The Facts About Jimmy
Title: The Facts About Jimmy
Universe/Series: AU (modern-day [well, early-mid 90s] in my head, but it's not really important.)
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: yeah, that's complicated
Word count: 1024 (nerd snicker)
Genre: h/c, angst
Trope: ummm.... no idea.
Warnings: language, in spades. sex.
Pairing: k/s, k/m, and vague suggestions of k/u
Beta: thanks to medea_fic for being unfailingly amazing
Summary: bones is always there whenever jim needs him to be. whether it's good for either of them is really anybody's guess.
A/N: based off of this song, which i have loved since i was a kid growing up in the corn. lyrics here, if you want an idea of where this may end up going.
A/N2: I coughed up this little sucker when I was supposed to be getting ready for bed, so, it's a very fast little read. but medea says it's worth sticking up, so, what the hell. :)
I can hear that god-awful putt-putt-putt of his perpetually dying bike coming up the drive before I see the cloud of dust rising over the fields. Christ. It’s not even dinnertime yet. I knock back what’s left of my drink, the last chunk of ice hitting my back tooth and making me hiss in discomfort as I swallow the burn down.
Dealing with Jim is easier when I’m more than a little buzzed.
“Bones! Fuck, Bones, where the hell are you?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smear it down the side of my jeans. There’s dirt enough already, rum’ll never show.
“Out back!”
He slams his way through the double-wide, no finesse, that boy, just energy, always energy, burning out and burning hot. The screen door bangs and then he’s there on the stoop, his eyes burning a hole in my back before I even turn around.
I tip my glass upside down, the last drops of liquid falling to earth in a perfect line, puffing into the dirt with more finality than I’ve ever found in life.
I turn.
He’s been at Nyota’s already, it’s clear. I could smell her perfume on him from here, even if I couldn’t see the lipstick on his collar and the handprint blooming on his cheek. He’s well past drunk and into shitfaced, and if he hadn’t been piloting that goddamn bike in much worse shape since he was old enough to reach the clutch, I’d be worried.
“Jim.”
Just his name’s enough, and he’s over the edge, tears streaming down his cheeks as his face turns red, then purple, then white under his tan. He chokes once, and he’s doing that thing where he forgets to breathe, so I step forward, one step, two, and then he’s hard up against me, his fists tearing at my shirt as he rubs snot into my collar.
“God almighty, Jim, motherfuckin let go of me for one goddamned second, can you?”
He can’t, but I manage to manhandle him back up the trailer steps. We slam down the tiny hallway, ricocheting off the particle-board walls as I try vainly to pull our trajectory into something resembling deliberate. He’s got my shirt off and my belt undone before we make it to the bedroom, and I nearly take us both down when my pants fall to my ankles. I trip, and manage to fall onto the bed instead of next to it, grasping desperately at the sheets as he yanks my BVDs down to my kneecaps in one practiced motion.
Jesus. If I’d known he was coming, I’d be a hell of a lot drunker than this.
He’s on my dick before I can catch my breath, his mouth hot and tight and full of way too many teeth for this to feel good, but it doesn’t matter, it never has. It takes no more than a minute and I’m coming hard, my cock clenching furiously in response to Jim’s own special kind of penance. I hear him gasp loudly once, twice, three times as I lay there trying to catch my breath, and I wonder if he’s even bothered to pull down his briefs before he came.
My eyes are closed, but I feel it when he hauls himself up the bed to lie next to me, flopping out limply on the mattress, not touching, in deference to the unbearable heat. We lie in silence for a moment, too fucked out to move, to speak, to make any pretence at happiness.
“The papers came today.”
His voice is low, composed, and utterly bereft.
“Fuck.”
He laughs, the sound completely unconvincing. “Eloquent as always, Bones” he murmurs, and I reach out to clutch his hand, winding my dry fingers through his.
“You gonna sign them?”
Silence, then a sigh.
“What else can I do, Bones? It’s what he wants. Or says he wants. And, shit, Bones, we both know that I’ve never been able to tell him no.”
There’s nothing I can say to that. It’s God’s own truth; where Spock is concerned, Jim is a one-word man, and that word has always been “yes”.
I reach out to the nightstand, fumble around blindly till I find my pack of smokes and the lighter. Shove the business end in my mouth and flip the cap, the reassuring flare of the zippo bright in the late-afternoon gloom. Take a deep drag, letting the cancerous fumes waft through my alveoli, blowing out to let the haze of smoke rise and circle the ceiling fan.
“Those’re gonna kill you, Bones. Gonna make you die.”
He’s got his face all pressed into the pillow, my pillow, smearing snot and tears and spit into my good floral pillowcase, but I can’t muster the energy to care.
I take another drag.
“We’re all gonna die, Jimbo. We’re all gonna die.”
He snorts. “Optimistic, for a doctor.”
“Realistic.”
There’s a long pause. My cigarette is mostly ash, and I’m wondering if he’s fallen asleep yet or not. Thunder rolls in the distance, and a breeze moves through the dingy curtains for what seems like the first time in years.
“What am I gonna do, Bones?”
I look at him lying there, bare freckled back to the ceiling, and my heart twists inside me. I love him, I always have, but the feeling between us falls so far short of that nuclear blast that is the love between him and Spock. I made my peace long ago.
“Do you still love him?”
The “always” is mumbled, but unmistakable. I ash my cigarette one last time, then crush it hard into the dish.
“Go see him, Jim. Go find him, and tell him you can’t do it.”
Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and the smell of rain is on the air.
“Is it really that simple, Bones?”
There’s an itch on my scalp and a thirst in my throat, but I close my eyes and slide down next to him, kicking my pants off my ankles as I go.
“No.” I roll over, my back to him. “But you’re gonna do it anyway.”
next
Universe/Series: AU (modern-day [well, early-mid 90s] in my head, but it's not really important.)
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: yeah, that's complicated
Word count: 1024 (nerd snicker)
Genre: h/c, angst
Trope: ummm.... no idea.
Warnings: language, in spades. sex.
Pairing: k/s, k/m, and vague suggestions of k/u
Beta: thanks to medea_fic for being unfailingly amazing
Summary: bones is always there whenever jim needs him to be. whether it's good for either of them is really anybody's guess.
A/N: based off of this song, which i have loved since i was a kid growing up in the corn. lyrics here, if you want an idea of where this may end up going.
A/N2: I coughed up this little sucker when I was supposed to be getting ready for bed, so, it's a very fast little read. but medea says it's worth sticking up, so, what the hell. :)
I can hear that god-awful putt-putt-putt of his perpetually dying bike coming up the drive before I see the cloud of dust rising over the fields. Christ. It’s not even dinnertime yet. I knock back what’s left of my drink, the last chunk of ice hitting my back tooth and making me hiss in discomfort as I swallow the burn down.
Dealing with Jim is easier when I’m more than a little buzzed.
“Bones! Fuck, Bones, where the hell are you?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smear it down the side of my jeans. There’s dirt enough already, rum’ll never show.
“Out back!”
He slams his way through the double-wide, no finesse, that boy, just energy, always energy, burning out and burning hot. The screen door bangs and then he’s there on the stoop, his eyes burning a hole in my back before I even turn around.
I tip my glass upside down, the last drops of liquid falling to earth in a perfect line, puffing into the dirt with more finality than I’ve ever found in life.
I turn.
He’s been at Nyota’s already, it’s clear. I could smell her perfume on him from here, even if I couldn’t see the lipstick on his collar and the handprint blooming on his cheek. He’s well past drunk and into shitfaced, and if he hadn’t been piloting that goddamn bike in much worse shape since he was old enough to reach the clutch, I’d be worried.
“Jim.”
Just his name’s enough, and he’s over the edge, tears streaming down his cheeks as his face turns red, then purple, then white under his tan. He chokes once, and he’s doing that thing where he forgets to breathe, so I step forward, one step, two, and then he’s hard up against me, his fists tearing at my shirt as he rubs snot into my collar.
“God almighty, Jim, motherfuckin let go of me for one goddamned second, can you?”
He can’t, but I manage to manhandle him back up the trailer steps. We slam down the tiny hallway, ricocheting off the particle-board walls as I try vainly to pull our trajectory into something resembling deliberate. He’s got my shirt off and my belt undone before we make it to the bedroom, and I nearly take us both down when my pants fall to my ankles. I trip, and manage to fall onto the bed instead of next to it, grasping desperately at the sheets as he yanks my BVDs down to my kneecaps in one practiced motion.
Jesus. If I’d known he was coming, I’d be a hell of a lot drunker than this.
He’s on my dick before I can catch my breath, his mouth hot and tight and full of way too many teeth for this to feel good, but it doesn’t matter, it never has. It takes no more than a minute and I’m coming hard, my cock clenching furiously in response to Jim’s own special kind of penance. I hear him gasp loudly once, twice, three times as I lay there trying to catch my breath, and I wonder if he’s even bothered to pull down his briefs before he came.
My eyes are closed, but I feel it when he hauls himself up the bed to lie next to me, flopping out limply on the mattress, not touching, in deference to the unbearable heat. We lie in silence for a moment, too fucked out to move, to speak, to make any pretence at happiness.
“The papers came today.”
His voice is low, composed, and utterly bereft.
“Fuck.”
He laughs, the sound completely unconvincing. “Eloquent as always, Bones” he murmurs, and I reach out to clutch his hand, winding my dry fingers through his.
“You gonna sign them?”
Silence, then a sigh.
“What else can I do, Bones? It’s what he wants. Or says he wants. And, shit, Bones, we both know that I’ve never been able to tell him no.”
There’s nothing I can say to that. It’s God’s own truth; where Spock is concerned, Jim is a one-word man, and that word has always been “yes”.
I reach out to the nightstand, fumble around blindly till I find my pack of smokes and the lighter. Shove the business end in my mouth and flip the cap, the reassuring flare of the zippo bright in the late-afternoon gloom. Take a deep drag, letting the cancerous fumes waft through my alveoli, blowing out to let the haze of smoke rise and circle the ceiling fan.
“Those’re gonna kill you, Bones. Gonna make you die.”
He’s got his face all pressed into the pillow, my pillow, smearing snot and tears and spit into my good floral pillowcase, but I can’t muster the energy to care.
I take another drag.
“We’re all gonna die, Jimbo. We’re all gonna die.”
He snorts. “Optimistic, for a doctor.”
“Realistic.”
There’s a long pause. My cigarette is mostly ash, and I’m wondering if he’s fallen asleep yet or not. Thunder rolls in the distance, and a breeze moves through the dingy curtains for what seems like the first time in years.
“What am I gonna do, Bones?”
I look at him lying there, bare freckled back to the ceiling, and my heart twists inside me. I love him, I always have, but the feeling between us falls so far short of that nuclear blast that is the love between him and Spock. I made my peace long ago.
“Do you still love him?”
The “always” is mumbled, but unmistakable. I ash my cigarette one last time, then crush it hard into the dish.
“Go see him, Jim. Go find him, and tell him you can’t do it.”
Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and the smell of rain is on the air.
“Is it really that simple, Bones?”
There’s an itch on my scalp and a thirst in my throat, but I close my eyes and slide down next to him, kicking my pants off my ankles as I go.
“No.” I roll over, my back to him. “But you’re gonna do it anyway.”
next