Big Bang Fic: Autopsy of the Heart, 14-18/24
All thanks, disclaimers and notes are in part 1.
parts 1-3
parts 4-7
parts 8-13
Part 14
’I’ Confirmation
Or
The Apple Exists in Your Eye
March 2256
1.
A cold, morning and Kirk stared past McCoy through the rain-splattered diner window at the wet sidewalk. He was hung-over; so was McCoy, he just wore it better. He felt his friend nudge him under the table with his toe.
“You’ve got your little boy lost face on,” McCoy said, peering over his third coffee.
“We drank way too much,” Kirk said, drawing his jacket around him.
Kirk could tell from that raised eyebrow that Bones knew that what troubled him was more than a tongue covered in a deep pile carpet and a stomach that rebelled each time a waitress walked past with another plate of food.
And Kirk felt supremely grateful that here was someone he knew that he didn’t have to explain to. Here was someone who understood him.
Funny thing was, despite the obvious caring behind the question, McCoy didn’t mind whether Kirk provided a back-story or not at this point. That too showed how well he knew him.
For that he loved him.
2.
People struggled past the window, collars up, bent into the wind. No one knew him and he didn’t know them. He looked at McCoy again who had closed his eyes.
Kirk ran his finger round the rim of his coffee cup, breathed deep, and wondered if he should disturb him.
He needed his friend’s eyes on him today. He needed to know that someone could see him. That he did, indeed, exist.
‘I need you to see me,’ he said out loud in his head. He put an emphasis on the word I. He tried it out again in Klingon. Sounded just as stupid.
Then he kicked McCoy under the table.
“What the fuck?”
“You fell asleep.” Kirk beckoned to the waitress for more coffee.
3.
“Quit drinking coffee, Jim, you know it makes you jittery.”
“What are you, my fucking mom?”
Kirk smiled easily at his friend and winked at him. Damn, that used too many facial muscles and it hurt his eyeballs, but he didn’t want McCoy to misunderstand. He was just teasing - it earned him a smile back, a Bones Smile.
This made Kirk want to sit up in his chair a little so it could reach more of him. He resisted - really needed to work on his cool when he was around McCoy.
See, that was proof, he told himself, as he finally felt ready to confront the bright colors on the menu.
When someone loves someone, they care about them; they take a deep interest in them.
McCoy obviously cared about him. Why else would he show concern about his caffeine intake?
“Fine, jus’ don’t expect me to let you share my bed tonight with your twitchy legs and your speaking-in-tongues dreams.”
McCoy rolled his eyes dramatically to complete his picture of caffeinated Jim. He shot a look at someone watching him.
“Is that what I look like?” Kirk said.
“Yep.”
They both stared at the table top.
“Guess I should eat something…” Kirk picked up the menu again, “Computer, dim…”
“…menu to 20%.” McCoy finished for him, not even bothering to roll his eyes at the same lame joke Kirk hauled out each time they sat at a table somewhere nursing hangovers.
4.
“That’s your fifth cup of coffee.”
5.
Kirk’s scooted round so he sat the same side of the table as McCoy. It didn't surprise him when McCoy silently refused to sit with his legs together and make more room.
“See, you’ve spent too much time alone, old man.” Kirk waved a fork as he spoke, licking a stray piece of pie off his lip. He noticed McCoy looking at his mouth. “You want some?” He entertained a vision for a bright second of feeding his friend straight from the fork, licking the cream he’d leave glistening on his lips; then he turned away, scooped the last forkful up and raised his eyebrows at McCoy. McCoy folded his arms in response so Kirk shoved the last piece of pie in, put the fork directly down on the table and gasped because McCoy had grabbed his wrist.
“Do not lick the fucking plate, Jim. They’ll throw us out.” He let go, huffed and slid back on the bench.
Kirk pushed the plate away. “If you’d hung out with more people, you know, had to share actual space with them, you’d be more accommodating.”
He nudged McCoy’s thigh again and it automatically pinged back against his.
“Is this about me not wanting to sit with my legs crossed like you do?” Bones’ voice was definitely all growly now.
“You’re stubborn. There’d be more room if you sat like a doctor and not a cowboy.”
McCoy puffed. “Ever occur to you that it’s because I’ve always been surrounded by lots of people that I sit like this?”
“All those sisters?”
McCoy tipped his head.
“’sides, my legs are too long to cross.”
“Our legs are the same length; we’re pretty much the same height.” McCoy wasn’t the only one who looked and noticed, Kirk thought smugly.
6.
That night, Jim spent long hours staring at the chronometer or McCoy’s back depending on the hour.
Mentally, he scrolled through what he knew already about his friend. He arranged all the information he’d picked up without trying: his ex-wife; his divorce; his daughter; his father’s death; he was five years older than Jim; he hated flying; loved his whiskey; loved riding; adored Neil Young; hated team sports but liked to play tennis; hated spicy food and this and all the other details, the way he spoke of himself, who he liked (very short list) and who he didn’t like (very long list) added up to a picture of who he, McCoy, really was.
He then began to compile a list of questions because the current portrait of Bones was still a sketch and he needed to fill it out. He didn’t need to write his list down because he always remembered everything. If he chose to.
He realized he’d have to hang with the old man every day of his life to find out who he really was. It would need that much time to find this stuff out indirectly, without interrogation, within the rules they’d established already of caring but not prying, ignoring bad moods but still listening.
He turned to face McCoy again and saw that he was now on his back, snoring a little. Kirk stared at his profile, at the olive skin and the dark hair.
‘I need to see you,’ he said out loud in his head.
7.
“That McCoy drives me fucking crazy.”
Kirk heard one of the nurses say when he waited for his friend at the end of a shift. The two nurses, a woman and a man, leaned up against the admissions desk. They seemed oblivious to the fact that the waiting patients might overhear them. They could no more care less that Kirk might hear them, than the bum dozing across two seats would.
“Dude’s got a problem with please and thank you,” the male nurse agreed.
Kirk could feel anger creeping to his hands and he waggled his fingers to stop the fists forming.
“Some southern gentleman, huh?” the other one said.
And talk of the devil, all crumpled, lanky and half-asleep in his scrubs, McCoy turned the corner and made straight for the desk. He leaned over and retrieved a PADD and keyed something in. He hadn’t acknowledged the nurses nor Kirk. He dropped the PADD again, picked up his backpack and strode past Kirk who knew to stand and follow him.
“Goodnight, Doctor!” two voices chorused behind him.
“Eighteen hours straight - what they got to be so cheerful about? Makes me sick to my stomach.”
Outside it was foggy. They stopped while Kirk rooted round in his coat pocket.
“You excited about Georgia, Bones?” The first day of spring break was the following day.
McCoy grunted and held out his hand. Kirk handed him the hip flask. McCoy took it without a word.
Rude fucking bastard. Kirk thought with a grin.
Part 15
Intermittences of the Heart
Or
Who the Hell Are You?
June 2256 (March 2256, Spring Break)
1.
It’s summer. Kirk lies on the grass, his arm across his face to shield it from the sun and groans happily. He’s completed his last exam of the first year and waits for McCoy. He’s late. He’s always late.
Kirk makes himself comfortable. Loves dozing in public places; puts his back pack under his head, kicks off his shoes, drains the last of his bottle of water and closes his eyes. Loves the feel of the sun on his skin. Can already hear Bones bitching about no sun cream and skin cancer and it makes him as warm on the inside as his cheeks are on the outside.
He wonders at what point in the last year he went from loving McCoy to simply being in love. And what was the difference anyway.
This line of thought hurts his head more than the astrophysics exam he’d sailed through, where he’d even found time to draw some pornographic doodles of the Vulcan professor while he waited for the other cadets to finish up. He’d left them torn into rough pieces under his paper. Give the tight-ass something to do next time he’s home bored, a little puzzle.
2.
He thinks back to the Spring break. He remembers how apprehensive he felt getting into the public transporter with McCoy, heading to Georgia. He hardly knew him then, he realizes.
Was Bones in Georgia the same Bones he met on the plane? McCoy has revealed more of himself to Kirk, week after week, whether he's wanted to or not, simply because Kirk’s there to observe him.
So was this Leonard McCoy, the one who was late, the same one as Georgia - or a different one? Was this sun burning his face the same one the ancient Greeks gazed at and believed Apollo pulled across the heavens? Was this tree close by the same tree it was a year ago?
3.
Everything changes, grows, expands, ages, decays, Kirk decides.
We give objects, people, the sun, one name, because that’s how we make sense of things. But the sun changes constantly. McCoy changes constantly.
Take for example McCoy at the transporter going to Georgia, growling when he put his thumb over the screen in security, “Unsanitary. What’s wrong with retinal scans like they do on other planets? His shoulders hunched, clinging to his back pack, his battered old suitcase, newspaper under his arm. Was McCoy one of the last consumers of paper on Earth, Kirk often wondered?
“I can’t hide from people I don’t want to talk to, behind a PADD, can I?”
Then there was McCoy on the way back: louche, tan, grinning at Kirk, arms loose and easy by his side, the bruises on his neck covered with a casually knotted scarf - he looked dashing with his white shirt open and his riding boots. Decided to wear them because they were too heavy to carry and he was dammed if he was leaving them behind.
Kirk’s groin aches at the memory.
They'd been so happy.
4.
Yet when he thinks back, he realizes that it hadn’t all been happy. This was how he remembered it, but when he probes his memories deeper, the break had been made up of lots of different emotions which now, looking back, seemed to have conveniently melded into one impression, one word, so that when people asked him, (they probably didn’t dare ask Bones), “How was your break?” he’d say,
“Cool!”
Cool comprised:
• Irritation at having to use the expensive transporter rather than fly because McCoy hated flying
• Desire when he watched McCoy unpack his suitcase, open on the bed, grousing about the "shit" allocation of drawers he was going to have
• Apprehension when Kirk secretly pondered various plans, the goal being to get those two beds pushed together
• Pride when he looked at himself in the mirror after taking a shower the first day
• Sheer fucking love when he noted McCoy’s accent slid down the banisters as soon as he was home and among people who spoke like him. “Normal fucking people, Jim.”
And this was just day one. Before they’d even kissed.
5.
McCoy hadn’t wanted to meet up with family. His daughter was still out of bounds, still too vulnerable to tears and nightmares without her daddy, and he’d instituted a self-imposed ban until the time felt right. He’d hinted he was still sore about how they'd been with him after the divorce, needed to keep away. He wouldn’t expand and Kirk didn’t press him. Kirk realized that this was enough like home so McCoy could relax but far enough so they wouldn’t bump into anyone.
And then there was this guy.
6.
They’d hooked up in a restaurant and Kirk noted with annoyance (add that to the list), that McCoy seemed almost excited about meeting up.
“We go back a long ways.”
“Yeah.”
James Edward Hansford. The fucking third.
7.
Kirk had kept up the friendliness all evening, smiling, making nice, and they’d stopped off at a bar on the way back to shoot some pool. He caught James looking at Bones’ ass a couple of times.
And if it wasn’t irritating enough that they had the same name, McCoy was suddenly getting on better with someone else. Getting on with another human being. McCoy didn’t do friendships. This, their friendship was a one-off.
Kirk slammed the black into the top right pocket and spun round to punch the air at Mr the Third but he hadn’t noticed from his bar stool, pool cue between his thighs. And Bones? Surely he was standing too close? He was flirting.
Kirk hooked the pool cue back on the rack and drained his whiskey. Found a smile from somewhere deep inside, and slapped James on the back.
“Loser buys,” he said. Yep, Mr the Third may have hijacked Jim’s name, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be stealing his -
Fuck, Kirk snorts on the grass when he thinks back - he’d almost said the word boyfriend. And that had been hot, shoulder pressing embarrassment - what a jerk!
8.
A shadow falls across Kirk as he lies on the grass and his heart feels like it might sail into his throat.
“What you laughing about? If I’d have had any idea astrophysics could be so much fun, I’d have dropped out of medical school in the first year.”
“Leonard Horatio McCoy.” Kirk’s aware that he’s grinning like a loon.
McCoy sits next to him, just a few inches between them. He's in his red uniform which looks about as out of place on the grass - as a fur coat in summer.
Kirk probably watches a little too hungrily as McCoy unbuttons his jacket, folds it carefully, removes his shirt to a bare chest and flops onto his back, kicking off his shoes. One thing since Georgia, he doesn't have to hide how sexually attracted he is to Bones.
Long as he doesn't touch.
“Jesus it’s hot!”
“Betcha not wearing cream,” Kirk says.
“Fuck off.”
9.
The red pants, the bare chest, he looks positively Napoleonic, Kirk thinks, squinting at McCoy’s lean belly.
“Stop thinking those thoughts, Jim.”
“Actually, I was thinking about Spring break.”
He doesn't move. After a minute, “What about Spring break?”
“Him…”
“I thought we’d been through this already.”
10.
What would it have been like for McCoy if he had chosen James Hansford the Third and not Jim? He wouldn’t have gotten married to Jocelyn, so he wouldn’t have gotten divorced. Who would he have been? Different paths, different experiences, different baggage. Could McCoy have been this lovable if he’d been a different McCoy?
And what would have happened to Jim?
11.
“You were experiencing romantic nostalgia,” Kirk said, “When you wanted to meet up with-“
McCoy sits up sporting a killer what-the-fuck expression. It makes Kirk want to kiss him there on the grass in front of everyone. But they have agreed that this couldn’t ever happen. No more kisses, no more fucking. It was over pretty much as soon as it had started. Thank fuck they are still friends.
Regret, he checks his mental list.
“The trouble with you, Jimmy boy, is that you spend your whole day behaving like an asshole, but when people aren’t looking, you read stuff, you plot and scheme and then,” McCoy drops his voice, looks over his shoulder, “when they’re not looking, when they least expect it,” he leans forward, his face inches away from Kirk’s, but he doesn’t kiss him, instead he ruffles his hair, “you POUNCE. With thoughts!”
Kirk can’t help laughing with him although he’s feeling a definite stirring in his groin at the puff of breath from McCoy on his face for a few seconds.
“If I may be allowed to continue?”
“You sound like a Vulcan. Or someone British.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, continue…”
“You have a type.” Kirk says.
“I do?”
“Yep, blond, enthusiastic and - “
“Female, Jim. I told you that already.” He lies back down. Closes his eyes.
Kirk’s voice wavers a little. “So, James Edward Hand-Job the Fourth, is your type.”
“The third.”
“The third.”
This, if you follow the logic, makes me your type, Jim thinks.
“Not a female, Jim. And trust me, I know, I’m a doctor.”
12.
Kirk feels angry and rejected? Shit his list was getting longer and longer.
How could this be the same McCoy who winked at him in the transporter on the way home from a week of the best sex he’d ever had?
If we change constantly, Kirk thought, maybe in the morning, through some miracle, he’d wake up, not give a shit that he was never to be loved?
Maybe that’s what happened to McCoy: the natural changes you'd observe in a tree over hundreds of years if you used stop-motion, so McCoy had inexplicably gone from lover in March to exclusively heterosexual man without a lover now, in June.
14.
And as for himself - who the fuck is Jim Kirk? Since when did he start giving a shit about feelings and whether or not sex meant something more? How come he has changed?
He’d always been the same on that issue. Until Spring break.
“I’m gonna take a shower, Bones. I’ll go back to my place.” He puts his shoes on, hoping McCoy will open his eyes, smile at him, and give him something. No response. “I’ll catch you later.”
He doesn't mention his headache. For once, he doesn’t want Bones to be a doctor to his patient.
Part 16
The Fear of Happiness
Or
Better the Dog's Life
March 2256, Spring Break
1.
Anhedonia, the inability to express or feel joy.
Yes, that sounded right. Sometimes Kirk thought McCoy just didn’t want to be happy.
McCoy had found a bed and breakfast for them - it was beautiful with jade green plaster-work, a slate roof and surrounded by lawns. It was an easy ride to the river and walking distance from downtown. McCoy liked to walk, Kirk noticed. He liked to feel the hard ground underfoot.
“I don’t like fishing. I don’t like sitting still,” Kirk protested.
“You’ll like fishin’ with me, shut up,” McCoy growled. “It’s peaceful.”
Broad avenues, three hundred year old oaks and deserted streets.
“You ever see that movie, Driving Miss Daisy, Bones?”
“I thought you said you didn't watch movies…”
“No. Just rather be outside. But I used to watch them sometimes - I got grounded a lot.” He pointed out of the window from their room, “Just like this.” Beautiful but quiet. Slow.
“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” McCoy glanced around the room, “I’m taking this cot, so you don’t wake me every time you take a leak in the night.” He looked more grouchy than normal.
“Well, it is your side of the bed.” Blew him a kiss, just to piss him off. Kirk gazed at McCoy across the two beds, the gap between them, “Hey old man, just making an observation, cultural reference points and all. It's fucking beautiful here. “
Kirk saw that McCoy frowned. He kicked his own case under the bed and sat down in a chair, swung his legs up and placed his sneakers plum on the bedcovers. McCoy didn’t rise to the bait. So he tried something else while he enjoyed the sight of McCoy leaning over the bed, taking out his clothes, arranging his socks; quite incredible how the most ordinary of acts when performed by the object of his desire should seem so, well - horny.
“Two drawers each.” Kirk stroked his chin, rubbed his eyes.
“Asshole, when are you going to unpack?” McCoy opened the top drawer.
“Later.”
2.
“Hey, this place is wonderful.”
They drank beer out of tankards, the condensation slipping on Jim’s hands. He watched a tiny speck of foam that had settled on the corner of McCoy’s mouth. Found his eyes wouldn’t stop returning there.
“I can see some really beautiful stuff.”
McCoy frowned again. “Where?” He wore a plaid shirt over a white t-shirt, jeans, a big belt and sneakers. Where indeed?
“The landscape man, on the ride down. The sky.” Kirk took a long glug of his beer, wiped his hand across his mouth. Miles and miles of pine trees and the sky smattered with the whitest, fluffiest clouds he’d seen since Iowa. He’d been surprised how green it was. “Makes me fucking happy to be here, man.” He leaned across and punched McCoy lightly on the arm. “Something up?” Maybe he was still grousing because Kirk had said he didn’t want to fish.
“No,” McCoy said sourly.
“Your glass is half empty. Want a refill?” McCoy shook his head, “Do you want to know what your problem is?” Kirk said. That was his friend’s ‘not really’ face Kirk realized, but he went on. “You’re always thinking about something else.” He swept his arm across their immediate surroundings. They sat at a wooden table placed directly in the middle of the lawn, blue sky, a few kid's drawing style clouds, Spring birdsong, peach blossom... it was almost too chilly to sit out but Kirk was finding out just how stubborn McCoy could be.
McCoy frowned, “There always is something else, that’s why.”
“No, Bones. There shouldn’t be, is the point. Look…” he dragged his chair closer to McCoy, “See that dog, he doesn’t think about yesterday, tomorrow, he thinks about now. So he’s happy.”
“Fucking simple as that?”
Kirk nodded. “We’re here in this beautiful place and we’re thinking about it being over. Then we’ll be home and wishing we were here instead…” he thought about standing up, walking over and petting the dog but it was way too far. “Tomorrow we’ll think about today. Today we think about tomorrow or yesterday…” He took a moment to consider, “…and fuck knows what we were thinking about yesterday.”
“Today?”
Hey, there was a smile...
Kirk nodded in agreement. “When the fuck we gonna think about today today, Bones?”
“How old did you say you were?”
Kirk leaned across for the bottle of whiskey and dragged it by the neck towards him; it seemed reluctant, heavy somehow. “Old enough.”
“That dog,” McCoy slurred slightly, “hasn’t just had a fucking divorce, has probably been laid more recently than me, and,” he looked conspiratorial, whispered, “still has his balls.”
They both laughed uncontrollably for several minutes. Each time one of them attempted to start another topic of conversation, the giggles started up again.
Kirk had noticed Bones hadn't mentioned his kid once since they got there.
3.
Kirk woke up first, wiped some drool off his chin and sat up carefully, already aware that there was something like a headache behind his eyes. Shit, afternoon drinking, you couldn’t beat it.
The sun had almost set, and the air had cooled.
McCoy had dozed off at the table, his head on his arms, his legs in a V. Fuck it, he was going to enjoy looking for once, Kirk thought. So he started at McCoy’s feet, sneakers, laces undone, (Bones always seemed to want to be taking off his shoes), up long, long legs, thighs bigger than his and he had no idea how they got that way. Bones never seemed to have time to go to the gym and, when he did, he spent more time standing around with his arms folded, bitching at the people around him. The only part of him got a work out was those eyeballs of his - from the constant rolling. And that plaid shirt. Shit he looked good in that - always looked out of place in uniform; needed softer, baggier clothing which you’d have to search for him in. Now he was getting hard - better walk it off before Bones woke up.
He took his jacket off his chair and draped it over McCoy’s back and went inside.
He had a feeling he was going to remember that afternoon for a long time to come.
Part 17
Contractions
Or
How to Murder Your Wife
(2253) March 2256, Spring Break
1.
McCoy can’t remember when Jocelyn had begun to fake her orgasms but he remembered wondering how the hell she expected to hide it from a doctor.
He didn’t mention it, of course.
2.
Then one evening she collected him from the hospital, Joanna came along for the ride, and she met the new resident, Dr Abel Marin. Something changed then, and it was around this point Joss began asking him questions about his work, when she hadn’t really taken any interest for a couple of years. Why he’d chosen the career path he had, why he didn’t push himself more, why he hadn’t stuck with surgery?
3.
Then Abel came over for dinner, no he didn’t have a girlfriend currently. Didn’t matter, Joss said, just a casual dinner, chance to get to know each other. He was new to the area, it would be nice.
It was round about this time that McCoy noticed she’d taken to having her hair done differently. When they say men don’t notice this stuff, don’t believe them. They notice. What they don’t do is say anything.
One night, Abel stayed over, he’d had too much to drink to drive, so half way through the evening, he agreed that he’d crash in the spare room.
McCoy had gone to bed around 2am after he’d fallen asleep while the three of them talked. He woke up with a start and looked at Jocelyn. She looked alive, very beautiful and animated in the firelight. Abel was laughing, sitting quite some way from her but he could tell there was a connection. He grunted his good nights and left them talking.
McCoy probably should have stayed. Things might have turned out differently if he’d fought for her. Two hours later he woke up, stared at the clock, the ceiling, glanced at the empty pillow next to him. Then he went back to sleep.
4.
“You ever read anything by Proust, Bones?”
“Maybe…”
“One thing I read, about him, stuck in my mind - he tells a story of a king, Mohammed II his name was. “
“What about him?”
They were having breakfast in the garden, huddled up in their coats; they’d both had eggs, bacon and toast, but Kirk had decided against the grits his friend seemed such a big fan of, even though McCoy had assured him there was, “nothin’ like grits to fix you when whiskey’s ripped the lining clean outta your stomach.”
McCoy had insisted they be outside. He’d said that one day, when they were up in a tin can in space, they’d wish they’d felt this, been here. Maybe the stuff Jim had said about living in the moment had rubbed off on him after all.
“He had a harem.” Kirk waggled his eyebrows, scooped some egg into his mouth. “Imagine that Bones!”
“I guess it would be one way to keep all those women beatin’ a path to my door in check,” McCoy murmured.
Kirk continued, “So there was this one woman, beautiful she was -“
“They ever ugly, you know king’s wives?” McCoy sipped his second glass of fresh juice, his eyes half open.
“And he could sense that he was falling in love with her and, because he was the king, the ultimate power, he didn’t want to be beholden to her, you know?” Kirk poured them both another half cup of coffee, draining the jug.
“Is this going to have a happy ending? I’ve got a fuckin’ hangover here.”
“He had her killed, Bones.”
McCoy noticed that Kirk’s voice cracked as he spoke.
The words hung there.
“Killed? Even though he loved her?”
Now why would he do that?
5.
Then came the night that it was his turn to sleep in the guest bedroom, not lover boy’s. McCoy still loved her. But his love for her had turned into a sickness. Something he had to cure.
Over the space of a few months he’d gone from hurt, cuckolded husband to pathetic, pleading stalker. From the righteous to the write-off.
He had to love Georgia - full of wonderful memories.
Part 18
Romantic Terrorism
Or
Love Me, Dammit, or I’ll be Forced to Make You
(2254 / March 2256, Spring Break ) June 2256
1.
McCoy didn’t just give in.
2.
He had a feeling that if he could talk Jocelyn round, she’d fall right back in love with him again.
The first night he spent alone in his hotel room, he plotted. He decided he’d have a go at the romance thing - flowers, dinner etc.
She refused to meet him.
When he came over to see Joanna but with flowers for Jocelyn, she took them from him like they were smeared in shit and didn’t make a comment.
The next time he got her flowers, she made enough comment to keep him out of a florist’s for life.
It was too fucking late.
He should have known not being around all those times, spending all his time in study, he should have known she’d have to find someone to notice her, hold her, tell her she was beautiful.
He sure as hell hadn’t been doing it.
3.
He even took a shot at emotional blackmail - now, he didn’t call it that, of course.
He reasoned that if he made a big show of being a great daddy, just by being one naturally, she must understand that Joanna was better off with him, and at home with her.
She noticed alright.
“You’re a great dad, Leo, whatever else had gone wrong between us, I’ll never say a word against you to her. I promise that.”
Shit. How could he move in for the kill when she was going to be so nice?
4.
That summer with Kirk, looking back at Spring break, McCoy is convinced that he’s the unluckiest man in the world. It’s like being with Jocelyn all over again.
The only difference being that he's learned his lesson and he isn’t about to stoop to forcing someone to fall in love with him.
Jim doesn’t see him that way and that’s that.
Shame it makes him feel like his heart has been stamped on. He’ll get over it - one thing doctors know is that things generally heal.
If they don’t kill ya first.
With his eyes firmly closed, lying on the grass, desperately trying to will his erection away before Jim notices, trying not to think about how his face had looked as he'd entered him, Jesus - he realizes that only two guys could fuck for a week solid and not be sure what the other’s feeling.
He knows Jim had wanted him to follow just then. He knows Jim had a headache and he knows, (because Jim had told him in Georgia), the sure fire, allergy-free way to banish a genius' headache was a good fucking. So they'd had to test it out because that’s what medicine was based on.
Only Jim could demonstrate that much desire for someone and feel such open lust without being in love too.
McCoy decides he, on the other hand, must be some class of hermaphrodite because being in love and making love tended to go hand in hand.
Three or four months haven’t helped at all. Kirk still flirts constantly while he rebuffs him. Constantly. What else can he do?
And the purely heterosexual thing - Jim can’t argue with him on that, so he’s sticking to it.
So his strategy doesn’t really hold water, so fucking sue him. McCoy’s heart is already so shot full of holes, the way he feels about the glorious bastard, the best thing he can hope for is to create some kind of sexual distance before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
Jim's gone now. And he's not going to follow. He can do this. The kid only wants a quick knee-trembler - he can use his fucking hand, the bastard.
5.
He remembers coming back, that first night after their break in Georgia. He felt so damn happy, he was frightening people in the street with his goddamed gurning.
They went to their separate rooms to dump stuff and Jim said, "Keep the boots on."
McCoy jerked off in the shower, couldn't fucking stand the sexual tension since they hadn't been alone for hours, and he hadn't been able to touch Jim or kiss him and, as he'd made clear, he wasn't able to deal with public shows of affection - not just yet, anyhow.
What a sad, desperate, pathetic fool.
He almost ran to the bar and when he walked in, it felt like someone had cut his strings.
There Jim was with some chick rubbing up on him. And he was giggling at something she said so it looked like they knew each other from before and Jim looked good, he always looked good, but he’d caught a bit of early sun, his hair was all mussed up the way the girls, shit the way he liked it. As McCoy approached, he was glad it was kinda dark so it wouldn’t be obvious how flushed he was and that there were fucking tears in his eyes.
"Hey, Bones!"
Just a look over his shoulder at his 'friend' who less than six hours ago had been balls deep inside of him, somehow managing not to tell Jim exactly how he fucking felt as he came like a train.
Kirk looked at him.
That look meant something.
And McCoy had no clue what.
He had no fucking idea what Jim was asking him there.
So he looked away. Gave him permission to go. And thinking back now, McCoy’s not sure whether that’s what he meant to do.
He wasn’t about to huff and tantrum and threaten or plead - he was a doctor not a terrorist.
He could see that Jim wasn’t interested in a relationship.
He knew there was nothing he could do to make him fall in love with him. Just like he hadn't been able to influence how Jocelyn had felt about it.
You couldn’t force love in and you couldn’t crowbar it out.
And he knew that his heart could only take being broken once. Hell, it still wasn’t fixed from the last time.
6.
This is why he joined Starfleet. He needs, for the sake of his sanity, to keep himself away from people he loves: he needs to keep away from Jocelyn so he can retain some dignity and he needs to keep away from his family because they are angry with him - wanting to know how he could quit so easily when he has a child.
Holding Joanna, his daughter was what did it - that's where he'd had the epiphany. The way he loves her, the way she hadn’t asked him to, the way he knows that whatever she does, he’d always love his little girl. Sure, it isn’t romantic love, of course, but it is proof you can’t make someone feel like that.
From then on, he’d no longer had the strength to force his love on her mother.
7.
And he wasn’t about to make that mistake with James Kirk.
parts 19-21
parts 1-3
parts 4-7
parts 8-13
Part 14
’I’ Confirmation
Or
The Apple Exists in Your Eye
March 2256
1.
A cold, morning and Kirk stared past McCoy through the rain-splattered diner window at the wet sidewalk. He was hung-over; so was McCoy, he just wore it better. He felt his friend nudge him under the table with his toe.
“You’ve got your little boy lost face on,” McCoy said, peering over his third coffee.
“We drank way too much,” Kirk said, drawing his jacket around him.
Kirk could tell from that raised eyebrow that Bones knew that what troubled him was more than a tongue covered in a deep pile carpet and a stomach that rebelled each time a waitress walked past with another plate of food.
And Kirk felt supremely grateful that here was someone he knew that he didn’t have to explain to. Here was someone who understood him.
Funny thing was, despite the obvious caring behind the question, McCoy didn’t mind whether Kirk provided a back-story or not at this point. That too showed how well he knew him.
For that he loved him.
2.
People struggled past the window, collars up, bent into the wind. No one knew him and he didn’t know them. He looked at McCoy again who had closed his eyes.
Kirk ran his finger round the rim of his coffee cup, breathed deep, and wondered if he should disturb him.
He needed his friend’s eyes on him today. He needed to know that someone could see him. That he did, indeed, exist.
‘I need you to see me,’ he said out loud in his head. He put an emphasis on the word I. He tried it out again in Klingon. Sounded just as stupid.
Then he kicked McCoy under the table.
“What the fuck?”
“You fell asleep.” Kirk beckoned to the waitress for more coffee.
3.
“Quit drinking coffee, Jim, you know it makes you jittery.”
“What are you, my fucking mom?”
Kirk smiled easily at his friend and winked at him. Damn, that used too many facial muscles and it hurt his eyeballs, but he didn’t want McCoy to misunderstand. He was just teasing - it earned him a smile back, a Bones Smile.
This made Kirk want to sit up in his chair a little so it could reach more of him. He resisted - really needed to work on his cool when he was around McCoy.
See, that was proof, he told himself, as he finally felt ready to confront the bright colors on the menu.
When someone loves someone, they care about them; they take a deep interest in them.
McCoy obviously cared about him. Why else would he show concern about his caffeine intake?
“Fine, jus’ don’t expect me to let you share my bed tonight with your twitchy legs and your speaking-in-tongues dreams.”
McCoy rolled his eyes dramatically to complete his picture of caffeinated Jim. He shot a look at someone watching him.
“Is that what I look like?” Kirk said.
“Yep.”
They both stared at the table top.
“Guess I should eat something…” Kirk picked up the menu again, “Computer, dim…”
“…menu to 20%.” McCoy finished for him, not even bothering to roll his eyes at the same lame joke Kirk hauled out each time they sat at a table somewhere nursing hangovers.
4.
“That’s your fifth cup of coffee.”
5.
Kirk’s scooted round so he sat the same side of the table as McCoy. It didn't surprise him when McCoy silently refused to sit with his legs together and make more room.
“See, you’ve spent too much time alone, old man.” Kirk waved a fork as he spoke, licking a stray piece of pie off his lip. He noticed McCoy looking at his mouth. “You want some?” He entertained a vision for a bright second of feeding his friend straight from the fork, licking the cream he’d leave glistening on his lips; then he turned away, scooped the last forkful up and raised his eyebrows at McCoy. McCoy folded his arms in response so Kirk shoved the last piece of pie in, put the fork directly down on the table and gasped because McCoy had grabbed his wrist.
“Do not lick the fucking plate, Jim. They’ll throw us out.” He let go, huffed and slid back on the bench.
Kirk pushed the plate away. “If you’d hung out with more people, you know, had to share actual space with them, you’d be more accommodating.”
He nudged McCoy’s thigh again and it automatically pinged back against his.
“Is this about me not wanting to sit with my legs crossed like you do?” Bones’ voice was definitely all growly now.
“You’re stubborn. There’d be more room if you sat like a doctor and not a cowboy.”
McCoy puffed. “Ever occur to you that it’s because I’ve always been surrounded by lots of people that I sit like this?”
“All those sisters?”
McCoy tipped his head.
“’sides, my legs are too long to cross.”
“Our legs are the same length; we’re pretty much the same height.” McCoy wasn’t the only one who looked and noticed, Kirk thought smugly.
6.
That night, Jim spent long hours staring at the chronometer or McCoy’s back depending on the hour.
Mentally, he scrolled through what he knew already about his friend. He arranged all the information he’d picked up without trying: his ex-wife; his divorce; his daughter; his father’s death; he was five years older than Jim; he hated flying; loved his whiskey; loved riding; adored Neil Young; hated team sports but liked to play tennis; hated spicy food and this and all the other details, the way he spoke of himself, who he liked (very short list) and who he didn’t like (very long list) added up to a picture of who he, McCoy, really was.
He then began to compile a list of questions because the current portrait of Bones was still a sketch and he needed to fill it out. He didn’t need to write his list down because he always remembered everything. If he chose to.
He realized he’d have to hang with the old man every day of his life to find out who he really was. It would need that much time to find this stuff out indirectly, without interrogation, within the rules they’d established already of caring but not prying, ignoring bad moods but still listening.
He turned to face McCoy again and saw that he was now on his back, snoring a little. Kirk stared at his profile, at the olive skin and the dark hair.
‘I need to see you,’ he said out loud in his head.
7.
“That McCoy drives me fucking crazy.”
Kirk heard one of the nurses say when he waited for his friend at the end of a shift. The two nurses, a woman and a man, leaned up against the admissions desk. They seemed oblivious to the fact that the waiting patients might overhear them. They could no more care less that Kirk might hear them, than the bum dozing across two seats would.
“Dude’s got a problem with please and thank you,” the male nurse agreed.
Kirk could feel anger creeping to his hands and he waggled his fingers to stop the fists forming.
“Some southern gentleman, huh?” the other one said.
And talk of the devil, all crumpled, lanky and half-asleep in his scrubs, McCoy turned the corner and made straight for the desk. He leaned over and retrieved a PADD and keyed something in. He hadn’t acknowledged the nurses nor Kirk. He dropped the PADD again, picked up his backpack and strode past Kirk who knew to stand and follow him.
“Goodnight, Doctor!” two voices chorused behind him.
“Eighteen hours straight - what they got to be so cheerful about? Makes me sick to my stomach.”
Outside it was foggy. They stopped while Kirk rooted round in his coat pocket.
“You excited about Georgia, Bones?” The first day of spring break was the following day.
McCoy grunted and held out his hand. Kirk handed him the hip flask. McCoy took it without a word.
Rude fucking bastard. Kirk thought with a grin.
Part 15
Intermittences of the Heart
Or
Who the Hell Are You?
June 2256 (March 2256, Spring Break)
1.
It’s summer. Kirk lies on the grass, his arm across his face to shield it from the sun and groans happily. He’s completed his last exam of the first year and waits for McCoy. He’s late. He’s always late.
Kirk makes himself comfortable. Loves dozing in public places; puts his back pack under his head, kicks off his shoes, drains the last of his bottle of water and closes his eyes. Loves the feel of the sun on his skin. Can already hear Bones bitching about no sun cream and skin cancer and it makes him as warm on the inside as his cheeks are on the outside.
He wonders at what point in the last year he went from loving McCoy to simply being in love. And what was the difference anyway.
This line of thought hurts his head more than the astrophysics exam he’d sailed through, where he’d even found time to draw some pornographic doodles of the Vulcan professor while he waited for the other cadets to finish up. He’d left them torn into rough pieces under his paper. Give the tight-ass something to do next time he’s home bored, a little puzzle.
2.
He thinks back to the Spring break. He remembers how apprehensive he felt getting into the public transporter with McCoy, heading to Georgia. He hardly knew him then, he realizes.
Was Bones in Georgia the same Bones he met on the plane? McCoy has revealed more of himself to Kirk, week after week, whether he's wanted to or not, simply because Kirk’s there to observe him.
So was this Leonard McCoy, the one who was late, the same one as Georgia - or a different one? Was this sun burning his face the same one the ancient Greeks gazed at and believed Apollo pulled across the heavens? Was this tree close by the same tree it was a year ago?
3.
Everything changes, grows, expands, ages, decays, Kirk decides.
We give objects, people, the sun, one name, because that’s how we make sense of things. But the sun changes constantly. McCoy changes constantly.
Take for example McCoy at the transporter going to Georgia, growling when he put his thumb over the screen in security, “Unsanitary. What’s wrong with retinal scans like they do on other planets? His shoulders hunched, clinging to his back pack, his battered old suitcase, newspaper under his arm. Was McCoy one of the last consumers of paper on Earth, Kirk often wondered?
“I can’t hide from people I don’t want to talk to, behind a PADD, can I?”
Then there was McCoy on the way back: louche, tan, grinning at Kirk, arms loose and easy by his side, the bruises on his neck covered with a casually knotted scarf - he looked dashing with his white shirt open and his riding boots. Decided to wear them because they were too heavy to carry and he was dammed if he was leaving them behind.
Kirk’s groin aches at the memory.
They'd been so happy.
4.
Yet when he thinks back, he realizes that it hadn’t all been happy. This was how he remembered it, but when he probes his memories deeper, the break had been made up of lots of different emotions which now, looking back, seemed to have conveniently melded into one impression, one word, so that when people asked him, (they probably didn’t dare ask Bones), “How was your break?” he’d say,
“Cool!”
Cool comprised:
• Irritation at having to use the expensive transporter rather than fly because McCoy hated flying
• Desire when he watched McCoy unpack his suitcase, open on the bed, grousing about the "shit" allocation of drawers he was going to have
• Apprehension when Kirk secretly pondered various plans, the goal being to get those two beds pushed together
• Pride when he looked at himself in the mirror after taking a shower the first day
• Sheer fucking love when he noted McCoy’s accent slid down the banisters as soon as he was home and among people who spoke like him. “Normal fucking people, Jim.”
And this was just day one. Before they’d even kissed.
5.
McCoy hadn’t wanted to meet up with family. His daughter was still out of bounds, still too vulnerable to tears and nightmares without her daddy, and he’d instituted a self-imposed ban until the time felt right. He’d hinted he was still sore about how they'd been with him after the divorce, needed to keep away. He wouldn’t expand and Kirk didn’t press him. Kirk realized that this was enough like home so McCoy could relax but far enough so they wouldn’t bump into anyone.
And then there was this guy.
6.
They’d hooked up in a restaurant and Kirk noted with annoyance (add that to the list), that McCoy seemed almost excited about meeting up.
“We go back a long ways.”
“Yeah.”
James Edward Hansford. The fucking third.
7.
Kirk had kept up the friendliness all evening, smiling, making nice, and they’d stopped off at a bar on the way back to shoot some pool. He caught James looking at Bones’ ass a couple of times.
And if it wasn’t irritating enough that they had the same name, McCoy was suddenly getting on better with someone else. Getting on with another human being. McCoy didn’t do friendships. This, their friendship was a one-off.
Kirk slammed the black into the top right pocket and spun round to punch the air at Mr the Third but he hadn’t noticed from his bar stool, pool cue between his thighs. And Bones? Surely he was standing too close? He was flirting.
Kirk hooked the pool cue back on the rack and drained his whiskey. Found a smile from somewhere deep inside, and slapped James on the back.
“Loser buys,” he said. Yep, Mr the Third may have hijacked Jim’s name, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be stealing his -
Fuck, Kirk snorts on the grass when he thinks back - he’d almost said the word boyfriend. And that had been hot, shoulder pressing embarrassment - what a jerk!
8.
A shadow falls across Kirk as he lies on the grass and his heart feels like it might sail into his throat.
“What you laughing about? If I’d have had any idea astrophysics could be so much fun, I’d have dropped out of medical school in the first year.”
“Leonard Horatio McCoy.” Kirk’s aware that he’s grinning like a loon.
McCoy sits next to him, just a few inches between them. He's in his red uniform which looks about as out of place on the grass - as a fur coat in summer.
Kirk probably watches a little too hungrily as McCoy unbuttons his jacket, folds it carefully, removes his shirt to a bare chest and flops onto his back, kicking off his shoes. One thing since Georgia, he doesn't have to hide how sexually attracted he is to Bones.
Long as he doesn't touch.
“Jesus it’s hot!”
“Betcha not wearing cream,” Kirk says.
“Fuck off.”
9.
The red pants, the bare chest, he looks positively Napoleonic, Kirk thinks, squinting at McCoy’s lean belly.
“Stop thinking those thoughts, Jim.”
“Actually, I was thinking about Spring break.”
He doesn't move. After a minute, “What about Spring break?”
“Him…”
“I thought we’d been through this already.”
10.
What would it have been like for McCoy if he had chosen James Hansford the Third and not Jim? He wouldn’t have gotten married to Jocelyn, so he wouldn’t have gotten divorced. Who would he have been? Different paths, different experiences, different baggage. Could McCoy have been this lovable if he’d been a different McCoy?
And what would have happened to Jim?
11.
“You were experiencing romantic nostalgia,” Kirk said, “When you wanted to meet up with-“
McCoy sits up sporting a killer what-the-fuck expression. It makes Kirk want to kiss him there on the grass in front of everyone. But they have agreed that this couldn’t ever happen. No more kisses, no more fucking. It was over pretty much as soon as it had started. Thank fuck they are still friends.
Regret, he checks his mental list.
“The trouble with you, Jimmy boy, is that you spend your whole day behaving like an asshole, but when people aren’t looking, you read stuff, you plot and scheme and then,” McCoy drops his voice, looks over his shoulder, “when they’re not looking, when they least expect it,” he leans forward, his face inches away from Kirk’s, but he doesn’t kiss him, instead he ruffles his hair, “you POUNCE. With thoughts!”
Kirk can’t help laughing with him although he’s feeling a definite stirring in his groin at the puff of breath from McCoy on his face for a few seconds.
“If I may be allowed to continue?”
“You sound like a Vulcan. Or someone British.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, continue…”
“You have a type.” Kirk says.
“I do?”
“Yep, blond, enthusiastic and - “
“Female, Jim. I told you that already.” He lies back down. Closes his eyes.
Kirk’s voice wavers a little. “So, James Edward Hand-Job the Fourth, is your type.”
“The third.”
“The third.”
This, if you follow the logic, makes me your type, Jim thinks.
“Not a female, Jim. And trust me, I know, I’m a doctor.”
12.
Kirk feels angry and rejected? Shit his list was getting longer and longer.
How could this be the same McCoy who winked at him in the transporter on the way home from a week of the best sex he’d ever had?
If we change constantly, Kirk thought, maybe in the morning, through some miracle, he’d wake up, not give a shit that he was never to be loved?
Maybe that’s what happened to McCoy: the natural changes you'd observe in a tree over hundreds of years if you used stop-motion, so McCoy had inexplicably gone from lover in March to exclusively heterosexual man without a lover now, in June.
14.
And as for himself - who the fuck is Jim Kirk? Since when did he start giving a shit about feelings and whether or not sex meant something more? How come he has changed?
He’d always been the same on that issue. Until Spring break.
“I’m gonna take a shower, Bones. I’ll go back to my place.” He puts his shoes on, hoping McCoy will open his eyes, smile at him, and give him something. No response. “I’ll catch you later.”
He doesn't mention his headache. For once, he doesn’t want Bones to be a doctor to his patient.
Part 16
The Fear of Happiness
Or
Better the Dog's Life
March 2256, Spring Break
1.
Anhedonia, the inability to express or feel joy.
Yes, that sounded right. Sometimes Kirk thought McCoy just didn’t want to be happy.
McCoy had found a bed and breakfast for them - it was beautiful with jade green plaster-work, a slate roof and surrounded by lawns. It was an easy ride to the river and walking distance from downtown. McCoy liked to walk, Kirk noticed. He liked to feel the hard ground underfoot.
“I don’t like fishing. I don’t like sitting still,” Kirk protested.
“You’ll like fishin’ with me, shut up,” McCoy growled. “It’s peaceful.”
Broad avenues, three hundred year old oaks and deserted streets.
“You ever see that movie, Driving Miss Daisy, Bones?”
“I thought you said you didn't watch movies…”
“No. Just rather be outside. But I used to watch them sometimes - I got grounded a lot.” He pointed out of the window from their room, “Just like this.” Beautiful but quiet. Slow.
“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” McCoy glanced around the room, “I’m taking this cot, so you don’t wake me every time you take a leak in the night.” He looked more grouchy than normal.
“Well, it is your side of the bed.” Blew him a kiss, just to piss him off. Kirk gazed at McCoy across the two beds, the gap between them, “Hey old man, just making an observation, cultural reference points and all. It's fucking beautiful here. “
Kirk saw that McCoy frowned. He kicked his own case under the bed and sat down in a chair, swung his legs up and placed his sneakers plum on the bedcovers. McCoy didn’t rise to the bait. So he tried something else while he enjoyed the sight of McCoy leaning over the bed, taking out his clothes, arranging his socks; quite incredible how the most ordinary of acts when performed by the object of his desire should seem so, well - horny.
“Two drawers each.” Kirk stroked his chin, rubbed his eyes.
“Asshole, when are you going to unpack?” McCoy opened the top drawer.
“Later.”
2.
“Hey, this place is wonderful.”
They drank beer out of tankards, the condensation slipping on Jim’s hands. He watched a tiny speck of foam that had settled on the corner of McCoy’s mouth. Found his eyes wouldn’t stop returning there.
“I can see some really beautiful stuff.”
McCoy frowned again. “Where?” He wore a plaid shirt over a white t-shirt, jeans, a big belt and sneakers. Where indeed?
“The landscape man, on the ride down. The sky.” Kirk took a long glug of his beer, wiped his hand across his mouth. Miles and miles of pine trees and the sky smattered with the whitest, fluffiest clouds he’d seen since Iowa. He’d been surprised how green it was. “Makes me fucking happy to be here, man.” He leaned across and punched McCoy lightly on the arm. “Something up?” Maybe he was still grousing because Kirk had said he didn’t want to fish.
“No,” McCoy said sourly.
“Your glass is half empty. Want a refill?” McCoy shook his head, “Do you want to know what your problem is?” Kirk said. That was his friend’s ‘not really’ face Kirk realized, but he went on. “You’re always thinking about something else.” He swept his arm across their immediate surroundings. They sat at a wooden table placed directly in the middle of the lawn, blue sky, a few kid's drawing style clouds, Spring birdsong, peach blossom... it was almost too chilly to sit out but Kirk was finding out just how stubborn McCoy could be.
McCoy frowned, “There always is something else, that’s why.”
“No, Bones. There shouldn’t be, is the point. Look…” he dragged his chair closer to McCoy, “See that dog, he doesn’t think about yesterday, tomorrow, he thinks about now. So he’s happy.”
“Fucking simple as that?”
Kirk nodded. “We’re here in this beautiful place and we’re thinking about it being over. Then we’ll be home and wishing we were here instead…” he thought about standing up, walking over and petting the dog but it was way too far. “Tomorrow we’ll think about today. Today we think about tomorrow or yesterday…” He took a moment to consider, “…and fuck knows what we were thinking about yesterday.”
“Today?”
Hey, there was a smile...
Kirk nodded in agreement. “When the fuck we gonna think about today today, Bones?”
“How old did you say you were?”
Kirk leaned across for the bottle of whiskey and dragged it by the neck towards him; it seemed reluctant, heavy somehow. “Old enough.”
“That dog,” McCoy slurred slightly, “hasn’t just had a fucking divorce, has probably been laid more recently than me, and,” he looked conspiratorial, whispered, “still has his balls.”
They both laughed uncontrollably for several minutes. Each time one of them attempted to start another topic of conversation, the giggles started up again.
Kirk had noticed Bones hadn't mentioned his kid once since they got there.
3.
Kirk woke up first, wiped some drool off his chin and sat up carefully, already aware that there was something like a headache behind his eyes. Shit, afternoon drinking, you couldn’t beat it.
The sun had almost set, and the air had cooled.
McCoy had dozed off at the table, his head on his arms, his legs in a V. Fuck it, he was going to enjoy looking for once, Kirk thought. So he started at McCoy’s feet, sneakers, laces undone, (Bones always seemed to want to be taking off his shoes), up long, long legs, thighs bigger than his and he had no idea how they got that way. Bones never seemed to have time to go to the gym and, when he did, he spent more time standing around with his arms folded, bitching at the people around him. The only part of him got a work out was those eyeballs of his - from the constant rolling. And that plaid shirt. Shit he looked good in that - always looked out of place in uniform; needed softer, baggier clothing which you’d have to search for him in. Now he was getting hard - better walk it off before Bones woke up.
He took his jacket off his chair and draped it over McCoy’s back and went inside.
He had a feeling he was going to remember that afternoon for a long time to come.
Part 17
Contractions
Or
How to Murder Your Wife
(2253) March 2256, Spring Break
1.
McCoy can’t remember when Jocelyn had begun to fake her orgasms but he remembered wondering how the hell she expected to hide it from a doctor.
He didn’t mention it, of course.
2.
Then one evening she collected him from the hospital, Joanna came along for the ride, and she met the new resident, Dr Abel Marin. Something changed then, and it was around this point Joss began asking him questions about his work, when she hadn’t really taken any interest for a couple of years. Why he’d chosen the career path he had, why he didn’t push himself more, why he hadn’t stuck with surgery?
3.
Then Abel came over for dinner, no he didn’t have a girlfriend currently. Didn’t matter, Joss said, just a casual dinner, chance to get to know each other. He was new to the area, it would be nice.
It was round about this time that McCoy noticed she’d taken to having her hair done differently. When they say men don’t notice this stuff, don’t believe them. They notice. What they don’t do is say anything.
One night, Abel stayed over, he’d had too much to drink to drive, so half way through the evening, he agreed that he’d crash in the spare room.
McCoy had gone to bed around 2am after he’d fallen asleep while the three of them talked. He woke up with a start and looked at Jocelyn. She looked alive, very beautiful and animated in the firelight. Abel was laughing, sitting quite some way from her but he could tell there was a connection. He grunted his good nights and left them talking.
McCoy probably should have stayed. Things might have turned out differently if he’d fought for her. Two hours later he woke up, stared at the clock, the ceiling, glanced at the empty pillow next to him. Then he went back to sleep.
4.
“You ever read anything by Proust, Bones?”
“Maybe…”
“One thing I read, about him, stuck in my mind - he tells a story of a king, Mohammed II his name was. “
“What about him?”
They were having breakfast in the garden, huddled up in their coats; they’d both had eggs, bacon and toast, but Kirk had decided against the grits his friend seemed such a big fan of, even though McCoy had assured him there was, “nothin’ like grits to fix you when whiskey’s ripped the lining clean outta your stomach.”
McCoy had insisted they be outside. He’d said that one day, when they were up in a tin can in space, they’d wish they’d felt this, been here. Maybe the stuff Jim had said about living in the moment had rubbed off on him after all.
“He had a harem.” Kirk waggled his eyebrows, scooped some egg into his mouth. “Imagine that Bones!”
“I guess it would be one way to keep all those women beatin’ a path to my door in check,” McCoy murmured.
Kirk continued, “So there was this one woman, beautiful she was -“
“They ever ugly, you know king’s wives?” McCoy sipped his second glass of fresh juice, his eyes half open.
“And he could sense that he was falling in love with her and, because he was the king, the ultimate power, he didn’t want to be beholden to her, you know?” Kirk poured them both another half cup of coffee, draining the jug.
“Is this going to have a happy ending? I’ve got a fuckin’ hangover here.”
“He had her killed, Bones.”
McCoy noticed that Kirk’s voice cracked as he spoke.
The words hung there.
“Killed? Even though he loved her?”
Now why would he do that?
5.
Then came the night that it was his turn to sleep in the guest bedroom, not lover boy’s. McCoy still loved her. But his love for her had turned into a sickness. Something he had to cure.
Over the space of a few months he’d gone from hurt, cuckolded husband to pathetic, pleading stalker. From the righteous to the write-off.
He had to love Georgia - full of wonderful memories.
Part 18
Romantic Terrorism
Or
Love Me, Dammit, or I’ll be Forced to Make You
(2254 / March 2256, Spring Break ) June 2256
1.
McCoy didn’t just give in.
2.
He had a feeling that if he could talk Jocelyn round, she’d fall right back in love with him again.
The first night he spent alone in his hotel room, he plotted. He decided he’d have a go at the romance thing - flowers, dinner etc.
She refused to meet him.
When he came over to see Joanna but with flowers for Jocelyn, she took them from him like they were smeared in shit and didn’t make a comment.
The next time he got her flowers, she made enough comment to keep him out of a florist’s for life.
It was too fucking late.
He should have known not being around all those times, spending all his time in study, he should have known she’d have to find someone to notice her, hold her, tell her she was beautiful.
He sure as hell hadn’t been doing it.
3.
He even took a shot at emotional blackmail - now, he didn’t call it that, of course.
He reasoned that if he made a big show of being a great daddy, just by being one naturally, she must understand that Joanna was better off with him, and at home with her.
She noticed alright.
“You’re a great dad, Leo, whatever else had gone wrong between us, I’ll never say a word against you to her. I promise that.”
Shit. How could he move in for the kill when she was going to be so nice?
4.
That summer with Kirk, looking back at Spring break, McCoy is convinced that he’s the unluckiest man in the world. It’s like being with Jocelyn all over again.
The only difference being that he's learned his lesson and he isn’t about to stoop to forcing someone to fall in love with him.
Jim doesn’t see him that way and that’s that.
Shame it makes him feel like his heart has been stamped on. He’ll get over it - one thing doctors know is that things generally heal.
If they don’t kill ya first.
With his eyes firmly closed, lying on the grass, desperately trying to will his erection away before Jim notices, trying not to think about how his face had looked as he'd entered him, Jesus - he realizes that only two guys could fuck for a week solid and not be sure what the other’s feeling.
He knows Jim had wanted him to follow just then. He knows Jim had a headache and he knows, (because Jim had told him in Georgia), the sure fire, allergy-free way to banish a genius' headache was a good fucking. So they'd had to test it out because that’s what medicine was based on.
Only Jim could demonstrate that much desire for someone and feel such open lust without being in love too.
McCoy decides he, on the other hand, must be some class of hermaphrodite because being in love and making love tended to go hand in hand.
Three or four months haven’t helped at all. Kirk still flirts constantly while he rebuffs him. Constantly. What else can he do?
And the purely heterosexual thing - Jim can’t argue with him on that, so he’s sticking to it.
So his strategy doesn’t really hold water, so fucking sue him. McCoy’s heart is already so shot full of holes, the way he feels about the glorious bastard, the best thing he can hope for is to create some kind of sexual distance before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
Jim's gone now. And he's not going to follow. He can do this. The kid only wants a quick knee-trembler - he can use his fucking hand, the bastard.
5.
He remembers coming back, that first night after their break in Georgia. He felt so damn happy, he was frightening people in the street with his goddamed gurning.
They went to their separate rooms to dump stuff and Jim said, "Keep the boots on."
McCoy jerked off in the shower, couldn't fucking stand the sexual tension since they hadn't been alone for hours, and he hadn't been able to touch Jim or kiss him and, as he'd made clear, he wasn't able to deal with public shows of affection - not just yet, anyhow.
What a sad, desperate, pathetic fool.
He almost ran to the bar and when he walked in, it felt like someone had cut his strings.
There Jim was with some chick rubbing up on him. And he was giggling at something she said so it looked like they knew each other from before and Jim looked good, he always looked good, but he’d caught a bit of early sun, his hair was all mussed up the way the girls, shit the way he liked it. As McCoy approached, he was glad it was kinda dark so it wouldn’t be obvious how flushed he was and that there were fucking tears in his eyes.
"Hey, Bones!"
Just a look over his shoulder at his 'friend' who less than six hours ago had been balls deep inside of him, somehow managing not to tell Jim exactly how he fucking felt as he came like a train.
Kirk looked at him.
That look meant something.
And McCoy had no clue what.
He had no fucking idea what Jim was asking him there.
So he looked away. Gave him permission to go. And thinking back now, McCoy’s not sure whether that’s what he meant to do.
He wasn’t about to huff and tantrum and threaten or plead - he was a doctor not a terrorist.
He could see that Jim wasn’t interested in a relationship.
He knew there was nothing he could do to make him fall in love with him. Just like he hadn't been able to influence how Jocelyn had felt about it.
You couldn’t force love in and you couldn’t crowbar it out.
And he knew that his heart could only take being broken once. Hell, it still wasn’t fixed from the last time.
6.
This is why he joined Starfleet. He needs, for the sake of his sanity, to keep himself away from people he loves: he needs to keep away from Jocelyn so he can retain some dignity and he needs to keep away from his family because they are angry with him - wanting to know how he could quit so easily when he has a child.
Holding Joanna, his daughter was what did it - that's where he'd had the epiphany. The way he loves her, the way she hadn’t asked him to, the way he knows that whatever she does, he’d always love his little girl. Sure, it isn’t romantic love, of course, but it is proof you can’t make someone feel like that.
From then on, he’d no longer had the strength to force his love on her mother.
7.
And he wasn’t about to make that mistake with James Kirk.
parts 19-21