Fic: Shaken, Not Stirred (STXI AU, PG, always-a-girl!Kirk/McCoy)
Title: Shaken, Not Stirred
Author:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG, for swears
Word count: 1175
Summary: Leonard's new stakeout partner leaves him a little shaken.
Warnings: genderswap
Author's note: Written for the St. Paddy's Day flash challenge over at jim_and_bones (must join to see the posts), the prompt was Hot Pink Handgun.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they belong to Paramount and CBS Studios. I just like to play with them a little.
Leonard McCoy was sick to death of this particular stake-out. He'd been stashed in this room outside the self-storage facility for two weeks straight with a variety of mouth-breathing cretins whose only social intercourse had been snores, farts and belches. He was ready to get home to his Pandora radio and the local NPR station, where he could count on a modicum of intelligent (if one-sided) conversation instead of football stats and off-color jokes.
Taking another look through the binoculars at the entrance to the storage unit they'd had under surveillance, he was surprised when the door opened behind him. Whoever it was, was early. Len called out to his current partner, "Mitchell, your relief is here."
The sound of a cigarette lighter opening had him dropping the binoculars to spin around indignantly, ready to blast the newbie for smoking in the room. His mouth opened, but nothing came out once he got a look at the person who had just entered the room.
Far from having a cigarette lighter in her hand, the very attractive blonde in 5-inch bright red stilettos was standing there powdering her nose from a metal compact. The leopard print handbag slung over one shoulder matched the collar around her skin-tight sweater. Her very low-cut, skin-tight sweater. Len felt himself break out into a sweat. Oh, this was bad, this was very bad. What had Capt. Pike gotten him into now?
Snapping the compact shut before tucking it back in her bag, she sauntered (the only word for the slink in her hips those heels caused) up to Len where he stood with his mouth still half-open and looked him straight in the eye. One long red-tipped nail came out and flicked him under the chin.
"Should I call you the Frog Prince?" Her smirk tilted toward one ear, giving her leer a slightly crazed affect.
Len closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "No. No, you can call me McCoy."
"Okay, McCoy. Is there a first name to go with that? I'm not much for formalities." She trailed a finger down his chest until it rested on the binoculars hanging around his neck.
"Uh, Leonard. People call me Len." His hands came up to clutch the binoculars, like taking them away from her was removing a threat to his manhood.
The finger traced back up his chest and around the back of his neck until he found himself standing there with her arm around his shoulders and a generous breast pressed against him. The scent of something rich and musky enveloped him and he had a hard time not leaning into her to totally fill his senses with it. She leaned in toward his ear and spoke to him confidingly. "I'm not people."
Len shook his head to clear it. This was all totally unprofessional and he needed to get them back on track to working together to catch the gunrunners they'd been stalking for two weeks. He turned away from her, forcing her arm to drop off his shoulders while he walked over to the computer that was feeding them images from cameras set up in the inner corridors of the storage facility. Len punched a few keys to cycle through the different feeds, noting silently that there was no activity in any of them.
"No, what you are is my partner for the next week. And I need to know your name. I thought Mitchell was being relieved by Chekov this time." Len all but growled at her, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Chekov sprained his ankle during a training run. He's on desk duty for at least two weeks, maybe longer. I just finished an undercover op with Narco and Pike thought I could use something low key to cleanse my pallet. You guys haven't seen action in weeks, this should be a cake walk." The blonde leaned against the desk, one butt cheek on and one cheek off, her leg swinging in a slow arc that drew attention to the graceful line of her ankle and calf. Len noted she wasn't wearing hose and started to wonder what else she might not be wearing when he stopped himself. Partner, professional, keep it that way.
"That's tough for Chekov. I still don't know your name." Len focused his attention on the monitors around him to the best of his ability, which was being strained every single second by the closeness of this provocative minx. It was with a huge sense of relief that he saw some movement in one of the corridors under surveillance.
"Hallway 3-B, movement towards the locker 158. One person. Call it in. I'll go check it out." Len snapped out the orders, expecting her to follow them immediately. Instead, he saw that she had made it to the door before him and was heading out towards the warehouse across the street.
"Hey, you! I told you…" Len was cut off my her words from the stairwell.
"Cell phones, Len. Technology is your friend. We're partners and you don't go in alone. Let's go!" Her heels made a staccato machine-gun sound clattering down the stairs. Len swore under his breath and threw himself through the doorway and down the stairs after her. He sure as hell hoped she had a weapon very well concealed about her person or he'd have even more trouble on his hands that bringing in the gun smuggler they'd been angling after for months.
Len reached the outside door to see that she was already across the street and heading for the main door to the storage facility. Christ, the woman could move in those shoes, how, he didn't know but it didn't stop him from admiring the slim legs as she flashed him glimpses of long, golden thighs with every stride. He shook his head at himself and pounded across the pavement after her. The distraction was going to be deadly, if he wasn't careful.
He caught up to her in the inner corridor, pulling his gun from the holster under his left arm. They paused at the corner where two hallways met and he finally got a good look at her weapon and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
"Surely, you jest. That fucking thing glows in the dark!" He hissed the words at her in a low voice, unable to keep them to himself.
"Don't call me Shirley." She shot back with a smirk. "It's Jemi, Jemi Kirk. And the color of my weapon has never stopped it from being highly effective. If you want to compare 'guns' later, I'll be glad to do a little show and tell. For now, let's go apprehend this creep."
Shaking his head at the words, Len followed her down the corridor. In fact, he thought, he might just find himself following her into all kinds of other trouble. Looking at her as she faced down the gunrunner she'd trapped in the storage unit, at her strength and determination, he knew then and there life was never going to be the same for him.
Jemi's handgun:
Hot Pink Handgun
• 2 oz VSOP-grade cognac (or better)
• 1 teaspoon orgeat or almond syrup
• ½ oz fresh-squeezed, strained lemon juice
• 5 large or 8 small raspberries
• white of 1 egg (or 1 white for every two drinks)
• 1 teaspoon superfine sugar
Instructions:
Put the lemon juice into a cocktail shaker and stir in the sugar. Add the other ingredients and, before adding ice, shake viciously but briefly to activate foam. Add ice, shake again hard (to smash up the berries), and double strain into a chilled cocktail glass. (To double strain, simultaneously use a Hawthorne strainer -- the one with the spring -- in the shaker and a Julep strainer -- the big spoon with all the little holes -- over the glass, to catch the raspberry seeds and pulp.)
Author:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG, for swears
Word count: 1175
Summary: Leonard's new stakeout partner leaves him a little shaken.
Warnings: genderswap
Author's note: Written for the St. Paddy's Day flash challenge over at jim_and_bones (must join to see the posts), the prompt was Hot Pink Handgun.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they belong to Paramount and CBS Studios. I just like to play with them a little.
Leonard McCoy was sick to death of this particular stake-out. He'd been stashed in this room outside the self-storage facility for two weeks straight with a variety of mouth-breathing cretins whose only social intercourse had been snores, farts and belches. He was ready to get home to his Pandora radio and the local NPR station, where he could count on a modicum of intelligent (if one-sided) conversation instead of football stats and off-color jokes.
Taking another look through the binoculars at the entrance to the storage unit they'd had under surveillance, he was surprised when the door opened behind him. Whoever it was, was early. Len called out to his current partner, "Mitchell, your relief is here."
The sound of a cigarette lighter opening had him dropping the binoculars to spin around indignantly, ready to blast the newbie for smoking in the room. His mouth opened, but nothing came out once he got a look at the person who had just entered the room.
Far from having a cigarette lighter in her hand, the very attractive blonde in 5-inch bright red stilettos was standing there powdering her nose from a metal compact. The leopard print handbag slung over one shoulder matched the collar around her skin-tight sweater. Her very low-cut, skin-tight sweater. Len felt himself break out into a sweat. Oh, this was bad, this was very bad. What had Capt. Pike gotten him into now?
Snapping the compact shut before tucking it back in her bag, she sauntered (the only word for the slink in her hips those heels caused) up to Len where he stood with his mouth still half-open and looked him straight in the eye. One long red-tipped nail came out and flicked him under the chin.
"Should I call you the Frog Prince?" Her smirk tilted toward one ear, giving her leer a slightly crazed affect.
Len closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "No. No, you can call me McCoy."
"Okay, McCoy. Is there a first name to go with that? I'm not much for formalities." She trailed a finger down his chest until it rested on the binoculars hanging around his neck.
"Uh, Leonard. People call me Len." His hands came up to clutch the binoculars, like taking them away from her was removing a threat to his manhood.
The finger traced back up his chest and around the back of his neck until he found himself standing there with her arm around his shoulders and a generous breast pressed against him. The scent of something rich and musky enveloped him and he had a hard time not leaning into her to totally fill his senses with it. She leaned in toward his ear and spoke to him confidingly. "I'm not people."
Len shook his head to clear it. This was all totally unprofessional and he needed to get them back on track to working together to catch the gunrunners they'd been stalking for two weeks. He turned away from her, forcing her arm to drop off his shoulders while he walked over to the computer that was feeding them images from cameras set up in the inner corridors of the storage facility. Len punched a few keys to cycle through the different feeds, noting silently that there was no activity in any of them.
"No, what you are is my partner for the next week. And I need to know your name. I thought Mitchell was being relieved by Chekov this time." Len all but growled at her, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Chekov sprained his ankle during a training run. He's on desk duty for at least two weeks, maybe longer. I just finished an undercover op with Narco and Pike thought I could use something low key to cleanse my pallet. You guys haven't seen action in weeks, this should be a cake walk." The blonde leaned against the desk, one butt cheek on and one cheek off, her leg swinging in a slow arc that drew attention to the graceful line of her ankle and calf. Len noted she wasn't wearing hose and started to wonder what else she might not be wearing when he stopped himself. Partner, professional, keep it that way.
"That's tough for Chekov. I still don't know your name." Len focused his attention on the monitors around him to the best of his ability, which was being strained every single second by the closeness of this provocative minx. It was with a huge sense of relief that he saw some movement in one of the corridors under surveillance.
"Hallway 3-B, movement towards the locker 158. One person. Call it in. I'll go check it out." Len snapped out the orders, expecting her to follow them immediately. Instead, he saw that she had made it to the door before him and was heading out towards the warehouse across the street.
"Hey, you! I told you…" Len was cut off my her words from the stairwell.
"Cell phones, Len. Technology is your friend. We're partners and you don't go in alone. Let's go!" Her heels made a staccato machine-gun sound clattering down the stairs. Len swore under his breath and threw himself through the doorway and down the stairs after her. He sure as hell hoped she had a weapon very well concealed about her person or he'd have even more trouble on his hands that bringing in the gun smuggler they'd been angling after for months.
Len reached the outside door to see that she was already across the street and heading for the main door to the storage facility. Christ, the woman could move in those shoes, how, he didn't know but it didn't stop him from admiring the slim legs as she flashed him glimpses of long, golden thighs with every stride. He shook his head at himself and pounded across the pavement after her. The distraction was going to be deadly, if he wasn't careful.
He caught up to her in the inner corridor, pulling his gun from the holster under his left arm. They paused at the corner where two hallways met and he finally got a good look at her weapon and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
"Surely, you jest. That fucking thing glows in the dark!" He hissed the words at her in a low voice, unable to keep them to himself.
"Don't call me Shirley." She shot back with a smirk. "It's Jemi, Jemi Kirk. And the color of my weapon has never stopped it from being highly effective. If you want to compare 'guns' later, I'll be glad to do a little show and tell. For now, let's go apprehend this creep."
Shaking his head at the words, Len followed her down the corridor. In fact, he thought, he might just find himself following her into all kinds of other trouble. Looking at her as she faced down the gunrunner she'd trapped in the storage unit, at her strength and determination, he knew then and there life was never going to be the same for him.
Jemi's handgun:
Hot Pink Handgun
• 2 oz VSOP-grade cognac (or better)
• 1 teaspoon orgeat or almond syrup
• ½ oz fresh-squeezed, strained lemon juice
• 5 large or 8 small raspberries
• white of 1 egg (or 1 white for every two drinks)
• 1 teaspoon superfine sugar
Instructions:
Put the lemon juice into a cocktail shaker and stir in the sugar. Add the other ingredients and, before adding ice, shake viciously but briefly to activate foam. Add ice, shake again hard (to smash up the berries), and double strain into a chilled cocktail glass. (To double strain, simultaneously use a Hawthorne strainer -- the one with the spring -- in the shaker and a Julep strainer -- the big spoon with all the little holes -- over the glass, to catch the raspberry seeds and pulp.)