FIC: nc-17, Pandora's Box (Fight Club 'deleted scene')
Title: Pandora’s Box (Fight Club ‘deleted’ scene)
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy reboot/AU-ish
Wordcount: approx 4,000 words complete
Summary: Through the academy years, Kirk and McCoy share a secret. Kirk runs underground fight clubs for men to work off their frustrations. In this ‘deleted scene’ from my original, McCoy can’t seem to control his addiction to Jim.
Warnings: dirty sex and bad language and violence implied (not too graphic)
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.
Author’s notes: Mildly AU: Set in the Academy years, this fic stands alone but I hope you’re tempted to read my original piece, posted last year for the reel_startrek challenge, HERE
This is a birthday fic for the wonderful emiliglia who beta’d the original project. Hope you like it, bb!
Many thanks, always, to the lovely abigail89 for beta reading and for her patience.
Check out the incredible art work by juneinblue to go with the original fic.
Intriguing snippet: Over the months McCoy’s stayed away mostly, and he’s still only fought the once. Fight Club comes with its own rewards for him - you can keep the man-high, fuck the adrenaline rush - it was Jim, always Jim.
Pandora’s Box
This is Leonard McCoy’s life, one scene at a time:
He wakes up next to Jocelyn.
He wakes up on their couch.
He wakes up in a motel room bed.
He wakes up at Starfleet Academy.
He wakes up with a crust of Jim’s semen on his thighs.
+++
McCoy’s lying on his bed and he can’t get to sleep.
He hasn’t seen Jim for days -- it hurts and not in a good way.
I am Leonard’s weeping heart, he thinks.
Outside it’s raining and he’s alone. Still. He glances at the chrono - 03:00 - he’s been home for hours staring at rain patterns on the ceiling.
He remembers a scene in a movie once where this guy asks his doctor if you can die of insomnia. He remembers laughing out loud at that. He’s still in his scrubs, still wearing his sneakers and no socks.
Images of Jim crawling into bed with him a week ago haunt him. He was all sweat-soaked clothes and bruise-lipped, cock hard and hungry for him, for what McCoy could give him.
McCoy’s hands are fists by his thighs - he’s a grown man, a father, yet his life consists of unpaid bills, piles of laundry, and half-eaten replicator meals scattered over every surface, and the recycler’s broken and full of bottles.
But, at the hospital McCoy’s polished, brilliant and efficient - no one can hold a candle to him. In his reds, he’s pristine and smart. His assignments are excellent, always on time. It’s like he’s two people.
Jim’s biker jacket’s on the back of a chair. You’d think there wasn’t room in McCoy’s life for anymore shit, but it’s like those piles of trash - someone drops one piece of crap, then another joins it and, before you know it, the pile’s multiplied exponentially overnight.
Not so long ago he was picking out soft furnishings for his perfect little home back in Georgia. Maybe it was a lifetime ago.
+++
By the time McCoy reaches the club he’s soaked. He fell asleep on the hover-tram and has to backtrack through deserted streets to find this shit-hole basement serving as a temporary venue for tonight’s Fight Club.
He’s deleted the comm message sent to all members; just a couple of words - Jim and his damned love of cryptic clues - he’s worked out the name of some dive or other, a warehouse or abandoned building, there were no further details, no time, no date; he’s had to work the rest out by cracking the code and now he’s hunting around, tracking the smell of testosterone and blood through the streets like a twisted junky.
Over the months McCoy’s stayed away mostly, and he’s still only fought the once. Fight Club comes with its own rewards for him - you can keep the man-high, fuck the adrenaline rush - it was Jim, always Jim. He only lets McCoy touch him after a night in the circle, fired up and fucked up, his face bright and bruised like fallen fruit, raw fists gripping McCoy’s cock, nails that have raked through other men’s skin and scalps, will drag through McCoy’s hair and across his back. He’ll find his way into McCoy’s bed and make silent demands with his mouth and eyes until McCoy fucks him into a peaceful sleep.
Thing is, McCoy can’t even count on that, and he’s never dared make a move other times, worried to find out what the reaction will be. He’s learning to settle for what he can get, crumbs off the prince’s table so to speak. Maybe Jim would have come over anyway, maybe McCoy doesn’t need to be walking the streets in soaked jeans and on the edge of shivering with cold. Jim’s predictable in his unpredictability, that’s for sure, he thinks as he turns the corner into an alley.
McCoy hoped he’d be able to stay away but the pull’s too strong - curiosity too sharp. Even as he wavers, with his hand held in a fist so he can knock on the door covered in fraying flyers, McCoy senses he could turn back. It’s just he really doesn’t want to.
Physician heal thy self, he mutters to himself, and not for the first time in his life when he considers his addictions. He’s pretty sure he could give up booze in a heart-beat, but give up Jim? Maybe tomorrow, maybe just one more time, maybe in the spring when he’s generally more cheerful anyway and he’ll be better able to deal…
+++
It’s quiet like church in the basement, stinks of sweat and men, men who fight instead of fuck, who punch instead of talk and there’s a tight circle, a wall of wolves surrounding a deer at the centre. He can’t see Jim anywhere so he knows he’s probably the one in the ring - but why so quiet? McCoy feels a prickle of adrenaline skitter up the back of his legs and he pushes forward, ignoring the shoves back and shoulder barges - maybe Jim’s really hurt this time…
McCoy’s shoulders drop and his cock twitches when he sees Jim, adorned in sweat and blood-smear war-paint, straddled over some guy’s chest. Jim’s lips are close to his mouth and the guy’s staring up at him, listening to whispers, waiting for Jim to do something, as are the rest of the rabble. Eventually, Jim throws his head back and laughs, He gets up and holds his hand out to help the guy to his feet, and then, they’re like best fucking buddies or something, arms round each others’ necks, and Jim places a kiss on the guys forehead and pushes him away. He takes a lit cigarette from someone nearby and the heavy air is suddenly full of laughter and braying voices as if a blister’s been popped.
Idiots, the whole fucking lot of them.
Jim turns; his eyes are bright and he looks a little buzzed. He often looks like this and McCoy’s learning it’s not necessarily booze or something worse - just the high of combat, leaving him fuck-stoned and in a momentary trance state. He’s beautiful - hair golden, skin coral white; he looks like a devil inhabiting an angel’s body and McCoy wants him so fucking bad he’s gonna grind his teeth to stumps at worst, give himself a migraine at best, unless he can bury his cock in Jim’s ass before the night’s through.
Then Jim sees McCoy and he’s bouncing towards him.
“Bones!” and he punches him on the arm like he always does, when what McCoy wants is something else, and then presses his lips to McCoy’s like he doesn’t do nearly enough, and McCoy’s fighting a smile and feels his cheeks burn with the realisation of how much his moods are affected by this skinny little shit.
“Hey, asshole,” McCoy says, clearing his throat, the words he wantsto say cloying to his tongue, bitten back just in time.
“You wanna get out of here?” Jim doesn’t ask why McCoy’s travelled half way across the city in the middle of the night, why he’s soaked and doesn’t comment on his dark circles.
Jim never wants to ‘talk’ yet he never shuts up, and McCoy realises, as they leave the basement side by side, that he feels more himself than the last time he finished up a bottle of whiskey.
They stop outside a dark store front and McCoy squirms as the tension mounts in his guts. Jim’s gone quiet for a whole half minute, and McCoy can feel those blasted eyes boring into the side of his face; yet he can’t turn to look at him ‘cause Jim might be able to read him - he might see how much he wants this and it might frighten him away. In a heart-beat, the tide changes and Jim’s pulled him into the shadows and is grinding against him, sucking at McCoy’s neck, his hands fucking everywhere.
“Jesus, Jim,” he grunts when he can reclaim his tongue long enough to form a sentence, “it’s late, we should get back…fuck…” and Jim’s unbuckling his belt and palming McCoy’s cock, his hand caught between denim and the cotton of his underpants ---his eyes are wide, half an inch from McCoy’s and he watches, a smirk on his face as McCoy huffs and gasps and comes too damn quick right into his clothing, with Jim breathing heat against his ear, muttering obscenities, about wanting his cock up his ass, hard, without any lube, now, and,
“You’d like that Bones, wouldn’t you?”
McCoy’s panting, his shoulders loosen at last, his hands flop open at Jim’s waist and he’s breathing deep and slow for the first time in days. Exactly seven days since they last did this. He notices it’s stopped raining at last.
“I can hear birds,” he croaks, “we’ve become nocturnal for chrissakes.” McCoy laughs, grabs Jim by the shoulders and spins him round, slams him against the shuttered window. He sinks to a crouching position biting through Jim’s two sizes too big, plaid pants along the length of his erection, “And what the hell are you wearing?”
“Take them off if they offend you,” Jim smirks and McCoy obliges by teasing them half way down his thighs, not surprised that Jim’s commando. He takes a moment to enjoy the sight of the impressive cock in front of him. He’s sure he can feel the heat radiating from it to his face and he glances up at Jim. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back and McCoy’s torn between sinking his teeth into Jim’s exposed throat of taking him into his mouth but, he never gets the time to act - there’s an amplified voice behind them,
“Citizens! Raise your hands above your head where I can see them!”
Oh. Fuck.
+++
And as if McCoy’s life couldn’t get further in the shit, here he is, sitting on a hard bench in jail. It’s gotta be all over now, surely? He glowers at an unrepentant Jim who’s leaning up against the far wall, legs crossed at the ankles, examining his knuckles and picking the torn skin from them. He sees how McCoy’s eyes are sweeping the length of his body, and waggles his eyebrows like a talk-show host.
“No!” McCoy almost shouts, but Jim never takes no for an answer, not when it’s really I want to but I’m too fucking scared of upsetting the balance of my life. He’s always goading McCoy, reminding him what a stick-in-the-mud he is and it’s not fair; Jim has no idea what it’s like having responsibilities, a reputation to maintain.
McCoy rubs his hand through his hair and looks at Jim again. Christ, he’s a picture, in those dumb, thrift-shop pants and his shirt undone too low at the neck and too high at the waist, the white polyester gleaming in the moonlight that’s seeping through the bars of the cell. The pattern’s floral, poppies or something, fuck if he knows - he’s a doctor, not a botanist - but red anyways, and McCoy’s not sure how much of the colour is print and how much is blood. Maybe Jim won the shirt in the fight; it might explain the way it clashed with the pants but just as likely he picked it out himself - yeah, poppies for peace - the irony’s not lost on him. Jim’s disgusting, ox-blood leather jacket’s draped across his shoulders like he’s waiting for a hover-tram in Rome, rather than to find out if they’re going to be charged for indecency. They’ll throw them out of the academy for sure - McCoy will end up back in Hicksville and Jim can go back to whatever-the-fuck loser jobs he had before.
“Captain James T Kirk, my ass”, he mutters.
“What’s that, Bones, you calling me Captain and want me to take your ass?” He snickers and for a second, McCoy actually hates him.
“How you can joke…”
Jim’s gonna get hit for the second time tonight if he’s not careful, but the thought obviously hasn’t crossed his mind - everything’s crowded out by adrenaline apparently, because Jim finishes unbuttoning his shirt and exposes the line of honey coloured hair which drives McCoy fucking crazy when he thinks about it while he’s jerking off.
“And, I said no!”
“Why, Bonesy? Scared?”
McCoy strides towards him, looms his face right into Jim’s space, shoves one hand on Jim’s chest, splays another on the wall next to Jim’s head and almost spits he’s so fucking mad. Jim’s back hits the wall like a punch-bag. Only Jim could utter ‘ouch’ like he’s coming, and McCoy wonders why he makes him so fucking hard, why it is that whenever he’s with Jim all he wants to do is fuck or fight him. And, how it is that when McCoy surrenders to these feelings, this anger, this need, he feels like Jim’s stuck a flag in him and taken him as his own? McCoy’s ruined, ruined for anyone else - no one makes him feel so fucking scared of dying as he does because being with Jim, this, fucked up as it is, makes McCoy feel more alive than he has for years.
“ ‘Course I’m scared, you dick, I don’t want to get thrown out , and I’m guessing, neither do you -- or are you too dumb to see that? All you can think about is your cock, your needs, the next godamned ‘high’ - you need to grow the fuck up!” He slaps his hand into the wall.
That got rid of that annoying grin. Jim lowers his eyes but McCoy’s on a roll, his temporary calm brought on by their grope in the alley washed away by the rain, by time, by being so stupid as to follow this kid over the cliff by deluding himself that jumping is better than standing still, staying behind, carrying on alone.
“We’ve fucked up, Jim, really fucked up. I’ve never been arrested - maybe you can take this shit in your stride with---“
“With my record,” Jim finishes for him. He looks at McCoy properly, his left eye twitching a little, maybe he’s not as unconcerned at he looks. “It’s fine, we’ll be fine,” he whispers and looks to the side, and McCoy wishes he could see inside that damned head and know what he’s thinking. Then Jim shares his mind-blowing solution to their problem,
“Pike’ll get us out.”
“That’s it? That’s all you got? You’re going to make a shit strategist, Jim, really.”
Jim won’t look at him. He shifts uneasily to the side, trying to get some breathing space and McCoy’s aware of how intimidating he must look but he’s really had enough of how everything’s always butter-side down in his life while this golden boy and his charmed existence. “You’re an uppity little shit, Jim, and you need telling. Maybe, you’ve always got someone lookin’ after you, bailing you out. Well I haven’t - I’m a fuckin’ grown-up - I’m the one who should be fixing you, the one posting bail ---“ He almost says ‘taking you home’ but, even at his angriest, McCoy always holds something back. Shit, he held back all the time - Jim’s right - he’s only half-awake and the only time he’s bright, safe, sure and himself is when he’s a doctor. Now that’s all gone to shit.
Jim clears his throat.
“Just so you know…I…well, put it like this, I know a bit more about looking out for myself than you think…” Are those tears in his eyes? Surely not…the prize fighter, the charismatic genius has a weakness after all… McCoy wants to get out the world’s littlest violin.
“What, with your fists? Is that all you got?”
“Bones, stop.” Jim’s voice is steady but quiet. “I’ve got you.”
Something flares inside McCoy at that moment, something small, but bright; in this Pandora’s box which comprises ‘friendship’ with Jim Kirk over these past few months, he can almost make out a kernel of hope.
“Jim, I’m…” he softens, looks into the impossible blue, past the bruise blooming on Jim’s cheek, and wonders when he makes out his own image reflected back at him, if maybe, just maybe, Jim needs this as much as he does.
Yes, I’m sorry, he thinks and McCoy’s mouth crashes against Jim’s, sucking at his booze bitter tongue like a life-line, pulling him in, closer, closer… Jim’s lips taste so right, of everything good McCoy wants and needs - he’s had it with sour and bile and his veins fill up with joy and want and aggression.
Jim keens against him; he’s got a hand in McCoy’s hair, another fumbles at his flies. They’re both panting and McCoy’s certain the guard must be watching this at the desk, jerking off. Shit he would be. Who could resist this beauty, this energy - and McCoy’s damned if he’s going to keep trying to say no - another time, he’ll think about what this means, but, for now all he wants to think about is this. Every impulse in his body and mind focused on Jim’s tongue and cock and his heartbeat in his throat and more, more.
Jim manages to find what they’ve always dubbed a ‘single-serving’ packet of lube in McCoy’s coin pocket and tears it open with his teeth. McCoy takes one last gulp at Jim’s cock and stands, takes a good look at the wanton image before him, Jim’s pants are round his ankles, biker boots without laces, his shirt’s hanging on by the one sleeve, the other half hanging past his hip and he’s beautiful, truly beautiful; he reminds McCoy of those paintings of Saint Sebastian shot full of arrows, eyes turned heavenwards and McCoy wants to swallow him whole. He knows it’s wrong, fucked up, but this is his healing and McCoy’s gonna take his medicine like a good boy and worry about what this means later.
Jim kicks one boot off and shakes away the leg of his pants, but he’s in too much of a hurry to remove the other. McCoy preps him quickly, roughly - it’ll have to do, the kid’s relaxed now, back to himself and he likes a little burn so, “Up,” McCoy insists, bending his knees to get the right angle and grabbing Jim’s hips so he can hop up and wrap his legs around McCoy’s waist. McCoy wipes the excess lube on Jim’s shirt, and his cock nudges at Jim’s entrance, but it’s an awkward angle so he supports Jim’s weight and carries him to the wall by the small window where Jim can stretch up and hold onto the bars to get some leverage.
“Fuck me, Bones, come on, fuck me,” Jim pants. McCoy has run out of fight and anger and he tilts his hips up and back, temporarily loosening his hold on Jim’s hips so he can line his cock up. Jim meets him half way, spreading his ass cheeks with one hand while using the other to steady them with the bars.
“Jesus, Jim”, McCoy grunts when he eases in past the first ring of muscle, “I’m not gonna last long, I--
“Go, just do it!”
They thrust together and with a couple of pushes he’s buried to the hilt and it feels so fucking good, it’s like he’s the one being filled up. Jim grips the bars, and swings outwards so McCoy’s got room to move and he sets up a desperate pace - there’s no other word that will do, he thinks, he just needs this. He squints up at Jim, his eyes are on McCoy, his eyebrows dark, drawn together and he mumbles an incessant stream of encouragement and instruction - bossy little shit.
“Yes, Bones, there, God - there!”
Maybe it’s the fear of getting caught, maybe it’s ‘cause he hasn’t slept in twenty four hours or maybe it’s because they’ve decided to try out something as dumb as this, like you’d find in the back end of an Orion Pleasure Holo, but even though every nerve-ending is wired, McCoy feels like he’s never going to get there.
His forehead’s on Jim’s ribcage, his tongue’s salt slicked from sweat, and his thighs are shuddering under Jim’s weight then, he gets it - he can’t come ‘cause he doesn’t want it to end; he has no idea when he’ll see Jim again, and once this is over, well - it might be over. A taste of Jim and he just wants more. He’s addicted, helpless. What a jerk he is.
Jim doesn’t need him, he doesn’t need anyone, McCoy knows this - what Jim said earlier, it was just to get McCoy going, so he’ll fuck him and Jim will get off - it didn’t mean squat; Jim was drunk, tired, not thinking straight. And, even if it was a chink in his armour, look at him now, on top of the world, rising and falling above him. He looks like something out of a diabolical crucifixion scene - his arms flexed above his head, the shadow of hair under his arms and McCoy buries his face in Jim’s chest again, hiding from him.
“God this feels good, you’re so fucking tight, fuck…Jim…”
He hears how Jim’s breathing changes, feels his hips still, and McCoy looks up, sees Jim’s head fall back, then forward, sees the bruises he’s sucked into his neck. Jim’s eyes are closed when he cries,
“Gonna come, Bones, fuck…oh…fuck…”
And Jim’s eyes are wide, on fire and on him; his forehead’s creased in disbelief or something else McCoy can’t quite fathom, and then Jim’s hand drops from the bar as he rides out his orgasm and when he reaches down for McCoy’s face, that just kills him, that moment of connection, and McCoy’s own orgasm shatters through him and his legs buckle and they both slump against the wall; the burn in his legs, the fire in his belly seemingly never ending, with the sound of Jim saying his name softly above him, his hand in McCoy’s hair, the salt in his mouth flooding his senses until the pounding on the door brings him back to reality with a crash.
They’re both laughing uncontrollably and collapse in a tangle on the stone floor.
+++
“Why do they even still have bars in jail?” Jim grins, and pulls his pants on with no sense of urgency.
“’ cos they’re scary, maybe…” McCoy grins, “and it’s not ‘technically’ jail at all, is it?”
“Maybe, not…” Jim looks serious and leans over to plant another of his enigmatic kisses on McCoy’s forehead.
“Thanks, old man-“
McCoy raises an eyebrow, zips his jacket to cover his shirt wet with come and their combined sweat, still damp on the outside from the downpour earlier. “You’re welcome.” Then he adds, “You okay, Jim?”
“Sure, never been better!”
McCoy decides he must have imagined the moment of vulnerability that he was projecting so he could make sense of their exchange and he decides then and there that this has to stop: he needs to give Jim up before they both go down.
Sure, Pike got them out this one time, but Jim’s surely on life number nine by now…
+++
Jim swaggers to the desk, the clerk’s eyes flicker towards the pair of them, then back down to their shit on the counter when Jim winks at him and slips his arm through McCoy’s. McCoy scoops up his wallet, and Jim’s packet of cigarettes, more lube (Jim’s), and Jim’s mini-hypo. He’s glad to see that no matter how fucking feckless Jim is, he still takes care of his allergies.
They stride through the door to the steps without a backward look.
McCoy knows Jim won’t come back with him - it’s daylight, everything in San Fran looks normal and the two of them as a ‘pair’ don’t fit into this scenario.
“I’m heading off,” McCoy says so it sounds like his decision. “See you around.” He prevents his voice from lilting up, so it doesn’t sound like a question. “You okay…I mean, you know, I don’t need to run the regen over you or anything?” His voice trails off as he watches Jim stretch, spin round to look at him one last time.
“Know something, Bonesy, I’m fucking A. I’m the most centred person you’ll meet.” There’s that smirk. You can’t get sub-text past Jim Kirk.
“Then, God help us all - the Federation’s screwed.”
And with that, Jim bounces down the steps, turns left and disappears into the morning.
~FIN~
A/N - I know they won’t have bars in cells in the 23rd Century - but who am I to stand in the way of Kirk/McCoy fun?
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The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here.
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy reboot/AU-ish
Wordcount: approx 4,000 words complete
Summary: Through the academy years, Kirk and McCoy share a secret. Kirk runs underground fight clubs for men to work off their frustrations. In this ‘deleted scene’ from my original, McCoy can’t seem to control his addiction to Jim.
Warnings: dirty sex and bad language and violence implied (not too graphic)
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.
Author’s notes: Mildly AU: Set in the Academy years, this fic stands alone but I hope you’re tempted to read my original piece, posted last year for the reel_startrek challenge, HERE
This is a birthday fic for the wonderful emiliglia who beta’d the original project. Hope you like it, bb!
Many thanks, always, to the lovely abigail89 for beta reading and for her patience.
Check out the incredible art work by juneinblue to go with the original fic.
Intriguing snippet: Over the months McCoy’s stayed away mostly, and he’s still only fought the once. Fight Club comes with its own rewards for him - you can keep the man-high, fuck the adrenaline rush - it was Jim, always Jim.
Pandora’s Box
This is Leonard McCoy’s life, one scene at a time:
He wakes up next to Jocelyn.
He wakes up on their couch.
He wakes up in a motel room bed.
He wakes up at Starfleet Academy.
He wakes up with a crust of Jim’s semen on his thighs.
+++
McCoy’s lying on his bed and he can’t get to sleep.
He hasn’t seen Jim for days -- it hurts and not in a good way.
I am Leonard’s weeping heart, he thinks.
Outside it’s raining and he’s alone. Still. He glances at the chrono - 03:00 - he’s been home for hours staring at rain patterns on the ceiling.
He remembers a scene in a movie once where this guy asks his doctor if you can die of insomnia. He remembers laughing out loud at that. He’s still in his scrubs, still wearing his sneakers and no socks.
Images of Jim crawling into bed with him a week ago haunt him. He was all sweat-soaked clothes and bruise-lipped, cock hard and hungry for him, for what McCoy could give him.
McCoy’s hands are fists by his thighs - he’s a grown man, a father, yet his life consists of unpaid bills, piles of laundry, and half-eaten replicator meals scattered over every surface, and the recycler’s broken and full of bottles.
But, at the hospital McCoy’s polished, brilliant and efficient - no one can hold a candle to him. In his reds, he’s pristine and smart. His assignments are excellent, always on time. It’s like he’s two people.
Jim’s biker jacket’s on the back of a chair. You’d think there wasn’t room in McCoy’s life for anymore shit, but it’s like those piles of trash - someone drops one piece of crap, then another joins it and, before you know it, the pile’s multiplied exponentially overnight.
Not so long ago he was picking out soft furnishings for his perfect little home back in Georgia. Maybe it was a lifetime ago.
+++
By the time McCoy reaches the club he’s soaked. He fell asleep on the hover-tram and has to backtrack through deserted streets to find this shit-hole basement serving as a temporary venue for tonight’s Fight Club.
He’s deleted the comm message sent to all members; just a couple of words - Jim and his damned love of cryptic clues - he’s worked out the name of some dive or other, a warehouse or abandoned building, there were no further details, no time, no date; he’s had to work the rest out by cracking the code and now he’s hunting around, tracking the smell of testosterone and blood through the streets like a twisted junky.
Over the months McCoy’s stayed away mostly, and he’s still only fought the once. Fight Club comes with its own rewards for him - you can keep the man-high, fuck the adrenaline rush - it was Jim, always Jim. He only lets McCoy touch him after a night in the circle, fired up and fucked up, his face bright and bruised like fallen fruit, raw fists gripping McCoy’s cock, nails that have raked through other men’s skin and scalps, will drag through McCoy’s hair and across his back. He’ll find his way into McCoy’s bed and make silent demands with his mouth and eyes until McCoy fucks him into a peaceful sleep.
Thing is, McCoy can’t even count on that, and he’s never dared make a move other times, worried to find out what the reaction will be. He’s learning to settle for what he can get, crumbs off the prince’s table so to speak. Maybe Jim would have come over anyway, maybe McCoy doesn’t need to be walking the streets in soaked jeans and on the edge of shivering with cold. Jim’s predictable in his unpredictability, that’s for sure, he thinks as he turns the corner into an alley.
McCoy hoped he’d be able to stay away but the pull’s too strong - curiosity too sharp. Even as he wavers, with his hand held in a fist so he can knock on the door covered in fraying flyers, McCoy senses he could turn back. It’s just he really doesn’t want to.
Physician heal thy self, he mutters to himself, and not for the first time in his life when he considers his addictions. He’s pretty sure he could give up booze in a heart-beat, but give up Jim? Maybe tomorrow, maybe just one more time, maybe in the spring when he’s generally more cheerful anyway and he’ll be better able to deal…
+++
It’s quiet like church in the basement, stinks of sweat and men, men who fight instead of fuck, who punch instead of talk and there’s a tight circle, a wall of wolves surrounding a deer at the centre. He can’t see Jim anywhere so he knows he’s probably the one in the ring - but why so quiet? McCoy feels a prickle of adrenaline skitter up the back of his legs and he pushes forward, ignoring the shoves back and shoulder barges - maybe Jim’s really hurt this time…
McCoy’s shoulders drop and his cock twitches when he sees Jim, adorned in sweat and blood-smear war-paint, straddled over some guy’s chest. Jim’s lips are close to his mouth and the guy’s staring up at him, listening to whispers, waiting for Jim to do something, as are the rest of the rabble. Eventually, Jim throws his head back and laughs, He gets up and holds his hand out to help the guy to his feet, and then, they’re like best fucking buddies or something, arms round each others’ necks, and Jim places a kiss on the guys forehead and pushes him away. He takes a lit cigarette from someone nearby and the heavy air is suddenly full of laughter and braying voices as if a blister’s been popped.
Idiots, the whole fucking lot of them.
Jim turns; his eyes are bright and he looks a little buzzed. He often looks like this and McCoy’s learning it’s not necessarily booze or something worse - just the high of combat, leaving him fuck-stoned and in a momentary trance state. He’s beautiful - hair golden, skin coral white; he looks like a devil inhabiting an angel’s body and McCoy wants him so fucking bad he’s gonna grind his teeth to stumps at worst, give himself a migraine at best, unless he can bury his cock in Jim’s ass before the night’s through.
Then Jim sees McCoy and he’s bouncing towards him.
“Bones!” and he punches him on the arm like he always does, when what McCoy wants is something else, and then presses his lips to McCoy’s like he doesn’t do nearly enough, and McCoy’s fighting a smile and feels his cheeks burn with the realisation of how much his moods are affected by this skinny little shit.
“Hey, asshole,” McCoy says, clearing his throat, the words he wantsto say cloying to his tongue, bitten back just in time.
“You wanna get out of here?” Jim doesn’t ask why McCoy’s travelled half way across the city in the middle of the night, why he’s soaked and doesn’t comment on his dark circles.
Jim never wants to ‘talk’ yet he never shuts up, and McCoy realises, as they leave the basement side by side, that he feels more himself than the last time he finished up a bottle of whiskey.
They stop outside a dark store front and McCoy squirms as the tension mounts in his guts. Jim’s gone quiet for a whole half minute, and McCoy can feel those blasted eyes boring into the side of his face; yet he can’t turn to look at him ‘cause Jim might be able to read him - he might see how much he wants this and it might frighten him away. In a heart-beat, the tide changes and Jim’s pulled him into the shadows and is grinding against him, sucking at McCoy’s neck, his hands fucking everywhere.
“Jesus, Jim,” he grunts when he can reclaim his tongue long enough to form a sentence, “it’s late, we should get back…fuck…” and Jim’s unbuckling his belt and palming McCoy’s cock, his hand caught between denim and the cotton of his underpants ---his eyes are wide, half an inch from McCoy’s and he watches, a smirk on his face as McCoy huffs and gasps and comes too damn quick right into his clothing, with Jim breathing heat against his ear, muttering obscenities, about wanting his cock up his ass, hard, without any lube, now, and,
“You’d like that Bones, wouldn’t you?”
McCoy’s panting, his shoulders loosen at last, his hands flop open at Jim’s waist and he’s breathing deep and slow for the first time in days. Exactly seven days since they last did this. He notices it’s stopped raining at last.
“I can hear birds,” he croaks, “we’ve become nocturnal for chrissakes.” McCoy laughs, grabs Jim by the shoulders and spins him round, slams him against the shuttered window. He sinks to a crouching position biting through Jim’s two sizes too big, plaid pants along the length of his erection, “And what the hell are you wearing?”
“Take them off if they offend you,” Jim smirks and McCoy obliges by teasing them half way down his thighs, not surprised that Jim’s commando. He takes a moment to enjoy the sight of the impressive cock in front of him. He’s sure he can feel the heat radiating from it to his face and he glances up at Jim. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back and McCoy’s torn between sinking his teeth into Jim’s exposed throat of taking him into his mouth but, he never gets the time to act - there’s an amplified voice behind them,
“Citizens! Raise your hands above your head where I can see them!”
Oh. Fuck.
+++
And as if McCoy’s life couldn’t get further in the shit, here he is, sitting on a hard bench in jail. It’s gotta be all over now, surely? He glowers at an unrepentant Jim who’s leaning up against the far wall, legs crossed at the ankles, examining his knuckles and picking the torn skin from them. He sees how McCoy’s eyes are sweeping the length of his body, and waggles his eyebrows like a talk-show host.
“No!” McCoy almost shouts, but Jim never takes no for an answer, not when it’s really I want to but I’m too fucking scared of upsetting the balance of my life. He’s always goading McCoy, reminding him what a stick-in-the-mud he is and it’s not fair; Jim has no idea what it’s like having responsibilities, a reputation to maintain.
McCoy rubs his hand through his hair and looks at Jim again. Christ, he’s a picture, in those dumb, thrift-shop pants and his shirt undone too low at the neck and too high at the waist, the white polyester gleaming in the moonlight that’s seeping through the bars of the cell. The pattern’s floral, poppies or something, fuck if he knows - he’s a doctor, not a botanist - but red anyways, and McCoy’s not sure how much of the colour is print and how much is blood. Maybe Jim won the shirt in the fight; it might explain the way it clashed with the pants but just as likely he picked it out himself - yeah, poppies for peace - the irony’s not lost on him. Jim’s disgusting, ox-blood leather jacket’s draped across his shoulders like he’s waiting for a hover-tram in Rome, rather than to find out if they’re going to be charged for indecency. They’ll throw them out of the academy for sure - McCoy will end up back in Hicksville and Jim can go back to whatever-the-fuck loser jobs he had before.
“Captain James T Kirk, my ass”, he mutters.
“What’s that, Bones, you calling me Captain and want me to take your ass?” He snickers and for a second, McCoy actually hates him.
“How you can joke…”
Jim’s gonna get hit for the second time tonight if he’s not careful, but the thought obviously hasn’t crossed his mind - everything’s crowded out by adrenaline apparently, because Jim finishes unbuttoning his shirt and exposes the line of honey coloured hair which drives McCoy fucking crazy when he thinks about it while he’s jerking off.
“And, I said no!”
“Why, Bonesy? Scared?”
McCoy strides towards him, looms his face right into Jim’s space, shoves one hand on Jim’s chest, splays another on the wall next to Jim’s head and almost spits he’s so fucking mad. Jim’s back hits the wall like a punch-bag. Only Jim could utter ‘ouch’ like he’s coming, and McCoy wonders why he makes him so fucking hard, why it is that whenever he’s with Jim all he wants to do is fuck or fight him. And, how it is that when McCoy surrenders to these feelings, this anger, this need, he feels like Jim’s stuck a flag in him and taken him as his own? McCoy’s ruined, ruined for anyone else - no one makes him feel so fucking scared of dying as he does because being with Jim, this, fucked up as it is, makes McCoy feel more alive than he has for years.
“ ‘Course I’m scared, you dick, I don’t want to get thrown out , and I’m guessing, neither do you -- or are you too dumb to see that? All you can think about is your cock, your needs, the next godamned ‘high’ - you need to grow the fuck up!” He slaps his hand into the wall.
That got rid of that annoying grin. Jim lowers his eyes but McCoy’s on a roll, his temporary calm brought on by their grope in the alley washed away by the rain, by time, by being so stupid as to follow this kid over the cliff by deluding himself that jumping is better than standing still, staying behind, carrying on alone.
“We’ve fucked up, Jim, really fucked up. I’ve never been arrested - maybe you can take this shit in your stride with---“
“With my record,” Jim finishes for him. He looks at McCoy properly, his left eye twitching a little, maybe he’s not as unconcerned at he looks. “It’s fine, we’ll be fine,” he whispers and looks to the side, and McCoy wishes he could see inside that damned head and know what he’s thinking. Then Jim shares his mind-blowing solution to their problem,
“Pike’ll get us out.”
“That’s it? That’s all you got? You’re going to make a shit strategist, Jim, really.”
Jim won’t look at him. He shifts uneasily to the side, trying to get some breathing space and McCoy’s aware of how intimidating he must look but he’s really had enough of how everything’s always butter-side down in his life while this golden boy and his charmed existence. “You’re an uppity little shit, Jim, and you need telling. Maybe, you’ve always got someone lookin’ after you, bailing you out. Well I haven’t - I’m a fuckin’ grown-up - I’m the one who should be fixing you, the one posting bail ---“ He almost says ‘taking you home’ but, even at his angriest, McCoy always holds something back. Shit, he held back all the time - Jim’s right - he’s only half-awake and the only time he’s bright, safe, sure and himself is when he’s a doctor. Now that’s all gone to shit.
Jim clears his throat.
“Just so you know…I…well, put it like this, I know a bit more about looking out for myself than you think…” Are those tears in his eyes? Surely not…the prize fighter, the charismatic genius has a weakness after all… McCoy wants to get out the world’s littlest violin.
“What, with your fists? Is that all you got?”
“Bones, stop.” Jim’s voice is steady but quiet. “I’ve got you.”
Something flares inside McCoy at that moment, something small, but bright; in this Pandora’s box which comprises ‘friendship’ with Jim Kirk over these past few months, he can almost make out a kernel of hope.
“Jim, I’m…” he softens, looks into the impossible blue, past the bruise blooming on Jim’s cheek, and wonders when he makes out his own image reflected back at him, if maybe, just maybe, Jim needs this as much as he does.
Yes, I’m sorry, he thinks and McCoy’s mouth crashes against Jim’s, sucking at his booze bitter tongue like a life-line, pulling him in, closer, closer… Jim’s lips taste so right, of everything good McCoy wants and needs - he’s had it with sour and bile and his veins fill up with joy and want and aggression.
Jim keens against him; he’s got a hand in McCoy’s hair, another fumbles at his flies. They’re both panting and McCoy’s certain the guard must be watching this at the desk, jerking off. Shit he would be. Who could resist this beauty, this energy - and McCoy’s damned if he’s going to keep trying to say no - another time, he’ll think about what this means, but, for now all he wants to think about is this. Every impulse in his body and mind focused on Jim’s tongue and cock and his heartbeat in his throat and more, more.
Jim manages to find what they’ve always dubbed a ‘single-serving’ packet of lube in McCoy’s coin pocket and tears it open with his teeth. McCoy takes one last gulp at Jim’s cock and stands, takes a good look at the wanton image before him, Jim’s pants are round his ankles, biker boots without laces, his shirt’s hanging on by the one sleeve, the other half hanging past his hip and he’s beautiful, truly beautiful; he reminds McCoy of those paintings of Saint Sebastian shot full of arrows, eyes turned heavenwards and McCoy wants to swallow him whole. He knows it’s wrong, fucked up, but this is his healing and McCoy’s gonna take his medicine like a good boy and worry about what this means later.
Jim kicks one boot off and shakes away the leg of his pants, but he’s in too much of a hurry to remove the other. McCoy preps him quickly, roughly - it’ll have to do, the kid’s relaxed now, back to himself and he likes a little burn so, “Up,” McCoy insists, bending his knees to get the right angle and grabbing Jim’s hips so he can hop up and wrap his legs around McCoy’s waist. McCoy wipes the excess lube on Jim’s shirt, and his cock nudges at Jim’s entrance, but it’s an awkward angle so he supports Jim’s weight and carries him to the wall by the small window where Jim can stretch up and hold onto the bars to get some leverage.
“Fuck me, Bones, come on, fuck me,” Jim pants. McCoy has run out of fight and anger and he tilts his hips up and back, temporarily loosening his hold on Jim’s hips so he can line his cock up. Jim meets him half way, spreading his ass cheeks with one hand while using the other to steady them with the bars.
“Jesus, Jim”, McCoy grunts when he eases in past the first ring of muscle, “I’m not gonna last long, I--
“Go, just do it!”
They thrust together and with a couple of pushes he’s buried to the hilt and it feels so fucking good, it’s like he’s the one being filled up. Jim grips the bars, and swings outwards so McCoy’s got room to move and he sets up a desperate pace - there’s no other word that will do, he thinks, he just needs this. He squints up at Jim, his eyes are on McCoy, his eyebrows dark, drawn together and he mumbles an incessant stream of encouragement and instruction - bossy little shit.
“Yes, Bones, there, God - there!”
Maybe it’s the fear of getting caught, maybe it’s ‘cause he hasn’t slept in twenty four hours or maybe it’s because they’ve decided to try out something as dumb as this, like you’d find in the back end of an Orion Pleasure Holo, but even though every nerve-ending is wired, McCoy feels like he’s never going to get there.
His forehead’s on Jim’s ribcage, his tongue’s salt slicked from sweat, and his thighs are shuddering under Jim’s weight then, he gets it - he can’t come ‘cause he doesn’t want it to end; he has no idea when he’ll see Jim again, and once this is over, well - it might be over. A taste of Jim and he just wants more. He’s addicted, helpless. What a jerk he is.
Jim doesn’t need him, he doesn’t need anyone, McCoy knows this - what Jim said earlier, it was just to get McCoy going, so he’ll fuck him and Jim will get off - it didn’t mean squat; Jim was drunk, tired, not thinking straight. And, even if it was a chink in his armour, look at him now, on top of the world, rising and falling above him. He looks like something out of a diabolical crucifixion scene - his arms flexed above his head, the shadow of hair under his arms and McCoy buries his face in Jim’s chest again, hiding from him.
“God this feels good, you’re so fucking tight, fuck…Jim…”
He hears how Jim’s breathing changes, feels his hips still, and McCoy looks up, sees Jim’s head fall back, then forward, sees the bruises he’s sucked into his neck. Jim’s eyes are closed when he cries,
“Gonna come, Bones, fuck…oh…fuck…”
And Jim’s eyes are wide, on fire and on him; his forehead’s creased in disbelief or something else McCoy can’t quite fathom, and then Jim’s hand drops from the bar as he rides out his orgasm and when he reaches down for McCoy’s face, that just kills him, that moment of connection, and McCoy’s own orgasm shatters through him and his legs buckle and they both slump against the wall; the burn in his legs, the fire in his belly seemingly never ending, with the sound of Jim saying his name softly above him, his hand in McCoy’s hair, the salt in his mouth flooding his senses until the pounding on the door brings him back to reality with a crash.
They’re both laughing uncontrollably and collapse in a tangle on the stone floor.
+++
“Why do they even still have bars in jail?” Jim grins, and pulls his pants on with no sense of urgency.
“’ cos they’re scary, maybe…” McCoy grins, “and it’s not ‘technically’ jail at all, is it?”
“Maybe, not…” Jim looks serious and leans over to plant another of his enigmatic kisses on McCoy’s forehead.
“Thanks, old man-“
McCoy raises an eyebrow, zips his jacket to cover his shirt wet with come and their combined sweat, still damp on the outside from the downpour earlier. “You’re welcome.” Then he adds, “You okay, Jim?”
“Sure, never been better!”
McCoy decides he must have imagined the moment of vulnerability that he was projecting so he could make sense of their exchange and he decides then and there that this has to stop: he needs to give Jim up before they both go down.
Sure, Pike got them out this one time, but Jim’s surely on life number nine by now…
+++
Jim swaggers to the desk, the clerk’s eyes flicker towards the pair of them, then back down to their shit on the counter when Jim winks at him and slips his arm through McCoy’s. McCoy scoops up his wallet, and Jim’s packet of cigarettes, more lube (Jim’s), and Jim’s mini-hypo. He’s glad to see that no matter how fucking feckless Jim is, he still takes care of his allergies.
They stride through the door to the steps without a backward look.
McCoy knows Jim won’t come back with him - it’s daylight, everything in San Fran looks normal and the two of them as a ‘pair’ don’t fit into this scenario.
“I’m heading off,” McCoy says so it sounds like his decision. “See you around.” He prevents his voice from lilting up, so it doesn’t sound like a question. “You okay…I mean, you know, I don’t need to run the regen over you or anything?” His voice trails off as he watches Jim stretch, spin round to look at him one last time.
“Know something, Bonesy, I’m fucking A. I’m the most centred person you’ll meet.” There’s that smirk. You can’t get sub-text past Jim Kirk.
“Then, God help us all - the Federation’s screwed.”
And with that, Jim bounces down the steps, turns left and disappears into the morning.
~FIN~
A/N - I know they won’t have bars in cells in the 23rd Century - but who am I to stand in the way of Kirk/McCoy fun?
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