The Gift That Keeps Giving (K/Mc, R, MU)
Summary: Written for space_wrapped. It's Secret Santa time on board the I.S.S. Enterprise, and Kirk knows just what to get the man who thinks he has nothing.
Word count: 4075
Warnings: Seasonally appropriate MU, but still: dubcon, low self esteem, references to Mirror Jesus.
Leonard McCoy hated Christmas, and Christmas appeared to hate him back.
Of course, he hated most of the other 365 days (686 on Mars) as well, but this Christmas thing was distinctly, uniquely awful.
In the rest of the Empire, the birthday of the person who taught humanity about the transcendent power of hating your enemy was largely forgotten; there were pragmatic ways of seeking revenge without recourse to the supernatural. But the Fleet loved its god damned traditions, and that included the exchange of “gifts”--gifts intended to redress perceived slights during the past year, or get one up on someone else in the next. The rules were simple: no death or permanent injury; no more than one shift off to “enjoy” the gift or recuperate from it; and the recipient had to be tricked into accepting their gifts, which over the past three years had included the gifts pouncing, slithering, replicating, exploding, beaming and (in one memorable case involving Sulu) hatching into the lives of their recipients.
A month before Christmas, the senior staff gathered to draw names out of a festively decorated Klingon skull. The name-bearing chits were a contrivance of Scotty’s, designed to avoid repeats of the previous year’s picks and not give the chooser their own name. That had not, of course, stopped Kirk from getting McCoy’s name each of the last two years, but then whatever the captain did by definition wasn’t cheating.
The first year McCoy was still getting to know the crew, so Kirk helped the process along by installing a microscopic camera in McCoy’s sonic shower. Crewmembers who waited by vidscreens for a pre-announced shipwide message (which was all of them) were treated to five minutes of McCoy briskly rubbing his naked body and singing “Freebird.” It was six months before he could stand the sound of an electric guitar again.
The next year, when Kirk’s occasional visits to McCoy during round-robin fucks had developed into something more regular, Kirk had perpetrated his own demonic version of the “12 Days of Christmas.” On Day 1, when Ensign Amiri had uncorked her splendid breasts and invited McCoy to stick his face between them, McCoy had been surprised, suspicious, and regretful. Kirk was possessive but too egotistical to admit it, so sanity dictated telling her to do everything up again and requisition a regulation bra. On Day 2, a pair of strapping galley cooks had offered to dust McCoy with sucrose and lick it off. McCoy had ignored them and placated himself with an extra large slice of pie.
On Day 3, things had taken a turn for the worse when Kirk summoned McCoy to his quarters, stroked his shoulders, whispered to him to strip, teased him hard and then slipped a sheath on his cock that prevented transmission of sensation. For the next nine days, McCoy had labored in a painful state of arousal as the ship transformed into a holiday carnival of sexual temptation. Finally, on Christmas Day, Kirk had removed the sheath and given McCoy the shortest and most necessary blow job in history. McCoy had come with the force of a photon torpedo, cursing Kirk at the top of his lungs and spraining his sacrum in the process. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.
In the year that followed, he and Kirk had become...McCoy wasn’t sure what, and he was even less sure why. Kirk fucked him up, down and sideways on a regular basis, to which McCoy had no real objection. But he also talked to him, appeared to value his company, and not for anything that McCoy could offer politically, apart from the occasional poisoning and the aforementioned fucking.
James Kirk was the undisputed master of everybody on his ship, and a growing power in the Empire; he’d had eight-ways with the Stellar Cartography department and gotten a blowjob from the Chief Archon of Cardassian (“hot but kinda itchy”). He could have anyone in the galaxy, but he chose Leonard, and the thought didn’t make him feel either angry or fortunate. It made him feel uneasy, because it made no sense. The less Leonard could figure out about Kirk, the more Kirk learned about him, and knowledge--when it came to Kirk--was a dangerous thing.
So when Kirk rattled the skull in front of him and gave him a smile full of devious promise, McCoy felt nothing but dread. At least until he looked at the chit and saw his own name.
It couldn’t be a mistake; Scotty wouldn’t botch something as simple and as important as this. Therefore it had to be either intentional on Kirk’s part, or on Scotty’s. Was one of them testing his loyalty, seeing whether he’d admit to the screw up? But that didn’t make sense, because the rules were the rules and everything else was up for grabs.
In the time it took McCoy to think this, Kirk moved on, and it was too late to get credit for immediately reporting the mistake. A few minutes later the officers filed out, grumbling or cackling at their picks, off to hatch schemes with alien plant spores and replicator reprogramming.
“Good luck, everyone,” Kirk said with a cheery wave. “Good luck, McCoy. Remember the rules.”
McCoy spent the next few days trying to parse out what Kirk meant by that. Was he supposed to give himself a “present,” and if so, what? A hypo full of Melvaran mudflea vaccine, like he’d given Uhura the year before? Or something better tailored to Kirk’s particular tastes, since Kirk was surely the instigator? Perhaps Kirk was engaging in a cruel experiment, giving every member of the staff their own names to see what they’d do. That theory lasted until Spock reprogrammed the ship’s computer to speak in a broad and wicked parody of Checkov’s accent, punctuated by sexual moans.
Now McCoy began to suspect that the awful, brooding suspense was itself the “gift.” Kirk, star-bright and perfectly devious, was more than capable of such a thing--allowing McCoy to twist himself in knots trying to figure out a riddle that had no answer.
“I give up,” McCoy said to Kirk, two days before Christmas. Conveniently, he happened to be on his knees at the time.. “Whatever mind game you’re playing, I don’t get it. I default. Tell me what to do, or put me in the Booth--just something. I can’t take the worry any more.”
Kirk at least had the decency not to ask McCoy what he was talking about. He stroked his cock thoughtfully and said, “You give up too easily. This is the season of miracles, remember? The blood of your enemies will rain down from the heavens, the obscure will be made plain.”
“There’s only one Power on this ship,” McCoy growled. “If you’re telling me to trust you, you’re out of your mind. If you’re telling me to wait--damn it, I don’t know if I can stand the suspense for another two days.”
“I’ll help by keeping you busy,” Kirk said, pointing down. “Suck.”
Christmas Day dawned dark and cold, because they were, after all, in space. McCoy spent his shift in a state of nerve-jangling suspense, starting at every sound and scanning everyone who entered Sickbay for weapons. When Spock stumbled in wearing a face-hugging arthropod, McCoy suspected he was acting as a decoy, but Spock’s muffled, angry cries for help (and the fact that Uhura was watching the whole thing and laughing) convinced McCoy otherwise. He spent the next four hours detaching the parasite, leaving behind blotchy sucker marks for Spock and fine collection of holo photos for Uhura.
McCoy had almost managed to forget what day it was when a red high-priority message flashed across his workstation screen.
I’d reprimand you for hiding in Sickbay, except that you’re already enjoying a glass of Christmas cheer in my quarters.
McCoy puzzled over the that one until he received a terse follow-up.
Get your ass down here NOW.
There was no refusing a direct order. Heart pounding, McCoy made his way to Kirk’s quarters, telling himself that whatever happened, at least the suspense would be over.
The great double doors to Kirk’s quarters swished open to reveal Kirk clinking glasses and downing a shot with Leonard McCoy. McCoy--the real McCoy--blinked a few times as the room spun around him. This was impossible, even for the reality-bending Kirk.
McCoy must have made some sort of sound because the other McCoy turned his head and whistled.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Until now, I thought maybe this was all a practical joke. Guess not.”
“Who--” McCoy rasped. “Who the hell are you?”
The impostor had the nerve to grin. “Leonard H. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise. A fine ship, but I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
McCoy looked at his double with horrified fascination. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected his own image back, just more smug and wearing an ill-fitting blue tunic that did nothing for the broad shoulders that McCoy had always considered one of his better features.
“Clone? Android? Paranoid delusion?”
“Nope,” Kirk said, smooth as a cat licking cream. “He’s the 100 percent real thing.” Kirk poured a glass of Bourbon for McCoy and refilled the impostor’s glass. “Drink up, you’re going to need it. It’s Christmas night and you haven’t delivered your half of the gift exchange. You remember what that means, don’t you?”
“Punishment at the captain’s discretion,” McCoy said heavily.
“Yup.” Kirk gave an expansive smile. “But since summoning your double from a parallel universe wasn’t exactly an obvious solution, I’m going to go easy on you. Give you a chance to make good on your obligation and give us all a fantastic present in the process.”
“That’s generous of you,” McCoy said, not believing it for a moment.
Kirk put a hand on a shoulder of each McCoy. “It is. And as much as I might like the idea of keeping Dr. Mirror-McCoy here, his presence is going to raise some difficult questions, so this is a one-night-only engagement. Very simple ground rules: fuck each other and get out.”
“What?” both McCoys said at the same time.
“Don’t they say ‘fuck’ in your universe?” Kirk said.
The mirror-McCoy coughed. “Not in polite company.”
“No worries, then; you’re definitely not in polite company.”
“I guess not.” The mirror-McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “Just what the hell is going on here? You said you brought me here for an important experiment, not some kind of Jim Kirk alley cat shenanigans.”
“It’s very important. I need to find out if two McCoys fucking each other is twice as hot as one, or even more. That part’s for science. But it’s a gift for you, too, McCoy. You want to know why I fucked you more than once--more than 100 times this year alone, in case you were wondering. I’m not sure I can explain it, so you’re just going to have to experience it for yourself.”
“Now wait just a doggone minute.” Mirror-McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t some sick joke? You two are an item?”
“Ever since he threatened to send my family to a forced labor camp if I didn’t give him head.” McCoy had never been sure if the threat was serious or just to add the spice of coercion.
“Well isn’t that a fine how-de-do. Real nice universe you’ve got here.” The man’s disdain sat badly with McCoy, although the stern expression at least made him look more dignified than the ridiculous wide-eyed grin.
“It’s not as if I created this universe. You have a complaint, take it up with the top guy.”
“Which is me.” Kirk bent his head like a coach giving his team some last-minute threats. “Arguing is great foreplay but we don’t have all night. So, gentlemen? Let’s get on with it, please.”
“You’re serious.” McCoy didn’t bother to make it a question. “You brought my genetic twin over from a hitherto unknown parallel universe--a discovery that could revolutionize the galaxy--just to fuck me.”
“Pretty much. You better start thinking about next year’s gift now, McCoy, because this one is going to be hard to top.” He turned to Mirror-McCoy. “So, do you want to pitch or catch?”
“I don’t want to do either, god damn it.” The man’s expression had gone from incredulous to apoplectic; McCoy considered warning him about the risk for atherosclerosis. “I demand you return me to my universe immediately, or I’ll--”
“Call Security? Report me to your captain?” Kirk said, and both Kirk and McCoy had to laugh at the man’s futile rebellion. “Face it, unless you’ve got an ion storm up your sleeve, you’re doing this. It’s just sex, McCoy. I’m not asking you to kill your grandmother.”
“He’s right,” McCoy added, for good measure. “That was a lot harder.” He was pleased to see the corners of Mirror-McCoy’s mouth turn down and his square shoulders slump in defeat.
“So, that’s settled,” Kirk said briskly. “Since we don’t seem to be making a lot of progress here, I’m going to flip a coin.” He produced an old Imperial Double Eagle and spun it easily between his fingers. “Let’s warm up with a blow job. McCoy, since this is your home universe, you call it.”
“Tails.”
The golden coin flipped through the air and came to rest in Kirk’s palm.
“It’s heads, so you’ll be giving head. We’ll worry about the tails later.”
Mirror-McCoy pouted but looked resigned to his fate. It was, after all, just sex, as Kirk said. No man in his right mind would really resist a blow job, and if he did, that would be a pretty grave insult to McCoy. Determined to show this Mirror-McCoy a good time if it killed both of them, McCoy dropped to his knees.
The first weird thing was opening his own fly from the opposite direction. The second was pulling out his own cock. Well, properly speaking not his, but one he knew very, very well. He was grudgingly pleased at how thick and heavy it felt, even limp. An involuntary glance upward showed Mirror-McCoy staring at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the universe, not wanting to get an eyeful of his own face in proximity to his own cock. McCoy was seized with a sudden fear: what if he couldn’t get Mirror-McCoy to come? What if he couldn’t get him hard at all? Jesus but Kirk would have a field day with that, and with good reason. It had been more than a year since he had any cock but Kirk’s in his mouth; maybe he’d lost the knack.
“You can do it, McCoy,” Kirk said, putting a hand on the back of his neck, urging him along.
His own cock responded, either to Kirk’s touch or to the half-forced press of his head into another man’s groin. He could do it to Kirk, he could do it for Kirk, but he wasn’t sure if he could do it for himself.
“Go on,” Kirk said, encouraging. “You know what he likes.”
It was true. They had the same nervous system, him and his grinning Doppelganger. McCoy should be able to blow his roof off, show him how things were done in this universe and shut Kirk up at the same time. With fresh determination, he cupped a hand under Mirror-McCoy’s balls, wet his lips, and leaned in to give him the blow job of a lifetime. Mirror-McCoy clenched his fists and braced.
McCoy couldn’t do it.
“Come on, man,” Mirror-McCoy said crossly, peeking out from under his long lashes. “Fish or cut bait. I want to go home.”
It was an odd kind of impotence, not being able to get himself hard, a novel kind of failure.
“You know what this needs?” Kirk said, relentless. “More nudity. Both of you, take your shirts off.”
They did, giving the same aggrieved sigh in the process. The sight of his own chest--a little paler, less developed, and less scarred--did nothing for him.
“That’s hot,” Kirk insisted. “Super hot. I’ve got a holocam recording it so I can keep it for posterity. Oh, yeah.”
“What if I can’t do it?” McCoy muttered. “I’m not being stubborn, I just--” It was impossible to explain what it meant to confront himself--even a watered-down and sappy version of himself--and fail to see the appeal that had inspired Kirk to maniacal heights of dedicated torment.
His own face looked down at him with disappointment and contempt.
“You probably have some folksy aphorism to cover this situation,” McCoy snarled.
“Sure do,” Mirror-McCoy said. “You suck.”
An airless silence fell over the room, and Jim crossed his arms and looked vexed.
“This isn’t working out the way I planned.”
+++++
Leonard woke with a start to the gloom of ship’s night, a dry mouth, and a colossal sense of disorientation.
Beside him, Jim stirred and rolled onto his side, almost brushing Leonard’s back. The bed was too small for two large men to do anything except breath without disturbing each other.
“Hey, you awake?”
“No,” Leonard said, feeling headachey and resentful.
“Uh huh.” Jim shifted closer so that he was spooning against him, the gentle, greedy hand that Leonard knew so well rubbing the his chest above his pounding heart, roaming down to his hipbone, and inevitably finding his erection. “Ah hah, I knew it. You’ve been having a hot dream without me.”
Leonard tried to curl away from Jim’s hand, clinging to his remembered pique even though he knew it was unfair.
“Not hot. Weird.”
“Oh?” Jim’s voice softened and his hand retreated to Leonard’s belly. “Interesting weird or bad weird?”
“Mirror weird.” Leonard must have sounded worse than he felt, because now Jim wrapped an arm around his middle and pulled him close.
“Ugh, sorry. I can’t blame you; having an evil twin, thinking about everything in your life and how the evil version of it would suck, or worse, if you’d like the evil version better. Or what if some things were exactly the same--what would that mean?”
“Yeah, what indeed.” For Jim, that amounted to deep introspection. Except in the matter of command, where he could be brutally self-critical, Jim sailed through his extraordinary life without a bit of the brooding scrutiny that Leonard gave every major life event.
Including this thing between the two of them, whatever it was. This thing that had Jim chasing after visiting scientists one day and wrapped like a Kudzu around Leonard the next. The thing that meant the other officers always left the seat to Jim’s left open for Leonard at the Captain’s table, but that the hot rumor among the crew was that Jim was getting on with Spock, of all people.
Leonard grunted, and sighed. He didn’t want to think; he wanted to lie back in Jim’s arms without a care, maybe let Jim take care of this perverse erection. If only his damn brain would leave him alone.
“Hey,” Jim said, sweet lips at his ear. “What do you want for Christmas? Only two days left, and if it’s something besides sex or synthesized food protein, you’re going to have to give me time. Nearest shopping arcade is 200,000 light years away.”
“Christmas,” McCoy humphed. “Who bothers with that any more?”
“Me. It’s fun, and it’s good for morale. And I want to give you something. Do you think it’s too late for one of those secret gift exchanges? Maybe I could arrange to get your name. After all, I’m captain.”
Kirk didn’t make good on his threat--there was an ion storm, and a transporter malfunction, and the usual batch of crises--and when Christmas dawned dark and cold, Leonard figured he was in the clear. The ship was quiet, the human crew celebrating or not after their own preference, the aliens enjoying having the gym to themselves. Leonard wandered for a while, had a glass of cheer with Scotty, and finally ended up in his own quarters, half his mind on a Russian novel and the other half wondering if he was even going to see Jim that day.
Not five minutes later Jim commed him.
“Bones,” he said, sounding exciting. “Come down to my quarters; I have something for you.”
Leonard did so with a sinking feeling, wondering if he should grab a pair of socks or a plant or something to offer in return.
What greeted him when he walked into Jim’s quarters was not, however, a cask of aged Bourbon or Lt. Akiyama wearing nothing but a bow. It was himself--the beat-up, pissed-off, handcuffed, evil, malpracticing version of himself.
“Figures,” the Mirror-McCoy groused. “The only thing that could make this day worse is him.”
“This is your idea of a present?” McCoy said, horrified. “Where the hell did he come from, and why--”
“I was just going to send him packing without mentioning it,” Kirk said. “That ion storm--what were the chances a McCoy, any McCoy would be on a Transporter pad at that exact moment?”
“About the same as the chances I want to be here,” Mirror-McCoy snarled. “You said you’d send me back, Kirk. Now you want to torture me with this pie-faced numskull? I thought you were supposed to be the ‘good’ one.”
“I’ll send you back, I gave you my word. But first, you’re going to tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Leonard’s spine, already thoroughly chilled, got a bit colder.
“Do I have to?” Mirror-McCoy made a face like he was smelling cheap cologne. “God, this is a nightmare.”
“Tell him,” Jim said firmly.
“‘All right, fine.” Mirror-McCoy fixed his eyes on the ceiling and said in a obnoxious sing-song voice, “Your boyfriend here wants me to tell you that he--I mean Kirk, the real Kirk--and I are--what do you call it? Oh, right, fucking.”
“And?” Jim prompted.
“Damned if I know. But it’s been going on for a while now. It’s exclusive, at least on my side, because he’d have me castrated otherwise.”
“Charming,” Leonard said, swallowing hard.
“But he wouldn’t, would he?” Kirk pressed. “He treats you well, right?”
“Between the jealous rages, and the bizarre tests of loyalty, and the strange ‘gifts’? Sure, he’s a prince.”
Jim looked satisfied. “Good. All right. I’ll call Security and we’ll get you back to that universe of yours before Christmas dinner.”
“God damn it,” Mirror-McCoy said. “Can’t you wait until morning?”
“What, and miss your gift? What do you think your Captain Kirk has all picked out for you?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy sulked, “I thought maybe it was this. Now I have another present to look forward to. Oh, joy.”
A few minutes later, four security officers arrived, and Leonard had the pleasure of seeing the surlier, eviller version of himself hauled away in restraints, muttering “Merry fucking Christmas to me.”
“He’s pretty awful,” Jim said, as the door swished closed. “But I like the uniform, and the V-neck crisscross thing? Nice shoulders. Yours, I mean.”
“Why, Jim?” Leonard said, unable to say anything else. “Why would you think I’d want to witness that?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s been bugging you, I know, the whole Mirror thing. I thought it would help if you could see that there’s a limit to how bad it gets. That he and his Kirk have--something, I guess. That it’s not all torture and backstabbing.”
“I guess not.” And it was a comfort, in a way. Leonard liked cosmic alignments as much as Jim mistrusted them. “But why them, do you suppose? Why Kirk and McCoy, when everything else is fucked up and evil?”
“It just works, I guess.”
“Mystery of the universe?”
“No mystery, believe me.” He smiled in that way that made Leonard feel like nobody but himself. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” Leonard said. “So it’ll have to be either synthesized food protein or sex.”
Jim looped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a messy kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be happy with either. But you better get cracking on next year’s gift, because this one is going to be hard to top.”
Word count: 4075
Warnings: Seasonally appropriate MU, but still: dubcon, low self esteem, references to Mirror Jesus.
Leonard McCoy hated Christmas, and Christmas appeared to hate him back.
Of course, he hated most of the other 365 days (686 on Mars) as well, but this Christmas thing was distinctly, uniquely awful.
In the rest of the Empire, the birthday of the person who taught humanity about the transcendent power of hating your enemy was largely forgotten; there were pragmatic ways of seeking revenge without recourse to the supernatural. But the Fleet loved its god damned traditions, and that included the exchange of “gifts”--gifts intended to redress perceived slights during the past year, or get one up on someone else in the next. The rules were simple: no death or permanent injury; no more than one shift off to “enjoy” the gift or recuperate from it; and the recipient had to be tricked into accepting their gifts, which over the past three years had included the gifts pouncing, slithering, replicating, exploding, beaming and (in one memorable case involving Sulu) hatching into the lives of their recipients.
A month before Christmas, the senior staff gathered to draw names out of a festively decorated Klingon skull. The name-bearing chits were a contrivance of Scotty’s, designed to avoid repeats of the previous year’s picks and not give the chooser their own name. That had not, of course, stopped Kirk from getting McCoy’s name each of the last two years, but then whatever the captain did by definition wasn’t cheating.
The first year McCoy was still getting to know the crew, so Kirk helped the process along by installing a microscopic camera in McCoy’s sonic shower. Crewmembers who waited by vidscreens for a pre-announced shipwide message (which was all of them) were treated to five minutes of McCoy briskly rubbing his naked body and singing “Freebird.” It was six months before he could stand the sound of an electric guitar again.
The next year, when Kirk’s occasional visits to McCoy during round-robin fucks had developed into something more regular, Kirk had perpetrated his own demonic version of the “12 Days of Christmas.” On Day 1, when Ensign Amiri had uncorked her splendid breasts and invited McCoy to stick his face between them, McCoy had been surprised, suspicious, and regretful. Kirk was possessive but too egotistical to admit it, so sanity dictated telling her to do everything up again and requisition a regulation bra. On Day 2, a pair of strapping galley cooks had offered to dust McCoy with sucrose and lick it off. McCoy had ignored them and placated himself with an extra large slice of pie.
On Day 3, things had taken a turn for the worse when Kirk summoned McCoy to his quarters, stroked his shoulders, whispered to him to strip, teased him hard and then slipped a sheath on his cock that prevented transmission of sensation. For the next nine days, McCoy had labored in a painful state of arousal as the ship transformed into a holiday carnival of sexual temptation. Finally, on Christmas Day, Kirk had removed the sheath and given McCoy the shortest and most necessary blow job in history. McCoy had come with the force of a photon torpedo, cursing Kirk at the top of his lungs and spraining his sacrum in the process. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.
In the year that followed, he and Kirk had become...McCoy wasn’t sure what, and he was even less sure why. Kirk fucked him up, down and sideways on a regular basis, to which McCoy had no real objection. But he also talked to him, appeared to value his company, and not for anything that McCoy could offer politically, apart from the occasional poisoning and the aforementioned fucking.
James Kirk was the undisputed master of everybody on his ship, and a growing power in the Empire; he’d had eight-ways with the Stellar Cartography department and gotten a blowjob from the Chief Archon of Cardassian (“hot but kinda itchy”). He could have anyone in the galaxy, but he chose Leonard, and the thought didn’t make him feel either angry or fortunate. It made him feel uneasy, because it made no sense. The less Leonard could figure out about Kirk, the more Kirk learned about him, and knowledge--when it came to Kirk--was a dangerous thing.
So when Kirk rattled the skull in front of him and gave him a smile full of devious promise, McCoy felt nothing but dread. At least until he looked at the chit and saw his own name.
It couldn’t be a mistake; Scotty wouldn’t botch something as simple and as important as this. Therefore it had to be either intentional on Kirk’s part, or on Scotty’s. Was one of them testing his loyalty, seeing whether he’d admit to the screw up? But that didn’t make sense, because the rules were the rules and everything else was up for grabs.
In the time it took McCoy to think this, Kirk moved on, and it was too late to get credit for immediately reporting the mistake. A few minutes later the officers filed out, grumbling or cackling at their picks, off to hatch schemes with alien plant spores and replicator reprogramming.
“Good luck, everyone,” Kirk said with a cheery wave. “Good luck, McCoy. Remember the rules.”
McCoy spent the next few days trying to parse out what Kirk meant by that. Was he supposed to give himself a “present,” and if so, what? A hypo full of Melvaran mudflea vaccine, like he’d given Uhura the year before? Or something better tailored to Kirk’s particular tastes, since Kirk was surely the instigator? Perhaps Kirk was engaging in a cruel experiment, giving every member of the staff their own names to see what they’d do. That theory lasted until Spock reprogrammed the ship’s computer to speak in a broad and wicked parody of Checkov’s accent, punctuated by sexual moans.
Now McCoy began to suspect that the awful, brooding suspense was itself the “gift.” Kirk, star-bright and perfectly devious, was more than capable of such a thing--allowing McCoy to twist himself in knots trying to figure out a riddle that had no answer.
“I give up,” McCoy said to Kirk, two days before Christmas. Conveniently, he happened to be on his knees at the time.. “Whatever mind game you’re playing, I don’t get it. I default. Tell me what to do, or put me in the Booth--just something. I can’t take the worry any more.”
Kirk at least had the decency not to ask McCoy what he was talking about. He stroked his cock thoughtfully and said, “You give up too easily. This is the season of miracles, remember? The blood of your enemies will rain down from the heavens, the obscure will be made plain.”
“There’s only one Power on this ship,” McCoy growled. “If you’re telling me to trust you, you’re out of your mind. If you’re telling me to wait--damn it, I don’t know if I can stand the suspense for another two days.”
“I’ll help by keeping you busy,” Kirk said, pointing down. “Suck.”
Christmas Day dawned dark and cold, because they were, after all, in space. McCoy spent his shift in a state of nerve-jangling suspense, starting at every sound and scanning everyone who entered Sickbay for weapons. When Spock stumbled in wearing a face-hugging arthropod, McCoy suspected he was acting as a decoy, but Spock’s muffled, angry cries for help (and the fact that Uhura was watching the whole thing and laughing) convinced McCoy otherwise. He spent the next four hours detaching the parasite, leaving behind blotchy sucker marks for Spock and fine collection of holo photos for Uhura.
McCoy had almost managed to forget what day it was when a red high-priority message flashed across his workstation screen.
I’d reprimand you for hiding in Sickbay, except that you’re already enjoying a glass of Christmas cheer in my quarters.
McCoy puzzled over the that one until he received a terse follow-up.
Get your ass down here NOW.
There was no refusing a direct order. Heart pounding, McCoy made his way to Kirk’s quarters, telling himself that whatever happened, at least the suspense would be over.
The great double doors to Kirk’s quarters swished open to reveal Kirk clinking glasses and downing a shot with Leonard McCoy. McCoy--the real McCoy--blinked a few times as the room spun around him. This was impossible, even for the reality-bending Kirk.
McCoy must have made some sort of sound because the other McCoy turned his head and whistled.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Until now, I thought maybe this was all a practical joke. Guess not.”
“Who--” McCoy rasped. “Who the hell are you?”
The impostor had the nerve to grin. “Leonard H. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise. A fine ship, but I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
McCoy looked at his double with horrified fascination. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected his own image back, just more smug and wearing an ill-fitting blue tunic that did nothing for the broad shoulders that McCoy had always considered one of his better features.
“Clone? Android? Paranoid delusion?”
“Nope,” Kirk said, smooth as a cat licking cream. “He’s the 100 percent real thing.” Kirk poured a glass of Bourbon for McCoy and refilled the impostor’s glass. “Drink up, you’re going to need it. It’s Christmas night and you haven’t delivered your half of the gift exchange. You remember what that means, don’t you?”
“Punishment at the captain’s discretion,” McCoy said heavily.
“Yup.” Kirk gave an expansive smile. “But since summoning your double from a parallel universe wasn’t exactly an obvious solution, I’m going to go easy on you. Give you a chance to make good on your obligation and give us all a fantastic present in the process.”
“That’s generous of you,” McCoy said, not believing it for a moment.
Kirk put a hand on a shoulder of each McCoy. “It is. And as much as I might like the idea of keeping Dr. Mirror-McCoy here, his presence is going to raise some difficult questions, so this is a one-night-only engagement. Very simple ground rules: fuck each other and get out.”
“What?” both McCoys said at the same time.
“Don’t they say ‘fuck’ in your universe?” Kirk said.
The mirror-McCoy coughed. “Not in polite company.”
“No worries, then; you’re definitely not in polite company.”
“I guess not.” The mirror-McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “Just what the hell is going on here? You said you brought me here for an important experiment, not some kind of Jim Kirk alley cat shenanigans.”
“It’s very important. I need to find out if two McCoys fucking each other is twice as hot as one, or even more. That part’s for science. But it’s a gift for you, too, McCoy. You want to know why I fucked you more than once--more than 100 times this year alone, in case you were wondering. I’m not sure I can explain it, so you’re just going to have to experience it for yourself.”
“Now wait just a doggone minute.” Mirror-McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t some sick joke? You two are an item?”
“Ever since he threatened to send my family to a forced labor camp if I didn’t give him head.” McCoy had never been sure if the threat was serious or just to add the spice of coercion.
“Well isn’t that a fine how-de-do. Real nice universe you’ve got here.” The man’s disdain sat badly with McCoy, although the stern expression at least made him look more dignified than the ridiculous wide-eyed grin.
“It’s not as if I created this universe. You have a complaint, take it up with the top guy.”
“Which is me.” Kirk bent his head like a coach giving his team some last-minute threats. “Arguing is great foreplay but we don’t have all night. So, gentlemen? Let’s get on with it, please.”
“You’re serious.” McCoy didn’t bother to make it a question. “You brought my genetic twin over from a hitherto unknown parallel universe--a discovery that could revolutionize the galaxy--just to fuck me.”
“Pretty much. You better start thinking about next year’s gift now, McCoy, because this one is going to be hard to top.” He turned to Mirror-McCoy. “So, do you want to pitch or catch?”
“I don’t want to do either, god damn it.” The man’s expression had gone from incredulous to apoplectic; McCoy considered warning him about the risk for atherosclerosis. “I demand you return me to my universe immediately, or I’ll--”
“Call Security? Report me to your captain?” Kirk said, and both Kirk and McCoy had to laugh at the man’s futile rebellion. “Face it, unless you’ve got an ion storm up your sleeve, you’re doing this. It’s just sex, McCoy. I’m not asking you to kill your grandmother.”
“He’s right,” McCoy added, for good measure. “That was a lot harder.” He was pleased to see the corners of Mirror-McCoy’s mouth turn down and his square shoulders slump in defeat.
“So, that’s settled,” Kirk said briskly. “Since we don’t seem to be making a lot of progress here, I’m going to flip a coin.” He produced an old Imperial Double Eagle and spun it easily between his fingers. “Let’s warm up with a blow job. McCoy, since this is your home universe, you call it.”
“Tails.”
The golden coin flipped through the air and came to rest in Kirk’s palm.
“It’s heads, so you’ll be giving head. We’ll worry about the tails later.”
Mirror-McCoy pouted but looked resigned to his fate. It was, after all, just sex, as Kirk said. No man in his right mind would really resist a blow job, and if he did, that would be a pretty grave insult to McCoy. Determined to show this Mirror-McCoy a good time if it killed both of them, McCoy dropped to his knees.
The first weird thing was opening his own fly from the opposite direction. The second was pulling out his own cock. Well, properly speaking not his, but one he knew very, very well. He was grudgingly pleased at how thick and heavy it felt, even limp. An involuntary glance upward showed Mirror-McCoy staring at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the universe, not wanting to get an eyeful of his own face in proximity to his own cock. McCoy was seized with a sudden fear: what if he couldn’t get Mirror-McCoy to come? What if he couldn’t get him hard at all? Jesus but Kirk would have a field day with that, and with good reason. It had been more than a year since he had any cock but Kirk’s in his mouth; maybe he’d lost the knack.
“You can do it, McCoy,” Kirk said, putting a hand on the back of his neck, urging him along.
His own cock responded, either to Kirk’s touch or to the half-forced press of his head into another man’s groin. He could do it to Kirk, he could do it for Kirk, but he wasn’t sure if he could do it for himself.
“Go on,” Kirk said, encouraging. “You know what he likes.”
It was true. They had the same nervous system, him and his grinning Doppelganger. McCoy should be able to blow his roof off, show him how things were done in this universe and shut Kirk up at the same time. With fresh determination, he cupped a hand under Mirror-McCoy’s balls, wet his lips, and leaned in to give him the blow job of a lifetime. Mirror-McCoy clenched his fists and braced.
McCoy couldn’t do it.
“Come on, man,” Mirror-McCoy said crossly, peeking out from under his long lashes. “Fish or cut bait. I want to go home.”
It was an odd kind of impotence, not being able to get himself hard, a novel kind of failure.
“You know what this needs?” Kirk said, relentless. “More nudity. Both of you, take your shirts off.”
They did, giving the same aggrieved sigh in the process. The sight of his own chest--a little paler, less developed, and less scarred--did nothing for him.
“That’s hot,” Kirk insisted. “Super hot. I’ve got a holocam recording it so I can keep it for posterity. Oh, yeah.”
“What if I can’t do it?” McCoy muttered. “I’m not being stubborn, I just--” It was impossible to explain what it meant to confront himself--even a watered-down and sappy version of himself--and fail to see the appeal that had inspired Kirk to maniacal heights of dedicated torment.
His own face looked down at him with disappointment and contempt.
“You probably have some folksy aphorism to cover this situation,” McCoy snarled.
“Sure do,” Mirror-McCoy said. “You suck.”
An airless silence fell over the room, and Jim crossed his arms and looked vexed.
“This isn’t working out the way I planned.”
+++++
Leonard woke with a start to the gloom of ship’s night, a dry mouth, and a colossal sense of disorientation.
Beside him, Jim stirred and rolled onto his side, almost brushing Leonard’s back. The bed was too small for two large men to do anything except breath without disturbing each other.
“Hey, you awake?”
“No,” Leonard said, feeling headachey and resentful.
“Uh huh.” Jim shifted closer so that he was spooning against him, the gentle, greedy hand that Leonard knew so well rubbing the his chest above his pounding heart, roaming down to his hipbone, and inevitably finding his erection. “Ah hah, I knew it. You’ve been having a hot dream without me.”
Leonard tried to curl away from Jim’s hand, clinging to his remembered pique even though he knew it was unfair.
“Not hot. Weird.”
“Oh?” Jim’s voice softened and his hand retreated to Leonard’s belly. “Interesting weird or bad weird?”
“Mirror weird.” Leonard must have sounded worse than he felt, because now Jim wrapped an arm around his middle and pulled him close.
“Ugh, sorry. I can’t blame you; having an evil twin, thinking about everything in your life and how the evil version of it would suck, or worse, if you’d like the evil version better. Or what if some things were exactly the same--what would that mean?”
“Yeah, what indeed.” For Jim, that amounted to deep introspection. Except in the matter of command, where he could be brutally self-critical, Jim sailed through his extraordinary life without a bit of the brooding scrutiny that Leonard gave every major life event.
Including this thing between the two of them, whatever it was. This thing that had Jim chasing after visiting scientists one day and wrapped like a Kudzu around Leonard the next. The thing that meant the other officers always left the seat to Jim’s left open for Leonard at the Captain’s table, but that the hot rumor among the crew was that Jim was getting on with Spock, of all people.
Leonard grunted, and sighed. He didn’t want to think; he wanted to lie back in Jim’s arms without a care, maybe let Jim take care of this perverse erection. If only his damn brain would leave him alone.
“Hey,” Jim said, sweet lips at his ear. “What do you want for Christmas? Only two days left, and if it’s something besides sex or synthesized food protein, you’re going to have to give me time. Nearest shopping arcade is 200,000 light years away.”
“Christmas,” McCoy humphed. “Who bothers with that any more?”
“Me. It’s fun, and it’s good for morale. And I want to give you something. Do you think it’s too late for one of those secret gift exchanges? Maybe I could arrange to get your name. After all, I’m captain.”
Kirk didn’t make good on his threat--there was an ion storm, and a transporter malfunction, and the usual batch of crises--and when Christmas dawned dark and cold, Leonard figured he was in the clear. The ship was quiet, the human crew celebrating or not after their own preference, the aliens enjoying having the gym to themselves. Leonard wandered for a while, had a glass of cheer with Scotty, and finally ended up in his own quarters, half his mind on a Russian novel and the other half wondering if he was even going to see Jim that day.
Not five minutes later Jim commed him.
“Bones,” he said, sounding exciting. “Come down to my quarters; I have something for you.”
Leonard did so with a sinking feeling, wondering if he should grab a pair of socks or a plant or something to offer in return.
What greeted him when he walked into Jim’s quarters was not, however, a cask of aged Bourbon or Lt. Akiyama wearing nothing but a bow. It was himself--the beat-up, pissed-off, handcuffed, evil, malpracticing version of himself.
“Figures,” the Mirror-McCoy groused. “The only thing that could make this day worse is him.”
“This is your idea of a present?” McCoy said, horrified. “Where the hell did he come from, and why--”
“I was just going to send him packing without mentioning it,” Kirk said. “That ion storm--what were the chances a McCoy, any McCoy would be on a Transporter pad at that exact moment?”
“About the same as the chances I want to be here,” Mirror-McCoy snarled. “You said you’d send me back, Kirk. Now you want to torture me with this pie-faced numskull? I thought you were supposed to be the ‘good’ one.”
“I’ll send you back, I gave you my word. But first, you’re going to tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Leonard’s spine, already thoroughly chilled, got a bit colder.
“Do I have to?” Mirror-McCoy made a face like he was smelling cheap cologne. “God, this is a nightmare.”
“Tell him,” Jim said firmly.
“‘All right, fine.” Mirror-McCoy fixed his eyes on the ceiling and said in a obnoxious sing-song voice, “Your boyfriend here wants me to tell you that he--I mean Kirk, the real Kirk--and I are--what do you call it? Oh, right, fucking.”
“And?” Jim prompted.
“Damned if I know. But it’s been going on for a while now. It’s exclusive, at least on my side, because he’d have me castrated otherwise.”
“Charming,” Leonard said, swallowing hard.
“But he wouldn’t, would he?” Kirk pressed. “He treats you well, right?”
“Between the jealous rages, and the bizarre tests of loyalty, and the strange ‘gifts’? Sure, he’s a prince.”
Jim looked satisfied. “Good. All right. I’ll call Security and we’ll get you back to that universe of yours before Christmas dinner.”
“God damn it,” Mirror-McCoy said. “Can’t you wait until morning?”
“What, and miss your gift? What do you think your Captain Kirk has all picked out for you?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy sulked, “I thought maybe it was this. Now I have another present to look forward to. Oh, joy.”
A few minutes later, four security officers arrived, and Leonard had the pleasure of seeing the surlier, eviller version of himself hauled away in restraints, muttering “Merry fucking Christmas to me.”
“He’s pretty awful,” Jim said, as the door swished closed. “But I like the uniform, and the V-neck crisscross thing? Nice shoulders. Yours, I mean.”
“Why, Jim?” Leonard said, unable to say anything else. “Why would you think I’d want to witness that?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s been bugging you, I know, the whole Mirror thing. I thought it would help if you could see that there’s a limit to how bad it gets. That he and his Kirk have--something, I guess. That it’s not all torture and backstabbing.”
“I guess not.” And it was a comfort, in a way. Leonard liked cosmic alignments as much as Jim mistrusted them. “But why them, do you suppose? Why Kirk and McCoy, when everything else is fucked up and evil?”
“It just works, I guess.”
“Mystery of the universe?”
“No mystery, believe me.” He smiled in that way that made Leonard feel like nobody but himself. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” Leonard said. “So it’ll have to be either synthesized food protein or sex.”
Jim looped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a messy kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be happy with either. But you better get cracking on next year’s gift, because this one is going to be hard to top.”