Fic: Par Avion (1/1)
Title: Par Avion (or five messages no one ever expected Jim Kirk to have received, and one he spent ages dreading, but never got)
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: James T. Kirk; Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,958
Summary: Five messages no one ever expected Jim Kirk to have received, and one he spent ages dreading, but never got. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Epistolary Fic: Emails, letters, etc. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009). Vague references to Star Trek: The Original Series.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’m kind of nervous about this - I’ve never done anything of this nature before, not with the graphics, or the concept, or the framing or the tone or anything. So yeah - please be gentle, and I apologize in advance if it’s crap. Generally, though, the idea spawned from a desire to explore the possibility of Jim Kirk as something other than emotionally twisted with a dark and painful past. Just for kicks and giggles.
Par Avion
.five.
______________________________
.four.
______________________________
.three.
______________________________
.two.
______________________________
.one.
______________________________
.zero.
“Jesus, Jim,” Bones’s voice cuts through the silence like the shattering of glass, the breaking of the dawn - and without the sunrise in space, Jim thinks he might be dreaming. “What’s got you still up? I thought I told you to come back and get some rest, damnit.” The bed dips next to him, and the sound of one boot, and then another hitting the floor, heel-first and heavy, seems real enough; the subtle warmth that drifts towards him as shirts are shed and a long, lean torso drops bare next to where he sits, settling with a sigh; “S’been a hell of a day.”
Jim’s pulse stutters for the lost half of a second; he blinks, and the names, the details on the pad in front of him shift before his eyes: Dear Mrs. Favarro; your daughter, Ensign Jacquelyn S. Favarro; killed in action... Beta Canopus, sorely missed - his own signature pending at the bottom. It’s the second hardest part of his job - the first being when he watches the life fade from innocent eyes in the first place - but as the information rights itself, as the condolences sharpen, he feels suddenly light, almost weightless, and he can breathe again.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers, voice rough, and he swallows hard around the urge to reach out and touch the man beside him, to make certain that he’s warm, that he’s real. His hands clutch instead around the PADD on his lap, lifting it indicatively, so that Bones can see. “Figured I’d get a start on these.”
And he doesn’t have to reach out for his lover, his partner, his whole fucking world, because he reaches out for Jim, arms slung around him, stubble grating at the soft lines in the skin of his neck. “I’m sorry,” Bones murmurs, lips soft on the curve of his jaw, and Jim leans in, drowning a little in the feeling of heat and breath and heartbeats, one after the other like they’ll never, ever stop.
“Me too.” And Jim doesn’t have to hide here, because Bones always knows, and if his voice is choked and his eyes clenched shut, well, it’s never a surprise.
“Come to bed.” And it’s different from his friend, his doctor telling him he needs a good night’s sleep, because those hot palms on his chest, that soft whisper against his ear - they change just about everything. “We both need it.”
He couldn’t, wouldn't say that the list of the deceased would still be there in the morning; it rubbed too raw, that letters would remain in the place of the living souls they’d lost. But Jim nods, sinking into Bones’s embrace and ordering the lights to dim, because he made a promise to himself, the same day he promised everything he was to the man breathing at his back: he swore he’d never forget just how lucky he was to have Leonard McCoy as his own, and the ghosts of the day weren’t going to make him break that vow, goddamnit. Life was too damn short.
And maybe they couldn’t guarantee each other anything more than the moment; but between the two of them, the moment was enough.
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: James T. Kirk; Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,958
Summary: Five messages no one ever expected Jim Kirk to have received, and one he spent ages dreading, but never got. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Epistolary Fic: Emails, letters, etc. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009). Vague references to Star Trek: The Original Series.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’m kind of nervous about this - I’ve never done anything of this nature before, not with the graphics, or the concept, or the framing or the tone or anything. So yeah - please be gentle, and I apologize in advance if it’s crap. Generally, though, the idea spawned from a desire to explore the possibility of Jim Kirk as something other than emotionally twisted with a dark and painful past. Just for kicks and giggles.
Par Avion
.five.
______________________________
.four.
______________________________
.three.
______________________________
.two.
______________________________
.one.
______________________________
.zero.
“Jesus, Jim,” Bones’s voice cuts through the silence like the shattering of glass, the breaking of the dawn - and without the sunrise in space, Jim thinks he might be dreaming. “What’s got you still up? I thought I told you to come back and get some rest, damnit.” The bed dips next to him, and the sound of one boot, and then another hitting the floor, heel-first and heavy, seems real enough; the subtle warmth that drifts towards him as shirts are shed and a long, lean torso drops bare next to where he sits, settling with a sigh; “S’been a hell of a day.”
Jim’s pulse stutters for the lost half of a second; he blinks, and the names, the details on the pad in front of him shift before his eyes: Dear Mrs. Favarro; your daughter, Ensign Jacquelyn S. Favarro; killed in action... Beta Canopus, sorely missed - his own signature pending at the bottom. It’s the second hardest part of his job - the first being when he watches the life fade from innocent eyes in the first place - but as the information rights itself, as the condolences sharpen, he feels suddenly light, almost weightless, and he can breathe again.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers, voice rough, and he swallows hard around the urge to reach out and touch the man beside him, to make certain that he’s warm, that he’s real. His hands clutch instead around the PADD on his lap, lifting it indicatively, so that Bones can see. “Figured I’d get a start on these.”
And he doesn’t have to reach out for his lover, his partner, his whole fucking world, because he reaches out for Jim, arms slung around him, stubble grating at the soft lines in the skin of his neck. “I’m sorry,” Bones murmurs, lips soft on the curve of his jaw, and Jim leans in, drowning a little in the feeling of heat and breath and heartbeats, one after the other like they’ll never, ever stop.
“Me too.” And Jim doesn’t have to hide here, because Bones always knows, and if his voice is choked and his eyes clenched shut, well, it’s never a surprise.
“Come to bed.” And it’s different from his friend, his doctor telling him he needs a good night’s sleep, because those hot palms on his chest, that soft whisper against his ear - they change just about everything. “We both need it.”
He couldn’t, wouldn't say that the list of the deceased would still be there in the morning; it rubbed too raw, that letters would remain in the place of the living souls they’d lost. But Jim nods, sinking into Bones’s embrace and ordering the lights to dim, because he made a promise to himself, the same day he promised everything he was to the man breathing at his back: he swore he’d never forget just how lucky he was to have Leonard McCoy as his own, and the ghosts of the day weren’t going to make him break that vow, goddamnit. Life was too damn short.
And maybe they couldn’t guarantee each other anything more than the moment; but between the two of them, the moment was enough.