[fic] The Next Time You Say Forever 1/6 (Star Trek)
The Next Time You Say Forever
Part One of Six
Fandom: Star Trek: Reboot
Rating: Adult (sex, violence, and language)
Ships/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, Joanna McCoy, Spock Prime
Summary: After his ex-wife's death, McCoy is forced to leave the Enterprise to look after his teenage daughter. Under normal circumstances, this would be the end of…whatever it is he has with Kirk that's more than friendship, but less than what he wants. But the universe has other intentions.
A/N: A million thanks to my beta readers, r-becca and boosette, who went above and beyond with this one. 4,000 words (this part only - 26,000 words total).
Sequel to: In A Moment Close To Now and Heading Straight For A Fall
Status: Complete
PART ONE
2263
As far as Jim Kirk was concerned, there were three constants in the universe: Vulcans would always outsmart him, Romulans would always try to fuck with him, and Doctor Leonard McCoy would always be there to patch him up when he staggered home, concussed and bleeding.
It was that third constant that meant the most to Jim, maybe because he'd known it the longest. For almost eight years - three at the Academy, the rest aboard the Enterprise - McCoy had kept his body in one piece. Or somehow managed to put all the pieces back together, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate. Just the knowledge that Bones was there - either with the away team or back on the Enterprise - scowling, thinking up stinging admonitions - kept Jim sane. Any time a mission went wrong, any time he found himself strapped down in some alien torture chamber or facing the wrong end of a disruptor, the thought would flash through his mind that all I have to do is survive this, that's all, just get out of here with a fucking pulse and Bones would work out the details with his hyposprays and his firm, sure hands.
Maybe there were times when he took McCoy's presence for granted: sometimes missions went well, after all, and Jim reappeared on the transporter pad on his feet, all organs functioning properly, all blood in his body - where it belonged. And maybe there were times when he resented McCoy's cautious, somewhat cynical nature. Cautious, that was, when it came to Jim and the rest of the crew. He had learned the hard way that McCoy's own sense of self-preservation was approximately zero.
And then, of course, there was Spock. They made a good team, the three of them, despite the near-constant bickering between first officer and CMO. Over the years, Jim had grown so used to the squabbling that those rare occasions when they were both in agreement - whether it was on who should buy the next round of drinks or if they ought to trust a Klingon informant - actually sent shivers up his spine.
Jim thought of them as his best friends, truly the best friends he'd ever had in the thirty years he'd been alive, but when it came to matters of exploration and experimentation, Jim tended to side with Spock. He knew that it annoyed McCoy, but what the hell was he supposed to do? They had a mission, a duty. And if McCoy kept Jim alive and sane, Spock challenged him with his pragmatism, his alien (well, half-alien) perspective. Jim could never resist a challenge.
Still, Leonard McCoy was like air to Jim Kirk, like blood: utterly essential, just not something he thought about every minute of every day.
So when, with barely a warning, McCoy up and left, it really knocked Jim for a loop.
*
It was late, almost the end of beta shift, when McCoy came to see him in his quarters, PADD in hand. For a few long moments he simply wavered there in the doorway, and Jim's heart began to beat very quickly because even backlit by the lights in the corridor, he could tell that McCoy was ashen. His hair was a mess, like he'd been tearing at it or raking his fingers through it repeatedly. Jim set his own PADD down on the desk, the report he'd been writing for Starfleet forgotten.
Something bad's happened, he thought and a chill washed through him. Something really bad, like a death. But how was that even possible? There'd been no recent injuries or illnesses. The past week had been uncharacteristically boring, with no away missions, and no encounters with other ships.
"Tell me what happened," Jim said tautly. He gestured to the chair facing his desk. "Sit down and tell me what happened."
As McCoy moved unsteadily across the carpeted floor and the door closed behind him, Jim had a terrible thought: What if the bad news originated a little closer to home - literally? Jim's mother now captained her own science vessel, and his brother, sister-in-law, and nephews lived on a research satellite orbiting Earth; their lives were not fraught with danger as his was, but that hardly meant that they were safe from harm. Still, if anything had happened to them or to Admiral Pike, who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real father, Starfleet would have contacted him directly, not gone through his CMO.
McCoy had family on Earth; he had a young daughter. And now Jim realized, as McCoy set his PADD on the desk and slid it toward him, there was no sympathy in his expression, no compassion. His eyes avoided Jim's; his mouth was a flat line. Jim didn't know what that look meant, but the words Please, not that, clawed in his belly, and his fingers moved numbly over the PADD, not quite grasping it.
"Tell me," he said again, his voice low.
"I'm taking a leave of absence from Starfleet," McCoy said tonelessly. "Effective - effective immediately. I need you to sign off on it."
Jim nodded and he tried to speak, but though his lips moved, the only sound he made was, "Juh-"
McCoy frowned at him for a moment, then he seemed to understand and his face actually went even whiter. "Joanna? No, oh Jesus, no. She's safe. She's - no, it's her mother. And stepfather. They were both killed in a shuttle crash last night. They were coming home from a weekend trip - or something. I don't know. Jo was spending the weekend with a friend. Good God, Jim." He reached across the desk, gripped Jim's shoulder, and gave him a little shake. "Look at you, you're practically gray. I'm the one Joanna's supposed to be giving heart attacks to."
"Worst-case scenario," Jim said weakly. "Always have to be thinking…"
"If something had happened to my daughter, d'you really think I'd be standing upright right now?"
"No. No, of course not. And God - I'm sorry. I know things weren't exactly amicable, but - I'm sorry." Jim reached up and covered the hand still resting on his shoulder. Looking McCoy in the eye, he said simply, "What can I do?"
"You can sign off on that request."
"I know. I will." It was really crazy, Jim thought, how easily the words came, how his voice sounded so steady. Other parts of him felt broken. Bones is leaving. He thought it again; it still seemed ludicrous. In what universe was Bones not CMO on the Enterprise, a part of Jim's daily life?
"Jo's fourteen," McCoy was saying, as if he thought Jim still needed convincing. "It's a fucked-up age. As you and I both know. And she just lost her mother and her stepfather. I haven't talked with her yet, but I know she's heartbroken. I won't speak ill of the - the dead. Whatever her flaws, Jocelyn did well by our daughter. And Roger was a better father to her than I ever was. I have to-"
"You have to go to her. Of course." And don't talk about yourself like that, he also wanted to say, but he couldn't, not with his throat so full.
"I have to stay with her. I already talked with Starfleet. They were - understanding. The five-year mission's almost over. We'll be due leave at the end of it. I'm just taking it - early. I don't know how long I'll be away. Jo isn't even in high school. I promised Starfleet Medical I'd work on a textbook. Physiology of alien races. I'd been meaning to-"
"You're rambling," Jim interrupted softly.
"I know." McCoy's breath shook as he inhaled. Jim could actually hear it shake. "I just - need to concentrate on Joanna right now, and on getting to her as fast as I can. The Hypatia's's the closest ship in the Fleet right now, and they're heading back toward Earth."
"Don't be stupid. We'll take you."
"No. You're already en route to Mirach IV, to pick up the ambassador."
You're, not we're. Oh, shit.
Knowing how McCoy would respond, Jim said, "The hell with the ambassador. You think I'd hand you over to just anybody-"
"Dammit, Jim." Letting go of his shoulder, he said, "That's your mother's ship."
"Yeah."
"Don't be cute, Jim. Please. Do not try to be cute right now."
"I'm not," he protested, which was such a blatant lie that he had to shrug. "Fine. I'll arrange it. At least you'll be with a Kirk until you get back to Earth. What else can I do?"
"The crew's medical records are in order. I want Chapel in charge of sickbay, at least until you get someone with more experience. She may not be a doctor, but dammit, there's no one I trust more, at least when it comes to running things. I haven't talked to her, but I will before I leave."
"Bones." Jim started to reach for him, but instead let his hand fall back to his side. Half a dozen thoughts crowded in his brain. Each one shamed him with its selfishness, and none of them meant anything against the fact that, back on Earth, a young girl whom he'd never met needed her father. "What can I do?" It sounded like a plea, and he supposed that that was what it was.
"Tell the rest of the crew. I can't. I - don't want to make a big deal."
"Of course. What else?"
McCoy said, "Talk to me. Distract me. Otherwise all I'm going to be able to think about is Jo - and leaving you. All of you."
It seemed to Jim that there was suddenly much less air in the room. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile - limply - and say, "How about a drink?"
*
Jim took out the Glenlivet single malt Scotch, which had been a thirtieth birthday present from Scotty, and poured two glasses. Handing one to McCoy, he said, "You know, I never thought I'd make it this far."
"To thirty?" said McCoy, turning the glass and watching the pale gold liquid as it sloshed.
"Yeah." Jim perched on the edge of his desk, one foot dangling, the other resting on the arm of McCoy's chair. "All right, maybe not never," he went on, cradling his own drink. "When I turned twenty-nine I started thinking, 'Oh, shit, I'm actually gonna make it, huh?' Pretty optimistic, right?"
"Considering your approach to life? Yeah." McCoy downed the Scotch in a single long gulp and held his empty glass toward Jim.
"So," said Jim, eyebrows raised, "we're not just drinking. We're getting drunk. Is that a good idea?"
"Look who's talking." McCoy glanced up at him bleakly. "And so what?"
"So, I'm still the captain and you're still CMO. We're both still responsible adults. In theory, if not always in practice." Nonetheless, he refilled McCoy's glass. "Just pace yourself, all right? This stuff was a gift. It's not like Scotty's got a distillery down in engineering." Jim took a sip of his own Scotch. He let the stuff roll around on his tongue before letting it burn its way down his throat. With a regretful sigh he said, "Wish he did, though."
"Maybe next time you're retrofitted."
"I was just thinking that. Yeah. Shit, I've earned it. How many times have I saved the Federation in the last five years?"
"I lost count." For the first time, a slight smile touched McCoy's lips. "You know, I'm really going to miss-"
"Don't," said Jim sharply. "For fuck's sake, I don't want to hear that. If you're even thinking of saying something maudlin, take a drink."
McCoy took a long drink.
After a moment, so did Jim.
They looked at each other, and Jim tried not to think things like, I only made it to thirty because of you. Hell, I only made it to twenty-three because you were there. What am I supposed to do now? He couldn't tell what Bones was thinking, which was odd; usually, the man's face was like an open book. Oh, the grief was still there, right on the surface - not for Jocelyn and her husband, but for the life he was about to leave and the uncertainty that awaited him in Savannah. Could Joanna forgive him for staying away so long, even though he had to follow Starfleet's orders? Did she still think of him as her father, or had Roger completely taken over that role? All of that was right there in Bones's eyes, flashing like a goddamn strobe light. But what the hell was beneath it? Intrigued, already a little intoxicated, Jim leaned forward.
McCoy hadn't moved, though his hazel eyes suddenly seemed to fill Jim's vision. "You'll be all right," he said. "Honestly. You're a smart guy. You're even starting to act like it. I trust you."
"Someone's gotta."
"Don't be stupid. Your whole crew trusts you."
"Someone's gotta," he said again.
"Are you saying you don't trust yourself?" said McCoy. "Don't be- Shit, you're not drunk enough to be talking like that. You've only had half a glass."
Jim looked at his Scotch. Huh. The son of a bitch was right. Better remedy that, he thought, and downed the rest. McCoy raised one eyebrow, and Jim said, "Ha! I was waiting for you to do that. Fuck, I'm gonna miss that. Oops, that was maudlin, wasn't it? Better take a drink."
As Jim refilled his glass, McCoy said, "This isn't a game."
Jim drank. "No. It is not. Games are fun. Unless you're trapped in a coliseum by some fucker who thinks he's Caesar, and he's making you watch your two best friends go at it with gladiators. That's not a fun game. Then you kind of just have to sit there - because there's a gun pointed at your head - and you think, Well, okay, one of them's a Vulcan, so he'll probably be all right, but the other one's a doctor who doesn't even know how to fucking parry." He took another drink. A long one.
"Now who's rambling? You're starting to sound like you did at the Academy. Except you didn't used to get drunk this easily."
"I'm not drunk," said Jim, and he didn't suppose that he was. He wasn't the heavy drinker he used to be, but it still took more than two glasses of Scotch to get him shit-faced. He was just tired. And Bones had given him quite a shock, making him think - inadvertently, of course, and just for a minute or two - that Joanna was dead. Telling him that he was leaving. Jim was just feeling a bit… loosened up. Well-oiled, as someone - who? Someone from the Academy? Gary Mitchell, maybe? - used to say. His mind was becoming untethered and straining to go to places that he did not ordinarily let it. Going exploring. Off on an adventure. His smile must have been strange indeed because Bones gave him this look that was so wary it was almost funny.
"We had fun at the Academy," Jim said, leaning over to refill McCoy's glass, though he hadn't asked for any more.
"Yeah," said McCoy. "We did. You made sure I had a good time."
"You didn't always let me."
"No. Well, it took me a while to realize that you wanted to be friends. I mean, to accept that you wanted to be friends. I couldn't figure out why someone like you would want to hang around someone like me all the time."
"What was wrong with you?" Jim asked with feigned innocence.
McCoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Ten years older than most of the other recruits. Divorced, with a kid I only got to see on holidays. Depressed as fuck. Scared of flying."
"Yeah, you were a mess," agreed Jim. "And that was maudlin. Drink." After McCoy had done as he was told, Jim looked at him thoughtfully. "D'you remember your thirtieth birthday?"
"Yeah," said McCoy. "That was back in the late Middle Ages, wasn't it?"
"You were depressed as fuck. I rescued you."
"I was actually having a decent time," McCoy said, "until you decided to rush in and rescue me."
"You were drinking alone in your room. And listening to some godawful music. I remember," said Jim. "I hauled your sorry ass out of there, and took you to that noodle place."
"Where you flirted shamelessly with our underage waitress. I remember."
"What happened after that?"
"You honestly don't remember?"
"No," said Jim, frowning. "I do, but it's all… disconnected. There are scenes, but…" He stared into the middle distance, trying to recall. Had they gone bar hopping? Had he really done that to Bones on his thirtieth birthday? That seemed a little mean, but then…
"We went to the beach," McCoy said quietly. "Remember the beach?"
Yes, the beach. There'd been all that fog, and the sand wet and cold between his bare toes. What had happened to his shoes and socks? Strange. Jim remembered standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, feeling the cold waves tugging insistently at his calves as they rushed back toward the sea. He'd stood there until his feet felt like blocks of ice. What the hell had he been thinking? Bones had warmed them up again with his hands. With those big, wonderfully callused hands. And then what? Then what?
Then that kiss. Jesus Christ, that kiss. He used to think about it when he jerked off. Fuck, for months afterward, whenever he kissed someone else, it would pop up in his mind's eye. But he hadn't allowed himself to think about it in years. Bones surging over him, more powerful than any wave. Hot mouth clamping desperately over Jim's like he was performing resuscitation. Breath tasting like salt and beer and Bones. Hot hands under his shirt, on his belly, fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans…
After that, Jim's memory was a little fuzzy. They hadn't had sex. He would have remembered that. He did remember waking up in Bones's arms the next morning, that gray sweater scratchy beneath his cheek. He remembered Bones's fingers curving against the back of his neck, his left hand resting lightly over Jim's right. He remembered a feeling of complete and utter peace as Bones's warm breath stirred his hair and that broad, flat chest rose and fell with the evenness of the tide.
In the six years that had followed, Jim had never felt so safe or serene as he had that dawn. Never.
Aware suddenly that he'd been quiet for a long time and that McCoy was watching him uncertainly, Jim said, "I remember the beach." Then he put his glass down, slid off the desk, and took McCoy by the shoulders. Pulling him out of the chair, ignoring the Scotch that splashed against the front of his shirt and McCoy's startled exclamation of protest, Jim looked him in the eye. "Of course I remember the beach." Then he brought their mouths together in a kiss.
McCoy's lips were as soft and dry as Jim remembered, his tongue as hot. That hungry whine that was almost a keen that came from deep in his throat - that was new, or else Jim simply hadn't noticed it before. Six years ago. Six fucking years ago. Jim tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing against McCoy's.
He heard a minute thud, which must have been McCoy's empty Scotch glass hitting the carpet. Then McCoy's hands were on him, on his waist, then on his cheeks, in his hair, seizing hold, holding.
A voice in Jim's head said, This won't change a damn thing. He's leaving. He's leaving you, but Jim said Fuck you, to that voice. The ship could be sucked into a black hole, the Romulans could attack, and none of that meant anything against the fact that McCoy was pretty much fucking Jim's mouth with his tongue, and that he, Jim, had not been this sharply, painfully aroused in - well, a while.
As they kissed, McCoy started to walk Jim backward and Jim realized that his target was the bed and We are really going to do this, he thought. We should be wearing fewer clothes, in that case. With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Jim's fingers fumbled with McCoy's zipper, got it open on the second try, then pushed the pants down over his hips. The underwear followed, McCoy hissing against Jim's lips as the cotton, the elastic, and Jim's hand slid over his erection.
McCoy broke the kiss to remove his shirt and boots, and Jim took the opportunity to undress quickly. Then their mouths met again and fingernails raked across bare flesh, leaving bruises and long welts. Take this back to Earth with you, Jim thought as he dragged a jagged thumbnail across McCoy's thigh.
Then abruptly the edge of the bed hit the backs of Jim's knees and he was jolted off his feet. He fell heavily against the firm mattress and McCoy fell on top of him, still kissing him, hands moving hungrily over his chest like he was trying to memorize every ridge and plane. It occurred to Jim that the touches were not random; McCoy's fingers lingered over certain spots - like two inches above his left nipple or three inches below his bottommost rib on the right side. The latter was where that Cardassian's knife had entered him - shit, was it really almost five years ago? - and suddenly Jim knew what McCoy was doing and his heart tightened.
There were no scars, of course. But McCoy knew the site of just about every serious injury Jim had ever sustained, and as he revisited them, Jim was seized by a feeling of sheer helplessness. Even when he'd lain bleeding at the feet of an enemy, or been forced to listen as he was told exactly how he was going to be tortured to death, the knowledge that Bones was out there, was coming to get him, had kept him going. And now Bones was leaving.
Jim wanted to cry out in protest, but his body had other ideas. The only sound he could make was a moan as his head fell back against the pillow. He bared his throat, arching against McCoy's palms, trying to maneuver his lower half so that their erections lined up. There - yes. Right there. Oh God, that was it. Stars, whole galaxies began to spin and sizzle before his eyes.
"Jim," McCoy groaned, his voice thick with need.
This won't change anything. You'll lose him anyway.
Jim told himself that he did not care, though he knew that that was a lie. As he thrust upward and his mouth sought McCoy's, he wished for the end of the world.
*
Jim was awakened from a half-sleep by the slight jouncing of the bed and McCoy muttering, "Shit. Oh, shit." He lay on his side, facing the wall, and listened as McCoy stumbled about, looking for his clothes. He lay perfectly still, willing his breaths and his heartbeat to steady, telling himself that if McCoy thought he was asleep, maybe he'd come back to bed and they could ignore the inevitable for a few more hours.
But McCoy did not come back, and after a time Jim heard the whoosh of the door opening, then closing.
Jim rolled over. "Lights," he croaked. In the dimness, he uncurled his limbs, and pressed his palm and cheek against the side of the bed where McCoy had lain. It was still warm. Jim did not fall asleep again until long after the warmth had faded.
PART TWO
Part One of Six
Fandom: Star Trek: Reboot
Rating: Adult (sex, violence, and language)
Ships/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, Joanna McCoy, Spock Prime
Summary: After his ex-wife's death, McCoy is forced to leave the Enterprise to look after his teenage daughter. Under normal circumstances, this would be the end of…whatever it is he has with Kirk that's more than friendship, but less than what he wants. But the universe has other intentions.
A/N: A million thanks to my beta readers, r-becca and boosette, who went above and beyond with this one. 4,000 words (this part only - 26,000 words total).
Sequel to: In A Moment Close To Now and Heading Straight For A Fall
Status: Complete
PART ONE
2263
As far as Jim Kirk was concerned, there were three constants in the universe: Vulcans would always outsmart him, Romulans would always try to fuck with him, and Doctor Leonard McCoy would always be there to patch him up when he staggered home, concussed and bleeding.
It was that third constant that meant the most to Jim, maybe because he'd known it the longest. For almost eight years - three at the Academy, the rest aboard the Enterprise - McCoy had kept his body in one piece. Or somehow managed to put all the pieces back together, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate. Just the knowledge that Bones was there - either with the away team or back on the Enterprise - scowling, thinking up stinging admonitions - kept Jim sane. Any time a mission went wrong, any time he found himself strapped down in some alien torture chamber or facing the wrong end of a disruptor, the thought would flash through his mind that all I have to do is survive this, that's all, just get out of here with a fucking pulse and Bones would work out the details with his hyposprays and his firm, sure hands.
Maybe there were times when he took McCoy's presence for granted: sometimes missions went well, after all, and Jim reappeared on the transporter pad on his feet, all organs functioning properly, all blood in his body - where it belonged. And maybe there were times when he resented McCoy's cautious, somewhat cynical nature. Cautious, that was, when it came to Jim and the rest of the crew. He had learned the hard way that McCoy's own sense of self-preservation was approximately zero.
And then, of course, there was Spock. They made a good team, the three of them, despite the near-constant bickering between first officer and CMO. Over the years, Jim had grown so used to the squabbling that those rare occasions when they were both in agreement - whether it was on who should buy the next round of drinks or if they ought to trust a Klingon informant - actually sent shivers up his spine.
Jim thought of them as his best friends, truly the best friends he'd ever had in the thirty years he'd been alive, but when it came to matters of exploration and experimentation, Jim tended to side with Spock. He knew that it annoyed McCoy, but what the hell was he supposed to do? They had a mission, a duty. And if McCoy kept Jim alive and sane, Spock challenged him with his pragmatism, his alien (well, half-alien) perspective. Jim could never resist a challenge.
Still, Leonard McCoy was like air to Jim Kirk, like blood: utterly essential, just not something he thought about every minute of every day.
So when, with barely a warning, McCoy up and left, it really knocked Jim for a loop.
*
It was late, almost the end of beta shift, when McCoy came to see him in his quarters, PADD in hand. For a few long moments he simply wavered there in the doorway, and Jim's heart began to beat very quickly because even backlit by the lights in the corridor, he could tell that McCoy was ashen. His hair was a mess, like he'd been tearing at it or raking his fingers through it repeatedly. Jim set his own PADD down on the desk, the report he'd been writing for Starfleet forgotten.
Something bad's happened, he thought and a chill washed through him. Something really bad, like a death. But how was that even possible? There'd been no recent injuries or illnesses. The past week had been uncharacteristically boring, with no away missions, and no encounters with other ships.
"Tell me what happened," Jim said tautly. He gestured to the chair facing his desk. "Sit down and tell me what happened."
As McCoy moved unsteadily across the carpeted floor and the door closed behind him, Jim had a terrible thought: What if the bad news originated a little closer to home - literally? Jim's mother now captained her own science vessel, and his brother, sister-in-law, and nephews lived on a research satellite orbiting Earth; their lives were not fraught with danger as his was, but that hardly meant that they were safe from harm. Still, if anything had happened to them or to Admiral Pike, who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real father, Starfleet would have contacted him directly, not gone through his CMO.
McCoy had family on Earth; he had a young daughter. And now Jim realized, as McCoy set his PADD on the desk and slid it toward him, there was no sympathy in his expression, no compassion. His eyes avoided Jim's; his mouth was a flat line. Jim didn't know what that look meant, but the words Please, not that, clawed in his belly, and his fingers moved numbly over the PADD, not quite grasping it.
"Tell me," he said again, his voice low.
"I'm taking a leave of absence from Starfleet," McCoy said tonelessly. "Effective - effective immediately. I need you to sign off on it."
Jim nodded and he tried to speak, but though his lips moved, the only sound he made was, "Juh-"
McCoy frowned at him for a moment, then he seemed to understand and his face actually went even whiter. "Joanna? No, oh Jesus, no. She's safe. She's - no, it's her mother. And stepfather. They were both killed in a shuttle crash last night. They were coming home from a weekend trip - or something. I don't know. Jo was spending the weekend with a friend. Good God, Jim." He reached across the desk, gripped Jim's shoulder, and gave him a little shake. "Look at you, you're practically gray. I'm the one Joanna's supposed to be giving heart attacks to."
"Worst-case scenario," Jim said weakly. "Always have to be thinking…"
"If something had happened to my daughter, d'you really think I'd be standing upright right now?"
"No. No, of course not. And God - I'm sorry. I know things weren't exactly amicable, but - I'm sorry." Jim reached up and covered the hand still resting on his shoulder. Looking McCoy in the eye, he said simply, "What can I do?"
"You can sign off on that request."
"I know. I will." It was really crazy, Jim thought, how easily the words came, how his voice sounded so steady. Other parts of him felt broken. Bones is leaving. He thought it again; it still seemed ludicrous. In what universe was Bones not CMO on the Enterprise, a part of Jim's daily life?
"Jo's fourteen," McCoy was saying, as if he thought Jim still needed convincing. "It's a fucked-up age. As you and I both know. And she just lost her mother and her stepfather. I haven't talked with her yet, but I know she's heartbroken. I won't speak ill of the - the dead. Whatever her flaws, Jocelyn did well by our daughter. And Roger was a better father to her than I ever was. I have to-"
"You have to go to her. Of course." And don't talk about yourself like that, he also wanted to say, but he couldn't, not with his throat so full.
"I have to stay with her. I already talked with Starfleet. They were - understanding. The five-year mission's almost over. We'll be due leave at the end of it. I'm just taking it - early. I don't know how long I'll be away. Jo isn't even in high school. I promised Starfleet Medical I'd work on a textbook. Physiology of alien races. I'd been meaning to-"
"You're rambling," Jim interrupted softly.
"I know." McCoy's breath shook as he inhaled. Jim could actually hear it shake. "I just - need to concentrate on Joanna right now, and on getting to her as fast as I can. The Hypatia's's the closest ship in the Fleet right now, and they're heading back toward Earth."
"Don't be stupid. We'll take you."
"No. You're already en route to Mirach IV, to pick up the ambassador."
You're, not we're. Oh, shit.
Knowing how McCoy would respond, Jim said, "The hell with the ambassador. You think I'd hand you over to just anybody-"
"Dammit, Jim." Letting go of his shoulder, he said, "That's your mother's ship."
"Yeah."
"Don't be cute, Jim. Please. Do not try to be cute right now."
"I'm not," he protested, which was such a blatant lie that he had to shrug. "Fine. I'll arrange it. At least you'll be with a Kirk until you get back to Earth. What else can I do?"
"The crew's medical records are in order. I want Chapel in charge of sickbay, at least until you get someone with more experience. She may not be a doctor, but dammit, there's no one I trust more, at least when it comes to running things. I haven't talked to her, but I will before I leave."
"Bones." Jim started to reach for him, but instead let his hand fall back to his side. Half a dozen thoughts crowded in his brain. Each one shamed him with its selfishness, and none of them meant anything against the fact that, back on Earth, a young girl whom he'd never met needed her father. "What can I do?" It sounded like a plea, and he supposed that that was what it was.
"Tell the rest of the crew. I can't. I - don't want to make a big deal."
"Of course. What else?"
McCoy said, "Talk to me. Distract me. Otherwise all I'm going to be able to think about is Jo - and leaving you. All of you."
It seemed to Jim that there was suddenly much less air in the room. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile - limply - and say, "How about a drink?"
*
Jim took out the Glenlivet single malt Scotch, which had been a thirtieth birthday present from Scotty, and poured two glasses. Handing one to McCoy, he said, "You know, I never thought I'd make it this far."
"To thirty?" said McCoy, turning the glass and watching the pale gold liquid as it sloshed.
"Yeah." Jim perched on the edge of his desk, one foot dangling, the other resting on the arm of McCoy's chair. "All right, maybe not never," he went on, cradling his own drink. "When I turned twenty-nine I started thinking, 'Oh, shit, I'm actually gonna make it, huh?' Pretty optimistic, right?"
"Considering your approach to life? Yeah." McCoy downed the Scotch in a single long gulp and held his empty glass toward Jim.
"So," said Jim, eyebrows raised, "we're not just drinking. We're getting drunk. Is that a good idea?"
"Look who's talking." McCoy glanced up at him bleakly. "And so what?"
"So, I'm still the captain and you're still CMO. We're both still responsible adults. In theory, if not always in practice." Nonetheless, he refilled McCoy's glass. "Just pace yourself, all right? This stuff was a gift. It's not like Scotty's got a distillery down in engineering." Jim took a sip of his own Scotch. He let the stuff roll around on his tongue before letting it burn its way down his throat. With a regretful sigh he said, "Wish he did, though."
"Maybe next time you're retrofitted."
"I was just thinking that. Yeah. Shit, I've earned it. How many times have I saved the Federation in the last five years?"
"I lost count." For the first time, a slight smile touched McCoy's lips. "You know, I'm really going to miss-"
"Don't," said Jim sharply. "For fuck's sake, I don't want to hear that. If you're even thinking of saying something maudlin, take a drink."
McCoy took a long drink.
After a moment, so did Jim.
They looked at each other, and Jim tried not to think things like, I only made it to thirty because of you. Hell, I only made it to twenty-three because you were there. What am I supposed to do now? He couldn't tell what Bones was thinking, which was odd; usually, the man's face was like an open book. Oh, the grief was still there, right on the surface - not for Jocelyn and her husband, but for the life he was about to leave and the uncertainty that awaited him in Savannah. Could Joanna forgive him for staying away so long, even though he had to follow Starfleet's orders? Did she still think of him as her father, or had Roger completely taken over that role? All of that was right there in Bones's eyes, flashing like a goddamn strobe light. But what the hell was beneath it? Intrigued, already a little intoxicated, Jim leaned forward.
McCoy hadn't moved, though his hazel eyes suddenly seemed to fill Jim's vision. "You'll be all right," he said. "Honestly. You're a smart guy. You're even starting to act like it. I trust you."
"Someone's gotta."
"Don't be stupid. Your whole crew trusts you."
"Someone's gotta," he said again.
"Are you saying you don't trust yourself?" said McCoy. "Don't be- Shit, you're not drunk enough to be talking like that. You've only had half a glass."
Jim looked at his Scotch. Huh. The son of a bitch was right. Better remedy that, he thought, and downed the rest. McCoy raised one eyebrow, and Jim said, "Ha! I was waiting for you to do that. Fuck, I'm gonna miss that. Oops, that was maudlin, wasn't it? Better take a drink."
As Jim refilled his glass, McCoy said, "This isn't a game."
Jim drank. "No. It is not. Games are fun. Unless you're trapped in a coliseum by some fucker who thinks he's Caesar, and he's making you watch your two best friends go at it with gladiators. That's not a fun game. Then you kind of just have to sit there - because there's a gun pointed at your head - and you think, Well, okay, one of them's a Vulcan, so he'll probably be all right, but the other one's a doctor who doesn't even know how to fucking parry." He took another drink. A long one.
"Now who's rambling? You're starting to sound like you did at the Academy. Except you didn't used to get drunk this easily."
"I'm not drunk," said Jim, and he didn't suppose that he was. He wasn't the heavy drinker he used to be, but it still took more than two glasses of Scotch to get him shit-faced. He was just tired. And Bones had given him quite a shock, making him think - inadvertently, of course, and just for a minute or two - that Joanna was dead. Telling him that he was leaving. Jim was just feeling a bit… loosened up. Well-oiled, as someone - who? Someone from the Academy? Gary Mitchell, maybe? - used to say. His mind was becoming untethered and straining to go to places that he did not ordinarily let it. Going exploring. Off on an adventure. His smile must have been strange indeed because Bones gave him this look that was so wary it was almost funny.
"We had fun at the Academy," Jim said, leaning over to refill McCoy's glass, though he hadn't asked for any more.
"Yeah," said McCoy. "We did. You made sure I had a good time."
"You didn't always let me."
"No. Well, it took me a while to realize that you wanted to be friends. I mean, to accept that you wanted to be friends. I couldn't figure out why someone like you would want to hang around someone like me all the time."
"What was wrong with you?" Jim asked with feigned innocence.
McCoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Ten years older than most of the other recruits. Divorced, with a kid I only got to see on holidays. Depressed as fuck. Scared of flying."
"Yeah, you were a mess," agreed Jim. "And that was maudlin. Drink." After McCoy had done as he was told, Jim looked at him thoughtfully. "D'you remember your thirtieth birthday?"
"Yeah," said McCoy. "That was back in the late Middle Ages, wasn't it?"
"You were depressed as fuck. I rescued you."
"I was actually having a decent time," McCoy said, "until you decided to rush in and rescue me."
"You were drinking alone in your room. And listening to some godawful music. I remember," said Jim. "I hauled your sorry ass out of there, and took you to that noodle place."
"Where you flirted shamelessly with our underage waitress. I remember."
"What happened after that?"
"You honestly don't remember?"
"No," said Jim, frowning. "I do, but it's all… disconnected. There are scenes, but…" He stared into the middle distance, trying to recall. Had they gone bar hopping? Had he really done that to Bones on his thirtieth birthday? That seemed a little mean, but then…
"We went to the beach," McCoy said quietly. "Remember the beach?"
Yes, the beach. There'd been all that fog, and the sand wet and cold between his bare toes. What had happened to his shoes and socks? Strange. Jim remembered standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, feeling the cold waves tugging insistently at his calves as they rushed back toward the sea. He'd stood there until his feet felt like blocks of ice. What the hell had he been thinking? Bones had warmed them up again with his hands. With those big, wonderfully callused hands. And then what? Then what?
Then that kiss. Jesus Christ, that kiss. He used to think about it when he jerked off. Fuck, for months afterward, whenever he kissed someone else, it would pop up in his mind's eye. But he hadn't allowed himself to think about it in years. Bones surging over him, more powerful than any wave. Hot mouth clamping desperately over Jim's like he was performing resuscitation. Breath tasting like salt and beer and Bones. Hot hands under his shirt, on his belly, fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans…
After that, Jim's memory was a little fuzzy. They hadn't had sex. He would have remembered that. He did remember waking up in Bones's arms the next morning, that gray sweater scratchy beneath his cheek. He remembered Bones's fingers curving against the back of his neck, his left hand resting lightly over Jim's right. He remembered a feeling of complete and utter peace as Bones's warm breath stirred his hair and that broad, flat chest rose and fell with the evenness of the tide.
In the six years that had followed, Jim had never felt so safe or serene as he had that dawn. Never.
Aware suddenly that he'd been quiet for a long time and that McCoy was watching him uncertainly, Jim said, "I remember the beach." Then he put his glass down, slid off the desk, and took McCoy by the shoulders. Pulling him out of the chair, ignoring the Scotch that splashed against the front of his shirt and McCoy's startled exclamation of protest, Jim looked him in the eye. "Of course I remember the beach." Then he brought their mouths together in a kiss.
McCoy's lips were as soft and dry as Jim remembered, his tongue as hot. That hungry whine that was almost a keen that came from deep in his throat - that was new, or else Jim simply hadn't noticed it before. Six years ago. Six fucking years ago. Jim tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing against McCoy's.
He heard a minute thud, which must have been McCoy's empty Scotch glass hitting the carpet. Then McCoy's hands were on him, on his waist, then on his cheeks, in his hair, seizing hold, holding.
A voice in Jim's head said, This won't change a damn thing. He's leaving. He's leaving you, but Jim said Fuck you, to that voice. The ship could be sucked into a black hole, the Romulans could attack, and none of that meant anything against the fact that McCoy was pretty much fucking Jim's mouth with his tongue, and that he, Jim, had not been this sharply, painfully aroused in - well, a while.
As they kissed, McCoy started to walk Jim backward and Jim realized that his target was the bed and We are really going to do this, he thought. We should be wearing fewer clothes, in that case. With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Jim's fingers fumbled with McCoy's zipper, got it open on the second try, then pushed the pants down over his hips. The underwear followed, McCoy hissing against Jim's lips as the cotton, the elastic, and Jim's hand slid over his erection.
McCoy broke the kiss to remove his shirt and boots, and Jim took the opportunity to undress quickly. Then their mouths met again and fingernails raked across bare flesh, leaving bruises and long welts. Take this back to Earth with you, Jim thought as he dragged a jagged thumbnail across McCoy's thigh.
Then abruptly the edge of the bed hit the backs of Jim's knees and he was jolted off his feet. He fell heavily against the firm mattress and McCoy fell on top of him, still kissing him, hands moving hungrily over his chest like he was trying to memorize every ridge and plane. It occurred to Jim that the touches were not random; McCoy's fingers lingered over certain spots - like two inches above his left nipple or three inches below his bottommost rib on the right side. The latter was where that Cardassian's knife had entered him - shit, was it really almost five years ago? - and suddenly Jim knew what McCoy was doing and his heart tightened.
There were no scars, of course. But McCoy knew the site of just about every serious injury Jim had ever sustained, and as he revisited them, Jim was seized by a feeling of sheer helplessness. Even when he'd lain bleeding at the feet of an enemy, or been forced to listen as he was told exactly how he was going to be tortured to death, the knowledge that Bones was out there, was coming to get him, had kept him going. And now Bones was leaving.
Jim wanted to cry out in protest, but his body had other ideas. The only sound he could make was a moan as his head fell back against the pillow. He bared his throat, arching against McCoy's palms, trying to maneuver his lower half so that their erections lined up. There - yes. Right there. Oh God, that was it. Stars, whole galaxies began to spin and sizzle before his eyes.
"Jim," McCoy groaned, his voice thick with need.
This won't change anything. You'll lose him anyway.
Jim told himself that he did not care, though he knew that that was a lie. As he thrust upward and his mouth sought McCoy's, he wished for the end of the world.
*
Jim was awakened from a half-sleep by the slight jouncing of the bed and McCoy muttering, "Shit. Oh, shit." He lay on his side, facing the wall, and listened as McCoy stumbled about, looking for his clothes. He lay perfectly still, willing his breaths and his heartbeat to steady, telling himself that if McCoy thought he was asleep, maybe he'd come back to bed and they could ignore the inevitable for a few more hours.
But McCoy did not come back, and after a time Jim heard the whoosh of the door opening, then closing.
Jim rolled over. "Lights," he croaked. In the dimness, he uncurled his limbs, and pressed his palm and cheek against the side of the bed where McCoy had lain. It was still warm. Jim did not fall asleep again until long after the warmth had faded.
PART TWO