New fic: Three-Date Theory's Getting Old
Title: Three-Date Theory's Getting Old
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: Um. PG-13. Mentions of swearing, supremely non-explicit fornicatin'
Disclaimer: All your characters are belong to someone else.
Notes: Would not be even remotely possible without the brilliance and patience that is northatlantic.
Summary: Can it really count as courting, if one half of the couple doesn't know that's what they're doing?
They aren’t even roommates, to start with. But when Jim hears that McCoy’s assigned bunkmate washes out in the second week he ends up knocking on McCoy’s door at all hours, usually half-drunk and smelling of whoever he good and properly laid a couple of hours previously. McCoy tries to be aggravated about it but Jim never really lets him, just smiles that shit-eating grin and bats those stupidly long lashes and ends up quizzing him on whatever the latest exam is until he’s sober enough to crash out without morning regrets. By the fourth week he’s moved his stuff in permanently, and McCoy finds he doesn’t mind.
That’s where it starts, anyway, at the Academy, their regularly scheduled weekly outings. Outings is a lame word but McCoy’s never really come up with anything better. It starts out as a big group of them going out on Friday nights to slam the door shut on the week but as the semester wears on and people inevitably pair off it ends up being just him and Jim. He wonders about that, sometimes, why he keeps showing up at the end of the day and dragging McCoy out somewhere when he’s very likely got something, someone, really, better to be doing. But the one time he brings it up, Jim just makes a face at him and changes the subject.
He comes to need it, though, like he comes to need Jim. It’s a grudging sort of need, the kind hidden behind rolled eyes and aggrieved sighs and Leonard McCoy has never been easy with anyone. He just never realized that the solution to that problem would be to find someone with the stubbornness of a mule and the temperament of a lab, unwilling to take no for an answer. It’d be nice if he found that in a partner, but he’ll take it in a best friend.
Jim drags him out bowling one night, which is a ridiculous way to pass time but involves significantly less higher brain functioning than a movie or even pool so McCoy agrees. He’s pleasantly surprised when he realizes he’s actually better at it than Jim is, much to the kid’s dismay. There’s a lot of ridiculous back and forth between them, mock-snarls and glares and when Jim wanders off to the bar to get another round and lick his wounds McCoy notices a pair of not-unattractive co-eds giggling in his direction. This, then, is definitely not the norm, given usually it’s Jim beating them off with a stick. But hey, he’s not going to turn down the opportunity to flirt a little and he smiles as they make their approach. They introduce themselves, one’s a Tricia and the other’s a Cyndi and about the time he wonders if maybe he stumbled onto the plot of some adult movie the bustier of the two leans in and whispers in his ear, “How long have the two of you been together?”
“Come again?” McCoy asks, and realizes after some more blushing and giggling that the two of them think he and Jim are dating. No, not dating. A couple. Awkward, much?
He notices Jim watching from the bar, looking ten different kinds of amused and it’s only after he’s politely attempted to dissuade the two from their huge misinterpretation and sent them on their way, his own cheeks burning, that Jim wanders back, whistling. “Bones, you dirty old man,” he grins, “meeting up with them later? Did you put them off to finish the game with me? How sweet.” Jim pats his cheek, beaming from ear to ear.
McCoy favors him with a scalding look and wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. “They thought we were an item,” he grimaces, then watches, open-mouthed as Jim considers that, winks at him before going to take his turn. Is he humming? The hell?!
It’s why, despite himself, he does what he has to to get Jim aboard the Enterprise. That it turns out to pretty much save the entire world as he knows it is a happy coincidence.
*
It’s nothing so formal on the Enterprise, more like the two of them catch up and hang out whenever they get a free moment. Which happens less and less, especially since Jim has some weird desire now to make friends with a certain pointy-eared jackass who used to be anything but.
McCoy doesn’t get it. Just doesn’t get it. Sure, the green-blooded hobgoblin had gone over to the Narada with Jim, but how did you go from someone trying to STRANGLE you, for God's sake, to befriending them? And yet there they are, Jim and Spock, bent over a chess board, of all things, in what has become something of a routine. Brooding as he watches the chess game, McCoy wonders just when he'd lost his mind, or when Jim had lost his.
Jim grumbles, lips pursed, “You know, one of these days I am going to beat you.”
"So I anticipate, Captain, but not today. Check." Spock's eyes are full of carefully contained amusement at Jim's frustration.
McCoy huffs out a quiet breath. Of course, he hates chess, so. It is completely ridiculous to be jealous of that. Except for the part where he never remembers Jim being all that big a fan, in the dorm. He watches as Jim makes a face at Spock, pushing back from the table. "I still maintain this would be better with beer."
"You are welcome to so indulge," Spock says mildly. "I prefer tea."
He would, McCoy thinks, goes to go get a whiskey for himself. Between Jim and chess and Scotty and the footy (and how was a man even supposed to know what the hell season it was out in space and that you were interrupting something when it wasn't remotely the same time of day as it would be on Earth?) he’s about ready to take up needlepoint. He has to laugh at himself, looking into his drink, because Jim would say he already does, rubbing his neck and giving him that injured-puppy look. And then he glances back over because he can't help himself, dammit, because apparently he isn't a doctor, he’s a teenage girl. He misses that fierce concentration that is currently studying a Vulcan over a chessboard looking at him over a hand of cards or a pool table. He traces the edge of the terrible whiskey and coke; whatever bourbon is stocked is a travesty and he'll have to see about upping his stash the next Starbase they swing by.
When Jim is finished getting trounced he wanders over, sits down next to him and steals a drink from his glass, wincing. "Man. You have spoiled me for the good stuff."
"If you object to my drink, they have Bud, you know," he says, smirking a little, then softening a little as he takes his glass back, can taste Jim's mouth on the edge of the glass and damn, that should just be unsanitary, not...nice. "You'll get him next time, kid."
"I doubt it," he says, making a face as he goes to get a beer, comes back and sits down. "How come you're over here sulking?"
"I do not sulk," he says pointedly. "Just not in the mood for chess club, s'all." It comes out a little bitchier than he intends, and he frowns, hastily tries to come up with something to soften it. "I mean, you saw me in tactics. Or more accurately, you carried my ass through tactics."
"Yeah, but that's different. You're smarter than me, I would think you would kick ass at this."
"For one, me being smarter than you is total bullshit. And two, I think in straight lines both by inclination and by training. I see the board as it is right there. I can't see it three moves down the line, six moves, to lure someone where I want them." Luring is definitely nothing he is any good at. "Chess is something for someone who can sell snake oil, " he smiles crookedly. "And you could sell sand in a desert. ." He looks over at the bartender before he says something embarrassing. "Can I get another one?"
"Make that two," Jim says, eyes staying on Bones'.
"Quit looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out just how crazy I am.”
“Aww, c’mon,” Jim's eyes on his are earnest. “I've never for a moment thought you were crazy, Bones."
He snorts. "Lie. You absolutely thought I was a bubble off plumb when we met."
"Okay, point," Jim concedes. "But that was just a moment." He's quiet a minute. "Does it really bug you?"
"Does what...oh." He sighs. "Just feels like a really big adjustment, I guess. I mean, we were pretty much joined at the hip the last three years and now I find myself looking forward to meetings, for God's sake." He bites his tongue after saying it. That was quite possibly the most pathetic thing you've said to anybody since divorce proceedings were initiated. Well played, McCoy.
Jim tilts his head. "So you're saying you miss me." He clicks his tongue. "Well, jeez, Bones, you should have said something sooner. That's totally fixable. We'll just have date nights."
McCoy groans, rubs his hand over his face. "Date night? Little louder, Jim, I'm not sure the whole O-club heard you." The little flush is back on his cheeks, and the little quirk to his lips that he can't quite suppress.
Jim shrugs. "Whatever, won't be too different from what we did at Academy, right? First one's on you."
"Suppose I'll come up with something," he says, gives him a lopsided smile. "You have no one but yourself to blame if you're bored."
"Never bored with you," Jim says, finishing his drink.
"Lie, again. I can think of several dozen times I was ditched in the bars for a pretty piece of tail." McCoy makes a face at him. "But I'll try and keep you entertained."
Jim rolls his eyes. "Does NOT mean I was bored with you. Just means someone was putting out."
McCoy snorts. "Yeah, you are a one-man circus of debauchery."
"Never claimed to be otherwise, old man," Jim says, pats his cheek with a smile.
McCoy snaps at that hand, wonders at the flash of Jim's eyes as he does it. "Watch it, kid."
Jim raises an eyebrow and yeah, he's definitely spending too much time around Spock. "Or?"
"You have your next series 12 vaccinations coming up," McCoy says with a little smirk.
Jim dismisses that out-of-hand. "Whatever, you'll poke me when you get aggravated enough anyway."
McCoy reaches out at that, long fingers finding the spot on Jim’s ribs he’s learned in self defense, tries not to think about poking and Jim in any other context. Thinks he might never get tired of Jim’s laugh, how surprised it always sounds. "Self-fulfilling prophecy, Jim. Knew you'd be trouble the first time I laid eyes on you,” he murmurs, smiling down at his drink.
"Hey, I keep things interesting, you can't complain about that."
"Jim, how long have you known me? I can complain about anything," McCoy laughs, shaking his head. That earns a nudge from Jim.
"There you are, Bones. Good to see you."
"Yeah, well. I'll try not to be a cranky suspicious bastard so much. I make no promises though." Truth is, it feels too good to be cranky, the calm blue eyes smiling at him like his own personal sky instead of the black.
Jim smiles at him, the one that he thinks sometimes suggests that Jim knows more about what’s going on than he does. “C’mon,” he says, “pool table’s calling.”
"It is indeed. Can you hear it? James T. Kirk needs a spanking, it's saying."
Jim snaps his teeth at him in response, and he knows immediately his pool game’s gone to hell. He’s kind of okay with that.
*
He agonizes over what to do which seems especially ridiculous because it’s not like it’s a date date or anything, Jesus, McCoy , and anyway by the time the end of shift rolls around on any given day he finds it something of a miracle that he’s even vertical. He decides just to flash back to their Academy days, a pizza, synth but close enough, some beer, an ancient vid. If he’s showered and wearing his favorite pair of jeans it’s because they’re comfortable and not at all because Gaila told him once they provided an exceptional view of his ass.
It seems silly, in retrospect, that he’s even the least bit worried about how it goes down because it’s like it always is. A couple of drinks and a whole lot of tired and Jim ends up passed out on his shoulder. He can’t really stomach the thought of kicking him out, even if he knows he really should so he rouses him enough to get him back to the bed. He must be more tired than he realizes because he passes out, too, wakes up rather disgusted with himself, still dressed and in a rather disgusting pool of drool. The only sound in the room is the occasional half-chuff that passes for a Jim Kirk snore and he can’t help shifting a little, watching him sleep. It’s just that he looks so different like that, always has, the ease of sleep bringing out something gentler in that face, softer, suggests what he might have looked like if he hadn’t had to always wake up swinging.
He gets up finally, smoothing out his side of the bed, grabs his PADD and sets up on the couch, unsurprised when he hears Jim get up not long after. The kid’s always been a light sleeper, ready for action. He raises an eyebrow at the smirk on Jim’s face when he comes out, though. “Care to share?”
“Just that my streak goes unbroken,” he grins. “Spent the night in your bed, after all.” Jim ducks the pillow Leonard throws at him, blows him a kiss as the doors open. McCoy snarls, startling an ensign passing in the hallway but Jim knows him too well, winks as the door closes, his laughter lingering in the room. McCoy wonders just how badly he’s fucked, concludes totally, and wonders if he always was.
On reflection, he never had a chance.
*
Date two gets scheduled during their weekly pick-up game. The basketball court is maybe the one place where Leonard feels like he can physically hold his own against Jim, the solidness of a few extra years of living giving him a little more weight to throw around and whatever athletic gifts he’d been given all seem to center around the ability to nail a jumper.
Jim’s late, on this particular morning, blue shirts against yellow shirts and the blue shirts are wiping the floor, which is a nice change of pace. That is, of course, until Jim shows up, McCoy glancing over and almost tripping over himself because Jim’s wearing a suspiciously familiar Ole Miss shirt and what the hell, when had that disappeared? He ignores the wink from Kirk, the knowing smile from M’Benga, as if the fact that Jim’s shown up in his clothing confirms something. He channels that tangle of emotions instead in an aggressive drive down the lane, stuffs the ball in the basket but comes down hard on his tailbone, wincing.
“I’m too old for this shit,” he grumbles as Jim helps him up, that goddamn smile lighting up the whole room.
“Nah,” Jim says, shaking his head. “You’re just too tight. You and me, Rec A, 0900 tomorrow. Oh and Bones?” he hums. “Wear something loose and comfortable.” McCoy makes himself believe he’s imagining the snickers from around the court. Great.
*
“I hate you.” It’s 0915 in Rec A, and Leonard McCoy is currently engaged in some sort of ridiculous forward lunge, hands flailing upward, that an overly perky ensign tells him is a warrior pose. He is not sure what he expected when he showed up, but it’s not this.
“Oh come on, Bones,” Jim murmurs, makes whatever this is look goddamn effortless, the sonofabitch, “I told you you needed to loosen up. This will improve your flexibility.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Ensign McStretchy giggles and blushes, averting her eyes as Jim moves over and tries to guide McCoy into the proper form.
“I still hate you,” he grumbles, but there’s less heat in it now and he tells himself it has nothing at all to do with the gentle way in which Jim is touching him, that Jim is touching him at all.
Jim’s called to the bridge as they’re wrapping up and Leonard sighs as he goes, helps the perky one clean up the mats.
“You two are so beautiful together,” she bubbles, oblivious to his gaping.
It’s the start of a long day.
*
McCoy has to give Jim credit. He totally sticks to his promise and even if it’s just grabbing a coffee when they have a spare minute or stopping for a drink at night that inevitably leads to one or the other crashing in a room that’s not theirs, time is always made for connecting outside the confines of official duty. He’s able to keep his little flickers of jealousy at Spock in check until one particularly rough week, an away mission with casualties and enough going on with patients and paperwork and the whole mess of responsibilities involved with running a Sickbay, much less a ship, that they barely even see each other. He knows he’s intolerably cranky, more so than usual, feels a little bad about it, actually, but even he’s surprised by the force of his reaction when he hits the mess and sees Jim tucked in at a table with Spock, laughing at something the other man is saying and dammit. Dammit.
He catches Spock looking at him, that ridiculous eyebrow arching on that otherwise impassive face and he audibly growls, turning heel and leaving and he’s not sure what’s worse, that Spock busted him staring, or that he apparently has all the emotional maturity of a toddler refusing to share his toys.
He shouldn’t be surprised when Spock shows up in his office, but he is, jumps as he hears his name. “Dr. McCoy, I hope I am not interrupting.”
“Jesus, warn a man,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s fine. What do you need?”
“I could not help but notice your discontent in the mess earlier,” Spock says, generally unreadable face even more so. “If I have done something to offend you, I wanted to clear the air.”
He feels profoundly stupid at that, pushes out a breath. “No, Mr. Spock. It’s fine. It’s just been a long week.”
“I understand,” Spock nods, hands clasped behind his back. “Doctor, if I may. I have perceived some of your,” he pauses, “discomfort over the nature of the relationship between the Captain and myself. I do hope you know that I have the utmost respect for your partnership and that I have no interest in pursuing the same with Jim.”
Leonard blinks, trying to process all that. “I, uh. Thanks?”
Spock almost smiles. “I am almost envious, to be honest. The strength of your connection is one Nyota and I have not yet reached. It is most impressive. Regardless, I appreciate your understanding, Doctor,” he says and leaves, leaving McCoy openmouthed.
*
Jim shows up at his door later that night, nothing scheduled so much as needing a touchstone, which McCoy understands, always has, has been thinking ever since his encounter with Spock that it’s what they’ve always been for each other.
Working his way through his second bourbon he glances over at Jim, sprawled out in the chair across from him and barely half awake and even like that, McCoy thinks, without question the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
“Did you know Spock’s jealous of our connection?” he asks, lips quirking up.
Jim looks over, something softly amused in those impossibly blue eyes. “So he’s mentioned, yes.”
“He has, has he,” he murmurs, killing his drink. “And your yoga instructor thinks we’re doing it.”
“Don’t forget your basketball team,” Jim grins and McCoy glares, flips him off.
“I think the first time was that time we went bowling, at the Academy…”
“Mmm, the twins,” Jim’s grin widens.
“They weren’t twins,” Leonard grumbles, much to Jim’s delight.
“They were hot, and we totally could have had them,” Jim sighs. “A lot of date nights between then and now. Wined you and dined you and you still haven’t put out.”
He looks up at that, eyes finding Jim’s. “I’m a Southerner. Have to be sure of a man’s intentions, you know.” His tongue feels a little thick in his mouth. “Why do I suddenly feel like the slowest kid in class?”
“If I had told you that it was you I wanted, would you have believed me?” Jim asks, and there is something painfully vulnerable in the way he’s looking at McCoy, something that makes Leonard’s heart twist in his chest.
He shakes his head. “No. Probably not.”
“I knew I’d wear you down eventually.” Jim’s smiling now, a little more of that self-assurance returning as he stands and offers Leonard a hand. “C’mon, Bones. Let’s go to bed.”
It should be more of a revelation, he thinks, as they strip each other bare, as lips find lips and they stretch out in bed, but it isn’t. Then again, he knows Jim’s body as well as his own by now, better in some ways, for all the time he’s spent patching it up, making Jim whole again.
It’s not a heady first fuck, hard and fast and needy. It’s not slow and sweet and soft, either. He’s not even sure he can describe it, except that it feels like the perfect conclusion to a courting that apparently has stretched out over close to five years. It feels like coming home, like that one last piece falling into place, a puzzle solved he’s been working on so slowly and for so long that he sometimes forgets its even there.
He noses against Jim’s ear after, as close to happy as he thinks he’s maybe ever been. “You totally put Spock up to that, didn’t you.”
Jim just laughs, wraps around him and passes out and Leonard thinks again, as he watches him sleep, counts time by heartbeats and the rise and fall of Jim’s chest, that that sound is his favorite. That maybe he wasn’t ready for this before, but he is now. A time for everything. Their time, now.