Fic: Challenges
Title: Challenges
Fandom: Star Trek (2009)
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Probably best to have seen the movie.
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Don't try your underhand seduction techniques on me, or I'll find something especially sharp to stick in you in the name of medical research."
AN: Comment!fic written for paxlux
McCoy is utterly unsurprised when Jim appears on one of the beds, looking like the end of a really bad day.
It's a Thursday, which seems as good a reason as any.
"Can't you go anywhere without someone taking offence to your face?"
"I think she liked me," Jim protests from between his interesting bruises.
"You're delusional."
"I'm enthusiastic."
"Delusional," McCoy corrects again. He's tempted to prod things, hard. But he settles for enough professionalism to dump an ice pack of the part of Jim's face that looks particularly offensive.
"Ow-"
"Exactly how many blows to the head did you have to sustain before you decided that 'getting your ass kicked' and 'flirting' were in any way similar?" Jim eyeballs him from under the hastily applied ice pack, which is now melting forlornly onto the torn edge of his pants.
"Honestly, you'd be surprised how often they're exactly the same thing."
"I'm sure I'd be surprised by many things in your life, not least your amazing ability to irritate half the galaxy, while sleeping with the other."
"Sometimes I do both," Jim points out helpfully. He's flirting with his eyebrows like it's breathing. No wonder he gets into so much damn trouble. Though Jim Kirk could get into trouble on his own in an empty room.
"Don't try your underhand seduction techniques on me, or I'll find something especially sharp to stick in you in the name of medical research."
Jim raises an eyebrow and leers, and god only knows where he learnt that particular expression. McCoy's pretty sure that he doesn't want to know, curiosity be damned.
"Why do I put up with you?"
"Because I'm saving the galaxy on a daily basis from unknown threats, and weird space anomalies?"
McCoy grunts to show that he's spectacularly unimpressed.
"Try again."
"You're a hard man to please," Jim complains.
"You don't believe in putting in the effort," McCoy tells him. Which at least gets him an affronted look.
"I'll make it up to you," Jim says instead, he lowers the ice pack and prods curiously at the edge of an eye. Before instantly regretting it.
McCoy snorts at his idiocy.
"You don't have anything I want."
Jim pulls a face that disputes the truth of that; McCoy makes a rude noise.
"Immune," he reminds him, only to have Jim's especially annoying smirk of challenge thrown back at him.
It promises a million things, every one of them intangible and irresistible and utterly maddening. McCoy keeps the long suffering expression of disapproval on his face through a combination of willpower and familiarity. Give Jim an inch and he'd take the road out from under you.
"Sharp things," he mutters threateningly.
"Maybe I'd enjoy the sharp things?"
McCoy rolls his eyes.
"Not where I'd stick them-" He never gets to finish. Jim's already proving he's all enthusiasm and recklessness in motion. All hands, like he can't think of any other way to kiss someone.
His mouth turns out to be every single thing it promises, and for an immensely irritating handful of seconds, there's nothing in his head but white noise.
Jim's smiling into his mouth, the shape of it half-way to real, when he drags his head sideways and glares at him.
"You're a charlatan, there's clearly nothing wrong with you. Now get out of here!"
Jim gives him a look, half surprise and half pout. Then he exhales loudly, messily, and hops off of the table.
He looks stiff all the way to the door, so with any luck he'll regret being a smartass later.
"And stop damaging yourself just to get my attention!" he shouts through the closing door, just loud enough for the milling group in the corridor to hear.
This round to him.
Barely.
Though it's worth the win, the boy's far too damnably smug already.
Fandom: Star Trek (2009)
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Probably best to have seen the movie.
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Don't try your underhand seduction techniques on me, or I'll find something especially sharp to stick in you in the name of medical research."
AN: Comment!fic written for paxlux
McCoy is utterly unsurprised when Jim appears on one of the beds, looking like the end of a really bad day.
It's a Thursday, which seems as good a reason as any.
"Can't you go anywhere without someone taking offence to your face?"
"I think she liked me," Jim protests from between his interesting bruises.
"You're delusional."
"I'm enthusiastic."
"Delusional," McCoy corrects again. He's tempted to prod things, hard. But he settles for enough professionalism to dump an ice pack of the part of Jim's face that looks particularly offensive.
"Ow-"
"Exactly how many blows to the head did you have to sustain before you decided that 'getting your ass kicked' and 'flirting' were in any way similar?" Jim eyeballs him from under the hastily applied ice pack, which is now melting forlornly onto the torn edge of his pants.
"Honestly, you'd be surprised how often they're exactly the same thing."
"I'm sure I'd be surprised by many things in your life, not least your amazing ability to irritate half the galaxy, while sleeping with the other."
"Sometimes I do both," Jim points out helpfully. He's flirting with his eyebrows like it's breathing. No wonder he gets into so much damn trouble. Though Jim Kirk could get into trouble on his own in an empty room.
"Don't try your underhand seduction techniques on me, or I'll find something especially sharp to stick in you in the name of medical research."
Jim raises an eyebrow and leers, and god only knows where he learnt that particular expression. McCoy's pretty sure that he doesn't want to know, curiosity be damned.
"Why do I put up with you?"
"Because I'm saving the galaxy on a daily basis from unknown threats, and weird space anomalies?"
McCoy grunts to show that he's spectacularly unimpressed.
"Try again."
"You're a hard man to please," Jim complains.
"You don't believe in putting in the effort," McCoy tells him. Which at least gets him an affronted look.
"I'll make it up to you," Jim says instead, he lowers the ice pack and prods curiously at the edge of an eye. Before instantly regretting it.
McCoy snorts at his idiocy.
"You don't have anything I want."
Jim pulls a face that disputes the truth of that; McCoy makes a rude noise.
"Immune," he reminds him, only to have Jim's especially annoying smirk of challenge thrown back at him.
It promises a million things, every one of them intangible and irresistible and utterly maddening. McCoy keeps the long suffering expression of disapproval on his face through a combination of willpower and familiarity. Give Jim an inch and he'd take the road out from under you.
"Sharp things," he mutters threateningly.
"Maybe I'd enjoy the sharp things?"
McCoy rolls his eyes.
"Not where I'd stick them-" He never gets to finish. Jim's already proving he's all enthusiasm and recklessness in motion. All hands, like he can't think of any other way to kiss someone.
His mouth turns out to be every single thing it promises, and for an immensely irritating handful of seconds, there's nothing in his head but white noise.
Jim's smiling into his mouth, the shape of it half-way to real, when he drags his head sideways and glares at him.
"You're a charlatan, there's clearly nothing wrong with you. Now get out of here!"
Jim gives him a look, half surprise and half pout. Then he exhales loudly, messily, and hops off of the table.
He looks stiff all the way to the door, so with any luck he'll regret being a smartass later.
"And stop damaging yourself just to get my attention!" he shouts through the closing door, just loud enough for the milling group in the corridor to hear.
This round to him.
Barely.
Though it's worth the win, the boy's far too damnably smug already.