FIC: The Ringmaster, 1/4
Title: The Ringmaster 1/4
Rating: nc-17 overall
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 2,500 words complete
Summary: AU set sometime in the 19C before medical hygiene and dermal regenerators, McCoy, the circus hobo clown is summoned by ringmaster, Kirk, who needs some medical attention.
Warnings: There’s a fleeting appearance by a snake. (I love snakes but I know some people don’t.) A teeny, wee bit gory.
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: This was written in answer to this prompt at the October 69 costume meme: costume party trick or treat challenge at cards_slash ’s journal.
Thanks to abigail89 for beta reading and fixing my silly errors again and again.
Intriguing snippet: The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
Awarded a gold medal in the jim_and_bones Rec Olympics 2012 for Best Historical AU!
Also posted on Archive of Our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
The Ringmaster
McCoy’s battered medical bag swung in his left hand, gray wool coat in the other. Scuffed boots carried him through drying mud and sawdust towards the ringmaster’s trailer. It would be dark soon and he’d need to dress for the show. A trickle of people had gathered behind the rope at the entrance. Nerves formed their stubborn creases and tight folds in his stomach already. He glanced up at the sky as it bled around the edges; another day he’d never get back. The irony of his life wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, paid to make people laugh, yet he couldn’t say he found any damn part of his clown act funny.
The Captain’s trailer was just a few more yards so McCoy put down his bag, wedged his coat between his thighs, threw his creased, collarless shirt on over his tank and buttoned about half the buttons, making sure they were skewed and finished by tucking part of the shirt-tails into his dusty pants. He pulled blue and white striped suspenders over his shoulders and stamped his foot to get the goddamned boot to stay on with all the laces untied. He scooped off his beaten up bowler hat and slapped at the dust on its crown, then jammed it firmly on his head. Each day that passed, it got easier and easier to look like a hobo without trying.
He looked up when the door ahead of him opened and the snake-dancer slunk out. Not yet in costume, she wore a dark blue silk shift tossed over a training leotard, fishnet tights and, of course, Keenser, the royal ball python seemed tense across her shoulders, his narrow head darting, tasting the cooling air. The snake froze into the shape of a storm damaged branch against the darkening sky when they reached McCoy.
“Evening, Leonard,” Nyota purred. They both watched Keenser arch towards McCoy from his soft perch, amber eyes level with his. McCoy passed his hand in front of Keenser’s nostrils and quivering tongue. “He remembers you,“ Nyota said.
“Yeah, well…” He hadn’t expected this, when he’d run away to the circus, that he’d like the animals so much, nor that they’d see past his grouchy bullshit and like him right back. Fine, long as every one else left him the hell alone. He winked at Keenser and frowned at Nyota as she sashayed away, ankle bells tinkling over bare feet and gold and black snakeskin ‘wrap’ shimmering in the low sun.
McCoy made a fist to rap on the door of the trailer and managed to whip it back just as it flew open and James Tiberius Kirk loomed on the step, pale eyes stealing some of the sun’s last light.
“Ah…” he said.
“Ah?” McCoy said.
“You came…”
“I did.”
A freshly shaved Kirk leaned toward him, all white teeth and hot whiskey breath, and McCoy resisted the urge to pull back. He hadn’t seen the man they called ‘The Captain’ this close up before, only at a distance decked out in his full ringmaster regalia. Under the spotlights, his blue eyes gleamed like stained glass; the whip in his hand, birch and twisted leather against kid glove, made him look ethereal. Now, despite the unmistakable authority, McCoy could see the freckles on his face, the individual hairs in eyebrows that belonged on the face of an older man, and he looked, well…human.
McCoy had turned up a month ago, belongings in a carpet bag and a hipflask near his heart and, in all that time, the Captain had never once caught his eye or acknowledged his existence. In fact, it was as if wherever McCoy went, Kirk would leave in the opposite direction. “You haven’t done your face,” Kirk said.
“Well, Chekov said I shouldn’t. Your orders.” McCoy noticed a lipstick print on Kirk’s cheekbone, and something on the other man’s breath he hadn’t smelled up close since before he walked out on Jocelyn.
“You’d better come in.” Kirk led the way into his trailer and McCoy raked his eyes over buckskin breeches, straining over the fine curve of the Captain’s ass. He gripped the handle of his medicine bag hard.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Kirk sat down in an armchair, his legs crossed, a smirk on his face. The smell of sex, candle wax, and patchouli oil from Nyota’s recent visit tickled the back of McCoy’s throat and made his tired cock stir.
“That bitch got me.” Kirk said, easing up to loosen his suspenders, the armchair creaking under his weight, “I must have dropped my guard or something but, she got me.”
“Who? Nyota?”
“No, you ass, Missy.” The alpha lioness. Kirk’s richly purred chuckle, ran through McCoy’s belly like a knife.
“I’d better take a look,” McCoy set his bag down. “Where? Where did she get you?”
Kirk indicated a muscular thigh with a lazy gesture and the air in the trailer drew close.
“Lower your pants,” McCoy said. He took his hat off and rested it on the small table which bore the solitary source of light, a wide church candle almost burned down that cast wave shaped shadows along the walls each time one of them moved.
The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin. Kirk’s hands wavered and McCoy became acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on his face. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle and an unexpected heat in his baggy pants. He dared not look up, dared not speak in case his voice came out like a kitten squeak.
Somehow he managed not to gasp, watching as Kirk slid hands down hips to lower the breeches. He could hear the rasp of buckskin down strong, pale thighs. A drum roll could have accompanied Kirk as he stretched back to his full height, one hand lifting the starched shirt tail aside like a curtain to reveal a foot-long gash across his thigh, a bloody brush stroke in reverse, seeping at the narrow end.
“Shit,” McCoy said.
“She’s one jealous woman, Bones.”
And McCoy understood why, his keen sense of smell brought the faint scent of Nyota from Kirk’s lips and groin, as he ducked his head to examine the wound. He pulled the candle closer and the flame made Kirk’s pupils contract. McCoy fancied he could see this man through the poor, lovesick beast’s eyes. If Kirk had belonged to him, he’d want to hurt anyone who touched him.
“Yeah, jealous,” McCoy echoed. He reached for his bag, and pushed the footstool closer with his boot. Kirk shrugged, his face impassive, his shoulder length, dirty blond mane shifting about his exposed neck. Kirk must have stepped between Nyota and the lioness.
With a wince, Kirk sat and the wound opened a little.
“Need this stitched up, Bones,” he said. The name had stuck and McCoy could do nothing about that now. “Before I ruin my favorite pants.”
McCoy grunted. He needed to concentrate, to keep a steady hand, this man, his contained power was unsettling him…
“Si’down,” he drawled, “and you’ll need this-.” He reached into his breast pocket, fingers sliding over silk lining to find his hip flask.
Kirk lowered his eyes, turned the silver base in large hands, ran his thumb along the leather top and flipped the silver stopper. McCoy caught himself staring at Kirk’s throat as he gulped down the whiskey. He managed to pull his gaze away only to settle on sensuous lips drawing on the silver nipple.
Kirk drew the back of his hand across whore’s lips, slapped the stopper tight with the palm of his hand and reached across the space between them which thrummed and twitched in anticipation each time one of them moved towards the other.
Heartbeat taunting him, McCoy went to the wash stand to pour water into the basin, took a cloth, and carefully cleaned the wound, Kirk watching all the while. He squatted on the stool at Kirk’s feet, the captain’s knee between his open legs, almost level with his chest so he could reach and stitch. He threaded the needle, and went to work, his left hand pressed against Kirk’s inner thigh, acutely aware of the fine sheen of sweat forming under it, his middle finger an inch away from…he snipped the first stitch. He couldn’t help looking up before he continued and he saw Kirk’s bottom lip folded under teeth, the only sign so far he’d felt anything.
At the second stitch, Kirk curved his hips up, shifting at the sharp pain of needle in flesh, the tug of catgut, whiskey-breath misting around McCoy’s face as he sewed. Perhaps that’s why he felt a little giddy, he thought, pressing down with the palm of his left hand, the heat from Kirk’s groin flooding through him.
“So, what’s your story, Bones?” Kirk’s voice was low, interested.
“I’m a clown, not a minstrel, sir,” McCoy said, ignoring the unasked for nickname, like it might go away. He kept his eyes on his work, watching how Kirk’s left hand flexed on the armrest while he rode out the pain.
“Man of few words, huh?”
“Could say that.” He didn’t look up; he needed to concentrate and get out. The heat from Kirk’s thigh seemed to have doubled, or was it him?
Between stitches two and three, McCoy’s eyes wandered to the hem of the Captain’s shirt where it pooled across Kirk’s groin, the crease of his underpants breaking the line, cream against white, jersey against Egyptian cotton. Fine hairs disappeared under the fabric and for just one second, a notion appeared in McCoy’s mind, as stark as the spotlight in his eyes when he ran into the ring. What if he were to slide his thumb under the jersey, feel Kirk’s skin give under the pads of his fingers, trace the dip where thigh joined groin? He had to look away but, dammit, he did that all wrong, looked up so Kirk caught his gaze like a predator, holding it there, so he couldn’t breathe or move. McCoy parted his lips, the needle hovered in his hands,
“I-“he said, “--need to finish up or you’ll scar.”
Finally done, he reached towards his bag, dropped the scissors, and the movement made him inadvertently slide the heel of his other hand back and up. It breached the warm space under Kirk’s shirt, touching jersey where a very hard cock strained through the fabric. McCoy froze unsure whether he wanted to retreat or push on.
They breathed in time, three maybe four breaths, then Kirk passed his hand over McCoy’s, skimming it on route. He adjusted his cock with an unselfconscious tug and brought his hand back up to the arm rest. McCoy pulled away and finished packing up his instruments, his head full of surprise and desire and notions.
“I don’t like clowns,” Kirk said suddenly. “My mom’s second husband was a clown.”
“We don’t bite,” McCoy said, snapping the clasp on his bag.
“But you do growl.” A cocky smile, which vied for brightness with the candle at their sides, stretched across Kirk’s strong features.
Damn, McCoy wasn’t quick enough to stop himself, so he smiled right back. The rare use of his happy muscles had set off a trickle of warmth that burrowed deep inside him. Soon as he’d got his mouth under control and managed to fake a scowl, he stood up. Hat in hand, he ran his thumb along the rim. Too late, Kirk had caught him out.
“Thought hobo clowns were supposed to be sad,“ Kirk said from his armchair, his breeches still shamelessly undone.
McCoy shook his head. “How the devil did an upstart like you make ringmaster?”
“Charisma, Bones, charisma.”
Right. McCoy took out his flask again, sipped but didn’t swallow and brought his mouth close to his Kirk’s thigh, to his handiwork. He allowed his lips to part and watched in satisfaction as Kirk bucked at the sharp sting of alcohol.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“Germs,” McCoy explained, his turn to grin, and how he loved the stretch of his jaw, the way his cheekbones moved, his eyes crinkled. Shit, how long had it been? He’d have to lay the greasepaint on tonight to conjure up that melancholic face.
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a light bandage and some gauze and, with supreme concentration, passed it under Kirk’s thigh, inhaling his scent as unobtrusively as he could muster. He almost wished he’d had Sulu’s tongue so he could pick up every nuance.
“You can get dressed now,” he said.
Kirk licked his lips, and pulled his breeches up, taking way to long to tuck that shirt in as if the little bastard was testing him the way he made a bit of a show of smoothing the fabric in place, doing those buttons up. Well, two could play this game, McCoy could watch as brazenly as Kirk could pose .
“I need to get dressed, not long till the show,” Kirk said.
Kirk picked his vest up off the back of the chair, the blue and gold brocade rich in the candlelight. McCoy felt a pang that he had no reason to stay. His eyes lingered on Kirk’s broad neck as he buttoned up and fixed his collar. He pulled a pocket watch out of the vest and wound it. “Belonged to my father, George Kirk,” he said, eyes lowered when he tucked it safely away. Then, he said:
“Help me with my tie?”
McCoy dropped his bag again, and was scuffed toe to polished boot with Kirk, aware how they were polar opposites: Kirk a bright star, and he a faded one, a homeless bum. His hands worked the knots, made the bow just right, his head bowed, Kirk’s warm breath whispering at his forehead, one hand on McCoy’s bicep.
“There,” McCoy said, his hands falling to Kirk’s shoulders and as if he’d read the want in his eyes. Kirk’s face filled his field of vision. McCoy’s cock lurched; Kirk’s lips were full, ready, like fruit waiting to fall and, holy fuck, suddenly pressed against his, a hand pulling at the back of his head. His hat tipped and almost fell when Kirk’s tongue slipped across his, forcing a moan out of him and before he could even breathe, the incredible warmth was gone again, “Thanks, Bones,” Kirk murmured, mouth slack, dark eyebrows furrowing. “You can go now.”
It was dark outside. Somehow, McCoy’s legs carried him back to his trailer. The last thing he saw through the open doorway was the Captain slipping his red coat over broad shoulders, picking up his top hat, tapping the crown and picking up his cane and whip.
“I might come see you tomorrow, Bones,” Kirk had said, his voice thicker than molasses. “You can show me how you put that make-up on. I could even give you a hand.”
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Leonard McCoy was looking forward to tomorrow.
on to PART TWO - HERE
Feedback is shamelessly courted and adored!
The Masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Rating: nc-17 overall
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 2,500 words complete
Summary: AU set sometime in the 19C before medical hygiene and dermal regenerators, McCoy, the circus hobo clown is summoned by ringmaster, Kirk, who needs some medical attention.
Warnings: There’s a fleeting appearance by a snake. (I love snakes but I know some people don’t.) A teeny, wee bit gory.
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: This was written in answer to this prompt at the October 69 costume meme: costume party trick or treat challenge at cards_slash ’s journal.
Thanks to abigail89 for beta reading and fixing my silly errors again and again.
Intriguing snippet: The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
Awarded a gold medal in the jim_and_bones Rec Olympics 2012 for Best Historical AU!
Also posted on Archive of Our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
The Ringmaster
McCoy’s battered medical bag swung in his left hand, gray wool coat in the other. Scuffed boots carried him through drying mud and sawdust towards the ringmaster’s trailer. It would be dark soon and he’d need to dress for the show. A trickle of people had gathered behind the rope at the entrance. Nerves formed their stubborn creases and tight folds in his stomach already. He glanced up at the sky as it bled around the edges; another day he’d never get back. The irony of his life wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, paid to make people laugh, yet he couldn’t say he found any damn part of his clown act funny.
The Captain’s trailer was just a few more yards so McCoy put down his bag, wedged his coat between his thighs, threw his creased, collarless shirt on over his tank and buttoned about half the buttons, making sure they were skewed and finished by tucking part of the shirt-tails into his dusty pants. He pulled blue and white striped suspenders over his shoulders and stamped his foot to get the goddamned boot to stay on with all the laces untied. He scooped off his beaten up bowler hat and slapped at the dust on its crown, then jammed it firmly on his head. Each day that passed, it got easier and easier to look like a hobo without trying.
He looked up when the door ahead of him opened and the snake-dancer slunk out. Not yet in costume, she wore a dark blue silk shift tossed over a training leotard, fishnet tights and, of course, Keenser, the royal ball python seemed tense across her shoulders, his narrow head darting, tasting the cooling air. The snake froze into the shape of a storm damaged branch against the darkening sky when they reached McCoy.
“Evening, Leonard,” Nyota purred. They both watched Keenser arch towards McCoy from his soft perch, amber eyes level with his. McCoy passed his hand in front of Keenser’s nostrils and quivering tongue. “He remembers you,“ Nyota said.
“Yeah, well…” He hadn’t expected this, when he’d run away to the circus, that he’d like the animals so much, nor that they’d see past his grouchy bullshit and like him right back. Fine, long as every one else left him the hell alone. He winked at Keenser and frowned at Nyota as she sashayed away, ankle bells tinkling over bare feet and gold and black snakeskin ‘wrap’ shimmering in the low sun.
McCoy made a fist to rap on the door of the trailer and managed to whip it back just as it flew open and James Tiberius Kirk loomed on the step, pale eyes stealing some of the sun’s last light.
“Ah…” he said.
“Ah?” McCoy said.
“You came…”
“I did.”
A freshly shaved Kirk leaned toward him, all white teeth and hot whiskey breath, and McCoy resisted the urge to pull back. He hadn’t seen the man they called ‘The Captain’ this close up before, only at a distance decked out in his full ringmaster regalia. Under the spotlights, his blue eyes gleamed like stained glass; the whip in his hand, birch and twisted leather against kid glove, made him look ethereal. Now, despite the unmistakable authority, McCoy could see the freckles on his face, the individual hairs in eyebrows that belonged on the face of an older man, and he looked, well…human.
McCoy had turned up a month ago, belongings in a carpet bag and a hipflask near his heart and, in all that time, the Captain had never once caught his eye or acknowledged his existence. In fact, it was as if wherever McCoy went, Kirk would leave in the opposite direction. “You haven’t done your face,” Kirk said.
“Well, Chekov said I shouldn’t. Your orders.” McCoy noticed a lipstick print on Kirk’s cheekbone, and something on the other man’s breath he hadn’t smelled up close since before he walked out on Jocelyn.
“You’d better come in.” Kirk led the way into his trailer and McCoy raked his eyes over buckskin breeches, straining over the fine curve of the Captain’s ass. He gripped the handle of his medicine bag hard.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Kirk sat down in an armchair, his legs crossed, a smirk on his face. The smell of sex, candle wax, and patchouli oil from Nyota’s recent visit tickled the back of McCoy’s throat and made his tired cock stir.
“That bitch got me.” Kirk said, easing up to loosen his suspenders, the armchair creaking under his weight, “I must have dropped my guard or something but, she got me.”
“Who? Nyota?”
“No, you ass, Missy.” The alpha lioness. Kirk’s richly purred chuckle, ran through McCoy’s belly like a knife.
“I’d better take a look,” McCoy set his bag down. “Where? Where did she get you?”
Kirk indicated a muscular thigh with a lazy gesture and the air in the trailer drew close.
“Lower your pants,” McCoy said. He took his hat off and rested it on the small table which bore the solitary source of light, a wide church candle almost burned down that cast wave shaped shadows along the walls each time one of them moved.
The only sound as Kirk unbuttoned his pants was the tick - tock of the clock by the bed. McCoy’s breath slowed, spellbound by Kirk’s long, pale fingers moving over the mother of pearl and fawn colored buckskin. Kirk’s hands wavered and McCoy became acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on his face. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle and an unexpected heat in his baggy pants. He dared not look up, dared not speak in case his voice came out like a kitten squeak.
Somehow he managed not to gasp, watching as Kirk slid hands down hips to lower the breeches. He could hear the rasp of buckskin down strong, pale thighs. A drum roll could have accompanied Kirk as he stretched back to his full height, one hand lifting the starched shirt tail aside like a curtain to reveal a foot-long gash across his thigh, a bloody brush stroke in reverse, seeping at the narrow end.
“Shit,” McCoy said.
“She’s one jealous woman, Bones.”
And McCoy understood why, his keen sense of smell brought the faint scent of Nyota from Kirk’s lips and groin, as he ducked his head to examine the wound. He pulled the candle closer and the flame made Kirk’s pupils contract. McCoy fancied he could see this man through the poor, lovesick beast’s eyes. If Kirk had belonged to him, he’d want to hurt anyone who touched him.
“Yeah, jealous,” McCoy echoed. He reached for his bag, and pushed the footstool closer with his boot. Kirk shrugged, his face impassive, his shoulder length, dirty blond mane shifting about his exposed neck. Kirk must have stepped between Nyota and the lioness.
With a wince, Kirk sat and the wound opened a little.
“Need this stitched up, Bones,” he said. The name had stuck and McCoy could do nothing about that now. “Before I ruin my favorite pants.”
McCoy grunted. He needed to concentrate, to keep a steady hand, this man, his contained power was unsettling him…
“Si’down,” he drawled, “and you’ll need this-.” He reached into his breast pocket, fingers sliding over silk lining to find his hip flask.
Kirk lowered his eyes, turned the silver base in large hands, ran his thumb along the leather top and flipped the silver stopper. McCoy caught himself staring at Kirk’s throat as he gulped down the whiskey. He managed to pull his gaze away only to settle on sensuous lips drawing on the silver nipple.
Kirk drew the back of his hand across whore’s lips, slapped the stopper tight with the palm of his hand and reached across the space between them which thrummed and twitched in anticipation each time one of them moved towards the other.
Heartbeat taunting him, McCoy went to the wash stand to pour water into the basin, took a cloth, and carefully cleaned the wound, Kirk watching all the while. He squatted on the stool at Kirk’s feet, the captain’s knee between his open legs, almost level with his chest so he could reach and stitch. He threaded the needle, and went to work, his left hand pressed against Kirk’s inner thigh, acutely aware of the fine sheen of sweat forming under it, his middle finger an inch away from…he snipped the first stitch. He couldn’t help looking up before he continued and he saw Kirk’s bottom lip folded under teeth, the only sign so far he’d felt anything.
At the second stitch, Kirk curved his hips up, shifting at the sharp pain of needle in flesh, the tug of catgut, whiskey-breath misting around McCoy’s face as he sewed. Perhaps that’s why he felt a little giddy, he thought, pressing down with the palm of his left hand, the heat from Kirk’s groin flooding through him.
“So, what’s your story, Bones?” Kirk’s voice was low, interested.
“I’m a clown, not a minstrel, sir,” McCoy said, ignoring the unasked for nickname, like it might go away. He kept his eyes on his work, watching how Kirk’s left hand flexed on the armrest while he rode out the pain.
“Man of few words, huh?”
“Could say that.” He didn’t look up; he needed to concentrate and get out. The heat from Kirk’s thigh seemed to have doubled, or was it him?
Between stitches two and three, McCoy’s eyes wandered to the hem of the Captain’s shirt where it pooled across Kirk’s groin, the crease of his underpants breaking the line, cream against white, jersey against Egyptian cotton. Fine hairs disappeared under the fabric and for just one second, a notion appeared in McCoy’s mind, as stark as the spotlight in his eyes when he ran into the ring. What if he were to slide his thumb under the jersey, feel Kirk’s skin give under the pads of his fingers, trace the dip where thigh joined groin? He had to look away but, dammit, he did that all wrong, looked up so Kirk caught his gaze like a predator, holding it there, so he couldn’t breathe or move. McCoy parted his lips, the needle hovered in his hands,
“I-“he said, “--need to finish up or you’ll scar.”
Finally done, he reached towards his bag, dropped the scissors, and the movement made him inadvertently slide the heel of his other hand back and up. It breached the warm space under Kirk’s shirt, touching jersey where a very hard cock strained through the fabric. McCoy froze unsure whether he wanted to retreat or push on.
They breathed in time, three maybe four breaths, then Kirk passed his hand over McCoy’s, skimming it on route. He adjusted his cock with an unselfconscious tug and brought his hand back up to the arm rest. McCoy pulled away and finished packing up his instruments, his head full of surprise and desire and notions.
“I don’t like clowns,” Kirk said suddenly. “My mom’s second husband was a clown.”
“We don’t bite,” McCoy said, snapping the clasp on his bag.
“But you do growl.” A cocky smile, which vied for brightness with the candle at their sides, stretched across Kirk’s strong features.
Damn, McCoy wasn’t quick enough to stop himself, so he smiled right back. The rare use of his happy muscles had set off a trickle of warmth that burrowed deep inside him. Soon as he’d got his mouth under control and managed to fake a scowl, he stood up. Hat in hand, he ran his thumb along the rim. Too late, Kirk had caught him out.
“Thought hobo clowns were supposed to be sad,“ Kirk said from his armchair, his breeches still shamelessly undone.
McCoy shook his head. “How the devil did an upstart like you make ringmaster?”
“Charisma, Bones, charisma.”
Right. McCoy took out his flask again, sipped but didn’t swallow and brought his mouth close to his Kirk’s thigh, to his handiwork. He allowed his lips to part and watched in satisfaction as Kirk bucked at the sharp sting of alcohol.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“Germs,” McCoy explained, his turn to grin, and how he loved the stretch of his jaw, the way his cheekbones moved, his eyes crinkled. Shit, how long had it been? He’d have to lay the greasepaint on tonight to conjure up that melancholic face.
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a light bandage and some gauze and, with supreme concentration, passed it under Kirk’s thigh, inhaling his scent as unobtrusively as he could muster. He almost wished he’d had Sulu’s tongue so he could pick up every nuance.
“You can get dressed now,” he said.
Kirk licked his lips, and pulled his breeches up, taking way to long to tuck that shirt in as if the little bastard was testing him the way he made a bit of a show of smoothing the fabric in place, doing those buttons up. Well, two could play this game, McCoy could watch as brazenly as Kirk could pose .
“I need to get dressed, not long till the show,” Kirk said.
Kirk picked his vest up off the back of the chair, the blue and gold brocade rich in the candlelight. McCoy felt a pang that he had no reason to stay. His eyes lingered on Kirk’s broad neck as he buttoned up and fixed his collar. He pulled a pocket watch out of the vest and wound it. “Belonged to my father, George Kirk,” he said, eyes lowered when he tucked it safely away. Then, he said:
“Help me with my tie?”
McCoy dropped his bag again, and was scuffed toe to polished boot with Kirk, aware how they were polar opposites: Kirk a bright star, and he a faded one, a homeless bum. His hands worked the knots, made the bow just right, his head bowed, Kirk’s warm breath whispering at his forehead, one hand on McCoy’s bicep.
“There,” McCoy said, his hands falling to Kirk’s shoulders and as if he’d read the want in his eyes. Kirk’s face filled his field of vision. McCoy’s cock lurched; Kirk’s lips were full, ready, like fruit waiting to fall and, holy fuck, suddenly pressed against his, a hand pulling at the back of his head. His hat tipped and almost fell when Kirk’s tongue slipped across his, forcing a moan out of him and before he could even breathe, the incredible warmth was gone again, “Thanks, Bones,” Kirk murmured, mouth slack, dark eyebrows furrowing. “You can go now.”
It was dark outside. Somehow, McCoy’s legs carried him back to his trailer. The last thing he saw through the open doorway was the Captain slipping his red coat over broad shoulders, picking up his top hat, tapping the crown and picking up his cane and whip.
“I might come see you tomorrow, Bones,” Kirk had said, his voice thicker than molasses. “You can show me how you put that make-up on. I could even give you a hand.”
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Leonard McCoy was looking forward to tomorrow.
on to PART TWO - HERE
Feedback is shamelessly courted and adored!
The Masterlist of all my fanfiction is here