Fic: The Book of Love (1/1)
Title: The Book of Love: Volume I
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,008
Summary: Bones asks an important sort of question; Jim ponders the ring on his finger. For siluria, who requested “Happy Bones/Jim” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza for her birthday. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to The Magnetic Fields.
Author’s Notes: For the ever-lovely siluria, on her birthday; so... I should probably have told you that I kind of fail at fluffy, happy things. They generally turn introspective and saccharine, and are usually somewhere around terrible (and I usually delete them as a result). I fear this might border on that (because, ugh, it’s freaking matrimonial, of all things, and vignette-y and stream-of-consciousness-y, and... yeah), and if it does, I sincerely apologize - hopefully it’s still fun, though :) Either way, it actually spawned from a different approach entirely to the same idea, so... if you end being mildly okay with this to the point that you might like more... there’s 1 to 2 more parts in my head ;) Oh, also: here's the song that inspired this part (the other parts I had ideas for were likewise inspired by covers of this version): The Book of Love. But yes: Happy Birthday, dear; and many happy returns *hug*
The Book of Love: Volume I
The weight, the presence of it is suffocatingly foreign yet familiar, almost comforting; a thing that in his mind he couldn’t process, but in his heart, was always there. His reflection in it is jaundiced, skewed and foggy, and he remembers once, as a child, when he’d asked after his mother’s - the one she kept in the box on her dresser behind lock and key as if it no longer existed, as if it hurt too much to be real. He remembers the way she’d smiled and cried at the very same time, and that’s kind of how he feels in this very moment, in this instant where time seems to have stopped and all that exists are the two of them, suspended between what is and what could be.
The laughter and the tears; he hadn’t understood the balance, the contrast as a boy - he understands it now like a knife to the heart, to the gut, to the very soul, and it hurts so goddamn good it almost kills him then and there as he stares, simply stares at the way it fits - fucking fits - like this was never meant to be, but happened anyway, because it was the universe that had fucked up in leaving it out to begin with.
He’s never liked the look of his reflection more.
The air in his lungs feels heavy, feels new, like it knows that this is momentous, that in this moment a thing that has never occurred before is unfolding, unraveling, unwinding and wrapping itself around him with a frightening kind of perfect warmth that makes him shudder as soon as he’d sigh, and it’s then that truly recognizes just how fucking crucial this one moment is, how meaningless it is; how this has been years upon years in the making between them: the gentle hands of stubborn souls slowly but firmly entwined for longer than Jim cares to admit, than he remembers how to live without. They’d shared breathing room before they’d shared a bed, living space before they’d lived for one another, but in the end it’s all semantics; this moment, this one, painstaking, perfectly impossible fucking moment - it had always been building towards this.
And the ring on his finger - it feels like the endless answer to every question he’s never thought to ask, feels like the claw of fingernails against his shoulder blades and the wet panting of thick, bowed lips at his collarbone; the brush of fingertips when no one’s looking but anyone, everyone could be, and the way a soft moan feels exhaled against his upper lip between one kiss and the next. It’s the answer - his answer - to the only question left.
The space between his breaths, between heartbeats seems like an eternity, now; and he knows the world is still turning around him - beneath him, inside him - where he stands still. His eyes move of their own volition to find his foothold, his anchor, the axis upon which he spins - and Bones, he’d look so fucking calm, so fucking steady if not for the pulse throbbing wild and vibrant, strong like a symphony beneath the skin at his neck with the weight of it all, of this; and Jim would make him wait a little longer it wasn’t for the hope in his eyes. Because that’s something Jim’s never quite seen shine in those lush and murky pools of hazel he likes to get lost in on lazy mornings in bed and hurried moments on the bridge, and any moment that just happens to follow the moment just after he comes and those strong arms reach out, ready to steady him, to bring him down in one piece.
Jim would make him wait a little longer, if not for the fact that the hope in those eyes sends shivers through him; in all the galaxy, he’s never seen hope like that before.
If there’s even still a question, then the answer’s trembling, held delicate in his hands, shuddering but sure; so heartbreakingly sure it almost shatters before it’s said, except that it doesn’t; except that it can’t.
“Yes,” he says finally, half of it a laugh and half of it a whimper, a moan; and when Bones exhales, the empty room, the empty world follows suit - the soft sigh of life on the last day of creation, echoing forward and back from infinity, reaching out and longing to touch, to touch, but Jim pays it no mind; the only thing he wants to touch are the hands that slide against his own, encircle his wrists and draw him in like end of everything, the start of something worthwhile. The only thing he wants is for those lips to remind his own that there’s no touch in existence quite like theirs.
Swallowing around the way his throat gets tight, the way his eyes drift closed, the way Bones tastes sharper, fuller than he ever has before as his tongue slides past Jim’s teeth, Jim draws in a breath like the drowning, like he’s forgotten how, and when their mouths break apart, he lets his head drop to the shoulder that’s waiting for him, welcoming; the curve of it familiar even as everything he knows falls away. He smiles again, lets his heartbeat calm, lets it match the way Bones’s chest moves, the rush of his blood, lets them melt and mingle until the lines blur and Jim can’t see the end anymore, can’t see what’s ahead.
He’s stark fucking blind in arms that love him; there’s no place else he’d rather be.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,008
Summary: Bones asks an important sort of question; Jim ponders the ring on his finger. For siluria, who requested “Happy Bones/Jim” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza for her birthday. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to The Magnetic Fields.
Author’s Notes: For the ever-lovely siluria, on her birthday; so... I should probably have told you that I kind of fail at fluffy, happy things. They generally turn introspective and saccharine, and are usually somewhere around terrible (and I usually delete them as a result). I fear this might border on that (because, ugh, it’s freaking matrimonial, of all things, and vignette-y and stream-of-consciousness-y, and... yeah), and if it does, I sincerely apologize - hopefully it’s still fun, though :) Either way, it actually spawned from a different approach entirely to the same idea, so... if you end being mildly okay with this to the point that you might like more... there’s 1 to 2 more parts in my head ;) Oh, also: here's the song that inspired this part (the other parts I had ideas for were likewise inspired by covers of this version): The Book of Love. But yes: Happy Birthday, dear; and many happy returns *hug*
The Book of Love: Volume I
The weight, the presence of it is suffocatingly foreign yet familiar, almost comforting; a thing that in his mind he couldn’t process, but in his heart, was always there. His reflection in it is jaundiced, skewed and foggy, and he remembers once, as a child, when he’d asked after his mother’s - the one she kept in the box on her dresser behind lock and key as if it no longer existed, as if it hurt too much to be real. He remembers the way she’d smiled and cried at the very same time, and that’s kind of how he feels in this very moment, in this instant where time seems to have stopped and all that exists are the two of them, suspended between what is and what could be.
The laughter and the tears; he hadn’t understood the balance, the contrast as a boy - he understands it now like a knife to the heart, to the gut, to the very soul, and it hurts so goddamn good it almost kills him then and there as he stares, simply stares at the way it fits - fucking fits - like this was never meant to be, but happened anyway, because it was the universe that had fucked up in leaving it out to begin with.
He’s never liked the look of his reflection more.
The air in his lungs feels heavy, feels new, like it knows that this is momentous, that in this moment a thing that has never occurred before is unfolding, unraveling, unwinding and wrapping itself around him with a frightening kind of perfect warmth that makes him shudder as soon as he’d sigh, and it’s then that truly recognizes just how fucking crucial this one moment is, how meaningless it is; how this has been years upon years in the making between them: the gentle hands of stubborn souls slowly but firmly entwined for longer than Jim cares to admit, than he remembers how to live without. They’d shared breathing room before they’d shared a bed, living space before they’d lived for one another, but in the end it’s all semantics; this moment, this one, painstaking, perfectly impossible fucking moment - it had always been building towards this.
And the ring on his finger - it feels like the endless answer to every question he’s never thought to ask, feels like the claw of fingernails against his shoulder blades and the wet panting of thick, bowed lips at his collarbone; the brush of fingertips when no one’s looking but anyone, everyone could be, and the way a soft moan feels exhaled against his upper lip between one kiss and the next. It’s the answer - his answer - to the only question left.
The space between his breaths, between heartbeats seems like an eternity, now; and he knows the world is still turning around him - beneath him, inside him - where he stands still. His eyes move of their own volition to find his foothold, his anchor, the axis upon which he spins - and Bones, he’d look so fucking calm, so fucking steady if not for the pulse throbbing wild and vibrant, strong like a symphony beneath the skin at his neck with the weight of it all, of this; and Jim would make him wait a little longer it wasn’t for the hope in his eyes. Because that’s something Jim’s never quite seen shine in those lush and murky pools of hazel he likes to get lost in on lazy mornings in bed and hurried moments on the bridge, and any moment that just happens to follow the moment just after he comes and those strong arms reach out, ready to steady him, to bring him down in one piece.
Jim would make him wait a little longer, if not for the fact that the hope in those eyes sends shivers through him; in all the galaxy, he’s never seen hope like that before.
If there’s even still a question, then the answer’s trembling, held delicate in his hands, shuddering but sure; so heartbreakingly sure it almost shatters before it’s said, except that it doesn’t; except that it can’t.
“Yes,” he says finally, half of it a laugh and half of it a whimper, a moan; and when Bones exhales, the empty room, the empty world follows suit - the soft sigh of life on the last day of creation, echoing forward and back from infinity, reaching out and longing to touch, to touch, but Jim pays it no mind; the only thing he wants to touch are the hands that slide against his own, encircle his wrists and draw him in like end of everything, the start of something worthwhile. The only thing he wants is for those lips to remind his own that there’s no touch in existence quite like theirs.
Swallowing around the way his throat gets tight, the way his eyes drift closed, the way Bones tastes sharper, fuller than he ever has before as his tongue slides past Jim’s teeth, Jim draws in a breath like the drowning, like he’s forgotten how, and when their mouths break apart, he lets his head drop to the shoulder that’s waiting for him, welcoming; the curve of it familiar even as everything he knows falls away. He smiles again, lets his heartbeat calm, lets it match the way Bones’s chest moves, the rush of his blood, lets them melt and mingle until the lines blur and Jim can’t see the end anymore, can’t see what’s ahead.
He’s stark fucking blind in arms that love him; there’s no place else he’d rather be.