[fanfic] star trek - postal service; AU; 6,353 words; bones/kirk; rated r
Title: Postal Service (1/1 + an extra scene)
Author: soloproject
Rating/Warnings: R for non-explicit sex
Summary: Bones is a vet and he is most certainly not ogling the mailman.
"I am not ogling the mailman," Bones growled and shoved the tray of newly sterilized operating instruments onto the table.
Pavel Chekov, his veterinarian assistant, lifted his head, lowered his clipboard and raised his eyebrows in a questioning glance. "Dr. McCoy, I was just asking about little Keenser here," he gestured to the little black Cairn terrier on the table, panting and looking up at them.
Chekov scratched the dog between the ears and Keenser lolled around on the examination table. McCoy rolled his eyes, because when he first met Keenser, the dog had snapped at him and growled; now he treated McCoy with a kind of "get on with it so Pavel can baby me and life will be good until my owner returns" air.
Chekov was a little younger than McCoy's usual hiring margin but he was brilliant and animals seemed to love him. He didn't flinch or make faces or balk when giving animals prophylactics and he wasn't vegetarian. McCoy could only deal with those one at a time.
McCoy-- not that he would openly gush about it-- loved animals but activists sometimes reached ridiculous levels of fanaticism that he wasn't comfortable with. Sulu, his receptionist, handed out Peta stickers to his clients sometimes. When he wasn't flirting with Chekov, anyway, McCoy thought, meanly. Vegetarians were silly. Sulu was studying to be a botanist and that made him practically a cannibal.
The intercom chirped. "Mr. Scott's here for Keenser," Sulu said.
"Get him out of here," McCoy said, waving Chekov away. He watched Keenser leap into Chekov's arms and burrow against his chest. Chekov left, babytalking the dog in Russian or something.
Leonard McCoy ran a private practice in a large residential area. It was convenient and quiet. Most of his clients were dog and cat owners; there was an occasional bird, which McCoy didn't particularly enjoy but put up with. Once in while a reptile or an amphibian came to him, which in his opinion were better than birds but he'd spent ten years before settling here working for zoos and aquariums and he was ready for a set-up with less people and less shit and less drama from tree-huggers and the like. He'd once considered going to med school but he didn't like people well enough to fix them and animals never talked back.
Plus, his clinic was walking distance from his house and being able to control his hours suited him just fine. It meant he could sleep in and not have to worry about how disgusting his sink was. He could drink as much whiskey and eat as much take-out as possible, which his ex-wife had never let him do when they were married. She had been an obsessive compulsive cleaning, organic and raw food eating, hippie-turned-activist which McCoy thought he would like because she was funny and gorgeous and smart but it wasn't until six months into their marriage that he realized he might have made a mistake and suddenly it wasn't okay to help birth some hybrid cows and then go out for a steak dinner.
The divorce was quick and dirty and by the end of it, McCoy had no fight left, just let her take the house and most of their stuff and their daughter and their cat. McCoy had taken the car, his books, quit his job and drove away from all of it.
It was fine, he justified. Being a bachelor was perfect. He called his daughter, Joanna, every other day but they weren't especially close. He remembered birthdays and holidays and had her over every summer but she was growing up fast and now preferred summer camp and friends over visiting her father in his quiet, suburban town. All-in-all, it suited him just fine.
It suited him, except when the rare request to help operate on a 300-pound tiger at the zoo came, which he wasn't opposed to, it was a straightforward enough spaying operation but it was at eight in the morning and he had bachelor's prerogative to grumble about it as much as he liked while he watched the coffee drip directly from the machine into his mug.
McCoy took his coffee to the front door and opened it to retrieve his newspaper which, annoyingly, the paper boy had left tossed halfway down the driveway, so he ambled over in nothing but his robe and his boxer shorts and bent to pick it up. "No tips for you, kid," he muttered.
"Mail," a voice said and McCoy spilled half his coffee all over his paper, startled. He straightened and turned, ready to give the person a piece of his mind but stopped short when he saw who it was.
McCoy had been living in the area long enough to at least be familiar with the face of his mailman but the man standing there wasn't him. His usual mailman-- Bob, he thought, vaguely-- had been a surly blond who never stood for any bullshit, which McCoy appreciated. He got a lot of mail, junk, bills, various subscriptions to this and that, veterinarian journals and Bob just handed it over or left them stacked neatly on the porch chair, whatever wouldn't fit into the mail box and that was that.
This one was blond too, tall and blue-eyed and lean, his thighs straining in his shorts, haloed by the sun from where McCoy was bent, looking up. But the look on his eyes wasn't the upright, no bullshit, business-only look Bob had; it was twinkly and mischievous and TROUBLE.
McCoy was suddenly aware of the way he looked: stubbled and barefoot and wearing a blue robe and boxers covered in flaming skulls and bones, a present from Joanna on his last birthday. Thank god, they weren't the Animal House ones. He'd look like he'd just rolled out of bed, even though he had and was holding a mug of coffee and a partially soaked newspaper.
"Um," McCoy managed, standing with as much dignity as he could muster, sans caffeine, at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. "You aren't my mailman," he managed to glare.
"I am, now," the blond said, cheerfully. He started digging around his satchel. "Bob quit. Something about becoming a drummer for a rock band."
"Oh," McCoy said and turned towards the house. The blond followed him.
"Hey, your mail! You're already here, you might as well take it inside."
"Leave it on the porch," McCoy grumbled and reached for the doorknob.
"I'm Jim Kirk!" The mailman called as McCoy slammed the door in his face.
So, no, McCoy doesn't start absently getting up at six in the morning, to watch his coffee drip for a half hour and then spy through blinds and watch as Jim pulls up in his little mail truck, hop out whistling and looking incredibly perky, before jogging up the path to the porch with the bigger packages. His heart started to pound every time Jim paused to try and peek through the windows to see if he's up or in and McCoy plastered himself against the front door and tried not to breathe.
McCoy started parking his car inside the garage instead of just leaving it in the driveway, even though he mostly walked to work. It's sheer paranoia, he knew, and utterly ridiculous. He began ordering equipment and had them sent to his house instead of to the clinic. Chekov and Sulu stared when he lugged boxes of animal medicine and needles and other paraphernalia while loudly complaining about his back. It, naturally, led to mumbling things like "I'm not ogling the mailman" while Keenser slobbered all over Chekov. That is currently how Leonard H. McCoy's life went.
Two weeks go by and finally, Chekov deigned to intercept his mail order forms and have the equipment sent to the clinic. McCoy can't think of a reason that doesn't end and begin with "I like watching my mailman bend over in his shorts to heft boxes from his truck and bring it to my door," so he returned to peeking through the blinds like a stalker, inadvertently paying more attention to his neighbors as well.
If neighborly conduct was a college course, McCoy would probably fail it or he'd pass but only barely. He's not impolite and he can endure an hour of being stopped in a grocery store to be told the story of how Retired Admiral Pike chased kids off his yard or Christine Chapel, RN, across the street broke her ankle while on duty and he should pay her a visit, "to cheer the poor girl up," if he has to.
He's not especially chummy with the people who live on either side of him, just the occasional "Hey, Jean-Luc," "Hey, Dr. McCoy," to the prematurely bald teenager who he paid to mow his lawn sometimes. The Picards-Next-Door have a brown American Bulldog named Worf who is one of the most taciturn animals he's ever had the pleasure of vaccinating.
On the opposite side of his has lives a man with a first name he can't pronounce but his mailbox is blue and the word SPOCK is painted on the side, in silver sans-serif. McCoy doesn't know what nationality that makes him but it is something he can pronounce, at least. Spock is some kind of scientist or academic and the few times McCoy has seen him, he seemed utterly incapable of smiling. Or any other type of normal human expression--
--unless it's Kirk at his door and then Spock seemed sort of-- lighter, maybe, at least, not so placid. Kirk chatted with him and waved at him when he left and Spock would raise his hand to return the favor, a strange gesture with his fingers positioned peculiarly.
McCoy has never bothered to notice before but he's gotten braver with his spying and taken to watching how Kirk goes up to other houses with their mail. According to Janice Rand, fluffy Siamese cat owner, Jim was "adorable" and "so nice" and "doesn't forget birthdays" like he'd been working this beat for six years and not six months. And then Janice tells him that she'd invited him over for tea and "Jimmy is so funny and charming," and McCoy accidentally stabbed the cat with a needle when she sighed. Charlie yowled and bit his hand. Janice glared at him while she tried to calm her cat down.
"Sorry," McCoy said but gave up when Charlie refused to be touched any more. He called Chekov to finish the job and went to his office to busy himself with paperwork until Sulu poked his head in to tell him he was taking off.
After that, McCoy focused his energy on watching Kirk talk to people while delivering the mail. It seemed like his street's just conveniently awake when Kirk's mail truck drove up in the morning and that everyone is home when Kirk does special deliveries in the afternoon. He flirted with the ladies, listened patiently to Retired Admiral Pike and did magic tricks for the kid with coins and they ooh and aah as if Jim the Mailman is Chriss Angel: Mind Freak. All Kirk needed was a speaker to play music and hand out ice cream. It led to dirty thoughts of Kirk and a cherry Popsicle and McCoy had to go take a cold shower and contemplate his place in the universe.
In fact, the only person who is pointedly never home or actively avoiding Jim Kirk and his mail runs is McCoy, except he is usually home, peering through his blinds like a serial killer. And then one day, as he peered through the blinds, Kirk strode up the walk with his mail, paused for a split second and then rang the doorbell.
McCoy froze and then panicked for thirty seconds before checking the way he looked. It was his day-off and he was wearing jeans and a ridiculous t-shirt that he'd absently thrown on that said, "Have you hugged a veterinarian today?" He was unshaven.
It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, not a fourteen-year old girl. McCoy squished his face up in an appropriate scowl and opened the door.
"Yeah?" He growled and Kirk brightened a fraction and then dropped his gaze from McCoy's face to his t-shirt and his grin grew bigger. McCoy pointedly ignored it. "What do you want?"
"Hi," Kirk said, looking back up at his face. "The Homeowners' Association is having a get together, just a little thing, over at the county club."
"Not interested," McCoy said and started to shut the door. Kirk lifted a hand to stop him.
"Sorry, Dr. McCoy, I have orders to give the invite to you personally," he held up a postcard-style invite with "Promote Community Unity!" emblazoned on it in neon pink letters and a time and date in smaller, neon green print.
"I really don't know anyone too well here. I just fix their pets," McCoy admitted but he took the card and then reached for the stack of bills in Kirk's other hand. Their fingers brushed and Kirk's eyebrows raised. And then, possibly to fray McCoy's nerves even more, he leaned in.
"So, I know you've been watching me through your blinds, Dr. McCoy," Kirk drawled and McCoy was mortified for a moment but recovered fast. Divorce taught you some useful things, righteous indignation was one of them. "As for not knowing people, you know me. I'll be there," he smiled and dear god, was he flirting? The mailman was flirting with him.
"Look, I see you chatting with the other neighbors and whatever but I don't have the time to do any of that with you. I've better things to do," McCoy scowled at him.
"Really," Jim said, unconvinced. "Come to the community get together, Bones. Because I hear you pretty much work and then come home. It won't kill you to say hello now and again."
"Yeah, okay. Hello," McCoy said. "And goodbye." He shut the door and breathed against it for a second and then looked down at his crotch. Goddamit, he was hard and sweating under his arms and everything was stupid and insane.
Stupid and insane, McCoy thought, as he stood in the multi-purpose hall of the country club, drinking disgusting fruit punch and patiently waiting for Riker to get through his stupid joke so he could make a quick escape. Several people raised an eyebrow or two when he'd entered and if he scanned the room for Kirk, he told himself it was only because he was going to avoid him.
He surprised himself by being able to remember the names of most people, many of them clients, even though he still equated them with their pets. Tonia Barrows, teacup chihuahua. Wesley Crusher of the six white rats. Montgomery Scott was there, Keenser's owner, of course, with the strong Scottish brogue and a way with the ladies. Probably using the poor dog to pick them up too, McCoy thought.
"Jim!" Someone said and a group of people converged on the blond, blue-eyed mailman, who grinned and shook hands. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a mustard colored v-necked sweater that was doing things to McCoy's stomach that he wanted to vehemently deny. And then he noticed the skinny, tall, pale man with the funny ears standing next to him, wearing a blue button down and scowled into his drink.
"Dr. Spock, it's rare that we see you," Janice Rand said, the mastermind of this entire affair. "I hope you filled out your raffle tickets and dropped them into box." She wrote Kirk's name on a neon pink sticker and then very obviously smoothed it out on his chest, lingering more than necessary, in McCoy's opinion.
Spock nodded blandly. "It is illogical to leave things to chance but in the interest of social connectivity, I have done so," he told her. Janice looked confused but Kirk slung an arm around Spock's shoulders and flashed her a charming grin. "In other words, we could get lucky tonight." He steered Spock away from Janice and headed toward the bar.
McCoy eyed them from the corner, watched as Kirk teased Spock and got him a drink. Spock looked impassive but he took the drink and it was obvious enough that he was listening to Kirk with interest. Kirk's brand of "social connectivity", however, seemed to mean that he was welcome to stand in Spock's personal space and pepper him with conversation.
"Bones!" Kirk said and waved. He tugged Spock towards him and McCoy looked around frantically for an escape, a failed attempt when Jim came up to him and pushed Spock between them.
"Bones, this is Spock. You're neighbors," Kirk said, conversationally, as if McCoy was stupid and didn't know.
"We are acquainted," Spock said.
McCoy shrugged. "I know who he is. Some kind of scientist, are you?"
"Theoretical physics," Spock said. Kirk rolled his eyes and nudged him with an elbow. "I have a cat," Spock added, after a pause so long and pregnant that McCoy thought the man was either fucking with him or retarded.
"Anyway, Bones, I'm surprised you're here," Kirk finally said, grinning widely at him.
"Why? You just handed out a thousand stupid invitations, figured your hard work shouldn't go to waste," McCoy said, raising his glass to his lips but discovered it was empty and wasn't that just frustrating. He wanted something stronger, almost desperately so.
"Let me refresh your drink and you relax," Kirk soothed and snatched the red plastic cup from McCoy's. "Spock, you too?" He offered.
Spock shook his head. "This will be sufficient for now," he indicated his half-full cup. "Although I would possibly enjoy some of those 'mini-hotdogs'."
If McCoy wasn't so fond of Desperate Housewives, he would probably be shocked beyond belief that a harmless country club shmoozing event would suddenly descend into a house party to out-house party every house party he'd ever house partied in.
The nice blond nurse lady, Christine Chapel was committing murder on the dance floor with Sulu and there were a lot of middle-aged couples drinking more than necessary and wriggling around in dances that would have made McCoy cringe if he wasn't in his mid-thirties and would not have done better than any of them. Kirk danced too but he begged off when the music turned into Latin dance and looked absolutely horrified when one of Harry Mudd's dance instructor women threw her leg up his shoulder.
The babysitting industry of Enterprise Lane was probably booming tonight, McCoy thought, morosely looking at the bottom of his cup. He opened his mouth to ask for another beer when Kirk caught his elbow, still looking disgustingly sober and so pretty. If only McCoy could only lean forward and kiss him or something
"I can't believe you two," Kirk said, shaking his head. McCoy swayed a little and then caught himself on Spock's shoulder. Spock stood very still but he was flushed and he stared at his cup as if it offended him.
"I can't believe how drunk I am," McCoy muttered. Kirk stifled a grin.
"I know...and it's only 9:45 PM," Kirk said, sympathetically.
"I believe I will go home now," Spock said, stiffly. He took a step and then went down hard.
In the end, Kirk and McCoy half-carried Spock to his house and McCoy burst into laughter when Kirk put his thumb on the scanner by the door to open it. The interior of Spock's house was white and silver and rather spartan. There was a laptop and a pile of books on the kitchen table, rigidly arranged by book size, like an unfinished pyramid. Kirk put Spock on the couch, a ridiculous white leather confection and McCoy had to look away when Kirk pulled Spock's shoes off.
"Okay, Bones, now to get you home," Kirk said and nudged McCoy towards the door.
"I'm okay, I'm fine," McCoy protested and swayed down the front steps of Spock's house. "It's next door," he said.
"I know but I don't want you to trip or hit your head," Kirk grabbed his shoulders to support him. "Or be attacked by hostile squirrels, Bones."
"Squirrels?" McCoy said and then threw up on Kirk.
McCoy's head pounded the next day but the clinic was closed and he wasn't expecting any deliveries. So he got up, drank two glasses of water from the bathroom sink, took a piss and crawled back into bed.
The next day, he was at work and in a foul mood because Sulu and Chekov kept shooting worried looks at him until he snapped and made Sulu do all his paperwork while he mocked brussel sprouts and salads and botany and fencing. Sulu just rolled his eyes and then viciously ate a watercress sandwich in front of him.
McCoy was busy that entire week, so busy in fact, that he hardly noticed that his mail still came but he didn't see Kirk at all. He had to drive half a day for a veterinarian conference in the big city that took the whole weekend and it was just about four in the morning when he pulled into his driveway, rubbed his face and then got out, turning just in time to see Jim Kirk sneaking out of Spock's house, wearing jeans and naked from the waist up and carrying his shoes. It was dark out but he looked appropriately disheveled and McCoy's mind, tired and decaffeinated, went completely south.
Four hours later, the mail truck came by and Kirk was there, smiling but looking tired around the edges. McCoy watched him talk to the neighbors and wave away their sympathy before he made his way to McCoy's.
McCoy acted fast and reached into his cupboard for a clean mug that he filled and brought to the door. "Here," he said, handing it over. Kirk raised an eyebrow.
"Just drink it. You look shitty," McCoy grumbled and took his mail, tossing it onto the hall table. He turned to look at Kirk who stared at the side of the mug with a bemused expression.
"What?" McCoy frowned. Kirk lifted the mug and turned it around to face McCoy.
Veterinarians do it with animals, it said.
"Oh, for the love of god!" McCoy said, when Kirk finally laughed. He pushed Kirk out the door. "Get back to work!"
It was ten minutes before he realized that Kirk had taken the mug with him.
"I'm sorry I threw up on you," McCoy said, two days later when Kirk came with a package for him, some new vet books he'd gotten from Amazon.com.
"That's alright," Kirk said, handing him the box. "You were just marking your territory."
"Get out," McCoy said, pointing at the mail truck. "And I want my mug back!"
"Here's your mug," Kirk said, handing it to him and then putting a stack of bills on top of it. "And here are your bills."
"Thank you ever so much," McCoy drawled and then offered him a cookie from the open bag of Milanos he was eating for breakfast.
Kirk took one. "Dog biscuit?" He smirked at McCoy and stuffed it into his mouth.
McCoy smiled, despite himself. "It wouldn't be completely out of character."
The thing is, McCoy has no idea how he went from "married with child" to "stalking the mailman" to "flirting with said mailman with possible gay crisis" but while eating a frozen dinner that night, he had an epiphany while watching "Legally Blonde," the part where the hairdresser meets the UPS guy and injures him doing the bend and snap when he realizes that he's the hairdresser. He should be doing the bend and snap here, be proactive about the whole thing and just tell Kirk, "look, I don't know how you did it but I keep dreaming about you and waking up soaked."
As far as lines go, that would go in his top ten. He's a small town vet-- well, a large suburban residential area vet-- and he'd been lonely a while, it just hadn't occurred to him. The worst that could happen is that Kirk will hate him and then change his route and possibly cause the entire neighborhood to shun him and run him out of business. It's going to have to be a chance he is willing to take.
I need advice, McCoy thought and called his daughter.
"Hi, daddy," Joanna said when she picked up.
"Hi, honey," McCoy said, gruff and fond. "I have a strange question for you."
"Okay," she said. "Mom says hi," she added.
"No, she doesn't," McCoy shot back.
"Yeah, you're right," Joanna said.
"Do you have any gay friends, Jo?" McCoy said, ripping the proverbial band-aid off the wound of issue.
A pause and then, "Why, daddy, are you gay?"
McCoy cursed his daughter's intuition. "For god's sake, Jo, I hope your mother's not there to hear you say that."
"Ooh, you are!" There are sounds of scrambling around, like Joanna is trying to find a more comfortable position.
McCoy flushed. This wasn't how he imagined this conversation would go.
"Who's the boy, daddy? Oh my god, how weird is this? Am I going to have another dad? Because Jeremy's mom divorced his dad to live with her girlfriend and now he gets two of everything because they hate each other and are trying to out-do the other one for his love. Not that I don't love you, daddy," Joanna whispered into the phone. "Because you're my favorite."
For a second, McCoy can't talk and settled on listening to his daughter babble, while missing her fiercely. She never used to talk this much. It's somewhat comforting.
"I don't know, doll," he finally said, as he sank onto his couch. "I'm thinking about it. Love you too, bye," and hung up, none the wiser.
"So, how are you and Sulu getting along?" McCoy asked at work, trying to sound casual.
Chekov looked up from taking inventory and studied him for a moment. "Is this about the mailman?" He asked.
"You're fired!" McCoy growled at him and went to lock himself in the office, knowing it wouldn't take.
Sulu cleared his throat when he came in the next day. "Your 10 o'clock is here and Pavel and I are doing alright. Do you want more details?"
"You're also fired," McCoy told him. Sulu just laughed and took his travel mug to pour him more coffee.
The straw that broke the camel's back took place at the grocery store. Bones was trying to decide which new roast to try when a cart bumped his and he looked up.
Spock looked at him, stoically. Out of sheer curiosity, Bones looked into his cart. There was a bundle of celery, a package of fake bacon, a bottle of incongruous looking chocolate syrup and-- Bones scowled-- a biggest available box of jumbo-sized condoms.
"Hot date tonight?" Bones said, eyebrow raised.
"I don't like you," Spock informed him, in the same tone one might use while ordering at McDonald's or something.
"Hey, you look here, you pointy-eared bastard," Bones dropped the coffee into his cart and jabbed his finger toward Spock.
"But Jim does," Spock interrupted him, still perfectly stoic. "While I do not normally stoop low enough to manipulate the variants of my friends' relationships to procure the desired outcome, I will freely admit that I am ultimately not equipped to do so."
Bones gaped at him, trying to parse what the man was saying.
"I refuse to be the middleman," Spock said. "Please date Jim." A pause. "Before I kill him," he added and then turned to consider the coffee for a moment. "Also, what is your recommendation?"
Bones went silent, chewing at his bottom lip. "The Kona is delicious."
"Fascinating," Spock said and took two bags of different roasts.
"Coward," McCoy muttered as soon as he got home from the grocery store and went to turn on his laptop and get online. "Dirty, all time low," he berated himself, googling Gay Sex.
"Pervert," he called himself, ordering a bottle of lube that was probably too big and too many condoms, some of which he was sure were unnaturally colored or scented. "Wishful thinker."
McCoy knew that he should probably work his way up to the actual sex but to be honest, he was at a point of no return. If Kirk was really as interested as Spock shared, McCoy didn't want to waste any more time.
The order came two days later, long enough that McCoy got caught up at work and forgotten about it. It still hadn't dawned on him until he swung open the door and saw Jim standing there, with the little box and a rueful expression on his face.
"Damnit, Jim," McCoy said but actually addressing the box with the logo with growing horror. Onestopcondomshop.com it declared proudly and Kirk was bright red and stammered.
"Hey, look, I," Kirk made no actual move to hand the box over. "I have to apologize if I might have misled you or something, so I am just going to come out with it. I know you're straight and you're a good man, even though you're an ornery bastard sometimes..."
"Ornery bastard?" McCoy said, looking up and down between Kirk's face and the box and the way Kirk was crushing it with one hand.
"Hell, you are! But I know you used to be married and you have a daughter and--"
"Who told you that?" McCoy scowled but already moving right into Kirk's space.
"And you shouldn't listen to anything Spock says," Kirk tried but McCoy had had enough. He pulled Kirk into the house and closed the door, knocking the box onto the floor in the process and pushing him against the door.
It's been a while since Leonard H. McCoy has kissed anyone because he rarely dated after his divorce but it was just like riding a bike. Kirk's mouth was hot and opened for him and he made grateful, relieved noises and dug his fingers into McCoy's back.
"Oh, thank god," Kirk gasped when McCoy let go and bent to pick up the box.
"I got this for you," McCoy informed Kirk and Kirk's eyes sort of glazed over.
"You're a jerk," he told McCoy. "I got so much crap at the office when we got that." And then he pushed McCoy into the living room and shoved him onto the couch and yanked his jeans open. "Whoa," Kirk said, looking down at the flaming skull and bones pattern peeking out from inside his jeans.
"So, I, uh, guessed why you called me 'Bones,'" McCoy said, clearing his throat.
"That is such a fucking turn-on," Jim said and gave him the best blow job of his life.
After he was spent, McCoy brought Jim off and had the pleasure of seeing him naked too, because Jim was adamant about not ruining his uniform. "I have half a shift left!" He yelped when McCoy bit his shoulder and then shuddered and came.
"Oh god, I want to pass out," Kirk said, bonelessly slumping on top of McCoy on the couch.
"I could always kick you out," McCoy rasped. "Walk of shame and all."
"Walk of shame," Kirk said, groaning into his hands. "My truck is parked outside and hasn't moved for at least a half hour. They're going to talk."
"Let them talk," McCoy pulled him in for another kiss. Kirk obliged and then with the obvious force of sheer will, pulled away.
"I'll come by after work. You better be here." Kirk said, getting back into his uniform with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced into suicide. He paused in the middle of tucking his shirt in. "Oh god, Spock has a package from work and I have to bring it to him, that smug son of a bitch."
"Have fun," McCoy laughed.
Kirk came straight from work, still in his uniform, significantly rumpled. He looked incredible, McCoy thought, as he peeled Kirk out of it. The whole shorts thing was turning into some kind of Pavlovian thing for him. Kirk kissed all those thoughts out of him and then brought him off with his mouth until he was gasping on the bed and tugging on Kirk's hair. He tried to return the favor but Kirk started to rut against his leg and McCoy was too languid to do anything but kiss him and let him come all over his stomach.
They lay there for a while, breathing and touching. "Who told you I had a daughter?" McCoy asked, as he nuzzled Kirk's neck.
"Are we doing to talk about this now?" Kirk said, pulling McCoy on top of him.
"Maybe not," McCoy said, grunting when Kirk stroked him back into hardness and then reached over for a condom and the lube.
"This is a really big bottle," Kirk said, squeezing some out onto his fingers.
"I got carried away," McCoy admitted and then watched in fascination when Kirk reached down and slid his fingers inside himself, one and then two and McCoy realized what was going on.
"Hey, I want to do that!" McCoy exclaimed and reached for the lube.
"Do it then," Kirk said and then skidded back on the bed a little when McCoy replaced his fingers with his own. "Oh god, Bones, Bones," he muttered, hanging onto McCoy's shoulders. "Fuck me now," Kirk groaned and McCoy took a moment to slide the condom on himself and ease inside him.
He was halfway in when he looked down at Kirk and frowned. "Are you sure this isn't a federal offense or something?" McCoy asked. Kirk glared at him and shifted his hips.
"That's opening other people's mail," Kirk told him, tilting for a better angle. McCoy slid in all the way and panted for a second against Kirk's forehead.
"There's nothing in the book about opening the mailman, though," Kirk said, a little snidely and then McCoy laughed and moved in him slow until Kirk was biting his mouth and then he fucked him until they both came, laughing and kissing.
Okay, McCoy thought, carding his fingers through Kirk's hair while he slept. The neighborhood was going to be even more nosy, gossipy and unbearable after this but to hell with that.
He made a mental note to send coffee to Spock, just to say thanks for being a good neighbor.
EXTRA SCENE!
They'd been seeing each other for a few weeks, the first of which was a little unbearable. To McCoy it almost seemed like people were purposely making their pets sick or lying about symptoms just to visit his clinic and pry into his private life.
"He's sneezing," Janice insisted, holding a disgusted looking Charlie in her arms.
Tonia Barrows needed help getting her chihuahua from where it was wedged inside a vase.
"I think he's melting in the sun," Jean-Luc told him, eyeing as Worf slumped on the examination table.
"They won't do tricks!" Little Geordi LaForge wailed while his mother hovered in the corner and watched McCoy with dark eyes. McCoy sighed and fake-examined Geordi's hamsters until the boy was satisfied.
A tall, willowy woman burst into the clinic one day, with an Louis Vuitton carrying case holding a very big, naked cat, one of those Egyptian things.
"This is Ms. Uhura," Chekov said, leading her into the examination room. "She says her cat is in heat."
McCoy looked at the cat-- The Squire of Gothos, Uhura briskly informed him-- and checked. "This cat is spayed," he told her.
Uhura just gave him a hard look. "What are your designs on James Tiberius Kirk?" She said, crossing her legs.
McCoy jerked in surprise, "Wait a second, is this an interrogation? Who are you?"
Uhura raised one thin eyebrow. She was incredible looking, skin like chocolate, dark eyes, hair like a curtain. He could see her swathed in linen on a chaise, The Squire of Gothos curled around her. "A friend of Jim's. I return home to find out that he is suddenly in a relationship with a doctor of animals, who happens to be my neighbor."
"Neighbor?"
Uhura gave him another once-over and then stared at him for ten minutes without wavering. McCoy crossed his arms and glared back.
"I suppose you will do," she surmised, gathered the cat-- The Squire of Gothos, sorry-- and left.
"Thank you so much," McCoy said, dryly, to the swinging door of the examination room.
Thankfully, she is the last of his appointments and he reeled from the fact that she paid his fee to see him in his place of work and stare him down. McCoy swung by the diner to get some dinner and wait for Kirk at home.
"Hey, Bones," Kirk said, coming in and kissing him.
"French fries?" McCoy offered, even though the fries are soggy.
"Mm," Kirk said, taking them and stuffing his mouth.
"Who is Uhura and why was she interrogating me at work?" McCoy asked and watched Kirk blow a mouthful of fries over the kitchen counter.
"What? Uhura?" Kirk gasped and wiped his mouth.
McCoy frowned at him and told him the story. Kirk listened and then scowled. "They are such meddlers," he complained, opening the fridge for a beer.
"I don't have parents," Kirk explained. "Spock, Uhura and I, we grew up together and they're both...well, you know. Assertive. Well-off. They looked out for me. Still do."
McCoy took a sip of his beer. "And? Why is she asking around about me?"
Kirk shrugged. "She's like that. She's a world-renowned negotiator. She speaks a lot of languages. Don't worry, if she did the stare, she likes you. You passed," he looked pleased. "If she hated you, there would be more questions."
"She said she was my neighbor," McCoy said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
Kirk nodded, "She is. She and Spock are married."
It was McCoy's turn to spew bread and cheese across the table. Kirk reached over to flick lettuce from his shoulder.
"M-married?! That...that hobgoblin is married? How come I've never seen her before!?"
"You never really paid attention before," Kirk pointed out.
"I saw you sneaking out of his house, half-naked at 4 AM. I thought you and he were...you know," McCoy spluttered.
Kirk stared at him blankly and then his face shifted. "Oh. Oh, that. Spock was returning the favor. I got drunk, he came to get me, I slept on his couch. But I had to get ready for work and Uhura was coming home that day and I didn't want her to find me hungover on their couch." He winced a little. "Actually, I don't ever want to be at their house when they're together."
McCoy remembered the chocolate syrup and the condoms in Spock's cart and mentally struck out the celery and fake bacon. "Okay, don't tell me anymore. I get it. Jesus, he's married."
"I know," Kirk looked at him mournfully. "That Uhura is a workout, from what I hear. And I have. Heard. You know." He mimes a bumping motion with his hands.
"Oh my god," McCoy chided. "I'm eating."
They finished their meal in relative silence until McCoy couldn't stand it anymore.
"Your middle name is Tiberius?" He said, bursting into laughter.
"Cut it out!" Kirk whined and went around the kitchen counter to make him shut up.
.
Author: soloproject
Rating/Warnings: R for non-explicit sex
Summary: Bones is a vet and he is most certainly not ogling the mailman.
"I am not ogling the mailman," Bones growled and shoved the tray of newly sterilized operating instruments onto the table.
Pavel Chekov, his veterinarian assistant, lifted his head, lowered his clipboard and raised his eyebrows in a questioning glance. "Dr. McCoy, I was just asking about little Keenser here," he gestured to the little black Cairn terrier on the table, panting and looking up at them.
Chekov scratched the dog between the ears and Keenser lolled around on the examination table. McCoy rolled his eyes, because when he first met Keenser, the dog had snapped at him and growled; now he treated McCoy with a kind of "get on with it so Pavel can baby me and life will be good until my owner returns" air.
Chekov was a little younger than McCoy's usual hiring margin but he was brilliant and animals seemed to love him. He didn't flinch or make faces or balk when giving animals prophylactics and he wasn't vegetarian. McCoy could only deal with those one at a time.
McCoy-- not that he would openly gush about it-- loved animals but activists sometimes reached ridiculous levels of fanaticism that he wasn't comfortable with. Sulu, his receptionist, handed out Peta stickers to his clients sometimes. When he wasn't flirting with Chekov, anyway, McCoy thought, meanly. Vegetarians were silly. Sulu was studying to be a botanist and that made him practically a cannibal.
The intercom chirped. "Mr. Scott's here for Keenser," Sulu said.
"Get him out of here," McCoy said, waving Chekov away. He watched Keenser leap into Chekov's arms and burrow against his chest. Chekov left, babytalking the dog in Russian or something.
Leonard McCoy ran a private practice in a large residential area. It was convenient and quiet. Most of his clients were dog and cat owners; there was an occasional bird, which McCoy didn't particularly enjoy but put up with. Once in while a reptile or an amphibian came to him, which in his opinion were better than birds but he'd spent ten years before settling here working for zoos and aquariums and he was ready for a set-up with less people and less shit and less drama from tree-huggers and the like. He'd once considered going to med school but he didn't like people well enough to fix them and animals never talked back.
Plus, his clinic was walking distance from his house and being able to control his hours suited him just fine. It meant he could sleep in and not have to worry about how disgusting his sink was. He could drink as much whiskey and eat as much take-out as possible, which his ex-wife had never let him do when they were married. She had been an obsessive compulsive cleaning, organic and raw food eating, hippie-turned-activist which McCoy thought he would like because she was funny and gorgeous and smart but it wasn't until six months into their marriage that he realized he might have made a mistake and suddenly it wasn't okay to help birth some hybrid cows and then go out for a steak dinner.
The divorce was quick and dirty and by the end of it, McCoy had no fight left, just let her take the house and most of their stuff and their daughter and their cat. McCoy had taken the car, his books, quit his job and drove away from all of it.
It was fine, he justified. Being a bachelor was perfect. He called his daughter, Joanna, every other day but they weren't especially close. He remembered birthdays and holidays and had her over every summer but she was growing up fast and now preferred summer camp and friends over visiting her father in his quiet, suburban town. All-in-all, it suited him just fine.
It suited him, except when the rare request to help operate on a 300-pound tiger at the zoo came, which he wasn't opposed to, it was a straightforward enough spaying operation but it was at eight in the morning and he had bachelor's prerogative to grumble about it as much as he liked while he watched the coffee drip directly from the machine into his mug.
McCoy took his coffee to the front door and opened it to retrieve his newspaper which, annoyingly, the paper boy had left tossed halfway down the driveway, so he ambled over in nothing but his robe and his boxer shorts and bent to pick it up. "No tips for you, kid," he muttered.
"Mail," a voice said and McCoy spilled half his coffee all over his paper, startled. He straightened and turned, ready to give the person a piece of his mind but stopped short when he saw who it was.
McCoy had been living in the area long enough to at least be familiar with the face of his mailman but the man standing there wasn't him. His usual mailman-- Bob, he thought, vaguely-- had been a surly blond who never stood for any bullshit, which McCoy appreciated. He got a lot of mail, junk, bills, various subscriptions to this and that, veterinarian journals and Bob just handed it over or left them stacked neatly on the porch chair, whatever wouldn't fit into the mail box and that was that.
This one was blond too, tall and blue-eyed and lean, his thighs straining in his shorts, haloed by the sun from where McCoy was bent, looking up. But the look on his eyes wasn't the upright, no bullshit, business-only look Bob had; it was twinkly and mischievous and TROUBLE.
McCoy was suddenly aware of the way he looked: stubbled and barefoot and wearing a blue robe and boxers covered in flaming skulls and bones, a present from Joanna on his last birthday. Thank god, they weren't the Animal House ones. He'd look like he'd just rolled out of bed, even though he had and was holding a mug of coffee and a partially soaked newspaper.
"Um," McCoy managed, standing with as much dignity as he could muster, sans caffeine, at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. "You aren't my mailman," he managed to glare.
"I am, now," the blond said, cheerfully. He started digging around his satchel. "Bob quit. Something about becoming a drummer for a rock band."
"Oh," McCoy said and turned towards the house. The blond followed him.
"Hey, your mail! You're already here, you might as well take it inside."
"Leave it on the porch," McCoy grumbled and reached for the doorknob.
"I'm Jim Kirk!" The mailman called as McCoy slammed the door in his face.
So, no, McCoy doesn't start absently getting up at six in the morning, to watch his coffee drip for a half hour and then spy through blinds and watch as Jim pulls up in his little mail truck, hop out whistling and looking incredibly perky, before jogging up the path to the porch with the bigger packages. His heart started to pound every time Jim paused to try and peek through the windows to see if he's up or in and McCoy plastered himself against the front door and tried not to breathe.
McCoy started parking his car inside the garage instead of just leaving it in the driveway, even though he mostly walked to work. It's sheer paranoia, he knew, and utterly ridiculous. He began ordering equipment and had them sent to his house instead of to the clinic. Chekov and Sulu stared when he lugged boxes of animal medicine and needles and other paraphernalia while loudly complaining about his back. It, naturally, led to mumbling things like "I'm not ogling the mailman" while Keenser slobbered all over Chekov. That is currently how Leonard H. McCoy's life went.
Two weeks go by and finally, Chekov deigned to intercept his mail order forms and have the equipment sent to the clinic. McCoy can't think of a reason that doesn't end and begin with "I like watching my mailman bend over in his shorts to heft boxes from his truck and bring it to my door," so he returned to peeking through the blinds like a stalker, inadvertently paying more attention to his neighbors as well.
If neighborly conduct was a college course, McCoy would probably fail it or he'd pass but only barely. He's not impolite and he can endure an hour of being stopped in a grocery store to be told the story of how Retired Admiral Pike chased kids off his yard or Christine Chapel, RN, across the street broke her ankle while on duty and he should pay her a visit, "to cheer the poor girl up," if he has to.
He's not especially chummy with the people who live on either side of him, just the occasional "Hey, Jean-Luc," "Hey, Dr. McCoy," to the prematurely bald teenager who he paid to mow his lawn sometimes. The Picards-Next-Door have a brown American Bulldog named Worf who is one of the most taciturn animals he's ever had the pleasure of vaccinating.
On the opposite side of his has lives a man with a first name he can't pronounce but his mailbox is blue and the word SPOCK is painted on the side, in silver sans-serif. McCoy doesn't know what nationality that makes him but it is something he can pronounce, at least. Spock is some kind of scientist or academic and the few times McCoy has seen him, he seemed utterly incapable of smiling. Or any other type of normal human expression--
--unless it's Kirk at his door and then Spock seemed sort of-- lighter, maybe, at least, not so placid. Kirk chatted with him and waved at him when he left and Spock would raise his hand to return the favor, a strange gesture with his fingers positioned peculiarly.
McCoy has never bothered to notice before but he's gotten braver with his spying and taken to watching how Kirk goes up to other houses with their mail. According to Janice Rand, fluffy Siamese cat owner, Jim was "adorable" and "so nice" and "doesn't forget birthdays" like he'd been working this beat for six years and not six months. And then Janice tells him that she'd invited him over for tea and "Jimmy is so funny and charming," and McCoy accidentally stabbed the cat with a needle when she sighed. Charlie yowled and bit his hand. Janice glared at him while she tried to calm her cat down.
"Sorry," McCoy said but gave up when Charlie refused to be touched any more. He called Chekov to finish the job and went to his office to busy himself with paperwork until Sulu poked his head in to tell him he was taking off.
After that, McCoy focused his energy on watching Kirk talk to people while delivering the mail. It seemed like his street's just conveniently awake when Kirk's mail truck drove up in the morning and that everyone is home when Kirk does special deliveries in the afternoon. He flirted with the ladies, listened patiently to Retired Admiral Pike and did magic tricks for the kid with coins and they ooh and aah as if Jim the Mailman is Chriss Angel: Mind Freak. All Kirk needed was a speaker to play music and hand out ice cream. It led to dirty thoughts of Kirk and a cherry Popsicle and McCoy had to go take a cold shower and contemplate his place in the universe.
In fact, the only person who is pointedly never home or actively avoiding Jim Kirk and his mail runs is McCoy, except he is usually home, peering through his blinds like a serial killer. And then one day, as he peered through the blinds, Kirk strode up the walk with his mail, paused for a split second and then rang the doorbell.
McCoy froze and then panicked for thirty seconds before checking the way he looked. It was his day-off and he was wearing jeans and a ridiculous t-shirt that he'd absently thrown on that said, "Have you hugged a veterinarian today?" He was unshaven.
It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, not a fourteen-year old girl. McCoy squished his face up in an appropriate scowl and opened the door.
"Yeah?" He growled and Kirk brightened a fraction and then dropped his gaze from McCoy's face to his t-shirt and his grin grew bigger. McCoy pointedly ignored it. "What do you want?"
"Hi," Kirk said, looking back up at his face. "The Homeowners' Association is having a get together, just a little thing, over at the county club."
"Not interested," McCoy said and started to shut the door. Kirk lifted a hand to stop him.
"Sorry, Dr. McCoy, I have orders to give the invite to you personally," he held up a postcard-style invite with "Promote Community Unity!" emblazoned on it in neon pink letters and a time and date in smaller, neon green print.
"I really don't know anyone too well here. I just fix their pets," McCoy admitted but he took the card and then reached for the stack of bills in Kirk's other hand. Their fingers brushed and Kirk's eyebrows raised. And then, possibly to fray McCoy's nerves even more, he leaned in.
"So, I know you've been watching me through your blinds, Dr. McCoy," Kirk drawled and McCoy was mortified for a moment but recovered fast. Divorce taught you some useful things, righteous indignation was one of them. "As for not knowing people, you know me. I'll be there," he smiled and dear god, was he flirting? The mailman was flirting with him.
"Look, I see you chatting with the other neighbors and whatever but I don't have the time to do any of that with you. I've better things to do," McCoy scowled at him.
"Really," Jim said, unconvinced. "Come to the community get together, Bones. Because I hear you pretty much work and then come home. It won't kill you to say hello now and again."
"Yeah, okay. Hello," McCoy said. "And goodbye." He shut the door and breathed against it for a second and then looked down at his crotch. Goddamit, he was hard and sweating under his arms and everything was stupid and insane.
Stupid and insane, McCoy thought, as he stood in the multi-purpose hall of the country club, drinking disgusting fruit punch and patiently waiting for Riker to get through his stupid joke so he could make a quick escape. Several people raised an eyebrow or two when he'd entered and if he scanned the room for Kirk, he told himself it was only because he was going to avoid him.
He surprised himself by being able to remember the names of most people, many of them clients, even though he still equated them with their pets. Tonia Barrows, teacup chihuahua. Wesley Crusher of the six white rats. Montgomery Scott was there, Keenser's owner, of course, with the strong Scottish brogue and a way with the ladies. Probably using the poor dog to pick them up too, McCoy thought.
"Jim!" Someone said and a group of people converged on the blond, blue-eyed mailman, who grinned and shook hands. He was wearing a pair of black jeans and a mustard colored v-necked sweater that was doing things to McCoy's stomach that he wanted to vehemently deny. And then he noticed the skinny, tall, pale man with the funny ears standing next to him, wearing a blue button down and scowled into his drink.
"Dr. Spock, it's rare that we see you," Janice Rand said, the mastermind of this entire affair. "I hope you filled out your raffle tickets and dropped them into box." She wrote Kirk's name on a neon pink sticker and then very obviously smoothed it out on his chest, lingering more than necessary, in McCoy's opinion.
Spock nodded blandly. "It is illogical to leave things to chance but in the interest of social connectivity, I have done so," he told her. Janice looked confused but Kirk slung an arm around Spock's shoulders and flashed her a charming grin. "In other words, we could get lucky tonight." He steered Spock away from Janice and headed toward the bar.
McCoy eyed them from the corner, watched as Kirk teased Spock and got him a drink. Spock looked impassive but he took the drink and it was obvious enough that he was listening to Kirk with interest. Kirk's brand of "social connectivity", however, seemed to mean that he was welcome to stand in Spock's personal space and pepper him with conversation.
"Bones!" Kirk said and waved. He tugged Spock towards him and McCoy looked around frantically for an escape, a failed attempt when Jim came up to him and pushed Spock between them.
"Bones, this is Spock. You're neighbors," Kirk said, conversationally, as if McCoy was stupid and didn't know.
"We are acquainted," Spock said.
McCoy shrugged. "I know who he is. Some kind of scientist, are you?"
"Theoretical physics," Spock said. Kirk rolled his eyes and nudged him with an elbow. "I have a cat," Spock added, after a pause so long and pregnant that McCoy thought the man was either fucking with him or retarded.
"Anyway, Bones, I'm surprised you're here," Kirk finally said, grinning widely at him.
"Why? You just handed out a thousand stupid invitations, figured your hard work shouldn't go to waste," McCoy said, raising his glass to his lips but discovered it was empty and wasn't that just frustrating. He wanted something stronger, almost desperately so.
"Let me refresh your drink and you relax," Kirk soothed and snatched the red plastic cup from McCoy's. "Spock, you too?" He offered.
Spock shook his head. "This will be sufficient for now," he indicated his half-full cup. "Although I would possibly enjoy some of those 'mini-hotdogs'."
If McCoy wasn't so fond of Desperate Housewives, he would probably be shocked beyond belief that a harmless country club shmoozing event would suddenly descend into a house party to out-house party every house party he'd ever house partied in.
The nice blond nurse lady, Christine Chapel was committing murder on the dance floor with Sulu and there were a lot of middle-aged couples drinking more than necessary and wriggling around in dances that would have made McCoy cringe if he wasn't in his mid-thirties and would not have done better than any of them. Kirk danced too but he begged off when the music turned into Latin dance and looked absolutely horrified when one of Harry Mudd's dance instructor women threw her leg up his shoulder.
The babysitting industry of Enterprise Lane was probably booming tonight, McCoy thought, morosely looking at the bottom of his cup. He opened his mouth to ask for another beer when Kirk caught his elbow, still looking disgustingly sober and so pretty. If only McCoy could only lean forward and kiss him or something
"I can't believe you two," Kirk said, shaking his head. McCoy swayed a little and then caught himself on Spock's shoulder. Spock stood very still but he was flushed and he stared at his cup as if it offended him.
"I can't believe how drunk I am," McCoy muttered. Kirk stifled a grin.
"I know...and it's only 9:45 PM," Kirk said, sympathetically.
"I believe I will go home now," Spock said, stiffly. He took a step and then went down hard.
In the end, Kirk and McCoy half-carried Spock to his house and McCoy burst into laughter when Kirk put his thumb on the scanner by the door to open it. The interior of Spock's house was white and silver and rather spartan. There was a laptop and a pile of books on the kitchen table, rigidly arranged by book size, like an unfinished pyramid. Kirk put Spock on the couch, a ridiculous white leather confection and McCoy had to look away when Kirk pulled Spock's shoes off.
"Okay, Bones, now to get you home," Kirk said and nudged McCoy towards the door.
"I'm okay, I'm fine," McCoy protested and swayed down the front steps of Spock's house. "It's next door," he said.
"I know but I don't want you to trip or hit your head," Kirk grabbed his shoulders to support him. "Or be attacked by hostile squirrels, Bones."
"Squirrels?" McCoy said and then threw up on Kirk.
McCoy's head pounded the next day but the clinic was closed and he wasn't expecting any deliveries. So he got up, drank two glasses of water from the bathroom sink, took a piss and crawled back into bed.
The next day, he was at work and in a foul mood because Sulu and Chekov kept shooting worried looks at him until he snapped and made Sulu do all his paperwork while he mocked brussel sprouts and salads and botany and fencing. Sulu just rolled his eyes and then viciously ate a watercress sandwich in front of him.
McCoy was busy that entire week, so busy in fact, that he hardly noticed that his mail still came but he didn't see Kirk at all. He had to drive half a day for a veterinarian conference in the big city that took the whole weekend and it was just about four in the morning when he pulled into his driveway, rubbed his face and then got out, turning just in time to see Jim Kirk sneaking out of Spock's house, wearing jeans and naked from the waist up and carrying his shoes. It was dark out but he looked appropriately disheveled and McCoy's mind, tired and decaffeinated, went completely south.
Four hours later, the mail truck came by and Kirk was there, smiling but looking tired around the edges. McCoy watched him talk to the neighbors and wave away their sympathy before he made his way to McCoy's.
McCoy acted fast and reached into his cupboard for a clean mug that he filled and brought to the door. "Here," he said, handing it over. Kirk raised an eyebrow.
"Just drink it. You look shitty," McCoy grumbled and took his mail, tossing it onto the hall table. He turned to look at Kirk who stared at the side of the mug with a bemused expression.
"What?" McCoy frowned. Kirk lifted the mug and turned it around to face McCoy.
Veterinarians do it with animals, it said.
"Oh, for the love of god!" McCoy said, when Kirk finally laughed. He pushed Kirk out the door. "Get back to work!"
It was ten minutes before he realized that Kirk had taken the mug with him.
"I'm sorry I threw up on you," McCoy said, two days later when Kirk came with a package for him, some new vet books he'd gotten from Amazon.com.
"That's alright," Kirk said, handing him the box. "You were just marking your territory."
"Get out," McCoy said, pointing at the mail truck. "And I want my mug back!"
"Here's your mug," Kirk said, handing it to him and then putting a stack of bills on top of it. "And here are your bills."
"Thank you ever so much," McCoy drawled and then offered him a cookie from the open bag of Milanos he was eating for breakfast.
Kirk took one. "Dog biscuit?" He smirked at McCoy and stuffed it into his mouth.
McCoy smiled, despite himself. "It wouldn't be completely out of character."
The thing is, McCoy has no idea how he went from "married with child" to "stalking the mailman" to "flirting with said mailman with possible gay crisis" but while eating a frozen dinner that night, he had an epiphany while watching "Legally Blonde," the part where the hairdresser meets the UPS guy and injures him doing the bend and snap when he realizes that he's the hairdresser. He should be doing the bend and snap here, be proactive about the whole thing and just tell Kirk, "look, I don't know how you did it but I keep dreaming about you and waking up soaked."
As far as lines go, that would go in his top ten. He's a small town vet-- well, a large suburban residential area vet-- and he'd been lonely a while, it just hadn't occurred to him. The worst that could happen is that Kirk will hate him and then change his route and possibly cause the entire neighborhood to shun him and run him out of business. It's going to have to be a chance he is willing to take.
I need advice, McCoy thought and called his daughter.
"Hi, daddy," Joanna said when she picked up.
"Hi, honey," McCoy said, gruff and fond. "I have a strange question for you."
"Okay," she said. "Mom says hi," she added.
"No, she doesn't," McCoy shot back.
"Yeah, you're right," Joanna said.
"Do you have any gay friends, Jo?" McCoy said, ripping the proverbial band-aid off the wound of issue.
A pause and then, "Why, daddy, are you gay?"
McCoy cursed his daughter's intuition. "For god's sake, Jo, I hope your mother's not there to hear you say that."
"Ooh, you are!" There are sounds of scrambling around, like Joanna is trying to find a more comfortable position.
McCoy flushed. This wasn't how he imagined this conversation would go.
"Who's the boy, daddy? Oh my god, how weird is this? Am I going to have another dad? Because Jeremy's mom divorced his dad to live with her girlfriend and now he gets two of everything because they hate each other and are trying to out-do the other one for his love. Not that I don't love you, daddy," Joanna whispered into the phone. "Because you're my favorite."
For a second, McCoy can't talk and settled on listening to his daughter babble, while missing her fiercely. She never used to talk this much. It's somewhat comforting.
"I don't know, doll," he finally said, as he sank onto his couch. "I'm thinking about it. Love you too, bye," and hung up, none the wiser.
"So, how are you and Sulu getting along?" McCoy asked at work, trying to sound casual.
Chekov looked up from taking inventory and studied him for a moment. "Is this about the mailman?" He asked.
"You're fired!" McCoy growled at him and went to lock himself in the office, knowing it wouldn't take.
Sulu cleared his throat when he came in the next day. "Your 10 o'clock is here and Pavel and I are doing alright. Do you want more details?"
"You're also fired," McCoy told him. Sulu just laughed and took his travel mug to pour him more coffee.
The straw that broke the camel's back took place at the grocery store. Bones was trying to decide which new roast to try when a cart bumped his and he looked up.
Spock looked at him, stoically. Out of sheer curiosity, Bones looked into his cart. There was a bundle of celery, a package of fake bacon, a bottle of incongruous looking chocolate syrup and-- Bones scowled-- a biggest available box of jumbo-sized condoms.
"Hot date tonight?" Bones said, eyebrow raised.
"I don't like you," Spock informed him, in the same tone one might use while ordering at McDonald's or something.
"Hey, you look here, you pointy-eared bastard," Bones dropped the coffee into his cart and jabbed his finger toward Spock.
"But Jim does," Spock interrupted him, still perfectly stoic. "While I do not normally stoop low enough to manipulate the variants of my friends' relationships to procure the desired outcome, I will freely admit that I am ultimately not equipped to do so."
Bones gaped at him, trying to parse what the man was saying.
"I refuse to be the middleman," Spock said. "Please date Jim." A pause. "Before I kill him," he added and then turned to consider the coffee for a moment. "Also, what is your recommendation?"
Bones went silent, chewing at his bottom lip. "The Kona is delicious."
"Fascinating," Spock said and took two bags of different roasts.
"Coward," McCoy muttered as soon as he got home from the grocery store and went to turn on his laptop and get online. "Dirty, all time low," he berated himself, googling Gay Sex.
"Pervert," he called himself, ordering a bottle of lube that was probably too big and too many condoms, some of which he was sure were unnaturally colored or scented. "Wishful thinker."
McCoy knew that he should probably work his way up to the actual sex but to be honest, he was at a point of no return. If Kirk was really as interested as Spock shared, McCoy didn't want to waste any more time.
The order came two days later, long enough that McCoy got caught up at work and forgotten about it. It still hadn't dawned on him until he swung open the door and saw Jim standing there, with the little box and a rueful expression on his face.
"Damnit, Jim," McCoy said but actually addressing the box with the logo with growing horror. Onestopcondomshop.com it declared proudly and Kirk was bright red and stammered.
"Hey, look, I," Kirk made no actual move to hand the box over. "I have to apologize if I might have misled you or something, so I am just going to come out with it. I know you're straight and you're a good man, even though you're an ornery bastard sometimes..."
"Ornery bastard?" McCoy said, looking up and down between Kirk's face and the box and the way Kirk was crushing it with one hand.
"Hell, you are! But I know you used to be married and you have a daughter and--"
"Who told you that?" McCoy scowled but already moving right into Kirk's space.
"And you shouldn't listen to anything Spock says," Kirk tried but McCoy had had enough. He pulled Kirk into the house and closed the door, knocking the box onto the floor in the process and pushing him against the door.
It's been a while since Leonard H. McCoy has kissed anyone because he rarely dated after his divorce but it was just like riding a bike. Kirk's mouth was hot and opened for him and he made grateful, relieved noises and dug his fingers into McCoy's back.
"Oh, thank god," Kirk gasped when McCoy let go and bent to pick up the box.
"I got this for you," McCoy informed Kirk and Kirk's eyes sort of glazed over.
"You're a jerk," he told McCoy. "I got so much crap at the office when we got that." And then he pushed McCoy into the living room and shoved him onto the couch and yanked his jeans open. "Whoa," Kirk said, looking down at the flaming skull and bones pattern peeking out from inside his jeans.
"So, I, uh, guessed why you called me 'Bones,'" McCoy said, clearing his throat.
"That is such a fucking turn-on," Jim said and gave him the best blow job of his life.
After he was spent, McCoy brought Jim off and had the pleasure of seeing him naked too, because Jim was adamant about not ruining his uniform. "I have half a shift left!" He yelped when McCoy bit his shoulder and then shuddered and came.
"Oh god, I want to pass out," Kirk said, bonelessly slumping on top of McCoy on the couch.
"I could always kick you out," McCoy rasped. "Walk of shame and all."
"Walk of shame," Kirk said, groaning into his hands. "My truck is parked outside and hasn't moved for at least a half hour. They're going to talk."
"Let them talk," McCoy pulled him in for another kiss. Kirk obliged and then with the obvious force of sheer will, pulled away.
"I'll come by after work. You better be here." Kirk said, getting back into his uniform with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced into suicide. He paused in the middle of tucking his shirt in. "Oh god, Spock has a package from work and I have to bring it to him, that smug son of a bitch."
"Have fun," McCoy laughed.
Kirk came straight from work, still in his uniform, significantly rumpled. He looked incredible, McCoy thought, as he peeled Kirk out of it. The whole shorts thing was turning into some kind of Pavlovian thing for him. Kirk kissed all those thoughts out of him and then brought him off with his mouth until he was gasping on the bed and tugging on Kirk's hair. He tried to return the favor but Kirk started to rut against his leg and McCoy was too languid to do anything but kiss him and let him come all over his stomach.
They lay there for a while, breathing and touching. "Who told you I had a daughter?" McCoy asked, as he nuzzled Kirk's neck.
"Are we doing to talk about this now?" Kirk said, pulling McCoy on top of him.
"Maybe not," McCoy said, grunting when Kirk stroked him back into hardness and then reached over for a condom and the lube.
"This is a really big bottle," Kirk said, squeezing some out onto his fingers.
"I got carried away," McCoy admitted and then watched in fascination when Kirk reached down and slid his fingers inside himself, one and then two and McCoy realized what was going on.
"Hey, I want to do that!" McCoy exclaimed and reached for the lube.
"Do it then," Kirk said and then skidded back on the bed a little when McCoy replaced his fingers with his own. "Oh god, Bones, Bones," he muttered, hanging onto McCoy's shoulders. "Fuck me now," Kirk groaned and McCoy took a moment to slide the condom on himself and ease inside him.
He was halfway in when he looked down at Kirk and frowned. "Are you sure this isn't a federal offense or something?" McCoy asked. Kirk glared at him and shifted his hips.
"That's opening other people's mail," Kirk told him, tilting for a better angle. McCoy slid in all the way and panted for a second against Kirk's forehead.
"There's nothing in the book about opening the mailman, though," Kirk said, a little snidely and then McCoy laughed and moved in him slow until Kirk was biting his mouth and then he fucked him until they both came, laughing and kissing.
Okay, McCoy thought, carding his fingers through Kirk's hair while he slept. The neighborhood was going to be even more nosy, gossipy and unbearable after this but to hell with that.
He made a mental note to send coffee to Spock, just to say thanks for being a good neighbor.
EXTRA SCENE!
They'd been seeing each other for a few weeks, the first of which was a little unbearable. To McCoy it almost seemed like people were purposely making their pets sick or lying about symptoms just to visit his clinic and pry into his private life.
"He's sneezing," Janice insisted, holding a disgusted looking Charlie in her arms.
Tonia Barrows needed help getting her chihuahua from where it was wedged inside a vase.
"I think he's melting in the sun," Jean-Luc told him, eyeing as Worf slumped on the examination table.
"They won't do tricks!" Little Geordi LaForge wailed while his mother hovered in the corner and watched McCoy with dark eyes. McCoy sighed and fake-examined Geordi's hamsters until the boy was satisfied.
A tall, willowy woman burst into the clinic one day, with an Louis Vuitton carrying case holding a very big, naked cat, one of those Egyptian things.
"This is Ms. Uhura," Chekov said, leading her into the examination room. "She says her cat is in heat."
McCoy looked at the cat-- The Squire of Gothos, Uhura briskly informed him-- and checked. "This cat is spayed," he told her.
Uhura just gave him a hard look. "What are your designs on James Tiberius Kirk?" She said, crossing her legs.
McCoy jerked in surprise, "Wait a second, is this an interrogation? Who are you?"
Uhura raised one thin eyebrow. She was incredible looking, skin like chocolate, dark eyes, hair like a curtain. He could see her swathed in linen on a chaise, The Squire of Gothos curled around her. "A friend of Jim's. I return home to find out that he is suddenly in a relationship with a doctor of animals, who happens to be my neighbor."
"Neighbor?"
Uhura gave him another once-over and then stared at him for ten minutes without wavering. McCoy crossed his arms and glared back.
"I suppose you will do," she surmised, gathered the cat-- The Squire of Gothos, sorry-- and left.
"Thank you so much," McCoy said, dryly, to the swinging door of the examination room.
Thankfully, she is the last of his appointments and he reeled from the fact that she paid his fee to see him in his place of work and stare him down. McCoy swung by the diner to get some dinner and wait for Kirk at home.
"Hey, Bones," Kirk said, coming in and kissing him.
"French fries?" McCoy offered, even though the fries are soggy.
"Mm," Kirk said, taking them and stuffing his mouth.
"Who is Uhura and why was she interrogating me at work?" McCoy asked and watched Kirk blow a mouthful of fries over the kitchen counter.
"What? Uhura?" Kirk gasped and wiped his mouth.
McCoy frowned at him and told him the story. Kirk listened and then scowled. "They are such meddlers," he complained, opening the fridge for a beer.
"I don't have parents," Kirk explained. "Spock, Uhura and I, we grew up together and they're both...well, you know. Assertive. Well-off. They looked out for me. Still do."
McCoy took a sip of his beer. "And? Why is she asking around about me?"
Kirk shrugged. "She's like that. She's a world-renowned negotiator. She speaks a lot of languages. Don't worry, if she did the stare, she likes you. You passed," he looked pleased. "If she hated you, there would be more questions."
"She said she was my neighbor," McCoy said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
Kirk nodded, "She is. She and Spock are married."
It was McCoy's turn to spew bread and cheese across the table. Kirk reached over to flick lettuce from his shoulder.
"M-married?! That...that hobgoblin is married? How come I've never seen her before!?"
"You never really paid attention before," Kirk pointed out.
"I saw you sneaking out of his house, half-naked at 4 AM. I thought you and he were...you know," McCoy spluttered.
Kirk stared at him blankly and then his face shifted. "Oh. Oh, that. Spock was returning the favor. I got drunk, he came to get me, I slept on his couch. But I had to get ready for work and Uhura was coming home that day and I didn't want her to find me hungover on their couch." He winced a little. "Actually, I don't ever want to be at their house when they're together."
McCoy remembered the chocolate syrup and the condoms in Spock's cart and mentally struck out the celery and fake bacon. "Okay, don't tell me anymore. I get it. Jesus, he's married."
"I know," Kirk looked at him mournfully. "That Uhura is a workout, from what I hear. And I have. Heard. You know." He mimes a bumping motion with his hands.
"Oh my god," McCoy chided. "I'm eating."
They finished their meal in relative silence until McCoy couldn't stand it anymore.
"Your middle name is Tiberius?" He said, bursting into laughter.
"Cut it out!" Kirk whined and went around the kitchen counter to make him shut up.
.