A Temporary Madness: A1, P31
Title: A Temporary Madness
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,000 words.
- Rated PG13.
- No warnings.
Arc One, Part Thirty-One
Last Christmas had been - not good. McCoy couldn't remember most of it. He could remember the Boxing Day hangover, and turning up for a shift he hadn't been assigned just so he'd have something to do and not think about being so goddamn alone...
This Christmas...
It started off just about right, his phone going off at six o'clock in the morning and his eardrum near as damn it being blown out by a shrieking little girl, to whom he had to explain a decent nine times that yes, it was Christmas, and yes they would have their own Christmas tomorrow and yes, she did need to brush her teeth because chocolate didn't stop causing cavities just because Santa had dropped by, and yes he'd remembered to visit Daddy too.
Not to rain on his little girl's parade, but he knew she wasn't up to dialling his cell number yet. Joss, apparently, was sadistic even on Christmas Day.
He dropped the phone onto the floor (he didn't have the coordination to manage the bedside table) and yawned wide enough to loosen his own fillings, idly scratching at his balls, wondering even more idly where his boxers had gone, and then deciding fuck it and turning back over.
Halfway through the turn, he caught sight of the blue plastic on the other end table, and groaned into the pillow. He then discovered he'd been drooling in his sleep again, tossed the pillow aside in exchange for the other one, and reached for his phone again.
You've left your blue one here.
The other pillow was cold, and it smelled too strongly of laundry detergent, so he retrieved the damp one and flipped it over, resettling into his own body heat luxuriously. He could do with a piss, but it could wait ten minutes. Typically, he only realised he was dozing when his phone trilled and I have a spare; go to sleep flashed up at him.
He did as he was told.
Half past twelve found McCoy up, showered, dressed, and his wayward boxers at the bottom of the bed. He had carefully shaved to avoid looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, but not fully clean-shaven, because Spock might think he hadn't noticed, but apparently Chinese (whatever) guys had a real thing for stubble, and he planned on taking advantage later. His contributions to the festivities - namely, clinking bottles of various kinds of booze - were lined up on the kitchen table, and he had just grabbed his jacket off the banisters when the now-familiar (when had he become attuned to the sound of it?) grumbling purr of Spock's motorcycle inched into range.
He set the carrier bags of booze in the hall and stepped down to the driveway as the bike pulled up, grinning against the cold as Spock killed the engine and removed his helmet.
"Merry Christmas," he murmured, pressing both hands down onto leather-clad thighs to keep him where he was astride the bike, and kissing him, tasting red wine, toothpaste, and the very faint mist of medication under both.
When he drew back, Spock touched a finger lightly to his stubble, and scrutinised his eyes.
"You are..."
"Optimistic?"
"Prepared."
McCoy smirked, and kissed him again, quicker and sharper. "Gotta be, with you, or you'd have my ass."
"Literally."
"Not a chance, darlin'," he returned easily. "You gonna peel outta them leathers for me early?"
"I will remove them, yes, but you are not getting anywhere until after the festivities," Spock said almost primly, swinging off the bike fluidly and stepping up onto the porch as though he belonged there. "I have to cook at Jim's Christmas parties, and I need no additional distractions."
McCoy chuckled, kicking the door shut behind him and running his hands down over that ass before it was moved out of reach and Spock began to strip out of the leathers in the middle of McCoy's hall.
"How much wine you had?"
"One glass," Spock said. "Approximately two hours ago. I was quite fit to drive."
McCoy shrugged, reaching again once those biceps were revealed and skirting his fingers under the t-shirt and over a flat stomach. "A Buddhist celebratin' Christmas, huh?"
"Indeed."
"How'd that happen?"
"My mother introduced me to the concept. Neil introduced me to the celebration of the concept."
"Uh-huh," McCoy curled his hands and drew Spock back in to nuzzle his ear and roll his teeth over the lobe. "What'd you and Neil do for Christmas?"
"Typically, drink copious amounts of alcohol and proceed to have somewhat unsatisfying intercourse on the kitchen floor."
"Mm, I don't know about that," McCoy said, sliding his hands into the back of Spock's jeans and kneading. "I don't wanna lose twenty bucks for doing a poor job."
"Then you had better do a good one," Spock said, smoothly removing the wandering hands and stepping back.
"No problem," McCoy smirked. "And I'm pretty sure I can muster up a whole bed, too. I know how to treat my things. You gone a step up in the world with me, darlin'."
"Even as you call me a thing," Spock noted, reaching in a surprisingly affectionate gesture to kiss him on the cheek and stroke a hand along his jaw. "We must go, or Jim will come to find out what it is taking so long."
"Maybe it'd teach him to knock."
"I rather doubt it," Spock said, opening the front door again and leaving McCoy to grab their coats and the bags of booze.
But it got him a great view crossing the street, so it was fine.
Jim had been at the alcohol longer than either of them - he rarely went so far as to hug McCoy ("you're too much of a grumpy fucker!") but did so on their arrival, and attempted to get in a sneaky grope of Spock's ass before McCoy batted his hand away with a stern, "No!" that had Jim's long-suffering lodger, Sulu, snickering into his glass.
"But it's Christmas," Jim protested.
"But I don't care," McCoy replied.
Spock had set himself up in the kitchen. McCoy was amused to note he'd brought his own ingredients for more or less everything, apparently not trusting Jim's storage facilities (although McCoy probably wouldn't trust much out of Jim's fridge either) enough to make use of their contents. It seemed to be a good middle-ground; Spock was not shy, exactly, but he was certainly not sociable, and many of Jim's louder, more exuberant friends had come for the first half of the celebrations and would be returning to their own homes before dinner - McCoy encountered half the staff of Harry's betting their New Year shifts on the results of Jim's video games, and several giggling blonde girls making quiet plans in the study to corner any of the men (and McCoy was disturbed to overhear his own name being dropped) under the mistletoe before leaving.
(He checked. There was no mistletoe in the kitchen.)
If Jim was an idiot, he was a good host, at the very least, circling the rooms and taking the time for everyone, snickering over a leftover bruise on McCoy's neck and defying social convention and obnoxiously slapping Spock's ass in passing on his way to the fridge. He stole Sulu's drinks more than once, the girls he was attempting to chat up more than twice, and ended up, by mid-afternoon, cross-legged on the living room floor like a little kid, battling a gym buddy (something-or-other Mitchell) at Mario Kart. His flighty jubilance kept the general upbeat atmosphere going - warmth, friendship, and an edge of mockery surrounded by the smell of cooking and, every time Sulu entered the kitchen, the low cadence of Japanese.
It was perhaps four or five when the casual friends and acquaintances began to drift away - the giggling girls, every one of whom had probably experienced Jim Kirk the Ride, and the dark-haired Mitchell in their perfumed wake, and Gaila of the red hair and flirtatious wink, out the door in a blur of fur coat and curls, leaving Jim looking slightly floored from the kiss on the cheek she had graced him with.
They gathered in the kitchen thereafter, Spock flitting between cooking and texting someone called Nyota on his cell (the name rang a bell, but McCoy couldn't remember) and Jim flitting between his seventh refill of the day and attempting to draw Sulu back into a gaming war. Leaning on the counter, McCoy felt the crinkle and found a phone number scribbled on a receipt from a dodgy downtown pharmacy, the zeros drawn as hearts and the whole thing written in lipstick.
"Teresa," Sulu said helpfully, and McCoy tossed it.
"You should keep it," Jim said. "Teresa's a great lay."
"So's he," McCoy said, jerking a thumb at Spock, and Jim scowled.
"Low blow, man," he said. "Just once? One time? Please?"
"No, and catch," Spock ordered, and tossed a sliver of turkey.
Jim was, McCoy reflected, rather dog-like in his reaction to flying food, managing to somehow actually catch it in his mouth, and then look insufferably pleased. It kept his trap shut for precious seconds, though, and McCoy wound an arm around Spock's hips and kissed him when he shifted within range.
Jim made a noise.
"You're all loved-up and disgusting," Sulu translated.
"Not yet I'm not," McCoy returned easily, and found a chunk of turkey shoved between his teeth as well; Spock was well into passive-aggressive mode, and he wisely refrained from trying for any more affection until the meal was actually done.
When they sat down to it - it struck McCoy as possibly the oddest Christmas dinner he'd ever had. A turkey, cooked to perfection by a man who claimed to have been vegetarian his entire life; the entire company a little tipsy (or more) but the mood none the worse for it in the style than drunken family occasions tended to have; no blood relations anywhere at the table, and yet the same easy acceptance and understanding.
For a sharp moment, he wished - desperately wished - that Spock would recognise that acceptance and draw on it more strongly, and then Jim was popping the cork on yet another bottle and the spell was broken with food and alcohol and the childish sputter and burst of crackers that Sulu had dug out of God only knew where.
This had become, somehow, home.
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty-Two
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,000 words.
- Rated PG13.
- No warnings.
Arc One, Part Thirty-One
Last Christmas had been - not good. McCoy couldn't remember most of it. He could remember the Boxing Day hangover, and turning up for a shift he hadn't been assigned just so he'd have something to do and not think about being so goddamn alone...
This Christmas...
It started off just about right, his phone going off at six o'clock in the morning and his eardrum near as damn it being blown out by a shrieking little girl, to whom he had to explain a decent nine times that yes, it was Christmas, and yes they would have their own Christmas tomorrow and yes, she did need to brush her teeth because chocolate didn't stop causing cavities just because Santa had dropped by, and yes he'd remembered to visit Daddy too.
Not to rain on his little girl's parade, but he knew she wasn't up to dialling his cell number yet. Joss, apparently, was sadistic even on Christmas Day.
He dropped the phone onto the floor (he didn't have the coordination to manage the bedside table) and yawned wide enough to loosen his own fillings, idly scratching at his balls, wondering even more idly where his boxers had gone, and then deciding fuck it and turning back over.
Halfway through the turn, he caught sight of the blue plastic on the other end table, and groaned into the pillow. He then discovered he'd been drooling in his sleep again, tossed the pillow aside in exchange for the other one, and reached for his phone again.
You've left your blue one here.
The other pillow was cold, and it smelled too strongly of laundry detergent, so he retrieved the damp one and flipped it over, resettling into his own body heat luxuriously. He could do with a piss, but it could wait ten minutes. Typically, he only realised he was dozing when his phone trilled and I have a spare; go to sleep flashed up at him.
He did as he was told.
Half past twelve found McCoy up, showered, dressed, and his wayward boxers at the bottom of the bed. He had carefully shaved to avoid looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, but not fully clean-shaven, because Spock might think he hadn't noticed, but apparently Chinese (whatever) guys had a real thing for stubble, and he planned on taking advantage later. His contributions to the festivities - namely, clinking bottles of various kinds of booze - were lined up on the kitchen table, and he had just grabbed his jacket off the banisters when the now-familiar (when had he become attuned to the sound of it?) grumbling purr of Spock's motorcycle inched into range.
He set the carrier bags of booze in the hall and stepped down to the driveway as the bike pulled up, grinning against the cold as Spock killed the engine and removed his helmet.
"Merry Christmas," he murmured, pressing both hands down onto leather-clad thighs to keep him where he was astride the bike, and kissing him, tasting red wine, toothpaste, and the very faint mist of medication under both.
When he drew back, Spock touched a finger lightly to his stubble, and scrutinised his eyes.
"You are..."
"Optimistic?"
"Prepared."
McCoy smirked, and kissed him again, quicker and sharper. "Gotta be, with you, or you'd have my ass."
"Literally."
"Not a chance, darlin'," he returned easily. "You gonna peel outta them leathers for me early?"
"I will remove them, yes, but you are not getting anywhere until after the festivities," Spock said almost primly, swinging off the bike fluidly and stepping up onto the porch as though he belonged there. "I have to cook at Jim's Christmas parties, and I need no additional distractions."
McCoy chuckled, kicking the door shut behind him and running his hands down over that ass before it was moved out of reach and Spock began to strip out of the leathers in the middle of McCoy's hall.
"How much wine you had?"
"One glass," Spock said. "Approximately two hours ago. I was quite fit to drive."
McCoy shrugged, reaching again once those biceps were revealed and skirting his fingers under the t-shirt and over a flat stomach. "A Buddhist celebratin' Christmas, huh?"
"Indeed."
"How'd that happen?"
"My mother introduced me to the concept. Neil introduced me to the celebration of the concept."
"Uh-huh," McCoy curled his hands and drew Spock back in to nuzzle his ear and roll his teeth over the lobe. "What'd you and Neil do for Christmas?"
"Typically, drink copious amounts of alcohol and proceed to have somewhat unsatisfying intercourse on the kitchen floor."
"Mm, I don't know about that," McCoy said, sliding his hands into the back of Spock's jeans and kneading. "I don't wanna lose twenty bucks for doing a poor job."
"Then you had better do a good one," Spock said, smoothly removing the wandering hands and stepping back.
"No problem," McCoy smirked. "And I'm pretty sure I can muster up a whole bed, too. I know how to treat my things. You gone a step up in the world with me, darlin'."
"Even as you call me a thing," Spock noted, reaching in a surprisingly affectionate gesture to kiss him on the cheek and stroke a hand along his jaw. "We must go, or Jim will come to find out what it is taking so long."
"Maybe it'd teach him to knock."
"I rather doubt it," Spock said, opening the front door again and leaving McCoy to grab their coats and the bags of booze.
But it got him a great view crossing the street, so it was fine.
Jim had been at the alcohol longer than either of them - he rarely went so far as to hug McCoy ("you're too much of a grumpy fucker!") but did so on their arrival, and attempted to get in a sneaky grope of Spock's ass before McCoy batted his hand away with a stern, "No!" that had Jim's long-suffering lodger, Sulu, snickering into his glass.
"But it's Christmas," Jim protested.
"But I don't care," McCoy replied.
Spock had set himself up in the kitchen. McCoy was amused to note he'd brought his own ingredients for more or less everything, apparently not trusting Jim's storage facilities (although McCoy probably wouldn't trust much out of Jim's fridge either) enough to make use of their contents. It seemed to be a good middle-ground; Spock was not shy, exactly, but he was certainly not sociable, and many of Jim's louder, more exuberant friends had come for the first half of the celebrations and would be returning to their own homes before dinner - McCoy encountered half the staff of Harry's betting their New Year shifts on the results of Jim's video games, and several giggling blonde girls making quiet plans in the study to corner any of the men (and McCoy was disturbed to overhear his own name being dropped) under the mistletoe before leaving.
(He checked. There was no mistletoe in the kitchen.)
If Jim was an idiot, he was a good host, at the very least, circling the rooms and taking the time for everyone, snickering over a leftover bruise on McCoy's neck and defying social convention and obnoxiously slapping Spock's ass in passing on his way to the fridge. He stole Sulu's drinks more than once, the girls he was attempting to chat up more than twice, and ended up, by mid-afternoon, cross-legged on the living room floor like a little kid, battling a gym buddy (something-or-other Mitchell) at Mario Kart. His flighty jubilance kept the general upbeat atmosphere going - warmth, friendship, and an edge of mockery surrounded by the smell of cooking and, every time Sulu entered the kitchen, the low cadence of Japanese.
It was perhaps four or five when the casual friends and acquaintances began to drift away - the giggling girls, every one of whom had probably experienced Jim Kirk the Ride, and the dark-haired Mitchell in their perfumed wake, and Gaila of the red hair and flirtatious wink, out the door in a blur of fur coat and curls, leaving Jim looking slightly floored from the kiss on the cheek she had graced him with.
They gathered in the kitchen thereafter, Spock flitting between cooking and texting someone called Nyota on his cell (the name rang a bell, but McCoy couldn't remember) and Jim flitting between his seventh refill of the day and attempting to draw Sulu back into a gaming war. Leaning on the counter, McCoy felt the crinkle and found a phone number scribbled on a receipt from a dodgy downtown pharmacy, the zeros drawn as hearts and the whole thing written in lipstick.
"Teresa," Sulu said helpfully, and McCoy tossed it.
"You should keep it," Jim said. "Teresa's a great lay."
"So's he," McCoy said, jerking a thumb at Spock, and Jim scowled.
"Low blow, man," he said. "Just once? One time? Please?"
"No, and catch," Spock ordered, and tossed a sliver of turkey.
Jim was, McCoy reflected, rather dog-like in his reaction to flying food, managing to somehow actually catch it in his mouth, and then look insufferably pleased. It kept his trap shut for precious seconds, though, and McCoy wound an arm around Spock's hips and kissed him when he shifted within range.
Jim made a noise.
"You're all loved-up and disgusting," Sulu translated.
"Not yet I'm not," McCoy returned easily, and found a chunk of turkey shoved between his teeth as well; Spock was well into passive-aggressive mode, and he wisely refrained from trying for any more affection until the meal was actually done.
When they sat down to it - it struck McCoy as possibly the oddest Christmas dinner he'd ever had. A turkey, cooked to perfection by a man who claimed to have been vegetarian his entire life; the entire company a little tipsy (or more) but the mood none the worse for it in the style than drunken family occasions tended to have; no blood relations anywhere at the table, and yet the same easy acceptance and understanding.
For a sharp moment, he wished - desperately wished - that Spock would recognise that acceptance and draw on it more strongly, and then Jim was popping the cork on yet another bottle and the spell was broken with food and alcohol and the childish sputter and burst of crackers that Sulu had dug out of God only knew where.
This had become, somehow, home.
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty-Two