Ficlet: All the redemption I can offer (Kirk/McCoy)
It's October, my favorite month of the year, and I have a thing to post! It's a small thing - I'm doing the Daily for jim_and_bones this week, and I put up car-centric pictures, and next thing I knew I had committed Springsteen songfic. "Thunder Road," you guys. It's my very favorite.
Title: All the redemption I can offer
Jim is standing on the porch, and he's not taking no for an answer. (AU)
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG
Notes: inspired by these Daily pics on jim_and_bones (join to see the pretty). Credit to Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road for the title and so much more.
All the redemption I can offer
At first Leo ignores the knocking. But as it transmutes itself into pounding at his temples, he starts to feel like he might throw up after all. Throwing up would mean having to do laundry, and doing laundry is just not in the cards for today. He got out of bed and that would be a good enough start if only the relentless pounding would stop. Finally he yanks the door open with a barked, “What the fuck.”
Jim is standing there in his leather jacket, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks Leo quickly up and down and Leo grimaces, knowing all too well what he’s seeing. Grubby Ole Miss t-shirt, jeans with a hole over the right knee and a patch on the rear, ten days of not bothering to shave. He can probably smell the goddamn bourbon through the screen door.
But Jim just smiles and flicks his thumb over his shoulder. “C’mon, old man.”
“What?” Leo blinks at him stupidly, then follows his gaze to a dented old clunker in the driveway. It might have been white once, though it’s covered in dust and rust stains so it’s hard to tell. It looks, Leonard thinks, like the type of car that will make a horrendous noise starting up and set all the neighborhood dogs to barking.
“What happened to your bike?” His voice is scratchy from drinking and disuse.
Jim shrugs, twirling the keys on his finger. “Traded it in.”
Frowning, Leo takes a second look. He may not know shit about cars, but Jim does; there must be something worthwhile under all those miles.
“Bones, meet Wendy. Wendy, Bones.” Introductions thus made, he pulls the screen door open and steps over the threshold. “Let’s go.”
Leo glares at him and takes a step back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Yes you are,” says Jim, implacably cheerful. His eyes are too bright for so early in the morning and Leo is overcome by a sudden urge to shove him right off the porch. He looks down, cursing himself all over again. None of this is Jim’s fault.
“‘M not packed,” he mutters to his bare feet.
Jim reaches over to snag a sweatshirt from the coat rack and nudges a pair of beat-up loafers against his toes. “Good enough. You can borrow my stuff, or we’ll get new stuff on the road.” Leaning back against the doorframe, he directs a short nod at the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. “That can stay.”
Though Jim’s face is still open and easy, Leo feels the hot flush of shame on the back of his neck. Even if he wanted to go, he’d just end up dragging Jim into the massive fuck-up his life has become. What he’s even doing here when Leo has ignored his texts and phone calls for weeks is a mystery. He doesn’t belong here, and Leo doesn’t belong anywhere else but this dim, silent shell of a home. And anyway he can’t leave. Some old contact of his father’s might call with an offer out of pity or misplaced nostalgia. Or what if Joanna comes running in only to find him gone, the lights off, her bedroom shut up?
Leo twists the hood of the sweatshirt in his hands. He knows it won’t happen no matter how long he stares at the door while pretending to watch TV. Jocelyn took Jo up to her mother’s place in Charleston the day she came home to find him sewing up a four-inch laceration in his own forearm. He’s vacuumed the carpet where the coffee table used to be half a dozen times since but is still finding tiny shards of glass.
No one’s calling about a job; frankly it’s a miracle he didn’t lose his license along with his position at Saint Joseph’s. His baby girl isn’t coming home for a good long while, for reasons that are mostly Leo’s own fault. And god knows David McCoy is never walking through that door again.
But Jim...
Jim is watching Leo’s face from under his lashes. He leans in close enough for Leo to remember what he tasted like (just that once, after the funeral) but doesn’t kiss him.
“Come on, Bones,” he says softly. His fingertips trace the healing cut on Leo’s right arm. “Let’s just drive.”
Leo lets out a long, unsteady breath. “Where?”
“Does it matter?” Jim asks with a twist at the corner of his mouth. He turns and Leo follows, locks the deadbolt, lets the screen door slam shut behind them.
He slides onto the leather bench seat. The engine roars to life and Leo can’t help a snort. Jim tips his sunglasses on with his usual shit-eating grin. It softens into something rarer when Leo lays his hand over Jim’s on the worn gearshift.
Title: All the redemption I can offer
Jim is standing on the porch, and he's not taking no for an answer. (AU)
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG
Notes: inspired by these Daily pics on jim_and_bones (join to see the pretty). Credit to Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road for the title and so much more.
All the redemption I can offer
At first Leo ignores the knocking. But as it transmutes itself into pounding at his temples, he starts to feel like he might throw up after all. Throwing up would mean having to do laundry, and doing laundry is just not in the cards for today. He got out of bed and that would be a good enough start if only the relentless pounding would stop. Finally he yanks the door open with a barked, “What the fuck.”
Jim is standing there in his leather jacket, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks Leo quickly up and down and Leo grimaces, knowing all too well what he’s seeing. Grubby Ole Miss t-shirt, jeans with a hole over the right knee and a patch on the rear, ten days of not bothering to shave. He can probably smell the goddamn bourbon through the screen door.
But Jim just smiles and flicks his thumb over his shoulder. “C’mon, old man.”
“What?” Leo blinks at him stupidly, then follows his gaze to a dented old clunker in the driveway. It might have been white once, though it’s covered in dust and rust stains so it’s hard to tell. It looks, Leonard thinks, like the type of car that will make a horrendous noise starting up and set all the neighborhood dogs to barking.
“What happened to your bike?” His voice is scratchy from drinking and disuse.
Jim shrugs, twirling the keys on his finger. “Traded it in.”
Frowning, Leo takes a second look. He may not know shit about cars, but Jim does; there must be something worthwhile under all those miles.
“Bones, meet Wendy. Wendy, Bones.” Introductions thus made, he pulls the screen door open and steps over the threshold. “Let’s go.”
Leo glares at him and takes a step back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Yes you are,” says Jim, implacably cheerful. His eyes are too bright for so early in the morning and Leo is overcome by a sudden urge to shove him right off the porch. He looks down, cursing himself all over again. None of this is Jim’s fault.
“‘M not packed,” he mutters to his bare feet.
Jim reaches over to snag a sweatshirt from the coat rack and nudges a pair of beat-up loafers against his toes. “Good enough. You can borrow my stuff, or we’ll get new stuff on the road.” Leaning back against the doorframe, he directs a short nod at the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. “That can stay.”
Though Jim’s face is still open and easy, Leo feels the hot flush of shame on the back of his neck. Even if he wanted to go, he’d just end up dragging Jim into the massive fuck-up his life has become. What he’s even doing here when Leo has ignored his texts and phone calls for weeks is a mystery. He doesn’t belong here, and Leo doesn’t belong anywhere else but this dim, silent shell of a home. And anyway he can’t leave. Some old contact of his father’s might call with an offer out of pity or misplaced nostalgia. Or what if Joanna comes running in only to find him gone, the lights off, her bedroom shut up?
Leo twists the hood of the sweatshirt in his hands. He knows it won’t happen no matter how long he stares at the door while pretending to watch TV. Jocelyn took Jo up to her mother’s place in Charleston the day she came home to find him sewing up a four-inch laceration in his own forearm. He’s vacuumed the carpet where the coffee table used to be half a dozen times since but is still finding tiny shards of glass.
No one’s calling about a job; frankly it’s a miracle he didn’t lose his license along with his position at Saint Joseph’s. His baby girl isn’t coming home for a good long while, for reasons that are mostly Leo’s own fault. And god knows David McCoy is never walking through that door again.
But Jim...
Jim is watching Leo’s face from under his lashes. He leans in close enough for Leo to remember what he tasted like (just that once, after the funeral) but doesn’t kiss him.
“Come on, Bones,” he says softly. His fingertips trace the healing cut on Leo’s right arm. “Let’s just drive.”
Leo lets out a long, unsteady breath. “Where?”
“Does it matter?” Jim asks with a twist at the corner of his mouth. He turns and Leo follows, locks the deadbolt, lets the screen door slam shut behind them.
He slides onto the leather bench seat. The engine roars to life and Leo can’t help a snort. Jim tips his sunglasses on with his usual shit-eating grin. It softens into something rarer when Leo lays his hand over Jim’s on the worn gearshift.