fic | star trek: aos | a failure of make-outs

[mekosuchinae]

acroamatica said OK to Jim-is-probably-stoned kissing. (Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, obvs.) This is, uh, something?

Title: A Failure of Make-outs
Fandom: Star Trek: AOS
Rating: Pants, with intent to depants. Cussin'.
Excerpt: This was a betrayal Jim would not soon forget.

He found McCoy, where else but sickbay? Hunched over a terminal and cussing out the monitor like it had personally assaulted his mother or shot his dog or ... something. Jim had long ago come to terms with the fact that an angry McCoy was a sexually appealing McCoy and the implications this had for his mental health, but still, it was like an electric shock to the spine the way he held his broad shoulders (hard, square angles, like a man fixing for a fight) and how he curled his lip when he told the monitor to die a thousand fucking deaths.

This was going to be excellent.

Jim leaned heavily against the doorframe and set his hips to maximum fuck me. "Hey, doc," he drawled. "Is it too late to schedule a physical?"

"I'm busy, Jim," McCoy snapped. "I don't have time for your shit." He glared at Jim, establishing eye contact. Rookie mistake.

Jim grinned and deliberately stroked his own belly, fingers slipping briefly beneath his trousers. "But it's real important, doc," he said, pouting. "Regs say I gotta get a, uh, physical. Monthly. It's in the book. Think you can help me out?"

At this point the plan was to push off the doorframe and saunter over to McCoy with his hips rolling and, something else, too, he hadn't hammered out all the specifics yet, but his legs, those bastards, they melted out from under him. This was a betrayal Jim would not soon forget. He settled for collapsing against the wall in as sultry a fashion as possible.

McCoy looked him up, then down, then up again. Jim tried to look irresistible, which was like trying to breathe: a natural skill Jim had honed with years of long practice. McCoy narrowed his eyes - Jim squished the little thrill in his gut with neither mercy nor grace - and said, "How many times do I have to tell you to lay off the Crosilian cider?"

Jim stared at McCoy. After a moment he squinted.

"What?" Jim said.

"Do you have any idea how toxic that crap is?" McCoy demanded. "Of course you do. Sure as shit I've told you a hundred times. Dammit, Jim, it's not like I have spare livers floating around in storage."

"Uh, excuse me," said Jim. "You totally have something like thirty spare livers in the backroom, compatible with a variety of humanoid species. Doc. Never bullshit a bullshitter. Or the guy who, you know, who signs off. On requisition requests. Also, I'm not drunk." That was a rich accusation anyway, coming from the guy known to sneak whiskey into his coffee and whiskey into his whiskey.

"Oh, of course," McCoy said, rising up from the desk like a thundercloud over the horizon. "You're sober, which is why you are incapable of standing upright. Would this also explain why your pupils are blown to shit?"

Jesus, it was like he had hawk eyes. "Yup," Jim said. "That sounds about right. Sobriety is a crazy thing, what can I say."

And now McCoy was in front of Jim - like, he blinked! And there was McCoy, crazy eyebrows and broad shoulders and all - feeling him up but in the least sexy way imaginable. Jim tried to keep the good mood going, but this was the exact opposite of what he wanted, which was McCoy, naked, and Jim, naked, and he figured they could work on the details (upright, lying down, socks: yes/no) once these important requirements had been met.

McCoy forced Jim's eyelids wide, the better to blind him with the medical tricorder. "Are you high?" he said and he sounded a little too much like Jim's stepdad for comfort. This was not a train of thought Jim wished to pursue.

"High on love, maybe," Jim said.

"Don't be a smartass." McCoy scowled down at the tricorder, that muscle at the corner of his jaw ticking out a three-count.

Jim gravitated from the wall to McCoy, winding his arms around him in spite of McCoy's warning growl to quit it, Jim. "My ass is a goddamn genius," Jim told him, before caving to temptation and gravity and burying his face in McCoy's neck.

He tasted of salt and smelled of aftershave and antiseptic and perspiration, all things which drove Jim to press himself closer to McCoy, like maybe if he tried hard enough he could get inside him. Jim bit at McCoy's jawline, scratchy with stubble and tangy with the faint flavor of his sweat. His shoulder blades were tense under Jim's hands, so Jim did his best to knead the stress out of them, to make McCoy feel as good as Jim felt leaning against him with his head full of stars, but mostly he just clung to McCoy and tried not to fall on his face.

McCoy fumbled to shift his weight as Jim leaned further and further into him. The tricorder bit into Jim's back. "Jesus goddamn Christ, Jim," McCoy snapped off. "You smell like the back end of a horse."

Jim nuzzled McCoy's throat and discreetly palmed his ass, which was just the right mixture of muscle and flesh. "Oh, Bones," he sighed. "You sweet-talker. Take me now while the taking's good."

"Oh, yes," McCoy said, backing Jim into one of the chairs scattered across the room. "That's a brilliant idea. I'll just lay out a fresh sheet of paper on the nearest unoccupied cot and get to work."

"So that's a yes," Jim said. He grabbed McCoy by the hips and jerked him down, down into Jim's lap, which was nearly as wonderful as it was awkward, what with McCoy's shoulder hitting him in the throat and McCoy's knee jabbing him in the gut. Jim was Starfleet; he persevered: he hooked an arm around McCoy's neck and dragged his face down for a good old-fashioned Frenching.

McCoy jerked back, like, what, Jim's tongue wasn't good enough for him? "Jesus!" he said. "You taste like the back end of the horse."

Jim rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Tasted like mouth. He said, "How do you know these things?"

McCoy ignored him. "What the hell did you put in your mouth?"

Jim leered, as he was required to do so by the laws of the universe, and said in as close an impression of Spock's superior As You Know, Captain tone as he could manage, being as he was human and not a natural dick, "As the captain of this fine vessel, it is my duty and my privilege to offer encouragement and support to my crewmembers in the pursuit of their respective hobbies, provided they are not in violation of either Starfleet regulations or the laws which govern the United Federation of Planets."

McCoy glared at him like all the pieces were falling in place and also like Jim wasn't going to get any in the next five minutes, which was tragic on so many levels. If he'd known McCoy was going to be a bitch he would've stayed down in engineering. Jim did his level best to look so trashy McCoy would have no choice but to do him, which was pretty easy, considering McCoy's thigh was still pressed close to Jim's groin and Jim was kind of a trashy guy when you got down to it. He wasn't ashamed. These were enlightened times they lived in.

"Jim," McCoy was saying, as if from a distance. "Jim. Jim." He slapped him on the cheek, hard enough to annoy, but not hard enough to thrill; this seemed to Jim to be an accurate summation of the romantic portion of his evening. "Jim, I need you to answer a question," McCoy said, carefully enunciating. "Did you smoke Keenser's stash?"

Jim blinked, then clapped a hand to his heart and said, "Bones, I swear to you," and then the part of his brain that made the smart decisions went out for a snack and he finished with, "I bonged the shit out of it," and with that he pretty much killed his chances of getting McCoy out of his pants and into Jim's.

"I'm putting you in detox," McCoy said. He stepped back, completely exiting Jim's personal space as he went for a hypospray (natural enemy of James T. Kirks the galaxy over) and several cartridges of things that would no doubt just serve to bring Jim down.

Jim raised his hand. "Does this mean we aren't going to do it crazy-style on the floor?"

"No, Jim," McCoy said, in the tone of voice he usually busted out on the intellectually deficit and Spock. "We aren't going to do it crazy-style on the floor, on account of you are an idiot and might die, because you are an idiot."

Goddammit. "I should have stayed in engineering," Jim said, scowling.

"And then you'd be dead," McCoy said, loading the first cartridge into the hypospray and looming menacingly, yet somehow enticingly over Jim, his fingers spreading wide across the back of Jim's neck. "Bend over."

"Bones," Jim said, "I thought you'd never ask."

Author's note:

• I have no idea what Keenser's stash constitutes, but I guess it is pretty rough stuff, maybe? Keenser is hardcore. That's the real message of this story. (This story does not have a message.)