Seeing Stars (Kirk/McCoy, PG)
Not dead, just haven't been in a fic-writing mood. Lucky for me blcwriter is the muse incarnate, and has just finished a week of inspirational pic posts at jim_and_bones, including that one from Bottle Shock (you know the one--*shudder*).
Warning: Comment!fic, sentiment and shmoop. 1200 words.
"Hey, Bones--you want another wiener? 'Cause I got a fat one right here."
"Jesus, will you knock it off? There's kids around."
Not just kids, but dogs and cheerful old people and friendly civil servants, a Norman Rockwell painting come to life and set loose for a day under the glorious July sun.
Jim's gone whole hog, with a checked picnic blanket and a cooler of beer and a wide variety of foods that have to be singed before eating. They got to Edgewater Park early to snag a place under a tree, looking out over the river, where the municipal powers will be setting off fireworks later in the evening from the safety of a barge. McCoy lets his gaze follow the whorls and eddies of the slow-moving water. It's hypnotizing and, for once, easier than looking directly at Jim.
Jim's usually an avatar of anti-nostalgia, actively hating anything that happened in his life before the age of 23 and reacting to McCoy's tentative probes with a clenched jaw and silence. McCoy supposes this sudden embrace of all things wholesome and Riverside is a good sign, but there are practical problems with wanting to visit your mom on a holiday weekend when you're the town's most famous citizen.
Jim's good at getting what Jim wants, and Jim's gotten very good at unobtrusive landing parties. That explains the white T-shirt and jeans, the uniform of every indigenous male over 12. But James Kirk out of uniform is still a very recognizable figure, so Jim called for more extreme measures. Much more extreme.
+++
Capylicil has been a safe and effective treatment since the 22nd century, when it erased the global scourge of Male Pattern Baldness and won its inventor a Nobel prize. McCoy has no problems prescribing it, just usually not in such high doses. He gives Jim the hypo at bedtime and goes to sleep, and expects to see results by morning.
What he doesn't expect is a full-on Rapunzel transformation.
"Good morning." Jim rolls toward him, eyes half closed, sleepy morning smile on his face and--
"Holy fucking hell."
Jim remembers and puts a hand to his head, and starts to laugh.
"Oh my god. This is incredible." He sits upright so McCoy can see it better. "How does it look?"
"Like an angry Caucasian weasel humping your head."
"It feels great. Why didn't I do this earlier?" He actually tosses it, a coquettish gesture he should in no way know how to do.
"This is going to be awful for morale. We're going to have to sneak you off the ship."
"It will be awesome for morale. I'm going to the Bridge right now."
"No you're not. You're going to put on civvies and baseball cap and go right to the Transporter Room, or I'll take a pair of scissors to that ridiculous mop and use it stuff a sofa."
+++
Jim's had two days to get used to his flowing mane, and with the hair pulled back in a ponytail and sunglasses hiding his famous laser blue eyes, he's anonymous but hardly starved for attention. The T-shirt and jeans hug his lean body, and he has a habit of stretching out his long limbs like he's putting them on display, not exactly an invitation but nevertheless inviting.
He attracts a different type of people this way, women with tattoos and faraway eyes, men with calloused hands and uncertain intentions. When they get past the looking to the offer stage, Jim always asks McCoy politely if he's interested, even though McCoy only says yes one in a hundred times. The truth is there's something vulnerable about Jim this way that has nothing to do with looking ten years younger. The thought of one of those hard-eyed men pushing into Jim while he braces against the back of a truck gives him feelings that have nothing to do with arousal.
He can't shake himself of the feeling that Riverside used Jim, or forgive it, even though it seems like Jim has.
+++
Winona and her friend Brigid join them at sunset and bring chairs and insect repellent and serious food. McCoy adores Winona and she seems to love him right back, and he's happy to be teased and fussed over and offered another slice of pie. Funny thing, how the fussing that's annoying coming from your own parents can be downright enjoyable coming from someone else's.
The fireworks are pretty and disappointing; McCoy thinks he may have been spoiled by all the surprise in his life. Jim seems to be just the opposite. Tradition, annual recurrence, the predictable--all are suddenly his sentimental friends. McCoy begins to suspect that there's more to this flaxen-haired persona than a good joke at his town's expense.
Winona packs up the chairs and blankets and says she'll take everything back to the house, kisses the boys on the cheek, and makes her exit with suspicious speed.
"Hey," Jim says, nudging McCoy with his shoulder. "Why don't we take a walk along the river?"
"Sure," McCoy says, even though they've been looking at the river the whole damn day.
Jim takes his hand, and McCoy's heart does a little flutter-stop. It's warm and dry, and the air is damp and rapidly cooling, the river sucking all the day's heat and carrying it away to the Mississippi, down into the Gulf of Mexico, where dolphins will swim in its transformed blue waters. It's an Earthly feeling, this feeling of distance, distances that can be measured by walking and drifting and standing next to another human being.
Jim stops and turns toward him, and McCoy stops too, breathless, in expectation of what, he doesn't know. Jim's kiss, when it comes, is familiar but so welcome, his lips amazingly soft, the intention behind them clear. McCoy's hand goes to the back of Jim's head, an autonomic romantic gesture that Jim has teased him about often, and pulls the tie around his hair, letting it fall loose.
McCoy runs his hands through it, and it isn't ridiculous at all; it's part of Jim, not because it's something his body manufactured, but because it's something he chose. What it means to him, McCoy has no idea, but it's meaningful, and that's enough.
McCoy runs his hands through it, and Jim sighs in his ear, and grasps his shoulder, and turns him toward the river.
"Look." A second after he says it, there's a bang that rattles through McCoy's nervous system, and then a single firework blooms, deep blue against the black, reflected and dissolved in the murky water below. It's startling and beautiful, and it burns McCoy's retinas. He grabs for Jim's hand, and clasps it in wonder.
"How--"
"Guy I know." Jim's hand squeezes back.
"Oh. Well. Thank you." Jim nods and McCoy turns to look at him, sees the fading points of light reflected in his eyes. They're the same color.
"No problem." Jim tugs him away, off the river path, to somewhere else entirely.
Warning: Comment!fic, sentiment and shmoop. 1200 words.
"Hey, Bones--you want another wiener? 'Cause I got a fat one right here."
"Jesus, will you knock it off? There's kids around."
Not just kids, but dogs and cheerful old people and friendly civil servants, a Norman Rockwell painting come to life and set loose for a day under the glorious July sun.
Jim's gone whole hog, with a checked picnic blanket and a cooler of beer and a wide variety of foods that have to be singed before eating. They got to Edgewater Park early to snag a place under a tree, looking out over the river, where the municipal powers will be setting off fireworks later in the evening from the safety of a barge. McCoy lets his gaze follow the whorls and eddies of the slow-moving water. It's hypnotizing and, for once, easier than looking directly at Jim.
Jim's usually an avatar of anti-nostalgia, actively hating anything that happened in his life before the age of 23 and reacting to McCoy's tentative probes with a clenched jaw and silence. McCoy supposes this sudden embrace of all things wholesome and Riverside is a good sign, but there are practical problems with wanting to visit your mom on a holiday weekend when you're the town's most famous citizen.
Jim's good at getting what Jim wants, and Jim's gotten very good at unobtrusive landing parties. That explains the white T-shirt and jeans, the uniform of every indigenous male over 12. But James Kirk out of uniform is still a very recognizable figure, so Jim called for more extreme measures. Much more extreme.
+++
Capylicil has been a safe and effective treatment since the 22nd century, when it erased the global scourge of Male Pattern Baldness and won its inventor a Nobel prize. McCoy has no problems prescribing it, just usually not in such high doses. He gives Jim the hypo at bedtime and goes to sleep, and expects to see results by morning.
What he doesn't expect is a full-on Rapunzel transformation.
"Good morning." Jim rolls toward him, eyes half closed, sleepy morning smile on his face and--
"Holy fucking hell."
Jim remembers and puts a hand to his head, and starts to laugh.
"Oh my god. This is incredible." He sits upright so McCoy can see it better. "How does it look?"
"Like an angry Caucasian weasel humping your head."
"It feels great. Why didn't I do this earlier?" He actually tosses it, a coquettish gesture he should in no way know how to do.
"This is going to be awful for morale. We're going to have to sneak you off the ship."
"It will be awesome for morale. I'm going to the Bridge right now."
"No you're not. You're going to put on civvies and baseball cap and go right to the Transporter Room, or I'll take a pair of scissors to that ridiculous mop and use it stuff a sofa."
+++
Jim's had two days to get used to his flowing mane, and with the hair pulled back in a ponytail and sunglasses hiding his famous laser blue eyes, he's anonymous but hardly starved for attention. The T-shirt and jeans hug his lean body, and he has a habit of stretching out his long limbs like he's putting them on display, not exactly an invitation but nevertheless inviting.
He attracts a different type of people this way, women with tattoos and faraway eyes, men with calloused hands and uncertain intentions. When they get past the looking to the offer stage, Jim always asks McCoy politely if he's interested, even though McCoy only says yes one in a hundred times. The truth is there's something vulnerable about Jim this way that has nothing to do with looking ten years younger. The thought of one of those hard-eyed men pushing into Jim while he braces against the back of a truck gives him feelings that have nothing to do with arousal.
He can't shake himself of the feeling that Riverside used Jim, or forgive it, even though it seems like Jim has.
+++
Winona and her friend Brigid join them at sunset and bring chairs and insect repellent and serious food. McCoy adores Winona and she seems to love him right back, and he's happy to be teased and fussed over and offered another slice of pie. Funny thing, how the fussing that's annoying coming from your own parents can be downright enjoyable coming from someone else's.
The fireworks are pretty and disappointing; McCoy thinks he may have been spoiled by all the surprise in his life. Jim seems to be just the opposite. Tradition, annual recurrence, the predictable--all are suddenly his sentimental friends. McCoy begins to suspect that there's more to this flaxen-haired persona than a good joke at his town's expense.
Winona packs up the chairs and blankets and says she'll take everything back to the house, kisses the boys on the cheek, and makes her exit with suspicious speed.
"Hey," Jim says, nudging McCoy with his shoulder. "Why don't we take a walk along the river?"
"Sure," McCoy says, even though they've been looking at the river the whole damn day.
Jim takes his hand, and McCoy's heart does a little flutter-stop. It's warm and dry, and the air is damp and rapidly cooling, the river sucking all the day's heat and carrying it away to the Mississippi, down into the Gulf of Mexico, where dolphins will swim in its transformed blue waters. It's an Earthly feeling, this feeling of distance, distances that can be measured by walking and drifting and standing next to another human being.
Jim stops and turns toward him, and McCoy stops too, breathless, in expectation of what, he doesn't know. Jim's kiss, when it comes, is familiar but so welcome, his lips amazingly soft, the intention behind them clear. McCoy's hand goes to the back of Jim's head, an autonomic romantic gesture that Jim has teased him about often, and pulls the tie around his hair, letting it fall loose.
McCoy runs his hands through it, and it isn't ridiculous at all; it's part of Jim, not because it's something his body manufactured, but because it's something he chose. What it means to him, McCoy has no idea, but it's meaningful, and that's enough.
McCoy runs his hands through it, and Jim sighs in his ear, and grasps his shoulder, and turns him toward the river.
"Look." A second after he says it, there's a bang that rattles through McCoy's nervous system, and then a single firework blooms, deep blue against the black, reflected and dissolved in the murky water below. It's startling and beautiful, and it burns McCoy's retinas. He grabs for Jim's hand, and clasps it in wonder.
"How--"
"Guy I know." Jim's hand squeezes back.
"Oh. Well. Thank you." Jim nods and McCoy turns to look at him, sees the fading points of light reflected in his eyes. They're the same color.
"No problem." Jim tugs him away, off the river path, to somewhere else entirely.