FIC: pg-13, Lacrimosa
Title: Lacrimosa 1/1
Author: sangueuk
Rating: pg-13, for angst
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 1,200 words complete
Summary: Jim is crying
Warnings: angst aplenty
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
beta thanks to the wonderful abigail89 .
Author’s notes: This was inspired by That Photo, you know, the one of Jim crying.
And if you really want to depress yourself, this is the kind of thing I played while writing this:
Mozart’s Lacrimosa
Samuel Barber’s adagio for strings
Intriguing snippet: McCoy hated himself for it, but at that moment, the only thing he wished for, the only thing he’d trade with the Devil for, was that Jim should still be alive.
Awarded a bronze medal in the jim_and_bones Rec Olympics 2012 for Best angst!
Also posted on Archive of Our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
Lacrimosa
i.
There was silence in the transporter room.
They’d arranged themselves like sad, helpless, autumnal trees waiting for the cold of winter to take the last signs of life away. Ten minutes they’d waited, gurneys and medical kits on stand-by, hands behind backs or tucked under armpits, Scotty’s fingers hovering over the control panel.
“Five to beam up, Mr Scott.” Spock’s voice came over the comm. Ten had gone down. Fuck. No one dared look at anyone else.
The shimmering as the transport crew materialised was the first movement in all those minutes. McCoy hated himself for it, but at that moment, the only thing he wished for, the only thing he’d trade with the Devil for, was that Jim should still be alive.
Lead in his belly. Please.
Jim.
The longest three seconds of his life before McCoy was permitted to step forward, once Scotty announced the decontamination check had cleared.
“None of us are injured, Doctor.” Spock informed him.
McCoy caught Jim as he sagged. He exchanged looks with M’Benga who nodded at him, indulged him, and took over the job of triage. The damage here wasn’t physical; one glance at their anguished faces said everything.
And Jim, dear God, Jim.
His face twisted, contorted; muscles in his neck and back knotted tight and corded yet removed of all their strength. Muscles which couldn’t hold him up, propel him forward or enable him to speak or wail. The sight of whatever it was that he’d seen, or he had been unable to prevent, had removed all but involuntary movement. He was crushed, his bones and spine rendered brittle as chalk; muscles, rubber; his voice, just a silent, anguished cry.
McCoy collected him in his arms, and became the puppet master, the power behind Jim’s movement. He guided Jim’s arm around his neck for support, walked him towards the corridor, Jim’s feet dragging alongside his as if they were tied together at the ankle, faltering silent breaths warming his ear and reminding him, thank you, thank you, that while the worst may have happened to Jim in his universe, goddammit, Jim was alive. He fought back a laugh of relief.
Jim’s voice began to break,
“I got you,” McCoy said, “I got you, darlin’.”
ii.
About half way down the corridor, before they even reached the turbolift, there was a shift in Jim’s body - he reanimated; he made fists, shrugged McCoy away and punched the wall. McCoy folded his arms, stepped away from him, recoiling when Jim let out a blood-curdling bellow. He staggered to the lift doors, slammed the controls and stepped inside, making declamations. Broken, guttural sentences tore from his throat, roars of rage about what he was going to do, how he was going to hurt, kill and maim. McCoy stood at the opposite wall, listening to the words; they were just words but they had fire within them, volcanic hatred and vitriol, and they echoed around McCoy’s head. He told himself they were just words, he had nothing to fear and he fought the instinct to run, to escape the firestorm.
He’d only seen Jim lose his temper once or twice in the years he’d known him and then only in front of him. Intimacy wasn’t just about tender kisses it was also about allowing your dark side out when it needed to be free.
In his quarters, Jim was warlike. He kicked the coffee table over, smashed PADDS against the wall, he keened and buckled under the force of his anger, limbs jagging and flailing.
McCoy’s ears rang as he listened to Jim’s pleas for answers, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Jim’s face awash with, at last, a torrent of tears.
Now McCoy was a chameleon, a shape-shifter, holding his ground, adapting as the storm buffeted him, blew his hair and tore at his limbs.
“I know, darlin, “he said, “I know.”
iii.
Jim paced the small room, up and down, like a caged animal, backwards and forwards, boots soundless. His eyes flickered towards McCoy as if he’d seen him for the first time. He wanted connection, McCoy realised. The wind dropped and Jim lowered himself to the edge of his bed, and McCoy knew he could move towards him again.
The tears were abundant; his face had softened, his eyes scrunched to block out what he’d seen. His shoulders shook and he croaked McCoy’s name, drew him in. McCoy dropped his arms to his side, pushed away from the wall and went to him.
He sat close but didn’t touch until he was sure Jim was ready. Jim’s neck was flushed, his voice sounded like his own again, no longer that of a man possessed. His wet face shone in the harsh lighting, breaths hitched through him, and he scrubbed his face with the back of his hands, rolling fists in his eyes. He may have looked like an abandoned child, but he was in control.
Finally, Jim reached for McCoy’s hand. It drew a long sigh out of him for he needed this contact too. He threaded his fingers through Jim’s, clasped tight and ran his other hand across Jim’s forehead. He stroked his neck and shoulders, willing the tension out. All the while, he listened to the mumble of questions that poured from Jim’s mouth none of which had answers: why and he didn’t get it.
McCoy heard him and helped him to forget by remembering for him.
“I’m here, darlin,” he said, “I’m here.”
iv.
Jim’s breaths were even now. He’d opened his eyes and stared at something on the far wall as McCoy stroked his arms. He hadn’t spoken for some minutes. He was back. He put his head in his hands as McCoy rubbed the soft skin at the nape of his strong neck with his thumb. Tears fell silent and warm, washing away some of the pain. McCoy had never seen him cry before and he hoped to God he never would again. He watched Jim remove his boots.
Eyes blue white, like the flame at the heart of a forge, burned McCoy and he gasped at the intent look Jim gave him.
“Love you, Bones,” he said, “love you.”
Jim lay down across McCoy’s thighs and he allowed his face to be kissed, his eyelids to be kissed, his ears where the tears had collected, to be kissed. He felt heavy and McCoy had all the strength in the world to bear him.
McCoy felt Jim’s pulse where they made contact, his heart-beat; Jim thrummed with life.
Finally Jim fell asleep, his mouth open. He looked like a child pulled in from a hurricane, safe and dry.
v.
“McCoy to Bridge.”
“Yes, Doctor., How is the captain?”
“He’s resting, Spock. He’ll debrief in an hour.”
McCoy pulled the sleeping Jim up the bed and spread the coverlet over him. His hands were still fists but he looked peaceful. McCoy lay on top of the covers, tucked one arm under Jim’s neck, looped a leg over his and crushed his face alongside clammy skin.
Finally, he let his own tears fall into the hollow of Jim’s neck.
~FIN~
The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Feedback is love!
Author: sangueuk
Rating: pg-13, for angst
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 1,200 words complete
Summary: Jim is crying
Warnings: angst aplenty
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
beta thanks to the wonderful abigail89 .
Author’s notes: This was inspired by That Photo, you know, the one of Jim crying.
And if you really want to depress yourself, this is the kind of thing I played while writing this:
Mozart’s Lacrimosa
Samuel Barber’s adagio for strings
Intriguing snippet: McCoy hated himself for it, but at that moment, the only thing he wished for, the only thing he’d trade with the Devil for, was that Jim should still be alive.
Awarded a bronze medal in the jim_and_bones Rec Olympics 2012 for Best angst!
Also posted on Archive of Our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
Lacrimosa
i.
There was silence in the transporter room.
They’d arranged themselves like sad, helpless, autumnal trees waiting for the cold of winter to take the last signs of life away. Ten minutes they’d waited, gurneys and medical kits on stand-by, hands behind backs or tucked under armpits, Scotty’s fingers hovering over the control panel.
“Five to beam up, Mr Scott.” Spock’s voice came over the comm. Ten had gone down. Fuck. No one dared look at anyone else.
The shimmering as the transport crew materialised was the first movement in all those minutes. McCoy hated himself for it, but at that moment, the only thing he wished for, the only thing he’d trade with the Devil for, was that Jim should still be alive.
Lead in his belly. Please.
Jim.
The longest three seconds of his life before McCoy was permitted to step forward, once Scotty announced the decontamination check had cleared.
“None of us are injured, Doctor.” Spock informed him.
McCoy caught Jim as he sagged. He exchanged looks with M’Benga who nodded at him, indulged him, and took over the job of triage. The damage here wasn’t physical; one glance at their anguished faces said everything.
And Jim, dear God, Jim.
His face twisted, contorted; muscles in his neck and back knotted tight and corded yet removed of all their strength. Muscles which couldn’t hold him up, propel him forward or enable him to speak or wail. The sight of whatever it was that he’d seen, or he had been unable to prevent, had removed all but involuntary movement. He was crushed, his bones and spine rendered brittle as chalk; muscles, rubber; his voice, just a silent, anguished cry.
McCoy collected him in his arms, and became the puppet master, the power behind Jim’s movement. He guided Jim’s arm around his neck for support, walked him towards the corridor, Jim’s feet dragging alongside his as if they were tied together at the ankle, faltering silent breaths warming his ear and reminding him, thank you, thank you, that while the worst may have happened to Jim in his universe, goddammit, Jim was alive. He fought back a laugh of relief.
Jim’s voice began to break,
“I got you,” McCoy said, “I got you, darlin’.”
ii.
About half way down the corridor, before they even reached the turbolift, there was a shift in Jim’s body - he reanimated; he made fists, shrugged McCoy away and punched the wall. McCoy folded his arms, stepped away from him, recoiling when Jim let out a blood-curdling bellow. He staggered to the lift doors, slammed the controls and stepped inside, making declamations. Broken, guttural sentences tore from his throat, roars of rage about what he was going to do, how he was going to hurt, kill and maim. McCoy stood at the opposite wall, listening to the words; they were just words but they had fire within them, volcanic hatred and vitriol, and they echoed around McCoy’s head. He told himself they were just words, he had nothing to fear and he fought the instinct to run, to escape the firestorm.
He’d only seen Jim lose his temper once or twice in the years he’d known him and then only in front of him. Intimacy wasn’t just about tender kisses it was also about allowing your dark side out when it needed to be free.
In his quarters, Jim was warlike. He kicked the coffee table over, smashed PADDS against the wall, he keened and buckled under the force of his anger, limbs jagging and flailing.
McCoy’s ears rang as he listened to Jim’s pleas for answers, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Jim’s face awash with, at last, a torrent of tears.
Now McCoy was a chameleon, a shape-shifter, holding his ground, adapting as the storm buffeted him, blew his hair and tore at his limbs.
“I know, darlin, “he said, “I know.”
iii.
Jim paced the small room, up and down, like a caged animal, backwards and forwards, boots soundless. His eyes flickered towards McCoy as if he’d seen him for the first time. He wanted connection, McCoy realised. The wind dropped and Jim lowered himself to the edge of his bed, and McCoy knew he could move towards him again.
The tears were abundant; his face had softened, his eyes scrunched to block out what he’d seen. His shoulders shook and he croaked McCoy’s name, drew him in. McCoy dropped his arms to his side, pushed away from the wall and went to him.
He sat close but didn’t touch until he was sure Jim was ready. Jim’s neck was flushed, his voice sounded like his own again, no longer that of a man possessed. His wet face shone in the harsh lighting, breaths hitched through him, and he scrubbed his face with the back of his hands, rolling fists in his eyes. He may have looked like an abandoned child, but he was in control.
Finally, Jim reached for McCoy’s hand. It drew a long sigh out of him for he needed this contact too. He threaded his fingers through Jim’s, clasped tight and ran his other hand across Jim’s forehead. He stroked his neck and shoulders, willing the tension out. All the while, he listened to the mumble of questions that poured from Jim’s mouth none of which had answers: why and he didn’t get it.
McCoy heard him and helped him to forget by remembering for him.
“I’m here, darlin,” he said, “I’m here.”
iv.
Jim’s breaths were even now. He’d opened his eyes and stared at something on the far wall as McCoy stroked his arms. He hadn’t spoken for some minutes. He was back. He put his head in his hands as McCoy rubbed the soft skin at the nape of his strong neck with his thumb. Tears fell silent and warm, washing away some of the pain. McCoy had never seen him cry before and he hoped to God he never would again. He watched Jim remove his boots.
Eyes blue white, like the flame at the heart of a forge, burned McCoy and he gasped at the intent look Jim gave him.
“Love you, Bones,” he said, “love you.”
Jim lay down across McCoy’s thighs and he allowed his face to be kissed, his eyelids to be kissed, his ears where the tears had collected, to be kissed. He felt heavy and McCoy had all the strength in the world to bear him.
McCoy felt Jim’s pulse where they made contact, his heart-beat; Jim thrummed with life.
Finally Jim fell asleep, his mouth open. He looked like a child pulled in from a hurricane, safe and dry.
v.
“McCoy to Bridge.”
“Yes, Doctor., How is the captain?”
“He’s resting, Spock. He’ll debrief in an hour.”
McCoy pulled the sleeping Jim up the bed and spread the coverlet over him. His hands were still fists but he looked peaceful. McCoy lay on top of the covers, tucked one arm under Jim’s neck, looped a leg over his and crushed his face alongside clammy skin.
Finally, he let his own tears fall into the hollow of Jim’s neck.
~FIN~
The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Feedback is love!