to him. They toss him a coin and he bites it, earning another laugh, and tucks it in his vest pocket.
“L.H.M. - identify yourself!”
Damn, why was Spock looking in his direction? How could he know? He’s never told anyone his middle name for one thing. McCoy wonders not for the first time how these tricks work. He’s watched Spock mingle with the line as they showed their tickets, an eyebrow arched while he listens to their conversations. He has a prodigious memory for detail and McCoy’s certain he doesn’t read the correct initials out, but selects audience members based solely on his eavesdropping, memorizing their names when he’s overheard them, using the initials that match rather than read the ones off the envelope. And Jim plays his part. He knows they discuss and plan the act together, exchanging ideas and techniques so they can read people, work out what they want and need.
Still, how can Spock know that McCoy put a card in the bowl, when he’d ensured the man was nowhere in sight at the time? Maybe Spock is telepathic after all, he considers not for the first time since he’s seen the act. Then he reminds himself again that, if he did believe in anything not explained by the sciences, it would be Bad Luck.
“It appears LHM has left the big top,” Spock stares directly at McCoy, “but since someone here may be acquainted with him, I will answer the question nevertheless.”
McCoy retreats further until he’s behind the last row of seats and he watches, listens, heart beating, from his place by the canvas. He finds himself, yet again, searching for Jim, wondering if he’d be interested should Spock, through some miracle, come up with an answer.
“Your question concerns travel also, not of the kind associated with trains and carriages. Instead, this is a journey of the spirit, a leap of faith,” Spock pauses for dramatic effect. “I say to you, LHM, follow The Green Fairy.”
There’s a shocked gasp from the audience, believing erroneously, that Spock’s referring to absinthe. It can’t be. But he has his own theory… McCoy experiences a wave of nausea and, for the second time that day, he finds himself rushing to escape the tent, gasping for calming breaths as he looks up at the darkening skies for answers.
What the hell did that mean? This is Jim’s nickname for Gaila. What on earth can Gaila do to help him decide?
+++
“Wake up, McCoy!”
Scotty. Well, bless his soul.
“Fuck off!” McCoy bellows, burrowing his head under the pillow. It’s now pitch dark in his trailer, the tea light he’d lit long burned away. The feathers don’t muffle out the sounds of revelry entirely and he wishes he’d pushed ear plugs in. It’s too late for that, he thinks bitterly, when the persistent knocking has him considering digging out his scalpels, showing Scotty how Chekov isn’t the only one who knows how to use knives.
“Something wrong with your ears, you Scottish-“ McCoy throws his pillow in the general direction of the door. The knocking stops.
“Missy wants ya.“
“Liar,” he growls, sitting up in bed, running a hand through his hair.
“Well, doctor, if I hadn’t drunk half a bottle of whiskey I’d take that the wrong way, but I can tell ya worked it out, so, okay -- it’s the captain. He’s mighty sore you’re not there.“
“I’m busy…I need to sleep. I’ve got a train to catch tomorrow.”
There’s quiet while Scotty considers this.
“McCoy, I’m telling yous, the Captain’s in the Christmas spirit and he wants his whole family around him when he’s having a good time. I don’t want to be the one tae tell him you’ve turned him down.”
But he’s not family. McCoy gave up that dream the day he left Jocelyn, his daughter, and traveled north. Yet, he wavers and throws back the blankets, the feeling of someone wanting him around, something he’s not experienced in a long, long while, compelling him. And he should see Jim one last time, he owes him that at least, a proper goodbye.
“I’m leaving in the mornin’, Monty, pointless me coming. I need to get some rest.”
The door’s thrown open and the pale-skinned Scotsman waltzes in wearing a wife-beater and a kilt despite the cool evening air. “Come on, you arsehole, trust me, you want to be in the Big ‘Un; Kirk’s dancing and that’s something every fucker needs to see before they pop their clogs, trust me!”
“You’re a fucking bully, Monty, anyone ever tell you that?” McCoy grumbles, but his feet are already on the floor. “Did he send you?”
Scotty fixes his eyes on a point over McCoy’s shoulder. “Not in so many words but I know him, better than I know those cats of mine and, well, he’s a miserable git when he doesn’t get his own way. Man hates Christmas, that’s why he puts so much bloody effort into it - he believes in hitting the enemy hard, if you follow my drift?”
“Fine, you’ve talked me into it. I’m getting up, I’m coming. Fine.” Jesus, he doubts he’ll fall asleep now anyway.
Scotty hands him a half-full bottle of bourbon and backs out of the trailer, putting his cap back on once he’s outside.
McCoy glances at his pocket watch: it’s 8pm which means he’s slept right through the second show, and they’ll all have had a couple of hours head start on him drinking. By the sound of things, he’ll be up all night. He takes a slug of the bourbon and considers pulling on a clean shirt but he knows everyone will still be in costume since the festivities would have started the second the last punter was off the lot, so decides against it and just grabs his coat, knocking back mouthfuls of booze on his way to the tent.
When he lifts the flap this time, despite the soft lighting, he spots the goddamned show off immediately. He’s dancing with Gaila in the centre of the ring and McCoy feels a flash of desire at his easy elegance, the way his face glows in the light of the candles, his coat tails swinging as he moves.
The chairs from the stands are now arranged in groups round the outside of the ring. Chekov’s standing on the low, perimeter wall, violin under his chin. He bucks and sways with the passion of the tango he’s playing. Jim’s in full performance mode and swings Gaila back and forth, the onlookers whooping and cheering them on.
McCoy grabs a tumbler from a trestle table laden with bottles and mismatched glasses and crockery brought by the crew. He considers taking something to line his stomach from the array of food: an enormous pot of gumbo, bread, cheeses, pies and pastries ordered in from the city, but he finds his appetite’s gone. He pours himself a drink, takes a couple of mouthfuls, and finds a seat next to Uhura who smiles and strokes her snake, Keenser, soothingly when he becomes excited at McCoy’s presence. McCoy tickles the snake under the chin and sits back, crossing one leg over the other, marveling at the strangeness of what constitutes ‘normal’ in circus life.
“Dancing’s another of his talents, I see?”
“They say he worked in the dance halls, making a living out of those old ladies when he first left Iowa,” Uhura explains.
McCoy processes this, wonders what the hell brought Jim to circus life in the first place when, looks like, he could turn his hand to anything if he put his mind to it.
Jim hasn’t seen him; the arrogant bastard’s too wrapped up in Gaila. Then McCoy turns when hears a familiar voice.
“Hey Gaila, try me. Kirk’s too old and stiff!”
It’s Sulu, snake hipped and elegant in coat tails and a wing collared shirt. Damn him, why’s he still here? Hasn’t he got a home to go to over the holidays? McCoy glares as Sulu strides towards Gaila. He clicks his heels, bows, then offers his elbow.
Gaila makes a show of pushing Jim away and he tumbles to the floor with as much panache as the most accomplished clown. The crew bellow with laughter when he feigns offence. Jim gets up unsteadily, brushes off his red jacket and slips it off, handing it to the nearest pair of hands. Then he removes his cufflinks, puts them in his vest pocket and rolls up his sleeves, his gold brocade vest accentuating his slender frame, making him look so damned handsome, McCoy wants to down his bottle in one pull.
Sulu takes Gaila’s hand and swings her in a wide arc and she snaps her red heels to the ground, her green costume sparkling as she turns, tosses her head ready to dance with him.
Meanwhile, Jim advances towards the pair and there’s a dramatic Oooh! from the onlookers. Chekov’s violin is silent while he waits for Kirk to cut in. To everyone’s surprise, Jim advances on Sulu rather than Gaila, and McCoy feels a pit form in his stomach as he watches Jim’s feet slide as if he’s still dancing, and the pit deepens still when Jim places a hand on the flyer’s shoulder. McCoy’s reminded of the feel of those fingers on his face earlier and pours himself another glass, almost spits it out across his lap when he sees Sulu release Gaila, who brings her fingers to her brow in a pantomime sob and runs from the ring to loud applause.
The tension’s palpable while Sulu and Kirk stare each other down like bullfighters, then a tentative note from the violin is the pair’s cue to move-- they turn side on and McCoy watches Kirk’s hand snake to Sulu’s hip where he grips him and turns him until they begin their tango, eye to eye, cheek to cheek, much to the delight of everyone present. Except McCoy who feels a wave of unexpected possessiveness that somehow communicates to Keenser, who stretches towards him, tongue rippling between them.
So that’s how it is? McCoy thinks, unable to look away as the two beautiful men move elegantly about the dance area. Jim, of course, is leading, his hand sliding across Sulu’s back as they turn, their legs snapping up and back, feet clicking in unison, so wrapped up in each other they’re seemingly oblivious to the whoops and cheers ringing through the top.
Uhura touches McCoy’s arm and he nudges it off gently, when in reality he wants to upend the table, punch both the men in the face and drag Jim from the tent by the hair. He feels a touch on his shoulder and senses a wave of empathy from a warm hand. It’s Spock but the hand’s gone before McCoy can react to the invasion.
“They are old friends,” he hears Spock say. No shit.
When their faces draw close, then their heads snap back in unison, McCoy begins to feel a little light-headed, shame lighting up his neck and ears and he’s glad no one’s looking at him and can witness his humiliation.
So this is what Spock meant, the green fairy was Gaila. He was right all along. She would show him the answer to his question: Who has the ringmaster’s heart? It’s with the young, preening, elegant, energetic, confident-as-Jim upstart, The Great fucking Hikaru. This is why Jim wanted him here, so he could send this message. Alright, there is a place for me in this family, McCoy thinks, looking round at the laughing, appreciative, doting expressions on everyone’s face present, directed at their leader. But he, L.H. fucking M., is low down the pecking order and no one, but no one makes Leonard McCoy second best. Least he’s found his pride again-- hell, he guesses that’s something to salvage from the ashes.
He’s about to stand, take the bourbon with him, when the violin stops abruptly and he looks back at Jim and Sulu. Sulu’s diagonal to the floor, his body across Jim’s and Jim’s forehead is almost pressed to his when Jim suddenly looks in McCoy’s direction, unblinking, ardent. All eyes turn towards him so that McCoy almost looks over his shoulder to see what the hell’s caught the idiot’s eye.
He holds his breath, and Jim finally folds Sulu further back, almost brings his lips to his, then drops him unceremoniously to the saw dust to wild, appreciative laughter. Jim steps over his abandoned dance partner, and strides towards McCoy. They’re two foot apart; the top’s silent, waiting for one of them to move or say something. McCoy can feel sweat at his neck, wishes he’d taken off his goddamned coat, wishes he’d left earlier, but he can’t tear his eyes off Jim’s face where he looms above him. What the hell…
Jim’s frowning, and it’s real, not acting. Jim’s large hands clench by his side and McCoy feels a crackle of tension as Jim goes out of focus. He feels those hands grabbing him by the hair as warm, angry lips bite and lick at his, as if Jim’s life depends on it. McCoy is dimly aware of someone removing the bottle of bourbon from his fingers before he drops it, and then he’s pulling Jim as hard as the other man’s pushing, the sound of spontaneous applause drowning out the drumming of his heart in his throat.
+++
They stumble the short distance between the big top and McCoy’s trailer, stopping every few steps to grind against each other. Kirk’s uncharacteristically quiet, the sweat from the dance cooling on his body, too much wine and adrenaline, the taste of Bones making him euphoric, and he doesn’t trust what he’ll say, but eventually he pulls his mouth away from Bones’, manages to speak.
“Jesus, Bones,” he harshes out between kisses as Bones backs up the steps, fumbling with the catch behind him. “You fucking glower at me like that again in front of the crew, I…fuck…won’t be responsible for what I do to you.”
They fall through the door, tearing at each others‘ clothes, Jim cursing when his britches tangle around his boots again. Bones hasn’t said a word since that first kiss, other than the occasional gasped curse. Now he’s dropped to his knees, holding Jim steady as he licks and bites along his hip bones, nuzzles his face into the hair over his erect cock. Jim cups the back of his head, rocks gently into Bones’ mouth, dimly wondering if they’ve even closed the door; moonlight fills the tiny area so that McCoy’s thick, dark hair shines like lacquer, his own fingers white, almost translucent in the eerie light. Shit, he’s had way too much to drink, and it’s Christmas Eve already and another successful run’s done and… ”Bones - stop! Fuck, stop! “
And the response is muffled even though, mercifully, Bones has taken a break from swallowing him whole so as he can leave a trail of rough kisses along Jim’s balls, while his hand keeps his cock hard and aching. “You ever gonna get the simple fact that I don’t do what you tell me, idiot?” McCoy grinds out.
Jim nods stupidly, even as he recognizes that, well, that this, the brutal suction is precisely what Bones would be doing every waking hour if he was the one pulling the strings. But Jim feels like he lost all control or good sense the minute he saw Bones watching him dance with Gaila. He remembers the look of confused possessiveness, the angry need, the way Bones gripped his tumbler of bourbon in one hand, the bottle in the other, the way, yet again all of Bones’ pleasures were wound up with some kind of struggle first. Why couldn’t he just let go? Why does everything have to be a battle? he wonders even as Bones is the one rolling him onto the unmade bed, prowling over him, muttering, “Damned fool, damned strutting…”
Their eyes meet and Jim keens as Bones slides an arm under his shoulders, rolls them both over onto their sides and lines up their cocks, working a leg behind Jim’s thighs to bring him closer. Jim grips his arms, shifts to untangle his open shirt and vest that have caught and twisted under an armpit and Bones’ long fingers hold them both tight.
“Harder, Bones, shit…” So naturally, because he’s an ornery SOB, Bones slows the pace, strong hands sliding up and down both their cocks at the same time, helped by the pre-come leaking, the musky scent of their arousal making Jim dizzy with need.
Bones rests his lips against Jim’s, not kissing him, just smothering him in warm, moist bourbon laced breath. He regards Jim as he tortures him for endless minutes, watching his reactions, until Jim comes suddenly, in long, helpless spasms. Bones growls, groans long and hard, sealing their mouths together, choking through his own orgasm, until he stills, panting, his forehead wet with perspiration, sliding hot against Jim’s throat
They collapse on their backs, sweat slicked and breathless, both staring at the low ceiling. Jim’s aware something’s changed, although he’s unsure what the hell that might be. Still unable to say if this was goodbye or something else.
“I’m not comfortable with public shows of affection, Jim,” Bones says eventually into the darkness.
Affection? That’s not quite what he’d call what just happened, but Jim grunts, pushes his ass into Bones’ slippery groin and pretends to fall asleep, too tired to remove his boots or his crumpled clothing, but happy in some kind of way he’s unable to fathom.
+++
When McCoy wakes in the morning, Jim’s gone.
FINAL PART
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A/N - the next part is almost done and should be up in a few days! Just doing last edits but I wanted to get this part up for Christmas Day!
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