FIC: The Ringmaster, 4b/4 - final part
Title: The Ringmaster 4b/4
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 9,550 words (this part)
Summary: A circus AU set sometime in the late 19C. McCoy, escaping his failed marriage, has fallen in with Enterprise Circus and works as a hobo clown, as well as crew and animal doctor when needed. This part takes up a few months after he and ringmaster and circus boss, Jim Kirk, spend their first night together. In part 4a, McCoy showed Jim how he felt about that tango - but the next morning, Jim’s gone. This part probably stands alone but would be enjoyed more if you read previous parts so you can ‘enjoy’ the UST. These boys really must stop using sex as a form of communication. What’s wrong with words, I ask you?
Warnings: angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in this part.
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes:
It’s the AU that won’t go away! I thought I was done with this but then it was Christmas, and I wanted to contribute another fic for space_wrapped , and I got to thinking, and they got angsty and had more man-sex. I am powerless to resist -- so here’s the final, final part in a final installment! This follows on from 4a posted on Christmas Day. There may be one or two continuity issues with previous parts that the more astute reader will notice. But, yanno, just enjoy the man-sex. It is the season, after all. ;D Hopefully, all circus slang will make sense in context.
Thanks to southern belle, abigail89 for beta reading at this busy time of the year! Darling, you are a diamond! Also thanks to lindmere for cheerleading throughout this series, and for helping me thrash out a few ideas for this part!
This part dedicated to avictoriangirl who made me this awesome banner!Thank you, bb!
Intriguing snippet: McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. Damn. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety.
Links to previous parts:
part 1
part 2
part3
part- 4a
The Ringmaster - part4b
McCoy sits at the foot of his bed, pulling on his boots; his trunk’s packed. He blinks against blades of light when his door’s thrown open. What the hell is it with everyone bursting in and out of his quarters like they own the goddamned place?
His fingers freeze when he sees Jim silhouetted against the morning sunshine, face hidden in the glare.
“Christmas Eve, Bones!” Even without a clear view of his features, McCoy knows Jim’s smirking. Damn, he was hoping he could avoid goodbyes -
“I need a loan of one of the horses, Jim,” he says, making a fair attempt at preventing his voice from cracking. He fiddles with the frayed ends of his laces again.
Jim seems to ignore this, and strides through the door bringing a blast of chilled air with him. He’s carrying an enamel bucket which he places in the centre of the small space with a grunt.
“You need a shave,” he says cocking his head to the side, rubbing his hands together then pointing at McCoy with a long pale finger; if McCoy wasn’t so mad, so fucking hurt, he’d bite it. He stands and takes the two steps that separate them.
“I always need a shave, “McCoy tries to joke, “thanks for the water. I’ll get to it now, so unless there’s something else-“
“Bones-“Jim swallows, looks him up and down, and McCoy fancies there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “I’ve never seen you scrubbed up.”
“Hey! I wash!” McCoy scowls, gestures towards his washstand and the face cloth he used a short time ago.
“Yeah, but what about this?” Jim grabs the lapels of the hobo coat. “You really think they’re going to let you on a train wearing this piece of crap?”
Motes of dust float in the early morning sunshine. McCoy frowns; he was hardly planning on first class, so what the hell? And as Jim continues to smirk at him, fuck, but he wants to bite that smug look right off the bastard’s face. But, he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted, “Jim, I…”
“I need to ask you, right? That’s it, isn’t it?” Jim’s eyes are wide, innocent and his eyebrows practically meet as he contemplates McCoy.
McCoy shakes his head, wishes he’d had some breakfast, something to soak up the bile churning in his stomach at the thought of leaving. He glances at his open trunk, looks over Jim’s shoulder at the open door.
“Ask me what, precisely, Jim?”
Not that there’s anything Jim can say. Last night, well, it was another one of those…he struggles for the words, not sure how to make sense of any of this storm of feeling that keeps flaring up between them. But Jim left and it hurt. He had to leave. And there’s the rub…
Jim cants his head, licks his lips, eyes wary; he runs one hand up McCoy’s chest, while the other rests on the back of his head, fingers gentle for once, like he’s soothing a horse. Yet Jim doesn’t pull McCoy close or try to kiss him. McCoy’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed, finds yet again he’s locked in limbo, unable to shake Jim off, or pull him closer.
Finally, Jim speaks. “The water’s going cold, Bones, we need to get you looking presentable - we’re going into the city.”
What in heaven’s name is the matter with the kid? Hasn’t he made himself clear?
Jim’s eyes skate over McCoy’s face, blazing blue, hypnotizing him so that McCoy finds himself wavering. Then, he hears himself say:
“We are?”
“Sure. We’re going to have some fun for once, well,” and Jim smirks -- ‘course he does, the stubborn, doesn’t-know-the-meaning-of-the-word-defeat, annoying-- “with our clothes on for a change.” McCoy’s cock twitches, and he thinks about Sulu’s gelding, envies the beast its peace.
“You are an arrogant asshole,” McCoy says, fighting a smile.
“So they tell me.“
“How am I supposed to get out of town if I miss my train?”
“You’re not. You’re going to stay.”
“Is that right?”
Jim nods, pats McCoy on the chest and guides him to the door. “I’ll bring up a chair, you get a towel. Come on, Bones, water’s getting cold, my man.“
“You already said that, and I’m not your man.“
Jim snorts, steps through the door, looks over his shoulder. “Hey, you even own a razor?”
When McCoy scowls, Jim grins like he’s just won some kind of victory and skips down the steps, striding across the lot to his trailer.
McCoy slams down the lid of the trunk and gives it a kick. “Fuck,” he growls, taking off his coat and flinging it on the bed. “Goddamned persistent asshole-“
He leans in the doorway watching Jim’s ass as he disappears into his own trailer, and removes his vest and lowers his suspenders.
It’s a beautiful morning, the sunshine breaking through the last of the early mist in City Park. In what was once a plantation, the remaining, ancient oaks stretch black and solid against the smudged skyline. He can smell eggs from the cook shack and his stomach rumbles. Cupcake’s got some hope if he thinks anyone’ll be up after last night.
“Leonard!”
It’s Uhura looking fresh-faced and beautiful in a scarlet wool jacket and ankle length skirt, her hair twisted in an elaborate chignon. He manages not to splutter at the sight of her arm in arm with Spock of all people -- when did they. . . ?
“Morning,” McCoy says, touching the imaginary brim of a hat, “it’s mighty fine to see you. Both.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Spock says evenly. “I trust you slept well.”
Well, he did, for two hours or so, until he woke up and found Jim was gone.
“About as well as you, I’m sure,” McCoy says, ignoring the prickle of panic in the back of his neck. He’d forgotten they’d all seen. Damn - but he plows on. “You look very…rested-“ Act like nothing happened.
Uhura punches Spock’s arm gently and giggles, bringing a hand up to her mouth.
“It is pleasing the run is over,” Spock says, glancing at his arm and apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in McCoy’s voice, “and I am gratified The Oracle act has been well received.” He adjusts his gloves and gazes unblinkingly at McCoy with dark, impenetrable eyes. “I noted you were not present for the second show, doctor. It was fortuitous Nyota was able to step in and help. I wish to convey my gratitude for your assistance these past few weeks; you brought a certain pathos to the performance.“
“That’s me, pathos in a bottle,” McCoy agrees. “And you’re welcome.” The sight of Jim walking back towards them, carrying a chair, lifts his spirits, makes him playful. He drags his eyes back to Spock. “Tell me, Spock, did you ever find L.H.M.?”
Uhura looks between them. “Who’s that, Spock?”
Spock inclines his head, regards her and, dear God, is he actually smiling? McCoy remembers the unexpected warm but brief touch to his shoulder the night before and his scalp prickles, tries to gauge if there’s empathy, satisfaction, sympathy - what?-- in that steady gaze. Maybe Jim’s right, maybe there is more to this fellow than he first thought. Nevertheless, he shoots Spock one of his best glares and folds his arms.
Fortunately Jim’s there before Spock can elaborate.
“You have become an early riser in recent months,” Spock observes, “an uncharacteristic-“
“Mind your own business, Oracle-boy,” Jim says, clapping Spock on the back. “Say, McCoy and I are taking a day in New Orleans so you’re in charge. Think you can handle things?”
“Most certainly, captain,” Spock says. “There will be little for me to do for today we rest, other than make preparations for tomorrow’s festivities. You will return for our Christmas banquet, I trust?”
“Try and stop me!”
“Since you appear enthusiastic about the prospect, it would be illogical of me to attempt to stop you,” Spock says with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Jim laughs, ushers McCoy up the steps and slams the door behind him.
“Dammit, Jim. You’re damned indiscreet.“
“I am? Really? Well, maybe last night…”
He shoots McCoy a look which is so lacking in remorse, McCoy wants to drop to his knees there and then, and teach him a fucking lesson. Instead, he huffs and watches Jim arrange the chair and washstand near the door, then open the curtain on the small window. Jim thinks a moment, and lights the oil lamp.
“I’m doing this, Bones,” he says, in what McCoy’s come to recognize as Jim’s ‘I’ll take no shit’ tone. “You’ll need to sit down,” and now his voice is laced with intent, “it’ll work better.”
“Will it now?” But, for once, McCoy doesn’t argue; instead he sits, leans back, spreads his legs to give Jim access.
Jim fills the jug with warm water, and seals the enamel bucket, transfers it into the wash bowl and wets the badger hair brush. He begins to work a lather in the shave bowl, frowning as he does so, glancing up at McCoy occasionally.
“What?” McCoy says, suddenly feeling defensive. Jim places the laden brush on the table and spreads a towel across McCoy’s chest, their eyes catch and Jim’s eyes crinkle.
“This is a brush of exceptional quality,” Jim starts.
“It’s an heirloom.” McCoy closes his eyes and tries to shut out the image of the compassion in Jim’s expression. It’s none of his business -- McCoy’s done with that episode in his life.
“It’s just,” Jim says, and McCoy can feel his body heat as Jim looms over him, can smell the soap as the soft bristles and the cool lather touch his skin, “not the sort of thing a hobo would have in his carpet bag,” Jim continues.
“You’re not wrong, kid-“
“Seems like once, maybe a while ago, maybe, you weren’t in a position where you had to scrabble for dimes.”
“I’ve never scrabbled for a darn thing my whole life, asshole,” McCoy says, shutting out the image of how he wrestled to release Jim’s cock from his pants the night before. That doesn’t count.
Maybe it’s the insistent touch of the brush, the circular motion lulling him, but McCoy’s got no fight in him - not at this present moment. He’s not letting on that’s how he feels, so he growls:
“You spend too much time with that mentalist.”
McCoy feels a huff of air close to his face when Jim lets out a low laugh. ”I never figured you for the jealous type, Bones.” Yeah, but going by last night, Jim likes it.
“And I never figured you for a valet,” McCoy snaps, opening his eyes to shoot a glare at the smug idiot. His breath catches when he sees the tip of Jim’s tongue, the moistness of his lower lip, the intent expression on Jim’s face as he finishes lathering his beard.
“Multi-talented, that’s Jim Kirk,” he retorts, baring perfect teeth in a grin.
“Flyer, dancer, entrepreneur, “ McCoy closes his eyes again, extends a leg to hook it round Jim’s calf, “is there anything you can’t do?” His tone’s teasing and he knows Jim gets that because he feels his knees being pushed together. Jim sits astride McCoy’s thighs and his weight settles, then there’s a faint scrape as he opens up the folding razor.
“And I’m pretty good with knives, too,” Jim says. “Chin up, Bones.” McCoy obliges by shifting his groin a little since he’s beginning to feel a little constricted, a little cornered at the weight of him; the sensation of the blade against his throat as Jim begins to shave him, running the razor in smooth strokes across his Adam’s apple, a free hand holding him steady have him half-hard and wanting. “And you’ll need to keep still…”
McCoy rests his hands on Jim’s hips while he works, can hear Jim’s breath become more shallow over the next few minutes, feels himself being soothed by the sound of the rasp of blade over beard, the clock ticking deep by his bed, the distant sounds of the horses whinnying somewhere behind him…
McCoy must have dozed off, because he comes to when he feels Jim stand and hears the tap of the razor against the bowl, the sound of more water being poured.
And he can’t remember the last time someone did something for him, just touched him with such care, nor the last time he let someone. McCoy swallows, cracks open an eye to see Jim lean over with a wash cloth, an intent expression on his face as he begins to wipe away the soap, turning to rinse it. He repeats the action until McCoy’s skin tingles.
Jim straddles him again, and collects the towel from McCoy’s chest, uses it to dab at his throat and cheeks.
“There,” he says, leaning back to contemplate his handy work, “just one more thing-“
Jim reaches into his vest pocket for a small bottle of eau de cologne and pours some into the palm of his hand. He rubs his hands together, fans them across McCoy’s cheeks. It stings and Bones shifts, feeling his throat constrict with emotion.
“Jim,” he says, swallowing again, words cracking under the weight of this moment. Jim’s hands still on his face and McCoy circles his wrists and draws those long, pale fingers to his mouth and kisses the palms. “Thanks.”
Jim blinks, narrows his eyes, long dark lashes so close to McCoy that he can make out each individual one. He realizes he’s never had an opportunity to examine Jim freely like this, not in daylight, and his gaze rakes over the surface of Jim’s face, takes in the scars and blemishes, the eyes warm and chill all at once, snow and ice, and…he cuts the thought short, amused at his poor attempt at waxing lyrical.
“What’s tickling you, grumpy?” Jim says low and soft, so close to his face, breathing on his skin, warming him, making McCoy feel alive. No, snow and ice was just dumb.
“Oof!”
And his lips are smothered by lush, chapped, hungry ones. McCoy digs his fingers into Jim’s arms, moaning despite himself as he pushes his tongue into the eager mouth, Jim’s silk shirt sliding under his fingers. His thumbs hook in Jim’s suspenders, rubbing their embroidered motif as eagerly as he would Jim’s nipples, or cock, for this, everything is all part of him.
He can feel how hard Jim is, difficult to avoid when Jim guides his hand and encourages McCoy to palm him through his pants. Jim’s licking McCoy’s cheeks now, his tongue rasping at him like a cat, fingers working open the mother of pearl buttons of his shirt. The chair creaks under their combined weights. Jim gasps, pulls away with a moan. McCoy grumbles, drags him back by his hair. “Shut up!” he says.
“What, I’m…fuck, Bones-I didn’t say anything-“
“Well, I can hear you.”
“That’s what Spock would say,” Jim says with a chuckle, sitting upright, rubbing his thumb against his lower lip, like he’s scooping McCoy’s taste back into his mouth. “I like you like this, all, I dunno - exposed, clean. That what you can hear me thinking? And…”
“And?”
“You aren’t fighting me.”
“I’m not?” and, “When was I?” Fighting himself, not Jim, always himself he suddenly understands, kicking against how much he wants this.
Jim shrugs, like it’s too complicated to go into at this juncture. “You need to finish getting ready.” He nods towards the trunk. “You got anything in there’ll make you look like a gentleman?”
“Sure I have - might smell of mothballs I warn you.”
“Well, put it on. I’ll be back in half an hour with the horses. We’re going into the city and you need to look real nice. Won’t take me as long to pretty up, but…ow!” He ducks, stands before McCoy can swipe him upside the head one more time.
Jim grins from the door. “And we’re staying over, so you’ve missed your train, I guess. That’s a real shame.”
“Yeah,” McCoy says from his chair, temporarily unable to move other than to adjust himself. Jim follows the movement, raises an eyebrow, smirks -
“So you haven’t got time to take care of that -- me neither.”
“I’ll just have to wait,” McCoy says, his voice a little broken, like Jim’s cut through more than his beard.
When Jim leaves, McCoy finds his wallet in his coat pocket, checks the money he’d put aside for a ticket, shrugs when he contemplates his father’s silver handled shaving brush and razor blade, which he’d planned to hock soon as he’d reached town. He opens his trunk, takes out the daguerreotype of Joanna and places it on the table.
“Daddy’s lost his mind, baby girl,” he sighs and digs into the trunk to find something that’ll turn Cinderella into a princess for one night at least.
+++
Jim’s jaw drops when he sees Bones: broad shouldered and slim-hipped, in a long coat, the color of eggplant, a pale blue, silk vest, an ivory, silk wing-collared shirt, a cravat to match the coat, and dark gray flannel pants that make his legs look even longer, the thighs more…
“What the hell are you gawping at?” Bones mutters coloring slightly, “Have I got something on my face?”
“Not yet, you haven’t,” Jim says smoothly. “Jesus, Bones - you clean up nice-quite the southern gentleman.“
“Well, don’t sound so damned surprised, idiot.” And there’s a rare half-smile that makes Jim’s heart flutter. He crouches by the horse and links his fingers so he can give Bones a leg up and resists the temptation to slap that fine ass when Bones stands in the stirrups to tuck his coat under.
“You’re right,” Jim says instead, “mothballs-“
“Well, I did warn you.”
Jim crooks a finger so Bones leans down to hear his whispered, “Don’t worry, in a couple of hours you’ll be covered in my scent and no one’ll even notice…” He ducks back; after all, the petulant doctor’s got a riding crop in his hand. “Here,” he smirks, and hands Bones his top hat. “Where d’ya get this from?”
“Borrowed it off Sulu,” Bones calls over his shoulder as his horse trots towards the lot’s entrance. “Originally figured his head would’a been too big, but, looks like I was wrong.”
Jim cups his hand, calls after him, “Yeah - you were!” Wrong about a great deal by the sounds of it, but he’s got the whole night to show Bones that. “Hey! Wait up!”
+++
They ride the few miles into New Orleans and McCoy marvels at Jim’s easy grace in the saddle. Naturally, Jim would have a stallion no one else can get close to and, it would be too easy to have Nero gelded. McCoy grins when he remembers how Jim’s face turned pale when McCoy had suggested it, last time some idiot tried to mount the brute and got a kick. Jim covered Nero’s ears dramatically, like the horse understood or something.
“I like them wild, Bones, shh,” he said.
The way the animal’s eyes rolled, maybe it did understand, McCoy thinks now, watching the tall chestnut with wild eyes trot ahead.
When they reach the corner of Bourbon and Bienville, Jim raises his hand, pulls up and waits for McCoy to draw alongside.
“What do you think, Bones?”
“Jim?”
McCoy’s heard of this place -- who hasn’t? The Absinthe House is notorious, word reaching anyone who cares to know about these things, frequented by bohemian types, writers, artists and, what his not-so-beloved Jocelyn would have called them, him, sodomites. McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. Damn. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety.
“Bones, Bones, it’ll be fine.” Jim dismounts, runs his hand soothingly along the deep scars that decorate Nero’s neck. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”
McCoy holds their rides. Nero eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t shy away when Bones pats his neck. “Your master’s an asshole,” he mutters. Nero blows gently, flares his nostrils and bucks his head when a carriage rolls past.
A stable boy emerges and waits for McCoy to remove their saddlebags before leading the horses away. He can hear Nero whinnying in protest, wonders if he should have warned the boy to stand clear and rues the fact he didn’t bring his medical bag just in case.
He’s brought back to reality by a light touch to his arm. Jim’s grinning, folding his wallet into his back pocket and accompanied by a bright eyed youth who takes their bags and nods for them to follow.
Here goes…
Jim’s watching McCoy’s face when they walk inside. He’s not been somewhere this ornate in a long while and the way the Absinthe House seems to repel all natural light soon as the door closes behind them, adds to the impression he’s entered into a scene from the darkest fairy tale. He scans the glittering interior, the gold mirrors, heavy candelabras and flocked wallpaper, and takes in the opulent palette of characters -- women smoking cigars and skin in every color variation.
They follow the boy past a polished green marble bar. Waiters move about behind it dressed in white shirts, black vests and long white aprons. The scent of anise and cigar smoke makes him gasp, and he glances at Jim who’s smiling reassuringly.
When they pass two men sitting at a small table, knee to knee and heads bowed close, Jim takes off his hat and gloves, says quietly: “It’s okay, Bones, we’re upstairs - it’ll be fine.”
Nevertheless, he’s relieved when they’re led up a narrow staircase and shown to their room, away from prying eyes. The boy leaves their saddlebags by the door and Jim hands him a coin, kicks the door closed and turns to McCoy.
He’s aching to kiss Jim and bend him over the brass bed laden with cushions at one end of the room, but Jim’s got other ideas. He places their hats and gloves on a nearby stand then moves to a low table by the window set with everything needed for the absinthe ritual.
A pair of high backed leather armchairs sit to either side, framed by the window overlooking the street below; heavy lace curtains guarantee privacy. McCoy watches Jim unbutton his coat, take the chair on the left. He moves reluctantly to settle opposite.
“You nervous, Bones?”
McCoy rolls his eyes, trying to unpick his feelings. He doesn’t know how much of this is tension at being around Jim and permanently half hard, or worry at having missed his train, or maybe just apprehension linked to the thought of taking the narcotic absinthe. He thinks about the couple, the two men he saw seated downstairs - maybe that’s it, that same old fear…
“Maybe,” he concedes gruffly, crossing his legs.
“Well this’ll loosen you up,” Jim grins with an eyebrow waggle.
“Loosening up’s what’s got me thus far,” McCoy sighs. “If I’d kept a tight rein on myself, I wouldn’t be out on my ass, hanging around a bunch of miscreants and freaks for a living.“ He smiles to soften his words and Jim quirks his lips in response.
“You done this before, Bones?”
“No, I’ve heard tell naturally, but no-when you’re around narcotics as much as me, best to steer clear in the first place.”
“Makes sense, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Ah. . .” McCoy feels the tips of his ears color -- that… “Yes.” He’s not even sure if he says it aloud.
“What was his name?” Jim’s leaning towards him, unwavering, infernally blue eyes narrowed and McCoy’s reminded of the way Jim exudes perfect calm and confidence before he mounts Nero.
Yet McCoy shakes his head, can’t bring himself to tell Jim about Cley, the best man at his wedding, how -- his throat constricts at the memory, the shame, how Jocelyn wailed and did nothing to hide her disgust and hurt, how Cley pleaded for McCoy to stay. Nope, he’s not ready to tell that story, might never be. . . .
“I never question anything I want,” Jim says softly, not pushing but choosing instead, it seems, to reveal something of himself. “I’m not concerned with natural or unnatural - sure, I was surprised, you know, that first time, when you fixed me up, how it made me feel to be so close to you. It’s only been women before, but now, there’s you.”
McCoy’s silent for a while then says, “I’m not ashamed, Jim, it’s…”
“It’s what other people think, I know.”
Not just people - his friends, his family, his colleagues.
“We going to fucking drink, or what?”
Jim smiles, pulls the bottle of absinthe close and McCoy leans over the table to watch, breathing more easily -- the conversation over, for now.
Jim takes the bottle and pours a measure into each glass. He looks at McCoy from under thick lashes, then balances a perforated spoon across the rim of his. He places a cube of sugar in the center of the spoon and tilts the bottle of iced water delicately over it. They both watch as the sugar begins to dissolve and sweet drips fall into the liquid below changing, the absinthe from peridot-green to milky.
“The louche,” Jim explains, nodding at the glass, “the change - that’s what it’s known as.”
“You’re a veritable absinthe professor,” McCoy drawls, his eyes on Jim’s long fingers where he holds the carafe, allowing a drop at a time to soak the sugar cube. “This supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”
By way of an answer, Jim takes a sugar cube, places it on his tongue. McCoy swallows, watches plump lips move and chew through the sugar. Finally Jim licks his lips, leans to examine the absinthe mix and adds a measure of ice water.
“They do say absinthe unlocks your secrets,” Jim says and his eyes widen.
He hands the glass to McCoy who takes it apprehensively.
“I don’t need unlockin’, Jim.”
Jim snorts, loosens his cravat and leans back in the armchair, his hair’s tied up in a loose pony tail and McCoy wonders how long it’ll be before he cracks and he’s got that mane wrapped in his hands again. He feels another shot of heat pass through him and has to look away from Jim’s penetrating gaze to the glass in his hand. The way the cool water bleeds into the alcohol, he’s reminded of sunsets at home, the slow advance of red and gold into the fading sky.
McCoy knows enough that he’s convinced the talk of how absinthe makes some hallucinate is romantic foolishness, yet his cautious nature baulks against what he’s about to do. Maybe this is why Jim’s brought him here in the first place, maybe there’s some symbolism in this decadent act which, for now, escapes him.
He waits for Jim to prepare a glass for himself, enjoying the strong aroma of the anise assaulting his nostrils like a cool breeze. McCoy watches Jim in silence, yet again awed, but no longer surprised, at how adept Jim is at every task he applies himself to.
“We’ll dine later,” Jim says, glancing at him, sitting back in his chair and bringing the glass to his nose, half closing his eyes and a smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
“Sure,” McCoy says taking his first sip, eyes fixed on Jim the whole time. The flavor is complex: first, the burst of anise, then a perfect combination of bitter wetness followed by a burn on the roof of his mouth, then a warm rasp in his throat as he swallows.
Jim smiles reassuringly and reaches into his breast-pocket for a cigar. He clips the end, lights it from the candle on the table and hands it to McCoy.
McCoy takes another sip then a pull on the cigar, taking his time to release a pair of smoke rings between them. He’s dimly aware of the sounds in the street below, the roll of carriage wheels, the voices from the bar, ripples of laughter soaking through the walls and floor, making the room seem even more of a cocoon. Jim’s voice cuts through his reveries.
“Where’d you feel it, Bones?”
McCoy feels his eyes drop to half mast as he mentally scans so he can answer the question.
“My cheeks,” he says, “the top of my head-“ It’s true. McCoy’s scalp feels like it’s been anointed with warm water. He rolls his neck against the head rest and contemplates the now slightly flushed man sitting across from him, and sips again, this time allowing the absinthe to coat his tongue, the inside of his cheeks for longer, kiss its way into his blood-stream more slowly. “Now, I’m just warm all over, I…”
He slides down in his seat a little, rests the glass on the polished wood before them, takes in the candle light dancing through the tall stems of glass, the shadows cast on Jim’s beautiful face, the way his dirty blond hair appears almost golden in the light of the fire blazing in the grate.
“Tell me,” Jim whispers, leaning to take the cigar from McCoy’s fingers, pulling at it in a leisurely movement. A plume of blue smoke rises to the ceiling, hangs thick above their heads; it’s like everything around them is muted, slowed by the green fairy.
“I’m remembering something -- it’s a dream, one I’ve had more than once, I realize. I’ve not been able to remember properly until now.” Or willing to. . . . McCoy closes his eyes to sharpen the image, the sensations and emotions. The absinthe makes him feels safe, curiously sated and full, like those fleeting moments just before Jim pulls out of him and they fall asleep together, all the fight in McCoy temporarily doused.
“Tell me…”
McCoy feels the glass pressed into his hand again and he raises it to his lips like a chalice. The absinthe is sweeter this time and he runs his tongue over his teeth, draws his bottom lip in to suck out the last of the taste, the ensuing warmth into himself and he remembers, sees, feels, how he’s floating in a warm pool of water…
“I… I’m in water, I think, and it’s warm, I’m floating, and I can feel it caressing me as I move through it. It’s like I can breathe underwater, like I’m some kinda creature of the deep, hiding out from the world. Feels right…” He can hear the creak of Jim’s boots as he shifts on the other side of the table, hears him say-
“Go on, I want to know.”
“There’s shadows, figures swimmin’ in there with me. Everything’s green, blue, swirling around me, warming my skin…” McCoy moves towards the first figure and as he approaches he sees a swirl of blond hair and stills in the water. “I want to know who they are…” The leather armchair seems to hold McCoy in place, his back heavy and warm against the soft material, his thighs falling apart as he feels a wave of peace loosen his tongue. “It’s Daddy. He’s--he’s looking at me and he takes my hand in his, so cool, dry even in the water-“ And that ache inside, the one McCoy’s become so proficient at smothering, surfaces again.
Even while giving himself over to his ‘dream’, part of McCoy analyses the mix of emotions released by the drink. The absinthe floods him with a sense of well-being, so he’s a bird riding currents of warm air; yet it also unleashes hurt and regret and guilt. Maybe this is something like his father experienced when he injected the deadly dose of opiates -- McCoy feels a surge of relief -- did he in fact help the man to truly feel, be in his last moments?
The scent of the cigar, Jim’s presence, the absinthe open him up, form a blanket of comfort around him, and McCoy grips the stem of the glass through the storm of memory. He doesn’t take another sip, doesn’t need to in order to find the courage to go on. “He lets go of me, Jim, he swims away to the surface of the pool or lake, or wherever the hell it is we are, and I let him.” McCoy pauses, feels tears prick and he turns away in the dream, swimming with long, strong strokes deeper into the water surrounding him.
“What do you see, Bones?” Jim’s voice is soft and seeps into McCoy’s chest, his throat, his head, like it’s physical, surrounding.
“I’m alone, there’s a patch of blue and gold in the water… I can see another figure swimming away from me-“ And McCoy knows who this is too, swims forwards, but not quite daring to close the gap between them. “I…I reach out, my fingers don’t seem to… and then the figure-“ Turns to meet him, golden hair swirling about his head and blue eyes, white teeth - Jim.
“Bones?”
It’s an enormous effort to open his eyes, to look at the man in front of him, to willingly leave the safety of the pool of water, to swim upwards to the light. The touch of Jim’s hand to his, the sureness of it, pulls him back. He looks at that oh-so young face, at the expression of curiosity, patience and he stands up on shaking legs, the chair scraping and catching in the rug. Jim watches him round the table, and rests his cigar in the ash tray. The Green Fairy, the bottle of absinthe, seems to glow on the table.
“I’ve had enough,” McCoy says simply and feels a slight thrill at the flicker of worry he sees pass across Jim’s face. “Stand up.” Jim does, stepping away from the armchair so he’s an inch from McCoy’s face. “I’m not like you,” McCoy says, bringing his mouth close to Jim’s ear but not touching him.
“I know,” Jim says simply.
McCoy lifts a hand, wavers a finger close to Jim’s cheek who doesn’t flinch, or move, just waits, breathing heavily. “You’re…you don’t care what people think of you.”
“And you do.” It’s a simple statement, so much truth there, encapsulating all the pain that’s followed McCoy everywhere, before his marriage, during - means he’s taken so many wrong turns in his life.
“Most everyone else cares, Jim. This…” and he touches Jim’s face, runs a finger the length of his jaw, steps closer, “…this, the scandal, it’s almost ruined me, almost cost me my license. If Jocelyn, my wife, hadn’t felt pity for me in the end, hadn’t wanted to protect our daughter.”
“So what? You’re going to spend the rest of your life doing this, hiding from what you want?”
The distance between McCoy’s fingers and Jim’s skin seems a chasm.
“What I want, Jim, is to heal people,” he croaks past the lump in his throat.
“You can do that-you do…” Jim leans his head into McCoy’s touch and his skin’s burning, his pupils enlarged from the effects of the absinthe, “And?” Jim says so quietly his voice is almost drowned by the pounding in McCoy’s chest, “What else do you want, Bones?”
“Plenty,” McCoy says and he licks his lips, feels a column of heat build in his belly, flood his chest and arms and burn his face. “Why can’t you leave me be, Jim?”
“I don’t want to. You don’t want me to.”
He’s well aware that Jim’s not pushing, not leading - it’s always been that way before; McCoy’s been the passive one, reneging responsibility, covering his fear in a shroud of anger and fight. Consoling himself that this was all about Jim’s persistence and how could he offer any resistance to the tidal wave that was Jim Kirk’s desire? He thinks about the figure in the water, the one his dream showed him. And it’s funny, he’d never have had Jim down as a patient man, someone who could bide his time, who could wait like this, watch him think this through.
McCoy takes up Jim’s glass of absinthe; there’s a finger left in the bottom of it and he knocks it back, notices how Jim watches his throat when he leans back. He doesn’t swallow, instead presses his lips to Jim’s and groans inwardly when Jim’s mouth opens without question and accepts the offering. He rests his hand around Jim’s throat to feel him swallow, breathing against his mouth, the scent of anise tickling his nostrils, the heat of Jim’s mouth melting what little doubt may have been left, and he remembers the sight of the sugar crumbling under the iced water on the absinthe spoon. He slides his tongue into Jim’s mouth, chasing the green fairy, finding instead flesh and blood and acceptance.
Jim’s eyes are closed and McCoy wonders if he too is seeing something, remembering. “What can you see, Jim?”
Jim opens his eyes, scans McCoy’s face. “You,” he says simply.
Perhaps Jim isn’t as patient as McCoy thought after all, not the way his hands are twisting in McCoy’s hair, the way he’s trying to fuse them together and McCoy pushes his knee between Jim’s thighs, bends him back slightly so he can begin to assault his throat and jaw and bestow sticky kisses on every inch of bare flesh he can find. It’s not enough - they break apart and McCoy cants his head to examine the flushed amused face.
“You want plenty, huh?” Jim says pulling a strand of his hair away from his face where it’s stuck to his lips.
“You’re like a stallion, needs taming,” McCoy croaks, “showing-“
“So do it,” Jim says, unwavering, staring him down, short breaths making his chest rise and fall, “if you’re man enough, that is…”
McCoy slams his mouth against Jim’s again, but this time there’s no thought to the pleasure he or Jim will gain from the contact -- this time he bites, tears at Jim’s lips, draws and sucks Jim’s tongue into himself as if he can consume him, own him. While Jim doesn’t struggle, McCoy finds himself being guided towards the bed, Jim’s hand on his lower back like he’s performing that infernal tango again.
“No,” he says, pushing Jim so he lands on the bed, soaking up the sight of him in his highly pressed, dandy finery. Jim laughs, shakes his head.
“So, you’re an animal trainer now, as well as a doctor and clown?”
“I’m no clown, Jim. Now shut up and let me take off your boots.” McCoy turns and Jim rests a boot against McCoy’s back while McCoy tugs at the other. He tosses the boot away and grabs the other leg. When he’s done, he faces Jim again, removes his coat, allows it to fall to the floor, unbuttons his vest, leans down to remove his boots, all the while his eyes raking over Jim’s slender form. He opens his flies and pulls out his cock, gasping at the first touch since the night before. Jim follows the movement, licks his lips.
“What you gonna do with that, Bones?” Jim’s eyes are sparkling with playfulness, amusement. He’ll soon wipe that grin off the kid’s face, and McCoy tugs at himself, no time for finesse or niceties.
“Get undressed,” McCoy commands, suddenly feeling a strength of purpose he’s not experienced in a long while. “I’m going to show you what I want, and what you want, too, seems like, and I’m going to take my sweet time---“
Jim obliges, but he’s teasing, reminding McCoy he’s not so pliant, the bastard, just so as to annoy him.
McCoy tries not to glower, stays where he is standing at the foot of the bed, stroking his cock in a leisurely fashion while he watches Jim slowly unbutton, peel aside and shed the layers of wool and silk. Eventually he’s stripped to the waist, and McCoy indulges himself in an uninhibited view of milky opalescence, skin that rarely sees the sun, the fine hairs on Jim’s chest, the honey colored armpits, the light sheen of sweat on Jim’s brow. He drags his eyes from Jim’s wanton expression to the trail of hair inviting him lower.
It’s like Jim can read his mind. “What’s up, Bones? Am I taking too long for you?”
And before either of them can say ‘Charles Darwin’, McCoy’s thrown a chuckling Jim back down onto the bed, and he’s guiding Jim’s long legs around his back, while he tongue fucks Jim’s navel, growling obscenities into his belly, fumbling at Jim’s fly buttons in a clumsy attempt to pull his cock free.
Jim’s hands run through McCoy’s hair, neither encouraging nor preventing him in his efforts. He’s still laughing, taunting.
“So this is how you perform surgery is it? All pokes and fumbles and-Jesus!”
McCoy manages to get at least half of Jim’s cock down his throat at the first attempt, doesn’t bother to ease the passage by covering it in saliva first; nope, he’s got a notion this needs to be rough, about two men, nothing soft and gentle, not this time, not when he’s trying to make a point.
Jim bucks under him, and McCoy tries not to gag at the movement, clamps Jim still with his hands, giving himself over to the scent and taste of him, musky, animal, male. He feels Jim shift his legs, clamp rough wool covered thighs around his head to push him away, and when the grip doesn’t loosen, McCoy lets go of Jim’s cock. He instantly regrets it - seems Jim’s picked up a few tricks from the tumblers, damn him, and he uses strong thighs to pull McCoy up into a kneeling position. His eyes are burning, predatory while he contemplates McCoy’s furious face.
“Once more round the paddock?” he smirks, grabbing McCoy’s shoulders, his nails digging through the silk of his shirt. “You look good on your knees.” His finger drags under McCoy’s chin, teasing it up for a quick kiss, then twisting so his legs are free and he can stand.
McCoy doesn’t move, waits for the right moment and when Jim’s behind him, he half turns so he can catch his legs and bundle him to the floor. He straddles him, pins one of Jim’s hands above his head, amused by how he feigns a struggle. He drags Jim’s pants and underwear down, eyes fixed on his face contorted in a grimace while he strains against him.
“Half-hearted,” he whispers into Jim’s chest then bites down on his caramel nipples, one after the other, his cock throbbing in response to the moan this draws out of him. “You want me to cow you, only you’re afraid of what that means, aren’t you?”
Jim catches McCoy’s wrists, rolls him to the carpet, sits up and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. “And there I was thinking it was you who liked to be held down, begging for me to fuck you…” He lifts McCoy to a standing position and presses his body flush against his, his cock long and hard clamped between them. “You’re wearing too many clothes and yeah, I know I promised I’d cover you, them, in my scent but I wanna look at you, look at what’s mine.”
McCoy feels a puff of air leave his nostrils, and in another tangle of limbs and grunts, he manages to wrestle Jim onto the bed again, belly first, his hands looped behind his back. He kicks Jim’s ankles apart so he’s splayed open for him. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t own no one in this room; no one needs teaching a lesson like you-“ And before Jim can protest he’s pushed his chin against Jim’s balls, his tongue deep inside him, thinks he might come from the sound of the moans being torn from Jim’s throat. He licks and thrusts, his jaw aching within minutes at the effort, the violence with which he’s assaulting Jim’s hole. He risks letting go of his wrists, slips to the floor again and drags Jim by the ankles so he can kneel down again, get a better angle, and use his thumbs to open him, get deeper, closer.
Jim’s up on his elbows, pushing against McCoy’s tongue. McCoy sits back on his ankles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Like that, kid? Like me opening you up?”
Before Jim can form a coherent response, McCoy’s back to work with fingers and tongue. He takes in the sight of him, the darker skin round Jim’s hole, the marks his hands and nails have left on his ass cheeks; he takes a calming breath and then pushes his thumb in with no finesse. Jim whines, gasps and then he’s practically sitting on McCoy’s hand, pushing his ass back onto it.
“See, you like to be taken, you jus’ didn’t know it before this - now stay there, kid, I’m just fetching the oil.”
The ceramic bottle’s in his coat pocket, and McCoy rests the lid near the absinthe spoon, watches from the table where he slicks himself up, drinking in the sight of the pale long back, the strong curve of Jim’s ass, the hair on his thighs as Jim waits for him, murmuring impatience and dissent even now.
“On your back, Jim,” he manages to say, his throat constricting at the way Jim’s looking over his shoulder at him from under hooded eyes. “Want to see your face, appreciate the moment you break.”
Jim turns wearily and places his hands under his knees so he can spread his legs wide. McCoy takes what’s left of his drink to the bed with his clean hand, places it and the oil on the bedside table. “No, scoot up, I need your ass on the edge of the bed, I’m getting sore knees here.” While Jim rearranges himself vertically, McCoy lowers his pants and underwear finally, kicks them clear, toes off his socks and kneels on the edge of the bed.
“You scared, Jim? Think I’m gonna hurt ya?”
Jim shakes his head, parts his lips invitingly. “Never scared of you, Bones. Come on, get to it-“ He pulls his knees to his chest, raises his head off the mattress to watch McCoy oil his fingers.
“Got to get you ready, it burns first time, always does-“
Jim nods, gasps, blows out several ragged breaths as McCoy works a finger deep inside. Transfixed by the sight of his darker skin entering Jim, McCoy gives his cock a reassuring stroke. “Touch yourself, Jim, it’ll help ease things,“ McCoy says, noticing how Jim’s flagging. “Work in time with me.”
As ever, Jim’s a fast learner and, by the time McCoy’s got three fingers up to the last knuckle, he’s panting, grumbling, cocky as ever. “Come on, you gonna ‘tame’ me before I fall asleep…”
McCoy pulls his hand free, wipes it on the bed, kneels on the edge of the mattress, leans over Jim and braces one arm by his head. Jim looks up at him defiantly, parts his lips and McCoy wonders how he’s neglected that mouth for all these minutes. He bends to kiss plump, bruised lips, his tongue slipping and sliding as easily into Jim’s slick mouth as his fingers were inside him a moment ago.
He takes one last nip at Jim’s lower lip, drawing it out between his teeth gently, reveling in the hitched moans, the feel of Jim’s cock sliding in pre-come across his stomach, when he feels a sudden grip to his shoulders and Jim flips him over onto his back with a triumphant laugh. He’s so surprised, it gives Jim time to straddle his thighs. “Son of a gun…” McCoy growls, trying to hide his amusement. Jim’s above him, hair tangled and lush, his face twisted in that infernal smirk.
“In actual fact…old man,” Jim says lowering himself into position, guiding McCoy’s cock so he can begin to push down and home, “you oughtta know…oh, fuck…Kirk senior was a sailor…not a…Jesus…son of a gun.”
McCoy lets out a long moan; part of his brain processes this snippet of information, and he determines to quiz Jim, find out more about his background, but for now, he’s concentrating on not coming. McCoy stares in awe at Jim’s face, at the beautiful grimaces of pleasure pain when he’s first breached. With trembling fingers, McCoy reaches, grips the base of his cock and squeezes tight, before it’s all over. Jim’s eyes shoot open at the movement and he presses down another inch, eyes locked with McCoy’s, breathing short, harsh breaths as he nudges down.
McCoy helps him balance with one hand, whispers, “Tilt forward, Jim.” And Jim drops onto his hands so McCoy can take over, edge in so, so slowly, his heart bursting - in that moment, he knows he’s the first and only man Jim’s ever kissed, realizes he’s known that from that first time when he tended Jim’s wound all those months ago. He glances down at Jim’s thigh, at Missy’s handiwork, the still pink scar which runs almost down to his knee, and runs a possessive thumb along it.
Jim sees, understands, links his fingers with his and says, “Okay, dance over.” He braces and shoves down the last few inches, throwing his head back at the burn, gasping, baring his teeth.
McCoy doubts he’s ever seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life, the way Jim's hair frames that strong jaw, the muscular column of his neck, the way he composes himself, then nods, giving McCoy permission to move.
It’s when he sits up on his knees, when the angle changes, when McCoy increases the pace that Jim lets out a wild cry, looks at McCoy in wonder, lips pursed in surprise.
“Finally hit home, huh?” McCoy grins.
“Jesus fuck -- so why you stopping now?”
“Well, I thought I’d just watch my broken-in stallion!”
Jim doesn’t appear to have the energy to make a come back, too focused on the cluster of nerves he’s just discovered, so McCoy takes pity on him, and starts to thrust up with a more punishing rhythm, his hands stroking up Jim’s lean abdomen, stopping when he reaches his nipples. He pinches them hard, then moves to grab Jim’s cock that’s so tight, red and beautiful, velvet against the palm of his hand. He twists then rubs his thumb across the head.
McCoy increases the pace, his cock sliding so easily now, Jim making endless, choked desperate noises above him until he stills, opens his eyes wide, the color of the pool from McCoy’s dream he realizes with a helpless moan, just as Jim comes for what seems like an eternity, pushing back, so tight and hot around McCoy’s cock.
“Bones, Bones…” Jim slumps forward and McCoy struggles to breathe, he’s so overwhelmed by the debauched image of Jim with stripes of come all over his belly and chest, runs his hand through it, pulls Jim by the hair so his mouth's close, so he’s slumped across McCoy’s chest.
McCoy kisses him long and hard, decides at that moment that he’s fallen so hard he can’t imagine ever giving this up, can’t tell Jim, it’s not in his nature - well, not at this present moment and shit, he’s still hard as hell. He eases out, rolls Jim onto his back, scoops some of Jim’s come into his hand and uses it to slick up again, then pulls one of his legs up onto his shoulder and pushes in again in one thrust. Jim arches his back, watches him with glassy, black eyes, throws his arms over his head and McCoy lifts him higher, increases the intensity of the angle, his arms shaking under him as he powers into Jim.
“So tight,” he manages to say, “not letting you go, fuck… Jim….”
It starts somewhere in the base of his spine he thinks, a flare of heat and he shuts his eyes, breaths deep, fuel for the flame that combusts in every direction, through his belly, his thighs, like the water through absinthe, and he can hear Jim encouraging him, can feel Jim’s hands on his shoulders until McCoy’s vision seems to blur to milky white and he collapses to the side on his face, after shocks drawing the last vestige of strength from him.
After some minutes, he realizes he’s still wearing his shirt though it’s sweat soaked and clinging to him.
“We need to do this again,” he croaks into the pillows. Jim’s hand’s in his hair, loose and limp against the back of his sweat soaked neck.
“Gimme a minute to recover, Bones,” he sighs out, humor, bravado in his voice.
“Not now, asshole, I mean, you know, sometime with both of us butt naked.”
“You debauched sodomite,” Jim laughs. “I think that’s a step too far!”
For once the word doesn’t hurt spoken with such affection, such levity, and McCoy struggles to a seated position, removes his shirt and his vest, his undershirt and balls them up, throws them across the room. He gazes down at Jim’s spent cock and presses a light kiss to it.
“You’ve killed it,” Jim sighs, “and broken my ass. How am I gonna ride back in the morning?”
“You’ll have to ride like the English, with your ass in the air,” McCoy runs his index finger through what’s left of the come on Jim’s chest, pushes it into his mouth, licks his lips. “Though a sight like that, I might have to make you pull off the road, find somewhere to take you in the woods.”
He circles Jim’s asshole, wets his finger with his own come and anoints Jim’s face with it, running the pad across his eyebrows, twisting his fingers in the ends of his hair. He goes back for more and paints Jim’s cheek, feeling the rasp of his stubble against his skin. “So’s it’s clear I’m the last, too,” he explains, his voice breaking a little.
Jim stares at him, takes so long to say anything that McCoy wonders if he’s played this wrong, exposed himself too much.
“So who won that one, Bones, you or me?”
“Do you feel broken in?”
“Just my ass, but that doesn’t count.” Jim winks, pulls McCoy down so they’re lying side by side, staring at the chandelier above them, the room’s almost in darkness, night drawing in, the fire glowing in the grate. “I class that as a draw. No way I lost-“
“Unbelievable, “ McCoy mutters sliding down the bed to draw Jim’s flaccid cock into his mouth, “re-match then…”
+++
Christmas morning, they breakfast on beignets and hot chocolate in their room in comfortable silence. In less than an hour they’ll be back on the lot, ready to help organize the Christmas feast.
They kiss long and hard, steeling themselves before they’re ready to step through the door, aware they won’t be able to touch for hours, till they’re alone again.
“We should go to Paris, Jim, or Berlin, somewhere more-“ Bones says, buttoning up his coat.
“Bohemian? Accepting?” Jim shakes his head, hands Bones his hat. “We don’t need to go anywhere --things are changing here too and, you know, maybe we’ll set a new fashion…” Jim sees McCoy stiffen a little.
“I dunno, Jim.”
“Hey, I’m not suggesting we have a wedding, Bones. Just saying, I’m done running away, I did plenty of that when I was a kid.” He smoothes a thumb through Bones’ furrowed brow, watches his expression soften with a surge of happiness. “I’ve found a real family, the kind you make out of the pieces you need, and you’re the one makes that complete. We’re not leaving... “
Bones nods, looks Jim in the eye. “Sure, we’ll change things here, okay?”
“And you…“ Jim picks up the saddle bags. “No more ‘goddamned’ trains to catch.”
“You imitating my voice, kid, ‘cause if so, I’ll put you over my knee.”
Fuck, that snarl goes straight to his cock every time. Jim bounces down the stairs ahead of him. “Promises, promises, Bones,” he grins over his shoulder, reveling in the scowl this elicits.
They wait for the horses to be brought round and Jim draws in the clear, winter air, glances at the tall, handsome doctor at his side.
“You cut quite a dashing figure, doctor, in your borrowed hat and crumpled shirt.”
“You talk like a cheap romance novel, the kind maids read between emptying chamber pots,” McCoy grouches, but his cheeks are flushed.
“And you love it,” Jim grins, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, saddle up, Bones. We’ve got suckling pig, turtle soup, bread pudding, and a heap of booze waiting back home.”
Bones rolls his eyes and smirks when Jim settles gingerly on Nero’s back.
“You know something, kid, I think I do love it, I really do.“
~END~
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The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 9,550 words (this part)
Summary: A circus AU set sometime in the late 19C. McCoy, escaping his failed marriage, has fallen in with Enterprise Circus and works as a hobo clown, as well as crew and animal doctor when needed. This part takes up a few months after he and ringmaster and circus boss, Jim Kirk, spend their first night together. In part 4a, McCoy showed Jim how he felt about that tango - but the next morning, Jim’s gone. This part probably stands alone but would be enjoyed more if you read previous parts so you can ‘enjoy’ the UST. These boys really must stop using sex as a form of communication. What’s wrong with words, I ask you?
Warnings: angsty UST and 19C gay angst. Also, McCoy flounces like a debutante while Jim stomps around in riding boots. Oh, and there’s absinthe use drug-taking style in this part.
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes:
It’s the AU that won’t go away! I thought I was done with this but then it was Christmas, and I wanted to contribute another fic for space_wrapped , and I got to thinking, and they got angsty and had more man-sex. I am powerless to resist -- so here’s the final, final part in a final installment! This follows on from 4a posted on Christmas Day. There may be one or two continuity issues with previous parts that the more astute reader will notice. But, yanno, just enjoy the man-sex. It is the season, after all. ;D Hopefully, all circus slang will make sense in context.
Thanks to southern belle, abigail89 for beta reading at this busy time of the year! Darling, you are a diamond! Also thanks to lindmere for cheerleading throughout this series, and for helping me thrash out a few ideas for this part!
This part dedicated to avictoriangirl who made me this awesome banner!Thank you, bb!
Intriguing snippet: McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. Damn. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety.
Links to previous parts:
part 1
part 2
part3
part- 4a
The Ringmaster - part4b
McCoy sits at the foot of his bed, pulling on his boots; his trunk’s packed. He blinks against blades of light when his door’s thrown open. What the hell is it with everyone bursting in and out of his quarters like they own the goddamned place?
His fingers freeze when he sees Jim silhouetted against the morning sunshine, face hidden in the glare.
“Christmas Eve, Bones!” Even without a clear view of his features, McCoy knows Jim’s smirking. Damn, he was hoping he could avoid goodbyes -
“I need a loan of one of the horses, Jim,” he says, making a fair attempt at preventing his voice from cracking. He fiddles with the frayed ends of his laces again.
Jim seems to ignore this, and strides through the door bringing a blast of chilled air with him. He’s carrying an enamel bucket which he places in the centre of the small space with a grunt.
“You need a shave,” he says cocking his head to the side, rubbing his hands together then pointing at McCoy with a long pale finger; if McCoy wasn’t so mad, so fucking hurt, he’d bite it. He stands and takes the two steps that separate them.
“I always need a shave, “McCoy tries to joke, “thanks for the water. I’ll get to it now, so unless there’s something else-“
“Bones-“Jim swallows, looks him up and down, and McCoy fancies there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “I’ve never seen you scrubbed up.”
“Hey! I wash!” McCoy scowls, gestures towards his washstand and the face cloth he used a short time ago.
“Yeah, but what about this?” Jim grabs the lapels of the hobo coat. “You really think they’re going to let you on a train wearing this piece of crap?”
Motes of dust float in the early morning sunshine. McCoy frowns; he was hardly planning on first class, so what the hell? And as Jim continues to smirk at him, fuck, but he wants to bite that smug look right off the bastard’s face. But, he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted, “Jim, I…”
“I need to ask you, right? That’s it, isn’t it?” Jim’s eyes are wide, innocent and his eyebrows practically meet as he contemplates McCoy.
McCoy shakes his head, wishes he’d had some breakfast, something to soak up the bile churning in his stomach at the thought of leaving. He glances at his open trunk, looks over Jim’s shoulder at the open door.
“Ask me what, precisely, Jim?”
Not that there’s anything Jim can say. Last night, well, it was another one of those…he struggles for the words, not sure how to make sense of any of this storm of feeling that keeps flaring up between them. But Jim left and it hurt. He had to leave. And there’s the rub…
Jim cants his head, licks his lips, eyes wary; he runs one hand up McCoy’s chest, while the other rests on the back of his head, fingers gentle for once, like he’s soothing a horse. Yet Jim doesn’t pull McCoy close or try to kiss him. McCoy’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed, finds yet again he’s locked in limbo, unable to shake Jim off, or pull him closer.
Finally, Jim speaks. “The water’s going cold, Bones, we need to get you looking presentable - we’re going into the city.”
What in heaven’s name is the matter with the kid? Hasn’t he made himself clear?
Jim’s eyes skate over McCoy’s face, blazing blue, hypnotizing him so that McCoy finds himself wavering. Then, he hears himself say:
“We are?”
“Sure. We’re going to have some fun for once, well,” and Jim smirks -- ‘course he does, the stubborn, doesn’t-know-the-meaning-of-the-word-defeat, annoying-- “with our clothes on for a change.” McCoy’s cock twitches, and he thinks about Sulu’s gelding, envies the beast its peace.
“You are an arrogant asshole,” McCoy says, fighting a smile.
“So they tell me.“
“How am I supposed to get out of town if I miss my train?”
“You’re not. You’re going to stay.”
“Is that right?”
Jim nods, pats McCoy on the chest and guides him to the door. “I’ll bring up a chair, you get a towel. Come on, Bones, water’s getting cold, my man.“
“You already said that, and I’m not your man.“
Jim snorts, steps through the door, looks over his shoulder. “Hey, you even own a razor?”
When McCoy scowls, Jim grins like he’s just won some kind of victory and skips down the steps, striding across the lot to his trailer.
McCoy slams down the lid of the trunk and gives it a kick. “Fuck,” he growls, taking off his coat and flinging it on the bed. “Goddamned persistent asshole-“
He leans in the doorway watching Jim’s ass as he disappears into his own trailer, and removes his vest and lowers his suspenders.
It’s a beautiful morning, the sunshine breaking through the last of the early mist in City Park. In what was once a plantation, the remaining, ancient oaks stretch black and solid against the smudged skyline. He can smell eggs from the cook shack and his stomach rumbles. Cupcake’s got some hope if he thinks anyone’ll be up after last night.
“Leonard!”
It’s Uhura looking fresh-faced and beautiful in a scarlet wool jacket and ankle length skirt, her hair twisted in an elaborate chignon. He manages not to splutter at the sight of her arm in arm with Spock of all people -- when did they. . . ?
“Morning,” McCoy says, touching the imaginary brim of a hat, “it’s mighty fine to see you. Both.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Spock says evenly. “I trust you slept well.”
Well, he did, for two hours or so, until he woke up and found Jim was gone.
“About as well as you, I’m sure,” McCoy says, ignoring the prickle of panic in the back of his neck. He’d forgotten they’d all seen. Damn - but he plows on. “You look very…rested-“ Act like nothing happened.
Uhura punches Spock’s arm gently and giggles, bringing a hand up to her mouth.
“It is pleasing the run is over,” Spock says, glancing at his arm and apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in McCoy’s voice, “and I am gratified The Oracle act has been well received.” He adjusts his gloves and gazes unblinkingly at McCoy with dark, impenetrable eyes. “I noted you were not present for the second show, doctor. It was fortuitous Nyota was able to step in and help. I wish to convey my gratitude for your assistance these past few weeks; you brought a certain pathos to the performance.“
“That’s me, pathos in a bottle,” McCoy agrees. “And you’re welcome.” The sight of Jim walking back towards them, carrying a chair, lifts his spirits, makes him playful. He drags his eyes back to Spock. “Tell me, Spock, did you ever find L.H.M.?”
Uhura looks between them. “Who’s that, Spock?”
Spock inclines his head, regards her and, dear God, is he actually smiling? McCoy remembers the unexpected warm but brief touch to his shoulder the night before and his scalp prickles, tries to gauge if there’s empathy, satisfaction, sympathy - what?-- in that steady gaze. Maybe Jim’s right, maybe there is more to this fellow than he first thought. Nevertheless, he shoots Spock one of his best glares and folds his arms.
Fortunately Jim’s there before Spock can elaborate.
“You have become an early riser in recent months,” Spock observes, “an uncharacteristic-“
“Mind your own business, Oracle-boy,” Jim says, clapping Spock on the back. “Say, McCoy and I are taking a day in New Orleans so you’re in charge. Think you can handle things?”
“Most certainly, captain,” Spock says. “There will be little for me to do for today we rest, other than make preparations for tomorrow’s festivities. You will return for our Christmas banquet, I trust?”
“Try and stop me!”
“Since you appear enthusiastic about the prospect, it would be illogical of me to attempt to stop you,” Spock says with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Jim laughs, ushers McCoy up the steps and slams the door behind him.
“Dammit, Jim. You’re damned indiscreet.“
“I am? Really? Well, maybe last night…”
He shoots McCoy a look which is so lacking in remorse, McCoy wants to drop to his knees there and then, and teach him a fucking lesson. Instead, he huffs and watches Jim arrange the chair and washstand near the door, then open the curtain on the small window. Jim thinks a moment, and lights the oil lamp.
“I’m doing this, Bones,” he says, in what McCoy’s come to recognize as Jim’s ‘I’ll take no shit’ tone. “You’ll need to sit down,” and now his voice is laced with intent, “it’ll work better.”
“Will it now?” But, for once, McCoy doesn’t argue; instead he sits, leans back, spreads his legs to give Jim access.
Jim fills the jug with warm water, and seals the enamel bucket, transfers it into the wash bowl and wets the badger hair brush. He begins to work a lather in the shave bowl, frowning as he does so, glancing up at McCoy occasionally.
“What?” McCoy says, suddenly feeling defensive. Jim places the laden brush on the table and spreads a towel across McCoy’s chest, their eyes catch and Jim’s eyes crinkle.
“This is a brush of exceptional quality,” Jim starts.
“It’s an heirloom.” McCoy closes his eyes and tries to shut out the image of the compassion in Jim’s expression. It’s none of his business -- McCoy’s done with that episode in his life.
“It’s just,” Jim says, and McCoy can feel his body heat as Jim looms over him, can smell the soap as the soft bristles and the cool lather touch his skin, “not the sort of thing a hobo would have in his carpet bag,” Jim continues.
“You’re not wrong, kid-“
“Seems like once, maybe a while ago, maybe, you weren’t in a position where you had to scrabble for dimes.”
“I’ve never scrabbled for a darn thing my whole life, asshole,” McCoy says, shutting out the image of how he wrestled to release Jim’s cock from his pants the night before. That doesn’t count.
Maybe it’s the insistent touch of the brush, the circular motion lulling him, but McCoy’s got no fight in him - not at this present moment. He’s not letting on that’s how he feels, so he growls:
“You spend too much time with that mentalist.”
McCoy feels a huff of air close to his face when Jim lets out a low laugh. ”I never figured you for the jealous type, Bones.” Yeah, but going by last night, Jim likes it.
“And I never figured you for a valet,” McCoy snaps, opening his eyes to shoot a glare at the smug idiot. His breath catches when he sees the tip of Jim’s tongue, the moistness of his lower lip, the intent expression on Jim’s face as he finishes lathering his beard.
“Multi-talented, that’s Jim Kirk,” he retorts, baring perfect teeth in a grin.
“Flyer, dancer, entrepreneur, “ McCoy closes his eyes again, extends a leg to hook it round Jim’s calf, “is there anything you can’t do?” His tone’s teasing and he knows Jim gets that because he feels his knees being pushed together. Jim sits astride McCoy’s thighs and his weight settles, then there’s a faint scrape as he opens up the folding razor.
“And I’m pretty good with knives, too,” Jim says. “Chin up, Bones.” McCoy obliges by shifting his groin a little since he’s beginning to feel a little constricted, a little cornered at the weight of him; the sensation of the blade against his throat as Jim begins to shave him, running the razor in smooth strokes across his Adam’s apple, a free hand holding him steady have him half-hard and wanting. “And you’ll need to keep still…”
McCoy rests his hands on Jim’s hips while he works, can hear Jim’s breath become more shallow over the next few minutes, feels himself being soothed by the sound of the rasp of blade over beard, the clock ticking deep by his bed, the distant sounds of the horses whinnying somewhere behind him…
McCoy must have dozed off, because he comes to when he feels Jim stand and hears the tap of the razor against the bowl, the sound of more water being poured.
And he can’t remember the last time someone did something for him, just touched him with such care, nor the last time he let someone. McCoy swallows, cracks open an eye to see Jim lean over with a wash cloth, an intent expression on his face as he begins to wipe away the soap, turning to rinse it. He repeats the action until McCoy’s skin tingles.
Jim straddles him again, and collects the towel from McCoy’s chest, uses it to dab at his throat and cheeks.
“There,” he says, leaning back to contemplate his handy work, “just one more thing-“
Jim reaches into his vest pocket for a small bottle of eau de cologne and pours some into the palm of his hand. He rubs his hands together, fans them across McCoy’s cheeks. It stings and Bones shifts, feeling his throat constrict with emotion.
“Jim,” he says, swallowing again, words cracking under the weight of this moment. Jim’s hands still on his face and McCoy circles his wrists and draws those long, pale fingers to his mouth and kisses the palms. “Thanks.”
Jim blinks, narrows his eyes, long dark lashes so close to McCoy that he can make out each individual one. He realizes he’s never had an opportunity to examine Jim freely like this, not in daylight, and his gaze rakes over the surface of Jim’s face, takes in the scars and blemishes, the eyes warm and chill all at once, snow and ice, and…he cuts the thought short, amused at his poor attempt at waxing lyrical.
“What’s tickling you, grumpy?” Jim says low and soft, so close to his face, breathing on his skin, warming him, making McCoy feel alive. No, snow and ice was just dumb.
“Oof!”
And his lips are smothered by lush, chapped, hungry ones. McCoy digs his fingers into Jim’s arms, moaning despite himself as he pushes his tongue into the eager mouth, Jim’s silk shirt sliding under his fingers. His thumbs hook in Jim’s suspenders, rubbing their embroidered motif as eagerly as he would Jim’s nipples, or cock, for this, everything is all part of him.
He can feel how hard Jim is, difficult to avoid when Jim guides his hand and encourages McCoy to palm him through his pants. Jim’s licking McCoy’s cheeks now, his tongue rasping at him like a cat, fingers working open the mother of pearl buttons of his shirt. The chair creaks under their combined weights. Jim gasps, pulls away with a moan. McCoy grumbles, drags him back by his hair. “Shut up!” he says.
“What, I’m…fuck, Bones-I didn’t say anything-“
“Well, I can hear you.”
“That’s what Spock would say,” Jim says with a chuckle, sitting upright, rubbing his thumb against his lower lip, like he’s scooping McCoy’s taste back into his mouth. “I like you like this, all, I dunno - exposed, clean. That what you can hear me thinking? And…”
“And?”
“You aren’t fighting me.”
“I’m not?” and, “When was I?” Fighting himself, not Jim, always himself he suddenly understands, kicking against how much he wants this.
Jim shrugs, like it’s too complicated to go into at this juncture. “You need to finish getting ready.” He nods towards the trunk. “You got anything in there’ll make you look like a gentleman?”
“Sure I have - might smell of mothballs I warn you.”
“Well, put it on. I’ll be back in half an hour with the horses. We’re going into the city and you need to look real nice. Won’t take me as long to pretty up, but…ow!” He ducks, stands before McCoy can swipe him upside the head one more time.
Jim grins from the door. “And we’re staying over, so you’ve missed your train, I guess. That’s a real shame.”
“Yeah,” McCoy says from his chair, temporarily unable to move other than to adjust himself. Jim follows the movement, raises an eyebrow, smirks -
“So you haven’t got time to take care of that -- me neither.”
“I’ll just have to wait,” McCoy says, his voice a little broken, like Jim’s cut through more than his beard.
When Jim leaves, McCoy finds his wallet in his coat pocket, checks the money he’d put aside for a ticket, shrugs when he contemplates his father’s silver handled shaving brush and razor blade, which he’d planned to hock soon as he’d reached town. He opens his trunk, takes out the daguerreotype of Joanna and places it on the table.
“Daddy’s lost his mind, baby girl,” he sighs and digs into the trunk to find something that’ll turn Cinderella into a princess for one night at least.
+++
Jim’s jaw drops when he sees Bones: broad shouldered and slim-hipped, in a long coat, the color of eggplant, a pale blue, silk vest, an ivory, silk wing-collared shirt, a cravat to match the coat, and dark gray flannel pants that make his legs look even longer, the thighs more…
“What the hell are you gawping at?” Bones mutters coloring slightly, “Have I got something on my face?”
“Not yet, you haven’t,” Jim says smoothly. “Jesus, Bones - you clean up nice-quite the southern gentleman.“
“Well, don’t sound so damned surprised, idiot.” And there’s a rare half-smile that makes Jim’s heart flutter. He crouches by the horse and links his fingers so he can give Bones a leg up and resists the temptation to slap that fine ass when Bones stands in the stirrups to tuck his coat under.
“You’re right,” Jim says instead, “mothballs-“
“Well, I did warn you.”
Jim crooks a finger so Bones leans down to hear his whispered, “Don’t worry, in a couple of hours you’ll be covered in my scent and no one’ll even notice…” He ducks back; after all, the petulant doctor’s got a riding crop in his hand. “Here,” he smirks, and hands Bones his top hat. “Where d’ya get this from?”
“Borrowed it off Sulu,” Bones calls over his shoulder as his horse trots towards the lot’s entrance. “Originally figured his head would’a been too big, but, looks like I was wrong.”
Jim cups his hand, calls after him, “Yeah - you were!” Wrong about a great deal by the sounds of it, but he’s got the whole night to show Bones that. “Hey! Wait up!”
+++
They ride the few miles into New Orleans and McCoy marvels at Jim’s easy grace in the saddle. Naturally, Jim would have a stallion no one else can get close to and, it would be too easy to have Nero gelded. McCoy grins when he remembers how Jim’s face turned pale when McCoy had suggested it, last time some idiot tried to mount the brute and got a kick. Jim covered Nero’s ears dramatically, like the horse understood or something.
“I like them wild, Bones, shh,” he said.
The way the animal’s eyes rolled, maybe it did understand, McCoy thinks now, watching the tall chestnut with wild eyes trot ahead.
When they reach the corner of Bourbon and Bienville, Jim raises his hand, pulls up and waits for McCoy to draw alongside.
“What do you think, Bones?”
“Jim?”
McCoy’s heard of this place -- who hasn’t? The Absinthe House is notorious, word reaching anyone who cares to know about these things, frequented by bohemian types, writers, artists and, what his not-so-beloved Jocelyn would have called them, him, sodomites. McCoy’s shoulders slump. He looks up and down the street at the hawkers, the families walking past the boutiques and cafes, and he winces. Damn. Damn Jim Kirk and his blatant disregard for propriety.
“Bones, Bones, it’ll be fine.” Jim dismounts, runs his hand soothingly along the deep scars that decorate Nero’s neck. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”
McCoy holds their rides. Nero eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t shy away when Bones pats his neck. “Your master’s an asshole,” he mutters. Nero blows gently, flares his nostrils and bucks his head when a carriage rolls past.
A stable boy emerges and waits for McCoy to remove their saddlebags before leading the horses away. He can hear Nero whinnying in protest, wonders if he should have warned the boy to stand clear and rues the fact he didn’t bring his medical bag just in case.
He’s brought back to reality by a light touch to his arm. Jim’s grinning, folding his wallet into his back pocket and accompanied by a bright eyed youth who takes their bags and nods for them to follow.
Here goes…
Jim’s watching McCoy’s face when they walk inside. He’s not been somewhere this ornate in a long while and the way the Absinthe House seems to repel all natural light soon as the door closes behind them, adds to the impression he’s entered into a scene from the darkest fairy tale. He scans the glittering interior, the gold mirrors, heavy candelabras and flocked wallpaper, and takes in the opulent palette of characters -- women smoking cigars and skin in every color variation.
They follow the boy past a polished green marble bar. Waiters move about behind it dressed in white shirts, black vests and long white aprons. The scent of anise and cigar smoke makes him gasp, and he glances at Jim who’s smiling reassuringly.
When they pass two men sitting at a small table, knee to knee and heads bowed close, Jim takes off his hat and gloves, says quietly: “It’s okay, Bones, we’re upstairs - it’ll be fine.”
Nevertheless, he’s relieved when they’re led up a narrow staircase and shown to their room, away from prying eyes. The boy leaves their saddlebags by the door and Jim hands him a coin, kicks the door closed and turns to McCoy.
He’s aching to kiss Jim and bend him over the brass bed laden with cushions at one end of the room, but Jim’s got other ideas. He places their hats and gloves on a nearby stand then moves to a low table by the window set with everything needed for the absinthe ritual.
A pair of high backed leather armchairs sit to either side, framed by the window overlooking the street below; heavy lace curtains guarantee privacy. McCoy watches Jim unbutton his coat, take the chair on the left. He moves reluctantly to settle opposite.
“You nervous, Bones?”
McCoy rolls his eyes, trying to unpick his feelings. He doesn’t know how much of this is tension at being around Jim and permanently half hard, or worry at having missed his train, or maybe just apprehension linked to the thought of taking the narcotic absinthe. He thinks about the couple, the two men he saw seated downstairs - maybe that’s it, that same old fear…
“Maybe,” he concedes gruffly, crossing his legs.
“Well this’ll loosen you up,” Jim grins with an eyebrow waggle.
“Loosening up’s what’s got me thus far,” McCoy sighs. “If I’d kept a tight rein on myself, I wouldn’t be out on my ass, hanging around a bunch of miscreants and freaks for a living.“ He smiles to soften his words and Jim quirks his lips in response.
“You done this before, Bones?”
“No, I’ve heard tell naturally, but no-when you’re around narcotics as much as me, best to steer clear in the first place.”
“Makes sense, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Ah. . .” McCoy feels the tips of his ears color -- that… “Yes.” He’s not even sure if he says it aloud.
“What was his name?” Jim’s leaning towards him, unwavering, infernally blue eyes narrowed and McCoy’s reminded of the way Jim exudes perfect calm and confidence before he mounts Nero.
Yet McCoy shakes his head, can’t bring himself to tell Jim about Cley, the best man at his wedding, how -- his throat constricts at the memory, the shame, how Jocelyn wailed and did nothing to hide her disgust and hurt, how Cley pleaded for McCoy to stay. Nope, he’s not ready to tell that story, might never be. . . .
“I never question anything I want,” Jim says softly, not pushing but choosing instead, it seems, to reveal something of himself. “I’m not concerned with natural or unnatural - sure, I was surprised, you know, that first time, when you fixed me up, how it made me feel to be so close to you. It’s only been women before, but now, there’s you.”
McCoy’s silent for a while then says, “I’m not ashamed, Jim, it’s…”
“It’s what other people think, I know.”
Not just people - his friends, his family, his colleagues.
“We going to fucking drink, or what?”
Jim smiles, pulls the bottle of absinthe close and McCoy leans over the table to watch, breathing more easily -- the conversation over, for now.
Jim takes the bottle and pours a measure into each glass. He looks at McCoy from under thick lashes, then balances a perforated spoon across the rim of his. He places a cube of sugar in the center of the spoon and tilts the bottle of iced water delicately over it. They both watch as the sugar begins to dissolve and sweet drips fall into the liquid below changing, the absinthe from peridot-green to milky.
“The louche,” Jim explains, nodding at the glass, “the change - that’s what it’s known as.”
“You’re a veritable absinthe professor,” McCoy drawls, his eyes on Jim’s long fingers where he holds the carafe, allowing a drop at a time to soak the sugar cube. “This supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”
By way of an answer, Jim takes a sugar cube, places it on his tongue. McCoy swallows, watches plump lips move and chew through the sugar. Finally Jim licks his lips, leans to examine the absinthe mix and adds a measure of ice water.
“They do say absinthe unlocks your secrets,” Jim says and his eyes widen.
He hands the glass to McCoy who takes it apprehensively.
“I don’t need unlockin’, Jim.”
Jim snorts, loosens his cravat and leans back in the armchair, his hair’s tied up in a loose pony tail and McCoy wonders how long it’ll be before he cracks and he’s got that mane wrapped in his hands again. He feels another shot of heat pass through him and has to look away from Jim’s penetrating gaze to the glass in his hand. The way the cool water bleeds into the alcohol, he’s reminded of sunsets at home, the slow advance of red and gold into the fading sky.
McCoy knows enough that he’s convinced the talk of how absinthe makes some hallucinate is romantic foolishness, yet his cautious nature baulks against what he’s about to do. Maybe this is why Jim’s brought him here in the first place, maybe there’s some symbolism in this decadent act which, for now, escapes him.
He waits for Jim to prepare a glass for himself, enjoying the strong aroma of the anise assaulting his nostrils like a cool breeze. McCoy watches Jim in silence, yet again awed, but no longer surprised, at how adept Jim is at every task he applies himself to.
“We’ll dine later,” Jim says, glancing at him, sitting back in his chair and bringing the glass to his nose, half closing his eyes and a smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
“Sure,” McCoy says taking his first sip, eyes fixed on Jim the whole time. The flavor is complex: first, the burst of anise, then a perfect combination of bitter wetness followed by a burn on the roof of his mouth, then a warm rasp in his throat as he swallows.
Jim smiles reassuringly and reaches into his breast-pocket for a cigar. He clips the end, lights it from the candle on the table and hands it to McCoy.
McCoy takes another sip then a pull on the cigar, taking his time to release a pair of smoke rings between them. He’s dimly aware of the sounds in the street below, the roll of carriage wheels, the voices from the bar, ripples of laughter soaking through the walls and floor, making the room seem even more of a cocoon. Jim’s voice cuts through his reveries.
“Where’d you feel it, Bones?”
McCoy feels his eyes drop to half mast as he mentally scans so he can answer the question.
“My cheeks,” he says, “the top of my head-“ It’s true. McCoy’s scalp feels like it’s been anointed with warm water. He rolls his neck against the head rest and contemplates the now slightly flushed man sitting across from him, and sips again, this time allowing the absinthe to coat his tongue, the inside of his cheeks for longer, kiss its way into his blood-stream more slowly. “Now, I’m just warm all over, I…”
He slides down in his seat a little, rests the glass on the polished wood before them, takes in the candle light dancing through the tall stems of glass, the shadows cast on Jim’s beautiful face, the way his dirty blond hair appears almost golden in the light of the fire blazing in the grate.
“Tell me,” Jim whispers, leaning to take the cigar from McCoy’s fingers, pulling at it in a leisurely movement. A plume of blue smoke rises to the ceiling, hangs thick above their heads; it’s like everything around them is muted, slowed by the green fairy.
“I’m remembering something -- it’s a dream, one I’ve had more than once, I realize. I’ve not been able to remember properly until now.” Or willing to. . . . McCoy closes his eyes to sharpen the image, the sensations and emotions. The absinthe makes him feels safe, curiously sated and full, like those fleeting moments just before Jim pulls out of him and they fall asleep together, all the fight in McCoy temporarily doused.
“Tell me…”
McCoy feels the glass pressed into his hand again and he raises it to his lips like a chalice. The absinthe is sweeter this time and he runs his tongue over his teeth, draws his bottom lip in to suck out the last of the taste, the ensuing warmth into himself and he remembers, sees, feels, how he’s floating in a warm pool of water…
“I… I’m in water, I think, and it’s warm, I’m floating, and I can feel it caressing me as I move through it. It’s like I can breathe underwater, like I’m some kinda creature of the deep, hiding out from the world. Feels right…” He can hear the creak of Jim’s boots as he shifts on the other side of the table, hears him say-
“Go on, I want to know.”
“There’s shadows, figures swimmin’ in there with me. Everything’s green, blue, swirling around me, warming my skin…” McCoy moves towards the first figure and as he approaches he sees a swirl of blond hair and stills in the water. “I want to know who they are…” The leather armchair seems to hold McCoy in place, his back heavy and warm against the soft material, his thighs falling apart as he feels a wave of peace loosen his tongue. “It’s Daddy. He’s--he’s looking at me and he takes my hand in his, so cool, dry even in the water-“ And that ache inside, the one McCoy’s become so proficient at smothering, surfaces again.
Even while giving himself over to his ‘dream’, part of McCoy analyses the mix of emotions released by the drink. The absinthe floods him with a sense of well-being, so he’s a bird riding currents of warm air; yet it also unleashes hurt and regret and guilt. Maybe this is something like his father experienced when he injected the deadly dose of opiates -- McCoy feels a surge of relief -- did he in fact help the man to truly feel, be in his last moments?
The scent of the cigar, Jim’s presence, the absinthe open him up, form a blanket of comfort around him, and McCoy grips the stem of the glass through the storm of memory. He doesn’t take another sip, doesn’t need to in order to find the courage to go on. “He lets go of me, Jim, he swims away to the surface of the pool or lake, or wherever the hell it is we are, and I let him.” McCoy pauses, feels tears prick and he turns away in the dream, swimming with long, strong strokes deeper into the water surrounding him.
“What do you see, Bones?” Jim’s voice is soft and seeps into McCoy’s chest, his throat, his head, like it’s physical, surrounding.
“I’m alone, there’s a patch of blue and gold in the water… I can see another figure swimming away from me-“ And McCoy knows who this is too, swims forwards, but not quite daring to close the gap between them. “I…I reach out, my fingers don’t seem to… and then the figure-“ Turns to meet him, golden hair swirling about his head and blue eyes, white teeth - Jim.
“Bones?”
It’s an enormous effort to open his eyes, to look at the man in front of him, to willingly leave the safety of the pool of water, to swim upwards to the light. The touch of Jim’s hand to his, the sureness of it, pulls him back. He looks at that oh-so young face, at the expression of curiosity, patience and he stands up on shaking legs, the chair scraping and catching in the rug. Jim watches him round the table, and rests his cigar in the ash tray. The Green Fairy, the bottle of absinthe, seems to glow on the table.
“I’ve had enough,” McCoy says simply and feels a slight thrill at the flicker of worry he sees pass across Jim’s face. “Stand up.” Jim does, stepping away from the armchair so he’s an inch from McCoy’s face. “I’m not like you,” McCoy says, bringing his mouth close to Jim’s ear but not touching him.
“I know,” Jim says simply.
McCoy lifts a hand, wavers a finger close to Jim’s cheek who doesn’t flinch, or move, just waits, breathing heavily. “You’re…you don’t care what people think of you.”
“And you do.” It’s a simple statement, so much truth there, encapsulating all the pain that’s followed McCoy everywhere, before his marriage, during - means he’s taken so many wrong turns in his life.
“Most everyone else cares, Jim. This…” and he touches Jim’s face, runs a finger the length of his jaw, steps closer, “…this, the scandal, it’s almost ruined me, almost cost me my license. If Jocelyn, my wife, hadn’t felt pity for me in the end, hadn’t wanted to protect our daughter.”
“So what? You’re going to spend the rest of your life doing this, hiding from what you want?”
The distance between McCoy’s fingers and Jim’s skin seems a chasm.
“What I want, Jim, is to heal people,” he croaks past the lump in his throat.
“You can do that-you do…” Jim leans his head into McCoy’s touch and his skin’s burning, his pupils enlarged from the effects of the absinthe, “And?” Jim says so quietly his voice is almost drowned by the pounding in McCoy’s chest, “What else do you want, Bones?”
“Plenty,” McCoy says and he licks his lips, feels a column of heat build in his belly, flood his chest and arms and burn his face. “Why can’t you leave me be, Jim?”
“I don’t want to. You don’t want me to.”
He’s well aware that Jim’s not pushing, not leading - it’s always been that way before; McCoy’s been the passive one, reneging responsibility, covering his fear in a shroud of anger and fight. Consoling himself that this was all about Jim’s persistence and how could he offer any resistance to the tidal wave that was Jim Kirk’s desire? He thinks about the figure in the water, the one his dream showed him. And it’s funny, he’d never have had Jim down as a patient man, someone who could bide his time, who could wait like this, watch him think this through.
McCoy takes up Jim’s glass of absinthe; there’s a finger left in the bottom of it and he knocks it back, notices how Jim watches his throat when he leans back. He doesn’t swallow, instead presses his lips to Jim’s and groans inwardly when Jim’s mouth opens without question and accepts the offering. He rests his hand around Jim’s throat to feel him swallow, breathing against his mouth, the scent of anise tickling his nostrils, the heat of Jim’s mouth melting what little doubt may have been left, and he remembers the sight of the sugar crumbling under the iced water on the absinthe spoon. He slides his tongue into Jim’s mouth, chasing the green fairy, finding instead flesh and blood and acceptance.
Jim’s eyes are closed and McCoy wonders if he too is seeing something, remembering. “What can you see, Jim?”
Jim opens his eyes, scans McCoy’s face. “You,” he says simply.
Perhaps Jim isn’t as patient as McCoy thought after all, not the way his hands are twisting in McCoy’s hair, the way he’s trying to fuse them together and McCoy pushes his knee between Jim’s thighs, bends him back slightly so he can begin to assault his throat and jaw and bestow sticky kisses on every inch of bare flesh he can find. It’s not enough - they break apart and McCoy cants his head to examine the flushed amused face.
“You want plenty, huh?” Jim says pulling a strand of his hair away from his face where it’s stuck to his lips.
“You’re like a stallion, needs taming,” McCoy croaks, “showing-“
“So do it,” Jim says, unwavering, staring him down, short breaths making his chest rise and fall, “if you’re man enough, that is…”
McCoy slams his mouth against Jim’s again, but this time there’s no thought to the pleasure he or Jim will gain from the contact -- this time he bites, tears at Jim’s lips, draws and sucks Jim’s tongue into himself as if he can consume him, own him. While Jim doesn’t struggle, McCoy finds himself being guided towards the bed, Jim’s hand on his lower back like he’s performing that infernal tango again.
“No,” he says, pushing Jim so he lands on the bed, soaking up the sight of him in his highly pressed, dandy finery. Jim laughs, shakes his head.
“So, you’re an animal trainer now, as well as a doctor and clown?”
“I’m no clown, Jim. Now shut up and let me take off your boots.” McCoy turns and Jim rests a boot against McCoy’s back while McCoy tugs at the other. He tosses the boot away and grabs the other leg. When he’s done, he faces Jim again, removes his coat, allows it to fall to the floor, unbuttons his vest, leans down to remove his boots, all the while his eyes raking over Jim’s slender form. He opens his flies and pulls out his cock, gasping at the first touch since the night before. Jim follows the movement, licks his lips.
“What you gonna do with that, Bones?” Jim’s eyes are sparkling with playfulness, amusement. He’ll soon wipe that grin off the kid’s face, and McCoy tugs at himself, no time for finesse or niceties.
“Get undressed,” McCoy commands, suddenly feeling a strength of purpose he’s not experienced in a long while. “I’m going to show you what I want, and what you want, too, seems like, and I’m going to take my sweet time---“
Jim obliges, but he’s teasing, reminding McCoy he’s not so pliant, the bastard, just so as to annoy him.
McCoy tries not to glower, stays where he is standing at the foot of the bed, stroking his cock in a leisurely fashion while he watches Jim slowly unbutton, peel aside and shed the layers of wool and silk. Eventually he’s stripped to the waist, and McCoy indulges himself in an uninhibited view of milky opalescence, skin that rarely sees the sun, the fine hairs on Jim’s chest, the honey colored armpits, the light sheen of sweat on Jim’s brow. He drags his eyes from Jim’s wanton expression to the trail of hair inviting him lower.
It’s like Jim can read his mind. “What’s up, Bones? Am I taking too long for you?”
And before either of them can say ‘Charles Darwin’, McCoy’s thrown a chuckling Jim back down onto the bed, and he’s guiding Jim’s long legs around his back, while he tongue fucks Jim’s navel, growling obscenities into his belly, fumbling at Jim’s fly buttons in a clumsy attempt to pull his cock free.
Jim’s hands run through McCoy’s hair, neither encouraging nor preventing him in his efforts. He’s still laughing, taunting.
“So this is how you perform surgery is it? All pokes and fumbles and-Jesus!”
McCoy manages to get at least half of Jim’s cock down his throat at the first attempt, doesn’t bother to ease the passage by covering it in saliva first; nope, he’s got a notion this needs to be rough, about two men, nothing soft and gentle, not this time, not when he’s trying to make a point.
Jim bucks under him, and McCoy tries not to gag at the movement, clamps Jim still with his hands, giving himself over to the scent and taste of him, musky, animal, male. He feels Jim shift his legs, clamp rough wool covered thighs around his head to push him away, and when the grip doesn’t loosen, McCoy lets go of Jim’s cock. He instantly regrets it - seems Jim’s picked up a few tricks from the tumblers, damn him, and he uses strong thighs to pull McCoy up into a kneeling position. His eyes are burning, predatory while he contemplates McCoy’s furious face.
“Once more round the paddock?” he smirks, grabbing McCoy’s shoulders, his nails digging through the silk of his shirt. “You look good on your knees.” His finger drags under McCoy’s chin, teasing it up for a quick kiss, then twisting so his legs are free and he can stand.
McCoy doesn’t move, waits for the right moment and when Jim’s behind him, he half turns so he can catch his legs and bundle him to the floor. He straddles him, pins one of Jim’s hands above his head, amused by how he feigns a struggle. He drags Jim’s pants and underwear down, eyes fixed on his face contorted in a grimace while he strains against him.
“Half-hearted,” he whispers into Jim’s chest then bites down on his caramel nipples, one after the other, his cock throbbing in response to the moan this draws out of him. “You want me to cow you, only you’re afraid of what that means, aren’t you?”
Jim catches McCoy’s wrists, rolls him to the carpet, sits up and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. “And there I was thinking it was you who liked to be held down, begging for me to fuck you…” He lifts McCoy to a standing position and presses his body flush against his, his cock long and hard clamped between them. “You’re wearing too many clothes and yeah, I know I promised I’d cover you, them, in my scent but I wanna look at you, look at what’s mine.”
McCoy feels a puff of air leave his nostrils, and in another tangle of limbs and grunts, he manages to wrestle Jim onto the bed again, belly first, his hands looped behind his back. He kicks Jim’s ankles apart so he’s splayed open for him. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t own no one in this room; no one needs teaching a lesson like you-“ And before Jim can protest he’s pushed his chin against Jim’s balls, his tongue deep inside him, thinks he might come from the sound of the moans being torn from Jim’s throat. He licks and thrusts, his jaw aching within minutes at the effort, the violence with which he’s assaulting Jim’s hole. He risks letting go of his wrists, slips to the floor again and drags Jim by the ankles so he can kneel down again, get a better angle, and use his thumbs to open him, get deeper, closer.
Jim’s up on his elbows, pushing against McCoy’s tongue. McCoy sits back on his ankles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Like that, kid? Like me opening you up?”
Before Jim can form a coherent response, McCoy’s back to work with fingers and tongue. He takes in the sight of him, the darker skin round Jim’s hole, the marks his hands and nails have left on his ass cheeks; he takes a calming breath and then pushes his thumb in with no finesse. Jim whines, gasps and then he’s practically sitting on McCoy’s hand, pushing his ass back onto it.
“See, you like to be taken, you jus’ didn’t know it before this - now stay there, kid, I’m just fetching the oil.”
The ceramic bottle’s in his coat pocket, and McCoy rests the lid near the absinthe spoon, watches from the table where he slicks himself up, drinking in the sight of the pale long back, the strong curve of Jim’s ass, the hair on his thighs as Jim waits for him, murmuring impatience and dissent even now.
“On your back, Jim,” he manages to say, his throat constricting at the way Jim’s looking over his shoulder at him from under hooded eyes. “Want to see your face, appreciate the moment you break.”
Jim turns wearily and places his hands under his knees so he can spread his legs wide. McCoy takes what’s left of his drink to the bed with his clean hand, places it and the oil on the bedside table. “No, scoot up, I need your ass on the edge of the bed, I’m getting sore knees here.” While Jim rearranges himself vertically, McCoy lowers his pants and underwear finally, kicks them clear, toes off his socks and kneels on the edge of the bed.
“You scared, Jim? Think I’m gonna hurt ya?”
Jim shakes his head, parts his lips invitingly. “Never scared of you, Bones. Come on, get to it-“ He pulls his knees to his chest, raises his head off the mattress to watch McCoy oil his fingers.
“Got to get you ready, it burns first time, always does-“
Jim nods, gasps, blows out several ragged breaths as McCoy works a finger deep inside. Transfixed by the sight of his darker skin entering Jim, McCoy gives his cock a reassuring stroke. “Touch yourself, Jim, it’ll help ease things,“ McCoy says, noticing how Jim’s flagging. “Work in time with me.”
As ever, Jim’s a fast learner and, by the time McCoy’s got three fingers up to the last knuckle, he’s panting, grumbling, cocky as ever. “Come on, you gonna ‘tame’ me before I fall asleep…”
McCoy pulls his hand free, wipes it on the bed, kneels on the edge of the mattress, leans over Jim and braces one arm by his head. Jim looks up at him defiantly, parts his lips and McCoy wonders how he’s neglected that mouth for all these minutes. He bends to kiss plump, bruised lips, his tongue slipping and sliding as easily into Jim’s slick mouth as his fingers were inside him a moment ago.
He takes one last nip at Jim’s lower lip, drawing it out between his teeth gently, reveling in the hitched moans, the feel of Jim’s cock sliding in pre-come across his stomach, when he feels a sudden grip to his shoulders and Jim flips him over onto his back with a triumphant laugh. He’s so surprised, it gives Jim time to straddle his thighs. “Son of a gun…” McCoy growls, trying to hide his amusement. Jim’s above him, hair tangled and lush, his face twisted in that infernal smirk.
“In actual fact…old man,” Jim says lowering himself into position, guiding McCoy’s cock so he can begin to push down and home, “you oughtta know…oh, fuck…Kirk senior was a sailor…not a…Jesus…son of a gun.”
McCoy lets out a long moan; part of his brain processes this snippet of information, and he determines to quiz Jim, find out more about his background, but for now, he’s concentrating on not coming. McCoy stares in awe at Jim’s face, at the beautiful grimaces of pleasure pain when he’s first breached. With trembling fingers, McCoy reaches, grips the base of his cock and squeezes tight, before it’s all over. Jim’s eyes shoot open at the movement and he presses down another inch, eyes locked with McCoy’s, breathing short, harsh breaths as he nudges down.
McCoy helps him balance with one hand, whispers, “Tilt forward, Jim.” And Jim drops onto his hands so McCoy can take over, edge in so, so slowly, his heart bursting - in that moment, he knows he’s the first and only man Jim’s ever kissed, realizes he’s known that from that first time when he tended Jim’s wound all those months ago. He glances down at Jim’s thigh, at Missy’s handiwork, the still pink scar which runs almost down to his knee, and runs a possessive thumb along it.
Jim sees, understands, links his fingers with his and says, “Okay, dance over.” He braces and shoves down the last few inches, throwing his head back at the burn, gasping, baring his teeth.
McCoy doubts he’s ever seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life, the way Jim's hair frames that strong jaw, the muscular column of his neck, the way he composes himself, then nods, giving McCoy permission to move.
It’s when he sits up on his knees, when the angle changes, when McCoy increases the pace that Jim lets out a wild cry, looks at McCoy in wonder, lips pursed in surprise.
“Finally hit home, huh?” McCoy grins.
“Jesus fuck -- so why you stopping now?”
“Well, I thought I’d just watch my broken-in stallion!”
Jim doesn’t appear to have the energy to make a come back, too focused on the cluster of nerves he’s just discovered, so McCoy takes pity on him, and starts to thrust up with a more punishing rhythm, his hands stroking up Jim’s lean abdomen, stopping when he reaches his nipples. He pinches them hard, then moves to grab Jim’s cock that’s so tight, red and beautiful, velvet against the palm of his hand. He twists then rubs his thumb across the head.
McCoy increases the pace, his cock sliding so easily now, Jim making endless, choked desperate noises above him until he stills, opens his eyes wide, the color of the pool from McCoy’s dream he realizes with a helpless moan, just as Jim comes for what seems like an eternity, pushing back, so tight and hot around McCoy’s cock.
“Bones, Bones…” Jim slumps forward and McCoy struggles to breathe, he’s so overwhelmed by the debauched image of Jim with stripes of come all over his belly and chest, runs his hand through it, pulls Jim by the hair so his mouth's close, so he’s slumped across McCoy’s chest.
McCoy kisses him long and hard, decides at that moment that he’s fallen so hard he can’t imagine ever giving this up, can’t tell Jim, it’s not in his nature - well, not at this present moment and shit, he’s still hard as hell. He eases out, rolls Jim onto his back, scoops some of Jim’s come into his hand and uses it to slick up again, then pulls one of his legs up onto his shoulder and pushes in again in one thrust. Jim arches his back, watches him with glassy, black eyes, throws his arms over his head and McCoy lifts him higher, increases the intensity of the angle, his arms shaking under him as he powers into Jim.
“So tight,” he manages to say, “not letting you go, fuck… Jim….”
It starts somewhere in the base of his spine he thinks, a flare of heat and he shuts his eyes, breaths deep, fuel for the flame that combusts in every direction, through his belly, his thighs, like the water through absinthe, and he can hear Jim encouraging him, can feel Jim’s hands on his shoulders until McCoy’s vision seems to blur to milky white and he collapses to the side on his face, after shocks drawing the last vestige of strength from him.
After some minutes, he realizes he’s still wearing his shirt though it’s sweat soaked and clinging to him.
“We need to do this again,” he croaks into the pillows. Jim’s hand’s in his hair, loose and limp against the back of his sweat soaked neck.
“Gimme a minute to recover, Bones,” he sighs out, humor, bravado in his voice.
“Not now, asshole, I mean, you know, sometime with both of us butt naked.”
“You debauched sodomite,” Jim laughs. “I think that’s a step too far!”
For once the word doesn’t hurt spoken with such affection, such levity, and McCoy struggles to a seated position, removes his shirt and his vest, his undershirt and balls them up, throws them across the room. He gazes down at Jim’s spent cock and presses a light kiss to it.
“You’ve killed it,” Jim sighs, “and broken my ass. How am I gonna ride back in the morning?”
“You’ll have to ride like the English, with your ass in the air,” McCoy runs his index finger through what’s left of the come on Jim’s chest, pushes it into his mouth, licks his lips. “Though a sight like that, I might have to make you pull off the road, find somewhere to take you in the woods.”
He circles Jim’s asshole, wets his finger with his own come and anoints Jim’s face with it, running the pad across his eyebrows, twisting his fingers in the ends of his hair. He goes back for more and paints Jim’s cheek, feeling the rasp of his stubble against his skin. “So’s it’s clear I’m the last, too,” he explains, his voice breaking a little.
Jim stares at him, takes so long to say anything that McCoy wonders if he’s played this wrong, exposed himself too much.
“So who won that one, Bones, you or me?”
“Do you feel broken in?”
“Just my ass, but that doesn’t count.” Jim winks, pulls McCoy down so they’re lying side by side, staring at the chandelier above them, the room’s almost in darkness, night drawing in, the fire glowing in the grate. “I class that as a draw. No way I lost-“
“Unbelievable, “ McCoy mutters sliding down the bed to draw Jim’s flaccid cock into his mouth, “re-match then…”
+++
Christmas morning, they breakfast on beignets and hot chocolate in their room in comfortable silence. In less than an hour they’ll be back on the lot, ready to help organize the Christmas feast.
They kiss long and hard, steeling themselves before they’re ready to step through the door, aware they won’t be able to touch for hours, till they’re alone again.
“We should go to Paris, Jim, or Berlin, somewhere more-“ Bones says, buttoning up his coat.
“Bohemian? Accepting?” Jim shakes his head, hands Bones his hat. “We don’t need to go anywhere --things are changing here too and, you know, maybe we’ll set a new fashion…” Jim sees McCoy stiffen a little.
“I dunno, Jim.”
“Hey, I’m not suggesting we have a wedding, Bones. Just saying, I’m done running away, I did plenty of that when I was a kid.” He smoothes a thumb through Bones’ furrowed brow, watches his expression soften with a surge of happiness. “I’ve found a real family, the kind you make out of the pieces you need, and you’re the one makes that complete. We’re not leaving... “
Bones nods, looks Jim in the eye. “Sure, we’ll change things here, okay?”
“And you…“ Jim picks up the saddle bags. “No more ‘goddamned’ trains to catch.”
“You imitating my voice, kid, ‘cause if so, I’ll put you over my knee.”
Fuck, that snarl goes straight to his cock every time. Jim bounces down the stairs ahead of him. “Promises, promises, Bones,” he grins over his shoulder, reveling in the scowl this elicits.
They wait for the horses to be brought round and Jim draws in the clear, winter air, glances at the tall, handsome doctor at his side.
“You cut quite a dashing figure, doctor, in your borrowed hat and crumpled shirt.”
“You talk like a cheap romance novel, the kind maids read between emptying chamber pots,” McCoy grouches, but his cheeks are flushed.
“And you love it,” Jim grins, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, saddle up, Bones. We’ve got suckling pig, turtle soup, bread pudding, and a heap of booze waiting back home.”
Bones rolls his eyes and smirks when Jim settles gingerly on Nero’s back.
“You know something, kid, I think I do love it, I really do.“
~END~
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