Fic: Remember to Breathe (1/1)
Title: Remember to Breathe
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Joanna McCoy
Word Count: 500
Summary: Some things, she can only ask Jim. For royal_chandler’s prompt “Kirk/McCoy with Joanna,’” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I have no idea if this was what you were looking for (probably not... sorry); but hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway :)
Remember to Breathe
“Jim,” she says, her face obscured already by the veil; she’s stalling, and when she meets his shining gaze through the diaphanous curtain of white, she almost feels ashamed of it -- almost, except for the love that’s burning there: fierce. Protective. He’d do anything for her; she’s never doubted it. She’s glad her makeup’s waterproof.
He doesn’t say anything, just steps closer; close enough to lay his hand on her shoulder, not to wrinkle her dress, but so near his warmth comforts her, settles the butterflies in her stomach. He waits for her to breathe, and she can see the way he knows her, the way he measures predictably the way it takes her ten, fifteen, twenty seconds to calm, to say the words she hates herself for saying, but needs to say. Only to him.
“It’s the right decision,” she whispers, the final syllable catching had in her throat, squeaking from her burgundy lips. Her heart’s fluttering in her chest, and it’s all too much in this one last moment; her bodice is too tight, the room to warm. Her father’s waiting just at the doorway, ready to give her away; she can’t afford this. Not now.
Jim’s hands, though; the hands that eased her through the illnesses of childhood, cool against her feverish forehead, that soothed her through heartbreak in her teenage years, firm and reassuring on her back -- those hands, warm, rough, with that constant stripe of metal, the promise on his favorite finger, the one she’s about to make herself; those hands reach slow, careful beneath her veil and cup her cheeks with a tenderness he reserves for only two people in this world. She’s blessed to be one of them.
His eyes flicker to her dad, who’s watching the flower girls from the cracked-open door, squinting his eyes suspiciously and avoiding looking in her direction; Jim smiles, and she can feel it, the way the world around her changes in that subtle moment, the way it shifts for the force of them. His touch at her cheeks slides down to her chin, and he stares meaningfully into her eyes for the longest slice of infinity she’s ever known.
“It is,” he says, and it’s not a question, not like hers. Because he reads in her eyes what he sees in his husband’s, her dad’s gaze every day; what sings between them strong and solid, and as for longer than she can remember, anymore -- a constant in this life, like the air and the sun.
She nods, and they both smile brighter; he slides his hands to her arms and holds her close for the space between breaths, touching his lips to the elaborate twist of her hair, promising he’ll be there, promising to see her through. He leads her to her father, whose arm she takes, but she keeps hold of Jim, grasp firm; they’re both her heart as much as the man they’re giving her to. She needs them both to remember to breathe.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Joanna McCoy
Word Count: 500
Summary: Some things, she can only ask Jim. For royal_chandler’s prompt “Kirk/McCoy with Joanna,’” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I have no idea if this was what you were looking for (probably not... sorry); but hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway :)
Remember to Breathe
“Jim,” she says, her face obscured already by the veil; she’s stalling, and when she meets his shining gaze through the diaphanous curtain of white, she almost feels ashamed of it -- almost, except for the love that’s burning there: fierce. Protective. He’d do anything for her; she’s never doubted it. She’s glad her makeup’s waterproof.
He doesn’t say anything, just steps closer; close enough to lay his hand on her shoulder, not to wrinkle her dress, but so near his warmth comforts her, settles the butterflies in her stomach. He waits for her to breathe, and she can see the way he knows her, the way he measures predictably the way it takes her ten, fifteen, twenty seconds to calm, to say the words she hates herself for saying, but needs to say. Only to him.
“It’s the right decision,” she whispers, the final syllable catching had in her throat, squeaking from her burgundy lips. Her heart’s fluttering in her chest, and it’s all too much in this one last moment; her bodice is too tight, the room to warm. Her father’s waiting just at the doorway, ready to give her away; she can’t afford this. Not now.
Jim’s hands, though; the hands that eased her through the illnesses of childhood, cool against her feverish forehead, that soothed her through heartbreak in her teenage years, firm and reassuring on her back -- those hands, warm, rough, with that constant stripe of metal, the promise on his favorite finger, the one she’s about to make herself; those hands reach slow, careful beneath her veil and cup her cheeks with a tenderness he reserves for only two people in this world. She’s blessed to be one of them.
His eyes flicker to her dad, who’s watching the flower girls from the cracked-open door, squinting his eyes suspiciously and avoiding looking in her direction; Jim smiles, and she can feel it, the way the world around her changes in that subtle moment, the way it shifts for the force of them. His touch at her cheeks slides down to her chin, and he stares meaningfully into her eyes for the longest slice of infinity she’s ever known.
“It is,” he says, and it’s not a question, not like hers. Because he reads in her eyes what he sees in his husband’s, her dad’s gaze every day; what sings between them strong and solid, and as for longer than she can remember, anymore -- a constant in this life, like the air and the sun.
She nods, and they both smile brighter; he slides his hands to her arms and holds her close for the space between breaths, touching his lips to the elaborate twist of her hair, promising he’ll be there, promising to see her through. He leads her to her father, whose arm she takes, but she keeps hold of Jim, grasp firm; they’re both her heart as much as the man they’re giving her to. She needs them both to remember to breathe.