[fic] hold on (st: reboot)
Hold On
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Rating: Adult (for violence and sex, but not violent sex)
Ship: McCoy/Kirk
Summary: Based loosely on the Ballad of Tam Lin (per a prompt at stxi_sinfest a couple weeks back) with alien whammies and McCoy to the rescue and oh, the things we do for love.
A/N: 1,985 words - proving that I'm capable of writing non-novels, thank you. Originally a bit shorter, but then I remembered these things are supposed to be smutty.
"He'll fight you," the young acolyte had warned him, voice quavering, glance cast sideways, as if he were afraid of what he might see in McCoy's eyes - or of what McCoy might see in his. "They'll make him fight you. He'll be in there - in his body - but he won't have any control over his actions. They'll try to make him kill you. You'll just have to hold on."
"Until what?" McCoy had asked, afraid himself, but grimly resolved. He liked to think he was fairly tolerant of other people's religions, but he drew the line at allowing his captain, his best friend, to be brainwashed and sacrificed to some bloodthirsty deity without a fight. All right, he drew the line quite a ways before that, but Jim just had to go and get himself captured by these bug-eyed fanatics. "Until what?" he'd repeated, gripping the acolyte's bony shoulder. "How long does this goddamn - " he couldn't bring himself to say spell " - hypnosis last?"
The acolyte's gaze had flicked briefly to his, and he'd read not just fear, but pity in the protuberant gray eyes. "Until he loses consciousness," he'd said. "Or until you die."
The things we do for friendship, McCoy thought as he wrapped his arms around Jim's shoulders and chest in a bear hug and bore him with all his weight to the temple's unforgiving stone floor. Above and around them, the worshippers roared with displeasure; they'd clearly been anticipating blood. Well, they'd get some - just not courtesy of that curved blade the high priest held, or on the high altar. And not Jim's. Not if McCoy could help it, anyway.
Jim fought, just as the acolyte had predicted. He fought mean, with teeth and nails and sharp, sharp elbows. McCoy had assumed Jim would act like he didn't know him. He was wrong. Jim acted like he knew exactly who McCoy was - and hated him with every fiber of his being.
He seemed to change within McCoy's desperate embrace, to writhe from one personality, from one creature, to the next. Now he was a wild man, teeth pulled back in an ugly snarl, nostrils flared, spit flecking his lips. He screamed as his fists and knees thudded into McCoy's body; he hardly seemed human. In another instant he'd fallen silent, his eyes narrowed to slits. He fought with cold deliberation; he went for McCoy's eyes, his throat, his groin. McCoy did his best to dodge these blows without losing his grip on Jim. He wasn't going to last much longer, he knew. He couldn't. Jim was a fighter and he wasn't. Jim was stronger physically, and possessed by God knew how many angry spirits whose sole desire was to escort their vessel to his death upon their altar.
If I had a damned hypo, this would be over in seconds. The knowledge didn't help.
Jim's body tensed. He began to howl again, not with rage this time, but genuine fear. "Don't," he pleaded as he struggled, "please, don't. You're hurting me - stop." There were tears in his eyes, actual goddamn tears, and if anything was going to shake McCoy's resolve and loosen his grip, it would have been that.
But he held on.
Jim sobbed. His tears stung the cuts and abrasions on McCoy's neck and cheek. "Shh," McCoy whispered. "Jim, it's me. You know I've never hurt you. Somewhere in that crowded head of yours, you know that. Look at me. Come on, you know me."
Jim's voice, thick and raw, grated against McCoy's ear: "I'll fucking kill you, you bastard."
And just like that, some other spirit took the helm and they were fighting again.
The things we do for love, McCoy thought. By this time, he was flat on his back and Jim was straddling his waist, his handsome face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of rage. The blows rained down. McCoy tried to ward them off, to grab Jim's wrists and hold him, but he was losing the ability to command his own body. He was too tired, too badly injured.
It occurred to him as his vision began to dim, that he really did love Jim, loved him enough to die for him. Which was just as well, since there didn't seem to be any other possible outcome. Spock was supposed to be looking for them, but McCoy had no illusions about him getting there in time to save both of them. It was McCoy or Jim at that point, and since Jim was out of his senses, McCoy made the choice for him.
He felt things break inside him - blood vessels, bones, and ultimately his heart as he clung, and stared pleadingly and hopelessly into the wild blue eyes and did not recognize the soul staring back at him.
Please. Dammit, Jim, please.
If he did let go at some point, he wasn't aware. He couldn't even see Jim anymore; his vision was full of black and red pulses. There was a strange roaring in his ears. It reminded him of the Atlantic, which he'd visited as a child, where he'd taken his daughter once or twice. He could taste the salt spray on his lips, and he could hear the gulls screaming. No, it wasn't the gulls. It was Jim. He was saying something, and McCoy struggled to focus, to hear-
"Bones, Bones? Stay with me-"
Fingers skittering over his face, the stuttering pulse at his throat.
"Bones! Please hold on-"
But he couldn't.
*
He was afloat on a dark sea. The water below him was endlessly deep, the sky above him endlessly high. He was neither warm nor cold. On some level he was aware that - providing he wasn't dead - he should have been in a terrific amount of pain. But the only part of his body he could actually feel was his left hand, and that was because someone else was holding it, squeezing his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm, leading him back toward shore, toward home.
McCoy awoke. Despite the haze of drugs, he knew that he was in Sickbay and that the person seated beside his bed and holding his hand was Jim. "Hey," he whispered.
Jim glanced up. His face was covered with purple-brown bruises.
McCoy should have been horrified. He should have asked who'd treated Jim, what they'd given him for the bruises and the high priest's mental whammy. But all he could say was, "Oh. Look at you."
"Look at you," Jim said, curling McCoy's hand between his own two, holding it close to his chest. "Bones, I-" He swallowed, and suddenly his eyes were much too bright. "I'm sorry." His voice was thin and tattered, and his eyes - yeah, those were tears, all right, and despite the drugs, McCoy felt a knot of pain in his own throat. "I'm sorry. Bones, I'm so, so sorry."
"Not your fault."
"I was in there," Jim went on, like he hadn't heard or didn't believe it. "I knew what I was doing to you, but I couldn't stop. I wasn't in control. Not until-" He swallowed. "Not until you…"
"Let go?" McCoy supplied.
"You didn't, though. You sort of … stopped fighting, but you didn't let go. It was enough. Those spirits, whatever they were, they relaxed for a second and I was able - I was able to…"
He sounded so young, McCoy thought, so raw. Just a kid, really, for all he captained a starship. So easy to forget sometimes. "Jim…"
"Please don't say it wasn't my fault. If I'd lost you… If you'd died it would've been because I'd killed you and…" His grip on McCoy's hand tightened.
Oh, boy. Well, good thing he had those advanced psych degrees, McCoy thought. They'd come in handy … later. Right now he was so tired. He just wanted to sleep, to heal. At the same time… Now Jim was stroking his wrist, moving his fingertips so gently over the delicate skin and bumpy veins. At the same time, if Jim was going to keep touching him like that, damn it, he wanted to be awake for it.
"It'll be okay," he mumbled. "Eventually. Gonna be okay. Sr'sly, if there's … captainy stuff you need to do…"
But Jim just looked at him, and it was clear, even through the haze, that the only thing he needed to do was sit beside McCoy and massage his hand like he was some kind of goddamn masseuse. The thought of Jim as a masseuse made him giggle - no, actually, it was the drugs doing that. "Okay," he said at length. "Just … don't let go. 'Kay?"
He had to close his eyes then. His lashes were too heavy, Jim's gaze too piercing. As he teetered on the brink of sleep, he felt dry lips brush his knuckles, then his palm. He felt warm breath against his skin, heard Jim's murmured: "I do too, by the way. I've got you, and I won't let go."
*
At first, Jim treated him like he was made of glass, his lips and fingers moving so damn lightly over him, barely even touching him. McCoy had to resist the urge to grab him and throw him onto his back. That would do neither of them any good, he knew. Jim had been hurt too and he had to move at his own pace, find the point where he could take and not feel guilty, give and not be afraid of overwhelming. McCoy stroked the back of his neck soothingly, and whispered encouragements while soft lips ghosted over his chest, pressing a gentle kiss here, licking there. He rumbled approval when Jim sucked a nipple between his lips and laved it gently with his tongue.
You can't break me, kid.
But of course he couldn't say that, because Jim would just look at him with those haunted eyes and say, You mean, again? And that wouldn't help.
So McCoy slid his fingers into the stiff blond hair and carded through it lovingly. He spread his legs and arched to meet the hesitant kisses and caresses. At no point did he let go. When Jim began to lick along the inside of his thighs, he pushed himself up on his elbows so he could keep stroking. When Jim took him in his mouth, he dropped his head back, but his fingers still moved over Jim's temples, the hair that spilled over his brow - every part he could reach.
And maybe that was what did it. Maybe that fragile but constant connection was what finally led Jim back to himself. In any case, when he finally raised his head and studied McCoy as if in contemplation, the smile that curved his lips was almost pure sunlight and the only spirit behind his eyes was the one McCoy loved.
"What do you want?" he asked softly, stroking McCoy's thighs. "More of this…?" He gave McCoy's erection a broad sweep with his tongue, and McCoy's bones turned to water. "Or…?"
"C'mere," McCoy muttered, digging his fingertips into the muscles of Jim's shoulders. "You do that again, and I swear I'm gonna lose it, and I want you here when I do." Here was pretty vague, but Jim seemed to understand. He surged back over McCoy and caught his mouth, kissing him deeply while his arms wound about his waist. And now, now McCoy was the sea. He was the roaring and the tumbling, the arching and the crashing down. And he held Jim even as he broke against him and reformed around him. And Jim clung back and kissed him and drank him in, and if, in the aftermath, neither was sure who said, "I've got you," and who responded, "I know," it did not matter because at that point they were one.
11/17/2009
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Rating: Adult (for violence and sex, but not violent sex)
Ship: McCoy/Kirk
Summary: Based loosely on the Ballad of Tam Lin (per a prompt at stxi_sinfest a couple weeks back) with alien whammies and McCoy to the rescue and oh, the things we do for love.
A/N: 1,985 words - proving that I'm capable of writing non-novels, thank you. Originally a bit shorter, but then I remembered these things are supposed to be smutty.
"He'll fight you," the young acolyte had warned him, voice quavering, glance cast sideways, as if he were afraid of what he might see in McCoy's eyes - or of what McCoy might see in his. "They'll make him fight you. He'll be in there - in his body - but he won't have any control over his actions. They'll try to make him kill you. You'll just have to hold on."
"Until what?" McCoy had asked, afraid himself, but grimly resolved. He liked to think he was fairly tolerant of other people's religions, but he drew the line at allowing his captain, his best friend, to be brainwashed and sacrificed to some bloodthirsty deity without a fight. All right, he drew the line quite a ways before that, but Jim just had to go and get himself captured by these bug-eyed fanatics. "Until what?" he'd repeated, gripping the acolyte's bony shoulder. "How long does this goddamn - " he couldn't bring himself to say spell " - hypnosis last?"
The acolyte's gaze had flicked briefly to his, and he'd read not just fear, but pity in the protuberant gray eyes. "Until he loses consciousness," he'd said. "Or until you die."
The things we do for friendship, McCoy thought as he wrapped his arms around Jim's shoulders and chest in a bear hug and bore him with all his weight to the temple's unforgiving stone floor. Above and around them, the worshippers roared with displeasure; they'd clearly been anticipating blood. Well, they'd get some - just not courtesy of that curved blade the high priest held, or on the high altar. And not Jim's. Not if McCoy could help it, anyway.
Jim fought, just as the acolyte had predicted. He fought mean, with teeth and nails and sharp, sharp elbows. McCoy had assumed Jim would act like he didn't know him. He was wrong. Jim acted like he knew exactly who McCoy was - and hated him with every fiber of his being.
He seemed to change within McCoy's desperate embrace, to writhe from one personality, from one creature, to the next. Now he was a wild man, teeth pulled back in an ugly snarl, nostrils flared, spit flecking his lips. He screamed as his fists and knees thudded into McCoy's body; he hardly seemed human. In another instant he'd fallen silent, his eyes narrowed to slits. He fought with cold deliberation; he went for McCoy's eyes, his throat, his groin. McCoy did his best to dodge these blows without losing his grip on Jim. He wasn't going to last much longer, he knew. He couldn't. Jim was a fighter and he wasn't. Jim was stronger physically, and possessed by God knew how many angry spirits whose sole desire was to escort their vessel to his death upon their altar.
If I had a damned hypo, this would be over in seconds. The knowledge didn't help.
Jim's body tensed. He began to howl again, not with rage this time, but genuine fear. "Don't," he pleaded as he struggled, "please, don't. You're hurting me - stop." There were tears in his eyes, actual goddamn tears, and if anything was going to shake McCoy's resolve and loosen his grip, it would have been that.
But he held on.
Jim sobbed. His tears stung the cuts and abrasions on McCoy's neck and cheek. "Shh," McCoy whispered. "Jim, it's me. You know I've never hurt you. Somewhere in that crowded head of yours, you know that. Look at me. Come on, you know me."
Jim's voice, thick and raw, grated against McCoy's ear: "I'll fucking kill you, you bastard."
And just like that, some other spirit took the helm and they were fighting again.
The things we do for love, McCoy thought. By this time, he was flat on his back and Jim was straddling his waist, his handsome face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of rage. The blows rained down. McCoy tried to ward them off, to grab Jim's wrists and hold him, but he was losing the ability to command his own body. He was too tired, too badly injured.
It occurred to him as his vision began to dim, that he really did love Jim, loved him enough to die for him. Which was just as well, since there didn't seem to be any other possible outcome. Spock was supposed to be looking for them, but McCoy had no illusions about him getting there in time to save both of them. It was McCoy or Jim at that point, and since Jim was out of his senses, McCoy made the choice for him.
He felt things break inside him - blood vessels, bones, and ultimately his heart as he clung, and stared pleadingly and hopelessly into the wild blue eyes and did not recognize the soul staring back at him.
Please. Dammit, Jim, please.
If he did let go at some point, he wasn't aware. He couldn't even see Jim anymore; his vision was full of black and red pulses. There was a strange roaring in his ears. It reminded him of the Atlantic, which he'd visited as a child, where he'd taken his daughter once or twice. He could taste the salt spray on his lips, and he could hear the gulls screaming. No, it wasn't the gulls. It was Jim. He was saying something, and McCoy struggled to focus, to hear-
"Bones, Bones? Stay with me-"
Fingers skittering over his face, the stuttering pulse at his throat.
"Bones! Please hold on-"
But he couldn't.
*
He was afloat on a dark sea. The water below him was endlessly deep, the sky above him endlessly high. He was neither warm nor cold. On some level he was aware that - providing he wasn't dead - he should have been in a terrific amount of pain. But the only part of his body he could actually feel was his left hand, and that was because someone else was holding it, squeezing his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm, leading him back toward shore, toward home.
McCoy awoke. Despite the haze of drugs, he knew that he was in Sickbay and that the person seated beside his bed and holding his hand was Jim. "Hey," he whispered.
Jim glanced up. His face was covered with purple-brown bruises.
McCoy should have been horrified. He should have asked who'd treated Jim, what they'd given him for the bruises and the high priest's mental whammy. But all he could say was, "Oh. Look at you."
"Look at you," Jim said, curling McCoy's hand between his own two, holding it close to his chest. "Bones, I-" He swallowed, and suddenly his eyes were much too bright. "I'm sorry." His voice was thin and tattered, and his eyes - yeah, those were tears, all right, and despite the drugs, McCoy felt a knot of pain in his own throat. "I'm sorry. Bones, I'm so, so sorry."
"Not your fault."
"I was in there," Jim went on, like he hadn't heard or didn't believe it. "I knew what I was doing to you, but I couldn't stop. I wasn't in control. Not until-" He swallowed. "Not until you…"
"Let go?" McCoy supplied.
"You didn't, though. You sort of … stopped fighting, but you didn't let go. It was enough. Those spirits, whatever they were, they relaxed for a second and I was able - I was able to…"
He sounded so young, McCoy thought, so raw. Just a kid, really, for all he captained a starship. So easy to forget sometimes. "Jim…"
"Please don't say it wasn't my fault. If I'd lost you… If you'd died it would've been because I'd killed you and…" His grip on McCoy's hand tightened.
Oh, boy. Well, good thing he had those advanced psych degrees, McCoy thought. They'd come in handy … later. Right now he was so tired. He just wanted to sleep, to heal. At the same time… Now Jim was stroking his wrist, moving his fingertips so gently over the delicate skin and bumpy veins. At the same time, if Jim was going to keep touching him like that, damn it, he wanted to be awake for it.
"It'll be okay," he mumbled. "Eventually. Gonna be okay. Sr'sly, if there's … captainy stuff you need to do…"
But Jim just looked at him, and it was clear, even through the haze, that the only thing he needed to do was sit beside McCoy and massage his hand like he was some kind of goddamn masseuse. The thought of Jim as a masseuse made him giggle - no, actually, it was the drugs doing that. "Okay," he said at length. "Just … don't let go. 'Kay?"
He had to close his eyes then. His lashes were too heavy, Jim's gaze too piercing. As he teetered on the brink of sleep, he felt dry lips brush his knuckles, then his palm. He felt warm breath against his skin, heard Jim's murmured: "I do too, by the way. I've got you, and I won't let go."
*
At first, Jim treated him like he was made of glass, his lips and fingers moving so damn lightly over him, barely even touching him. McCoy had to resist the urge to grab him and throw him onto his back. That would do neither of them any good, he knew. Jim had been hurt too and he had to move at his own pace, find the point where he could take and not feel guilty, give and not be afraid of overwhelming. McCoy stroked the back of his neck soothingly, and whispered encouragements while soft lips ghosted over his chest, pressing a gentle kiss here, licking there. He rumbled approval when Jim sucked a nipple between his lips and laved it gently with his tongue.
You can't break me, kid.
But of course he couldn't say that, because Jim would just look at him with those haunted eyes and say, You mean, again? And that wouldn't help.
So McCoy slid his fingers into the stiff blond hair and carded through it lovingly. He spread his legs and arched to meet the hesitant kisses and caresses. At no point did he let go. When Jim began to lick along the inside of his thighs, he pushed himself up on his elbows so he could keep stroking. When Jim took him in his mouth, he dropped his head back, but his fingers still moved over Jim's temples, the hair that spilled over his brow - every part he could reach.
And maybe that was what did it. Maybe that fragile but constant connection was what finally led Jim back to himself. In any case, when he finally raised his head and studied McCoy as if in contemplation, the smile that curved his lips was almost pure sunlight and the only spirit behind his eyes was the one McCoy loved.
"What do you want?" he asked softly, stroking McCoy's thighs. "More of this…?" He gave McCoy's erection a broad sweep with his tongue, and McCoy's bones turned to water. "Or…?"
"C'mere," McCoy muttered, digging his fingertips into the muscles of Jim's shoulders. "You do that again, and I swear I'm gonna lose it, and I want you here when I do." Here was pretty vague, but Jim seemed to understand. He surged back over McCoy and caught his mouth, kissing him deeply while his arms wound about his waist. And now, now McCoy was the sea. He was the roaring and the tumbling, the arching and the crashing down. And he held Jim even as he broke against him and reformed around him. And Jim clung back and kissed him and drank him in, and if, in the aftermath, neither was sure who said, "I've got you," and who responded, "I know," it did not matter because at that point they were one.
11/17/2009