Glass Half Full (Kirk/Pike, Kirk/McCoy, PG-13)
A wee little something for weepingnaiad's birthday...thank you for your friendship and support, and have a wonderful day, baby doll!
+++++
“And you said it would never happen. Maybe when the sun expands and engulfs the inner planets, you said. But here we are.” Jim runs a a finger from Chris’s sternum to his navel, because he can.
“Yes, well.” Chris’s voice is husky for several reasons. “You’re the place where good intentions go to die.”
Jim gives a little grunt into Chris’s ear and lets his fingers keep playing with Chris’s chest hair, brain narcotized by sex and a sense of satisfaction that--in spite of what Chris thinks--has little to do with his victory over Chris’s finely tuned moral code. He knows that Chris would never have fucked a student, a direct report, a next-door-to-nephew, but Starfleet’s bureaucracy has created an interstitial space through which Jim has slipped into Chris’s bed. It’s been as good as he imagined--better, though in the exact ways he imagined; Chris is vigorous, masterful, good humored, and deeply humane in a way that Jim fears he himself isn’t.
Jim looks at the gray hairs between his fingers. They’re interesting in and of themselves, and as a glimpse of what’s to come. Right now they’re both captains, but soon Chris will be an admiral shackled to a desk and Jim will be a comet among the stars. And the years will pass and if he doesn’t die or get transmuted or accelerated or simply pissed off, Jim will carry his gray hairs back to San Francisco and train his own replacement.
“And when that time comes,” Jim murmurs, “I hope I’ll fuck her, or him.”
“What?” Chris has his hands behind his ears and is watching Jim’s fingers. “Already planning your next mission?” Jim knows the sound of bitterness and that isn’t it; Chris has already secured a page of his own in Jim’s personal history book.
“No, I just--” Jim isn’t sure what.
“But you’ve got to tell someone, right? That you bedded the admiral? Isn’t that be part of the fun?” Now Chris unfolds his left arm with a crunch of shoulder joint and strokes Jim’s back, once, before his hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. Jim remembers every time he’s done that when they weren’t in bed.
“Your cadet-banging secret is safe with me.”
“Oh, come on.” Chris slides his fingers up into Jim’s hair and begins to massage his scalp, and Jim shivers and presses his head back into Chris’s touch. “This is a good secret. It’s juicy. Plus, Leonard’s seen me naked, so that may add to the interest.”
“Yeah, but I don’t--wait.” Jim swivels his head so he can look, more or less, in Chris’s eyes. “Are you saying that Bones-- Or that you-- No, because you both would have told me, right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Chris’s eyes glint with that troublemaking light that gives usually gives Jim hope for his own future. Now, it makes him want to poke Chris in the ribcage. “Just like I’m not going to tell anyone about you. And me, that is.” He brushes his hand across Jim’s furrowed brow. “It’s your game, now, Jim. From here on out, I’m just an engaged observer.”
+++++
Jim waits until the right moment to raise the subject with Bones, which turns out to be the very next time he sees him. They’re eating Shanghai noodles at a hole-in-the-wall place in Lower Haight. Bones has a way of pursing his lips when he slurps the noodles that Jim finds both vulgar and mesmerizing.
“So, what do you think of Admiral Pike? As a guy, I mean?” he means to say, but what comes out is “So, Bones, did you and Pike ever get it on?”
Bones’s chopsticks clatter into his bowl. He braces both forearms arms against the table, raises one of his formidable eyebrows, and says, “What?”
“Nothing, really, it’s just something he said--”
“When you were discussing me, or my sex life, or what?” Sarcasm does interesting, gravelly things to Bones’s voice.
“Neither. But if anything--” Jim takes a deep breath. “If anything had happened, I wouldn’t blame you. He’s a good-looking guy, although he’s into women, mostly.”
Bones’s eyebrows return to their normal level, and his expression goes blank with realization. “Sweet Jesus, Jim, you have the most ass-backwards way of confessing. You want my absolution? Fine.” He picks up his chopsticks again and traces a sign in the air. “There. Whoever and whatever you’ve screwed, it’s fine with me. Go and sin no more. And if you do, for God’s sake don’t tell me about it.” He starts to slurp again.
Jim envies the noodles.
+++++
“Just a small--well, all right, if you insist.”
Jim sloshes tawny Port into Bones’s glass with a free hand, feeling like a good host for once.
Bones waves the glass under his nose and closes his eyes, looking blissful. “That was clever of Pike, sending the bottle to Starbase 14. Makes me feel like a schmuck for not getting you anything.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I said no presents.” As a public figure, Jim’s had to come to a wary truce with birthdays, and a private dinner-cum-roast in the officer’s mess is about the limit of his tolerance. But he recognizes his propensity toward sulking and has come to find it unattractive, so he’d asked Bones in for a nightcap.
Now, watching Bones touch the topaz liquid to his lips, Jim feels like sulking anyway.
“Yeah, but that’s the crew. That doesn’t apply to me, does it?” Such a simple question, and so hard to answer. Bones’s eyes are, at that moment, the same color as the wine.
“Fine, have it your way, you’re a schmuck,” Jim says, and takes a quick gulp.
“And Pike,” Bones pursues, “he’s--”
“He’s someone I respect,” Jim says, and winces. He hadn’t meant it to come out mean.
Bones just nods a little and stares down into his glass. Bones, Jim thinks, you honorable, kind, oblivious son of a bitch. Why do I have to do everything myself? He remembers how Chris had taken him in hand, how good it felt to be with someone he trusted completely, who knew what he wanted.
“The thing is, though,” Bones says, not looking up, “I kind of hate him. That is, since you told me that you and he--”
It hangs in the air, what he and Chris did; what he and Bones haven’t done.
“So.” Jim puts his glass down with care; the material world suddenly seems fragile, as if even the air might shatter.
“So,” Bones says, and puts his own glass down, draining it first. Jim watches him cross the room as if they’re in some ancient, grainy vid.
“I’m going to give you something after all. If you want it.” Bones puts his hands on Jim’s shoulders, and Jim tries not to tremble. Bones's eyes are soft, his lips self-mocking. “I’m not a risk taker, you know. I’m only here because of you, and him. Mostly you.”
“There’s never just one reason for anything, and there’s never just one person for anyone.” Jim rests a hand on Bones’s hip, liking the way it feels, muscle and bone. “You have to find the one that makes sense for you, that’s all.”
“I have,” Bones says, and a moment later, Jim tastes wine again.
+++++
“And you said it would never happen. Maybe when the sun expands and engulfs the inner planets, you said. But here we are.” Jim runs a a finger from Chris’s sternum to his navel, because he can.
“Yes, well.” Chris’s voice is husky for several reasons. “You’re the place where good intentions go to die.”
Jim gives a little grunt into Chris’s ear and lets his fingers keep playing with Chris’s chest hair, brain narcotized by sex and a sense of satisfaction that--in spite of what Chris thinks--has little to do with his victory over Chris’s finely tuned moral code. He knows that Chris would never have fucked a student, a direct report, a next-door-to-nephew, but Starfleet’s bureaucracy has created an interstitial space through which Jim has slipped into Chris’s bed. It’s been as good as he imagined--better, though in the exact ways he imagined; Chris is vigorous, masterful, good humored, and deeply humane in a way that Jim fears he himself isn’t.
Jim looks at the gray hairs between his fingers. They’re interesting in and of themselves, and as a glimpse of what’s to come. Right now they’re both captains, but soon Chris will be an admiral shackled to a desk and Jim will be a comet among the stars. And the years will pass and if he doesn’t die or get transmuted or accelerated or simply pissed off, Jim will carry his gray hairs back to San Francisco and train his own replacement.
“And when that time comes,” Jim murmurs, “I hope I’ll fuck her, or him.”
“What?” Chris has his hands behind his ears and is watching Jim’s fingers. “Already planning your next mission?” Jim knows the sound of bitterness and that isn’t it; Chris has already secured a page of his own in Jim’s personal history book.
“No, I just--” Jim isn’t sure what.
“But you’ve got to tell someone, right? That you bedded the admiral? Isn’t that be part of the fun?” Now Chris unfolds his left arm with a crunch of shoulder joint and strokes Jim’s back, once, before his hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. Jim remembers every time he’s done that when they weren’t in bed.
“Your cadet-banging secret is safe with me.”
“Oh, come on.” Chris slides his fingers up into Jim’s hair and begins to massage his scalp, and Jim shivers and presses his head back into Chris’s touch. “This is a good secret. It’s juicy. Plus, Leonard’s seen me naked, so that may add to the interest.”
“Yeah, but I don’t--wait.” Jim swivels his head so he can look, more or less, in Chris’s eyes. “Are you saying that Bones-- Or that you-- No, because you both would have told me, right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Chris’s eyes glint with that troublemaking light that gives usually gives Jim hope for his own future. Now, it makes him want to poke Chris in the ribcage. “Just like I’m not going to tell anyone about you. And me, that is.” He brushes his hand across Jim’s furrowed brow. “It’s your game, now, Jim. From here on out, I’m just an engaged observer.”
+++++
Jim waits until the right moment to raise the subject with Bones, which turns out to be the very next time he sees him. They’re eating Shanghai noodles at a hole-in-the-wall place in Lower Haight. Bones has a way of pursing his lips when he slurps the noodles that Jim finds both vulgar and mesmerizing.
“So, what do you think of Admiral Pike? As a guy, I mean?” he means to say, but what comes out is “So, Bones, did you and Pike ever get it on?”
Bones’s chopsticks clatter into his bowl. He braces both forearms arms against the table, raises one of his formidable eyebrows, and says, “What?”
“Nothing, really, it’s just something he said--”
“When you were discussing me, or my sex life, or what?” Sarcasm does interesting, gravelly things to Bones’s voice.
“Neither. But if anything--” Jim takes a deep breath. “If anything had happened, I wouldn’t blame you. He’s a good-looking guy, although he’s into women, mostly.”
Bones’s eyebrows return to their normal level, and his expression goes blank with realization. “Sweet Jesus, Jim, you have the most ass-backwards way of confessing. You want my absolution? Fine.” He picks up his chopsticks again and traces a sign in the air. “There. Whoever and whatever you’ve screwed, it’s fine with me. Go and sin no more. And if you do, for God’s sake don’t tell me about it.” He starts to slurp again.
Jim envies the noodles.
+++++
“Just a small--well, all right, if you insist.”
Jim sloshes tawny Port into Bones’s glass with a free hand, feeling like a good host for once.
Bones waves the glass under his nose and closes his eyes, looking blissful. “That was clever of Pike, sending the bottle to Starbase 14. Makes me feel like a schmuck for not getting you anything.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I said no presents.” As a public figure, Jim’s had to come to a wary truce with birthdays, and a private dinner-cum-roast in the officer’s mess is about the limit of his tolerance. But he recognizes his propensity toward sulking and has come to find it unattractive, so he’d asked Bones in for a nightcap.
Now, watching Bones touch the topaz liquid to his lips, Jim feels like sulking anyway.
“Yeah, but that’s the crew. That doesn’t apply to me, does it?” Such a simple question, and so hard to answer. Bones’s eyes are, at that moment, the same color as the wine.
“Fine, have it your way, you’re a schmuck,” Jim says, and takes a quick gulp.
“And Pike,” Bones pursues, “he’s--”
“He’s someone I respect,” Jim says, and winces. He hadn’t meant it to come out mean.
Bones just nods a little and stares down into his glass. Bones, Jim thinks, you honorable, kind, oblivious son of a bitch. Why do I have to do everything myself? He remembers how Chris had taken him in hand, how good it felt to be with someone he trusted completely, who knew what he wanted.
“The thing is, though,” Bones says, not looking up, “I kind of hate him. That is, since you told me that you and he--”
It hangs in the air, what he and Chris did; what he and Bones haven’t done.
“So.” Jim puts his glass down with care; the material world suddenly seems fragile, as if even the air might shatter.
“So,” Bones says, and puts his own glass down, draining it first. Jim watches him cross the room as if they’re in some ancient, grainy vid.
“I’m going to give you something after all. If you want it.” Bones puts his hands on Jim’s shoulders, and Jim tries not to tremble. Bones's eyes are soft, his lips self-mocking. “I’m not a risk taker, you know. I’m only here because of you, and him. Mostly you.”
“There’s never just one reason for anything, and there’s never just one person for anyone.” Jim rests a hand on Bones’s hip, liking the way it feels, muscle and bone. “You have to find the one that makes sense for you, that’s all.”
“I have,” Bones says, and a moment later, Jim tastes wine again.