STXI Fic: One Of Many Pictures, Kirk/McCoy, humor/crackfic
Title: One of Many Pictures
Author: northatlantic
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Genre: Crackfic
Rating: Teen for mature concepts, strong language
Summary: "Wait, a what?" "AMenoftheEnterprisecalendar," Kirk mumbles.
Disclaimer: No, they're not mine, but I promise I'll put them back where I found them when I'm done.
A/N: Fanart is popping up ALL OVER for this. Guys, I'm verklempt. I LOVE YOU ALL, MAN. Links can be found at the end of the story for everybody whose art I know about.
Like so many good ideas, it quickly gets out of hand.
"Wait, a what?"
"AMenoftheEnterprisecalendar," Kirk mumbles, and McCoy's eyes narrow dangerously.
"That's what I thought you said. No. No, Jim. No, no, no and no. Also, in case you weren't listening, NO."
"Bones, it's for CHARITY. Are you honestly telling me you're too good to loosen up and have a little fun for charity?"
Kirk is sure the door to Sickbay is not meant to close that hard. Someone could get hurt.
***
"Certainly, Captain, provided it does not interfere with my other duties."
He had definitely expected a harder sell with Spock, and blurts out "Really?"
Spock cocks his head, studies his Captain, perplexed. "The artistic rendering of the naked form has long been judged a highly aesthetic pursuit, both on Earth and Vulcan. I am unconvinced as to whether my own attributes merit such a rendering, but one assumes the makers of this publication know their audience, and would not have tendered such an offer if they did not believe it would find a desirable reception."
Kirk blinks. "Well, that's...logical."
"Besides, Nyota assures me it is a worthy cause."
Kirk bites the inside of his lip so hard he can taste blood to not think about that one too hard. He just bet she did. "Indeed."
***
"I don't know, Captain.."
"Sulu, come on. It's for kids. Starving Capellan kids. Even SPOCK is doing it." At the moment, Spock is the ONLY other one doing it, but Sulu doesn't need to know that.
Sulu worries his lower lip. "Well. I guess if Mr. Spock is doing it..."
"And bring the sword."
Sulu looks at him like a deer in the headlights.
"No seriously, bring the sword."
***
"Can I wear me kilt?"
"Scotty, whatever you want."
"Scotsman-style?"
"I don't want to know what that is."
"And you with the last name Kirk. You've for certain sure got a little Scotsman in you somewhere."
The punchline to a million possible jokes and every one of them skeeves Jim out beyond words. Beyond.
"Yeah, okay, kilt, awesome."
"Although, been a bit remiss on the manscapin' o' late. Maybe I should look into--"
"GreatI'llputyoudownforMarch." Jim runs but he's pretty sure it's already too late to escape that image. He's pretty sure it'll haunt his nightmares for weeks.
***
"But Keptin, you asked Hikaru..."
"Hikaru is over 18."
"Vhat, I ken risk my life for the Federation but a peekture is too dangerous?"
Kirk sighs. "Yes, that's kind of stupid."
"I ken't dreenk, I ken't take picture for charity calendar but I can die."
"When's your birthday?"
"August 27--" Their eyes lock.
"Great, Pavel, you're in for May." Jim slaps him on the back.
***
"So, Chief Henderson, can we count on you?"
"Absolutely, Captain. Just one thing--"
"Whatever you want, Henderson." Half done. He's halfway done. Thank God. He has no idea where he'll come up with the other five--it's just five, he's SURE he'll convince Bones somehow...
"If there is a cupcake anywhere in the frame, and I do mean anywhere, I'm going to airlock you in your underwear. Sir."
"Duly noted. I'll put you down for June."
***
Reilly is dubious. Reilly is more than dubious, actually.
"Sir, I don't know, I mean..."
"You want to get off delta shift in Environmental Sciences sometime this century? Not that I'm in any way suggesting this has anything to do with the duty roster. Or what I could decide to do with it. Totally hypothetically."
"Sir. Yes, sir!"
"July it is."
***
Jim is desperate when he gets back to Sickbay. With a judicious combination of threats, flattery and bribes, he's filled the other slots. All but December. That one's reserved.
He is DETERMINED. He has the rest of the bridge crew. Leonard McCoy is not going to be the only one not giving up the goods. "Bones..."
McCoy looks up from his PADD with a scowl. "Are you back here about that damned calendar again? I told you what I thought of that ridiculous idea."
"Bones, come ON, Sulu's agreed, Chekov, Scotty, SPOCK for god's sake."
"That is totally an incentive. Except for the part where it's not." He goes back to making notes.
Jim's jaw tightens involuntarily in response. "Bones, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."
McCoy's lip curls. "Jim, you're faster but you're crippled by your notion of a fair fight."
"Starving children on Capella, Bones."
"I give to Oxfam Interplanetary."
"Is it a self-conscious thing? because there's no reason whatsoever for that. You should see the stares you get on the treadmill. You could bounce a credit-coin off your ass."
McCoy's eyelid twitches. "Thanks, Jim. I think I'm going to switch to the bike," he says hoarsely.
"Think about your ex-wife."
"Beg pardon?" McCoy blinks, completely thrown by that and fairly sure it should piss him off.
"Dude, think about how it would burn Jocelyn's ass to think about the one she let get away hanging on thousands and thousands of other women's walls to fantasize about." Jim has to blink himself a little on that one, the idea of a scorching Bones I-hate-you-I-love-you-now-strip look only not in any kind of medical context, all sleek bare skin and snarl--wow, okay, where did THAT come from, Jim? Jesus. I mean, yeah, you've wondered a little what it might be like ever since the first day in Academy and finding out that the crazy doctor was pure and unadulterated sin in cadet red and a haircut, but he's never indicated any interest other than women--any interest PERIOD, in anybody, and for Christ's sake focus. You're asking for a picture, not a date.
McCoy's eyes narrow again, but thoughtfully this time. "Okay--with conditions."
"Shoot." Jim is all-but-bouncing with glee. Or, not glee, achievement. That's it. Altruism. It's for the CHILDREN.
"First condition, closed shoot. Nobody is going to be wandering in and out and offering suggestions, JAMES T. KIRK, ahem. Two, there will be ONE picture, the one in the calendar, and the ones that don't get picked don't exist. Three, I don't care if everyone else is flapping in the breeze, the equipment is contained. Decently, in boxers or some other appropriate CLOTHING item, not some creepy banana hammock shit. And four--MY shoot comes before yours. Just to ensure that everybody's listening and to admit me the maximum possibility for revenge should any of the first conditions be violated."
Jim smirks at him. "You're the boss, Bones." Damn, I am good.
In retrospect, that was probably where things started to derail.
***
Of course, they decided to photograph Jim in the chair. Where else, really? While this is entertaining on any number of levels, it does make him reconsider the desirability of getting laid in it. The synthetic surface is definitely not skin-friendly, especially not after those hot lights have been on for a while, and there are any number of unyielding surfaces that start digging in when you've been draped over it in a provocative pose for a while. A great mental picture, but on the whole, he decides he's content to let it stay a mental picture. Which is somewhat disappointing, but he's philosophical, especially when he sees the finished product. Let's see how freaking Mendez looks draped all over HIS command chair with just a strategically draped gold shirt for coverage. Fuckin' horrorshow, seriously.
He's proud of his crew, too. Spock in some sort of classical art pose with a laurel wreath on his head, Sulu and the katana in fencing tights, Chekov leaning against a lift wall with a handful of chess pieces looking like a Russian underwear model, Scotty slouched smirking and spread-kneed in a kilt that mercifully covered everything that might require manscaping, Henderson with NO cake and not much else either other than a finger on the trigger of the phaser he was holding against the small of his back (god, he so didn't need to see that much of Henderson but hey, there was appreciation out there, he didn't judge). Reilly in the greenhouse on deck 4 like Adam in space (Reilly vetoed the snake and again, Kirk didn't judge. Despite what people thought about him, he does know it's possible to be TOO Freudian)--all of them amazing, sexy. And then there's Bones.
Bones' picture is not what he expected. It is...well, it is in some ways. Bones is in Sickbay, no doubt because he could order it completely cleared. And he is in the requested boxer-briefs, Science-blue that hug him like a second skin and Jim can't imagine how that's supposed to be less provocative than nudity. He is half-turned to look at the camera, and the scowl is not a "Dammit!" scowl, but a thoughtful, considering faraway look, hazel eyes almost green with it.
And he's tapping a sensor against his lower lip.
It's a habitual gesture, for Christ's sake. Jim's seen him do it before, but in a still, resting against his mouth softly glowing, that sensor pretty much screams Leonard McCoy's Lower Lip Here, Available For Any Number of Dirty, Dirty Things. The picture is both oddly restrained and sensual at the same time, the habitual defensiveness of Bones somehow absent and it kind of drives Jim nuts. He wants to see what other images they thought about, wants to know if the hypo was in any of the pictures, if Bones growled when they had him pick up the sensor or if he'd vetoed other suggestions than those boxers. If that long lean body had been draped over a Sickbay bed at some point, or facing the camera straight-on and holding a PADD to block the view because that's the kind of thing Bones would do.
He curses when he realizes he's half-hard, again. That image is preying on his mind.
It is late, almost delta shift, when he gets the next one. It's waiting for him in a plain envelope on the floor of his cabin, shoved under the door from the look of it.
It is the same image, except in THIS one that beautiful mouth is open and doing something delicately, precisely obscene to that sensor with teeth and tongue, the eyes no longer far away but luminous and challenging.
Jim is zero to hard in about 1.6 seconds. Or at least, that's how long it takes him to tear himself away from that picture enough to realize that there are more. There is one in scrub pants hanging low on Bones' hips and the scowl Jim had envisioned; there is one lying on a bed with one long foot dangling off the end, resting on his elbows with his hair falling in a tangle over his face and a slow smirk, something done to that mouth to make it look...used. There's one on the floor in a corner, in the scrub pants again with a bit of the boxers peering out, arms wrapped around knees and big dark eyes soft, something uncertain and vulnerable there. And there is a final one, one where Bones is fully clothed and whatever they've done for makeup and soft lights has been gotten rid of, the harsh light of Sickbay finding all the lines of smiles and frowns around Bones' eyes and mouth, PADD clutched to his chest and he looks tired and harried and a little bit scowly. A note is stuck to this one, happy now? - M.
He is thoroughly bewildered and painfully aroused; he's not sure what he is but he's pretty sure "happy" isn't in the same quadrant. What he IS sure of is that he needs to talk to his CMO. Now.
***
Sickbay is unexpectedly full when he gets there; a group of partiers that were a hell of a lot the worse for their little jaunt planetside after encountering a batch of tainted Bud Classic and the smell is like a punch in the face, actually makes him take a step back. "Whoa. Bones, got a minute?"
McCoy looks over, hand gentle on a suffering ensign's shoulder although his voice is sharp. "Little busy here, Jim. If you're puking, take a number, we'll get to you. If you're bleeding, take another number, we'll get to you a little sooner. If it's neither of those things, it's going to be a few minutes."
He goes to McCoy's office to wait, pours himself a shot from McCoy's stash and flops into the chair, realizes as his head falls back against it that it carries the scent of its owner, a faint and biting old-fashioned lime and leather that somehow mixes seamlessly into the ozonic scent of Sickbay. It makes him want to rub his cheek against its high back to take it in, and he does indulge himself enough to turn his head, rest against it that way waiting for his Bones.
When McCoy does come in, he looks exhausted and half-sick himself, shudders as Jim gestures towards the bottle. "Yeah, no thanks. Off alcohol for the night."
"Water, then," Jim says firmly, goes to get him a glass and McCoy has sunk into the chair he's vacated when he gets back.
He takes it, takes a sip, sets it aside. "You here for something other than to mother-hen me, Jim?"
"I'm here about the handful of nonexistent pictures in my quarters."
McCoy scowls at him. "They're pictures, in your quarters. You were clearly curious. Those were the set that made the final cut. I picked the one I was most comfortable with millions of strangers seeing. That idea pretty clearly got you off, so."
"Wait, wait, what?" He blinked. "You did this because you think I get some sort of charge out of showing you off?"
McCoy cocks an eyebrow at him. "Is that not in fact, exactly what you wanted? Changed your mind?" There's something sharp and strained in his tone.
"Bones, I asked because yeah, we're the hottest goddamn things in space at the moment but it doesn't get me off to think of people looking at you, other people." His cheeks redden, looking down. "Actually, I. It makes me a little sick. And possibly a little homicidal."
"Congratulations, Jim. Now you understand why I hate this idea. And I may be reconsidering the booze, thanks." McCoy is flushed now, a spot of hot red on each pale cheek as he stares at the water, takes another sip.
"I don't want anybody else to see you like that," Jim murmurs, stepping around the edge of the desk to lean against it. He reaches out to cup McCoy's cheek, traps him when he tries to jerk free, something wild-animal shy there and angry.
"What DO you want, Jim?" McCoy's eyes close to shut him out; he is trembling.
"To take you back to my quarters and tuck you in--after a shower because at the moment, you kind of reek. To let you snap at me about the night and the universe and whatnot for a little bit because it seems to make you feel better when you can't yell at who you really want to yell at. And then wake you up in a few hours and fuck you senseless while you're still sleepy-eyed and and warm and coffeeless because it always drove me crazy when you were meandering around our room getting ready, all soft-edged and sometimes even smiling a little before you woke up enough to remember why you hate everybody."
McCoy's eyes flash open, pin him with something hungry and terrified at the same time. "Why? Why now, after what's it been now? Four years?"
"Because, you dumbass, you stuffing those pictures under my door is the first indication I've ever had that you'd even consider me that way."
McCoy laughs, a harsh and wondering sound, turns his face into that hand. "Consider? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"Shut up with the 'kid.' I'm only six years younger than you. And jesus, Bones, you were the only friend I had in Academy most of that first year, and my best friend all of it. I don't have enough friends to not take that deadly seriously. Still don't." McCoy's lips brush over his palm and it is Jim's turn to tremble, to let his eyes half-close at that tentative caress. "I don't want to fuck this up," he whispers. "I know I've got a reputation and then some but I've never told anybody I wanted something more if all I wanted was to take them to bed and Bones, I'm telling you, I want more if it's with you."
McCoy is still except for the shivers, the way his lashes dip over intensely dark eyes. "Okay. So, given that we take that as truth and not temporary insanity--"
"Four years is temporary?" Jim surprises himself a little bit with that, but can feel the truth in it as he says it.
"Fine! fine... What makes you think I'm a good risk? I've already fucked up one long-term relationship to the point where we still can't be civil to each other for more than five minutes at a time." McCoy is nuzzling now, something yearning in those eyes.
"I'm a hell of a lot more stubborn than your ex, we HAVE all the home I want, and I can hardly complain about your work taking you away from me when mine's just as consuming."
McCoy's breath sighs out, and he gets up, the awkwardness of it almost coltish at odds with the exhaustion on his face. "A shower would be nice. A shower would actually be better than nice. It would be orgasmic."
"That can totally be arranged in a non-metaphorical way. Just saying."
"Idiot." McCoy swats at him gently before leaning into him, resting his forehead against Jim's shoulder, sighs as Jim wraps him up and it's the same feeling as when Jim opened his very first set of mission orders, proud and terrified and excited all at once. "How about let's just take things one step at a time?"
"Like I have ever done that," he whispers into McCoy's ear, and tips his face up to kiss him, sweet and slow and soft.
McCoy bites him, but smiles.
***
A bottle of Saurian brandy and an introduction to Gaila finally gets Chief Kyle to fill the now-vacant January slot. It's not as easy to convince an aggravated art director to reshoot December too, but Jim feels like Bones, mostly screened by The Chair but looking down and smirking amusedly, arms crossed and hypo in hand, really adds to the image.
There are no private images of this shoot; the photographers haven't done anything to deserve that. There might, however, be pictures taken later in the captain's quarters, accompanied by laughter and threats and swearing and ending in a warm tangle of blankets. McCoy admonishes Jim to remember that charity begins at home, "and had better end there or I will end you if any of these see daylight other than in this room."
Jim couldn't agree more.
FANART: MEN OF THE ENTERPRISE
Bones and the Sensor Of Oral Fixation, by cathybites (PG-13)
Spock (Apollo Belvedere edition), by lymanalpha (R)
Spock (Diskobolos edition), by lymanalpha (R)
Bones and the Sensor of Oral Fixation II, Dirty Mouth remix, by lymanalpha (PG)
WHOLE DAMN CALENDAR, by kilala10 and near_family OMG.
Author: northatlantic
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Genre: Crackfic
Rating: Teen for mature concepts, strong language
Summary: "Wait, a what?" "AMenoftheEnterprisecalendar," Kirk mumbles.
Disclaimer: No, they're not mine, but I promise I'll put them back where I found them when I'm done.
A/N: Fanart is popping up ALL OVER for this. Guys, I'm verklempt. I LOVE YOU ALL, MAN. Links can be found at the end of the story for everybody whose art I know about.
Like so many good ideas, it quickly gets out of hand.
"Wait, a what?"
"AMenoftheEnterprisecalendar," Kirk mumbles, and McCoy's eyes narrow dangerously.
"That's what I thought you said. No. No, Jim. No, no, no and no. Also, in case you weren't listening, NO."
"Bones, it's for CHARITY. Are you honestly telling me you're too good to loosen up and have a little fun for charity?"
Kirk is sure the door to Sickbay is not meant to close that hard. Someone could get hurt.
***
"Certainly, Captain, provided it does not interfere with my other duties."
He had definitely expected a harder sell with Spock, and blurts out "Really?"
Spock cocks his head, studies his Captain, perplexed. "The artistic rendering of the naked form has long been judged a highly aesthetic pursuit, both on Earth and Vulcan. I am unconvinced as to whether my own attributes merit such a rendering, but one assumes the makers of this publication know their audience, and would not have tendered such an offer if they did not believe it would find a desirable reception."
Kirk blinks. "Well, that's...logical."
"Besides, Nyota assures me it is a worthy cause."
Kirk bites the inside of his lip so hard he can taste blood to not think about that one too hard. He just bet she did. "Indeed."
***
"I don't know, Captain.."
"Sulu, come on. It's for kids. Starving Capellan kids. Even SPOCK is doing it." At the moment, Spock is the ONLY other one doing it, but Sulu doesn't need to know that.
Sulu worries his lower lip. "Well. I guess if Mr. Spock is doing it..."
"And bring the sword."
Sulu looks at him like a deer in the headlights.
"No seriously, bring the sword."
***
"Can I wear me kilt?"
"Scotty, whatever you want."
"Scotsman-style?"
"I don't want to know what that is."
"And you with the last name Kirk. You've for certain sure got a little Scotsman in you somewhere."
The punchline to a million possible jokes and every one of them skeeves Jim out beyond words. Beyond.
"Yeah, okay, kilt, awesome."
"Although, been a bit remiss on the manscapin' o' late. Maybe I should look into--"
"GreatI'llputyoudownforMarch." Jim runs but he's pretty sure it's already too late to escape that image. He's pretty sure it'll haunt his nightmares for weeks.
***
"But Keptin, you asked Hikaru..."
"Hikaru is over 18."
"Vhat, I ken risk my life for the Federation but a peekture is too dangerous?"
Kirk sighs. "Yes, that's kind of stupid."
"I ken't dreenk, I ken't take picture for charity calendar but I can die."
"When's your birthday?"
"August 27--" Their eyes lock.
"Great, Pavel, you're in for May." Jim slaps him on the back.
***
"So, Chief Henderson, can we count on you?"
"Absolutely, Captain. Just one thing--"
"Whatever you want, Henderson." Half done. He's halfway done. Thank God. He has no idea where he'll come up with the other five--it's just five, he's SURE he'll convince Bones somehow...
"If there is a cupcake anywhere in the frame, and I do mean anywhere, I'm going to airlock you in your underwear. Sir."
"Duly noted. I'll put you down for June."
***
Reilly is dubious. Reilly is more than dubious, actually.
"Sir, I don't know, I mean..."
"You want to get off delta shift in Environmental Sciences sometime this century? Not that I'm in any way suggesting this has anything to do with the duty roster. Or what I could decide to do with it. Totally hypothetically."
"Sir. Yes, sir!"
"July it is."
***
Jim is desperate when he gets back to Sickbay. With a judicious combination of threats, flattery and bribes, he's filled the other slots. All but December. That one's reserved.
He is DETERMINED. He has the rest of the bridge crew. Leonard McCoy is not going to be the only one not giving up the goods. "Bones..."
McCoy looks up from his PADD with a scowl. "Are you back here about that damned calendar again? I told you what I thought of that ridiculous idea."
"Bones, come ON, Sulu's agreed, Chekov, Scotty, SPOCK for god's sake."
"That is totally an incentive. Except for the part where it's not." He goes back to making notes.
Jim's jaw tightens involuntarily in response. "Bones, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."
McCoy's lip curls. "Jim, you're faster but you're crippled by your notion of a fair fight."
"Starving children on Capella, Bones."
"I give to Oxfam Interplanetary."
"Is it a self-conscious thing? because there's no reason whatsoever for that. You should see the stares you get on the treadmill. You could bounce a credit-coin off your ass."
McCoy's eyelid twitches. "Thanks, Jim. I think I'm going to switch to the bike," he says hoarsely.
"Think about your ex-wife."
"Beg pardon?" McCoy blinks, completely thrown by that and fairly sure it should piss him off.
"Dude, think about how it would burn Jocelyn's ass to think about the one she let get away hanging on thousands and thousands of other women's walls to fantasize about." Jim has to blink himself a little on that one, the idea of a scorching Bones I-hate-you-I-love-you-now-strip look only not in any kind of medical context, all sleek bare skin and snarl--wow, okay, where did THAT come from, Jim? Jesus. I mean, yeah, you've wondered a little what it might be like ever since the first day in Academy and finding out that the crazy doctor was pure and unadulterated sin in cadet red and a haircut, but he's never indicated any interest other than women--any interest PERIOD, in anybody, and for Christ's sake focus. You're asking for a picture, not a date.
McCoy's eyes narrow again, but thoughtfully this time. "Okay--with conditions."
"Shoot." Jim is all-but-bouncing with glee. Or, not glee, achievement. That's it. Altruism. It's for the CHILDREN.
"First condition, closed shoot. Nobody is going to be wandering in and out and offering suggestions, JAMES T. KIRK, ahem. Two, there will be ONE picture, the one in the calendar, and the ones that don't get picked don't exist. Three, I don't care if everyone else is flapping in the breeze, the equipment is contained. Decently, in boxers or some other appropriate CLOTHING item, not some creepy banana hammock shit. And four--MY shoot comes before yours. Just to ensure that everybody's listening and to admit me the maximum possibility for revenge should any of the first conditions be violated."
Jim smirks at him. "You're the boss, Bones." Damn, I am good.
In retrospect, that was probably where things started to derail.
***
Of course, they decided to photograph Jim in the chair. Where else, really? While this is entertaining on any number of levels, it does make him reconsider the desirability of getting laid in it. The synthetic surface is definitely not skin-friendly, especially not after those hot lights have been on for a while, and there are any number of unyielding surfaces that start digging in when you've been draped over it in a provocative pose for a while. A great mental picture, but on the whole, he decides he's content to let it stay a mental picture. Which is somewhat disappointing, but he's philosophical, especially when he sees the finished product. Let's see how freaking Mendez looks draped all over HIS command chair with just a strategically draped gold shirt for coverage. Fuckin' horrorshow, seriously.
He's proud of his crew, too. Spock in some sort of classical art pose with a laurel wreath on his head, Sulu and the katana in fencing tights, Chekov leaning against a lift wall with a handful of chess pieces looking like a Russian underwear model, Scotty slouched smirking and spread-kneed in a kilt that mercifully covered everything that might require manscaping, Henderson with NO cake and not much else either other than a finger on the trigger of the phaser he was holding against the small of his back (god, he so didn't need to see that much of Henderson but hey, there was appreciation out there, he didn't judge). Reilly in the greenhouse on deck 4 like Adam in space (Reilly vetoed the snake and again, Kirk didn't judge. Despite what people thought about him, he does know it's possible to be TOO Freudian)--all of them amazing, sexy. And then there's Bones.
Bones' picture is not what he expected. It is...well, it is in some ways. Bones is in Sickbay, no doubt because he could order it completely cleared. And he is in the requested boxer-briefs, Science-blue that hug him like a second skin and Jim can't imagine how that's supposed to be less provocative than nudity. He is half-turned to look at the camera, and the scowl is not a "Dammit!" scowl, but a thoughtful, considering faraway look, hazel eyes almost green with it.
And he's tapping a sensor against his lower lip.
It's a habitual gesture, for Christ's sake. Jim's seen him do it before, but in a still, resting against his mouth softly glowing, that sensor pretty much screams Leonard McCoy's Lower Lip Here, Available For Any Number of Dirty, Dirty Things. The picture is both oddly restrained and sensual at the same time, the habitual defensiveness of Bones somehow absent and it kind of drives Jim nuts. He wants to see what other images they thought about, wants to know if the hypo was in any of the pictures, if Bones growled when they had him pick up the sensor or if he'd vetoed other suggestions than those boxers. If that long lean body had been draped over a Sickbay bed at some point, or facing the camera straight-on and holding a PADD to block the view because that's the kind of thing Bones would do.
He curses when he realizes he's half-hard, again. That image is preying on his mind.
It is late, almost delta shift, when he gets the next one. It's waiting for him in a plain envelope on the floor of his cabin, shoved under the door from the look of it.
It is the same image, except in THIS one that beautiful mouth is open and doing something delicately, precisely obscene to that sensor with teeth and tongue, the eyes no longer far away but luminous and challenging.
Jim is zero to hard in about 1.6 seconds. Or at least, that's how long it takes him to tear himself away from that picture enough to realize that there are more. There is one in scrub pants hanging low on Bones' hips and the scowl Jim had envisioned; there is one lying on a bed with one long foot dangling off the end, resting on his elbows with his hair falling in a tangle over his face and a slow smirk, something done to that mouth to make it look...used. There's one on the floor in a corner, in the scrub pants again with a bit of the boxers peering out, arms wrapped around knees and big dark eyes soft, something uncertain and vulnerable there. And there is a final one, one where Bones is fully clothed and whatever they've done for makeup and soft lights has been gotten rid of, the harsh light of Sickbay finding all the lines of smiles and frowns around Bones' eyes and mouth, PADD clutched to his chest and he looks tired and harried and a little bit scowly. A note is stuck to this one, happy now? - M.
He is thoroughly bewildered and painfully aroused; he's not sure what he is but he's pretty sure "happy" isn't in the same quadrant. What he IS sure of is that he needs to talk to his CMO. Now.
***
Sickbay is unexpectedly full when he gets there; a group of partiers that were a hell of a lot the worse for their little jaunt planetside after encountering a batch of tainted Bud Classic and the smell is like a punch in the face, actually makes him take a step back. "Whoa. Bones, got a minute?"
McCoy looks over, hand gentle on a suffering ensign's shoulder although his voice is sharp. "Little busy here, Jim. If you're puking, take a number, we'll get to you. If you're bleeding, take another number, we'll get to you a little sooner. If it's neither of those things, it's going to be a few minutes."
He goes to McCoy's office to wait, pours himself a shot from McCoy's stash and flops into the chair, realizes as his head falls back against it that it carries the scent of its owner, a faint and biting old-fashioned lime and leather that somehow mixes seamlessly into the ozonic scent of Sickbay. It makes him want to rub his cheek against its high back to take it in, and he does indulge himself enough to turn his head, rest against it that way waiting for his Bones.
When McCoy does come in, he looks exhausted and half-sick himself, shudders as Jim gestures towards the bottle. "Yeah, no thanks. Off alcohol for the night."
"Water, then," Jim says firmly, goes to get him a glass and McCoy has sunk into the chair he's vacated when he gets back.
He takes it, takes a sip, sets it aside. "You here for something other than to mother-hen me, Jim?"
"I'm here about the handful of nonexistent pictures in my quarters."
McCoy scowls at him. "They're pictures, in your quarters. You were clearly curious. Those were the set that made the final cut. I picked the one I was most comfortable with millions of strangers seeing. That idea pretty clearly got you off, so."
"Wait, wait, what?" He blinked. "You did this because you think I get some sort of charge out of showing you off?"
McCoy cocks an eyebrow at him. "Is that not in fact, exactly what you wanted? Changed your mind?" There's something sharp and strained in his tone.
"Bones, I asked because yeah, we're the hottest goddamn things in space at the moment but it doesn't get me off to think of people looking at you, other people." His cheeks redden, looking down. "Actually, I. It makes me a little sick. And possibly a little homicidal."
"Congratulations, Jim. Now you understand why I hate this idea. And I may be reconsidering the booze, thanks." McCoy is flushed now, a spot of hot red on each pale cheek as he stares at the water, takes another sip.
"I don't want anybody else to see you like that," Jim murmurs, stepping around the edge of the desk to lean against it. He reaches out to cup McCoy's cheek, traps him when he tries to jerk free, something wild-animal shy there and angry.
"What DO you want, Jim?" McCoy's eyes close to shut him out; he is trembling.
"To take you back to my quarters and tuck you in--after a shower because at the moment, you kind of reek. To let you snap at me about the night and the universe and whatnot for a little bit because it seems to make you feel better when you can't yell at who you really want to yell at. And then wake you up in a few hours and fuck you senseless while you're still sleepy-eyed and and warm and coffeeless because it always drove me crazy when you were meandering around our room getting ready, all soft-edged and sometimes even smiling a little before you woke up enough to remember why you hate everybody."
McCoy's eyes flash open, pin him with something hungry and terrified at the same time. "Why? Why now, after what's it been now? Four years?"
"Because, you dumbass, you stuffing those pictures under my door is the first indication I've ever had that you'd even consider me that way."
McCoy laughs, a harsh and wondering sound, turns his face into that hand. "Consider? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"Shut up with the 'kid.' I'm only six years younger than you. And jesus, Bones, you were the only friend I had in Academy most of that first year, and my best friend all of it. I don't have enough friends to not take that deadly seriously. Still don't." McCoy's lips brush over his palm and it is Jim's turn to tremble, to let his eyes half-close at that tentative caress. "I don't want to fuck this up," he whispers. "I know I've got a reputation and then some but I've never told anybody I wanted something more if all I wanted was to take them to bed and Bones, I'm telling you, I want more if it's with you."
McCoy is still except for the shivers, the way his lashes dip over intensely dark eyes. "Okay. So, given that we take that as truth and not temporary insanity--"
"Four years is temporary?" Jim surprises himself a little bit with that, but can feel the truth in it as he says it.
"Fine! fine... What makes you think I'm a good risk? I've already fucked up one long-term relationship to the point where we still can't be civil to each other for more than five minutes at a time." McCoy is nuzzling now, something yearning in those eyes.
"I'm a hell of a lot more stubborn than your ex, we HAVE all the home I want, and I can hardly complain about your work taking you away from me when mine's just as consuming."
McCoy's breath sighs out, and he gets up, the awkwardness of it almost coltish at odds with the exhaustion on his face. "A shower would be nice. A shower would actually be better than nice. It would be orgasmic."
"That can totally be arranged in a non-metaphorical way. Just saying."
"Idiot." McCoy swats at him gently before leaning into him, resting his forehead against Jim's shoulder, sighs as Jim wraps him up and it's the same feeling as when Jim opened his very first set of mission orders, proud and terrified and excited all at once. "How about let's just take things one step at a time?"
"Like I have ever done that," he whispers into McCoy's ear, and tips his face up to kiss him, sweet and slow and soft.
McCoy bites him, but smiles.
***
A bottle of Saurian brandy and an introduction to Gaila finally gets Chief Kyle to fill the now-vacant January slot. It's not as easy to convince an aggravated art director to reshoot December too, but Jim feels like Bones, mostly screened by The Chair but looking down and smirking amusedly, arms crossed and hypo in hand, really adds to the image.
There are no private images of this shoot; the photographers haven't done anything to deserve that. There might, however, be pictures taken later in the captain's quarters, accompanied by laughter and threats and swearing and ending in a warm tangle of blankets. McCoy admonishes Jim to remember that charity begins at home, "and had better end there or I will end you if any of these see daylight other than in this room."
Jim couldn't agree more.
FANART: MEN OF THE ENTERPRISE
Bones and the Sensor Of Oral Fixation, by cathybites (PG-13)
Spock (Apollo Belvedere edition), by lymanalpha (R)
Spock (Diskobolos edition), by lymanalpha (R)
Bones and the Sensor of Oral Fixation II, Dirty Mouth remix, by lymanalpha (PG)
WHOLE DAMN CALENDAR, by kilala10 and near_family OMG.