star trek xi fic: laissez les bons temps rouler [kirk/mccoy/chapel, t]
laissez les bons temps rouler (or, the one with the mardi gras planet). star trek xi, t, 698 words.
It’s thirty-two hours later and Christine has lost one of her shoes and she’s pretty sure she’s still drunk, but if it means no hangover yet she’s totally cool with that.
“Oh my God,” Kirk keeps saying. He grabs McCoy and kisses his jaw, teeth scraping along his skin. “Oh my God oh my God, I love it here. I think I want to marry this planet and have its little awesome sparkly babies. Bones. Bones Bones. How are you not happy? It’s a planet made of Mardi Gras! Look! Bask!”
“Yeah, Jim,” McCoy says, disentangling Kirk’s fingers from his collar. “I can see that, Jim, but listen, you need to breathe, and you, Christine, you need to stop enabling him - ”
But Christine has already slung her arm around Kirk’s shoulder. “I’m from New Orleans, asshole,” she says, “you’re on your own,” and Kirk crows delightedly and his hand slips down to her ass and they disappear into the crowd together, laughing, and McCoy massages the bridge of his nose and some drunk guy WOOHOOs very loudly in his ear and spills beer on him and drapes a purple feather boa around his neck and McCoy’s shoulders slump, just barely perceptibly.
He blows feathers out of his face, and then calls “Hold on, goddamnit,” and plunges into the roiling throng of partygoers after Christine and Kirk.
It’s thirty-two hours later and Christine has lost one of her shoes and she’s pretty sure she’s still drunk, but if it means no hangover yet she’s totally cool with that.
Her mouth tastes funny, though.
“My mouth tastes funny,” she says, laying back on the balcony floor, her feet dangling between the wrought-iron rails. Her collection of beads slithers and clacks on the tiles, and her head hits someone’s stomach, and she snuggles into him and says, “Comfy.”
“Ouf,” McCoy says behind her.
Kirk rolls onto his back, regarding her from upside-down. His glittery mascara has stuck his eyelashes together, and his gaze is slightly cross-eyed.
“I’ve got two options here that’ll solve your problem,” he says. “More Electric Chartreuse Thunder, or the other way.”
He holds up the bottle, and it swishes ominously. “That stuff looks revolting,” McCoy says. “What the hell’s in there?”
“No idea,” Christine says. “Mmm, the other way, please.”
Kirk drags himself over to her and kisses her soundly on the lips before collapsing back to the tiles, beads and doubloons crunching beneath him.
“Ungh,” he says. “Owfuck, my head.”
“Much better,” Christine says, ignoring him, but then feeling woozily and guiltily charitable she bundles up several purple and green and yellow feather boas and makes a nice little cushion for Kirk’s head. She runs her fingers through his hair. “You taste like vodka. Very nice. Two thumbs up.”
They subside into companionable silence. Christine loses her other shoe into the street below.
“I don’t know how you two find this whole schtick entertaining, this place is like every goddamned bad cliché of Mardi Gras I’ve ever seen in all those shitty movies,” McCoy says after a minute, and Kirk lifts his head to blink up at him owlishly.
“That’s the point, Bones,” he says, and then he sits up on his elbow, or at least tries and fails. “Hang on, what movies? Have you been watching porn without me? Traitor. You traitorous traitor.”
Christine reaches back to pat McCoy’s nose and says, “Enjoy your bourbon and stop harshing our collective mellow, dear,” and McCoy says, lips moving against her hand, “Not porn, per se.”
He bites the tips of her fingers lightly, and she makes a purring noise of contentment. “Hey, hey,” Kirk says. “Share.”
“Well, come here then, you idiot,” McCoy says.
Kirk considers this, and promptly falls asleep.
“Lightweight,” Christine says affectionately. “Hey, look. Sun’s coming up.”
“They tend to that, you know,” McCoy says, “once a day, even,” and she hits him lightly on the knee and prods Kirk awake.
“Whazzat?” Kirk says, unsticking his eyelashes with great effort.
“Sun,” Christine says.
“Cool,” Kirk says, “we like those.”
But then he starts singing “Here Comes the Sun,” and Christine harmonises enthusiastically if more than a little off-key, and even McCoy joins in for the chorus so they both count that one as a plus.
“Pass the Thunder,” Christine says, steeling herself. “Brand new day, boys.”
“Oh, God,” McCoy says, and Kirk laughs.