your voice sounded money and your face is cute;
you win again
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Slash. D'uh.
Word count: ~2.500
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Originally written for the Star Trek kink meme. Just not kinky, actually.
There are many things one James T. Kirk is, but one stands out most of all: Stubborn.
Stubborn and proud. So when he’s leaving the dorm room he shares with his best friend and personal doctor, one Leonard H. McCoy, and is already reaching for an umbrella, he reconsiders when, without even looking up from his padd, the doctor tells him to take an umbrella with him because it’s going to rain, and the umbrella stays in its spot behind the door.
Because Jim Kirk hates doing as told, simple as that.
*
As he does more than not in these cases, Jim deeply regrets his decision no two hours later when it starts pouring rain while he’s on the way from one class to another-all day it had been too hot, too humid, and all signs had pointed to the icy thunderstorm now roaring above his head.
And it gets cold, really fucking cold, within mere seconds.
All around the young blond, umbrellas pop up, people scurrying about to get somewhere dry and warm, whereas Jim? Jim just huffs out a grumble, scowls at the sky for good measure, then tugs up the collar of his uniform to keep the rain from running down his neck, under his shirt-but it’s already too late, and he can feel the wetness seeping through all layers of his clothes.
Another grumble, and Jim defiantly trudges on through the train.
*
Between his sixth and seventh class of the day, Jim first contemplates returning to his shared dorm for that abandoned umbrella and a fresh change of clothes, because people in the auditorium are beginning to stare when he enters the room, and starts dripping all over the floor.
But, of course, he doesn’t, because that would mean that he would have to admit that Bones has been right, and, hey, he can’t do that, okay? It would mean admitting that Bones had won the competition--the competition, that was, that only existed in Jim’s head, Jim Kirk vs. the cumulative world, or, as McCoy would have corrected, Jim Kirk vs. common sense.
And no, no, he can’t do that.
*
By the time Jim returns to their dorm room, he’s wet to his bones (and hell if he doesn’t bark out a laugh at the unintentional pun in his head, when his Bones is most likely dry and warm) and freezing, yet, luckily his roommate and best friend isn’t home yet, so Jim thinks he can get away without the arched brow and I told you sos (also, it means no one’s around to wonder why he’s laughing to himself out loud).
“Jesus Christ, Jim.”
Of course, he’s wrong.
Jim has just stripped of his shirt, and has moved onto peeling off his undershirt when McCoy stands in the door, facing Jim’s half-naked back, since the undershirt is putting up some struggle when it comes to getting it off again.
“Did you take a damn bath in your clothes?” He asks, incredulously, and Jim doesn’t have to turn around to know the raised eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, I did,” Jim replies dryly as he finally does get the shirt off and turns around to see Bones, arms crossed and watching him dubiously. “I figured I could save us water costs if I bathe and was my clothes at the same time, y’know?” His very matter-of-factly demeanor is slightly undermined by the fact that he’s currently busy trying to get his pants off his legs somehow, but he’s stuck, and can’t even hopple away from the lecture that he knows is coming.
“Didn’t I tell you to take an umbrella?” - “Didn’t need one,” Jim insists, which earns him a roll of his eyes. “You’re going to get sick.” “No, I’m not, I’m-“ “You are not invincible, Jim.”
Alright, maybe, just maybe, they have had this conversation before, and maybe McCoy has proven to be right every single time, but Jim just sticks out his tongue at the older man. “I’m going to be fine, Bones.” And when the other just grumbles under his breath and walks off, Jim considers it a win-even if he gets his foot lodged in his pants and falls flat on his ass.
And sneezes.
Whatever. He’s going to be fine, and he totally wins this round.
*
The next day, Jim wakes up to a parade of elephants tap-dancing on his head-or at least that’s what it feels like. Odd, he has to admit, since he hasn’t even been drinking, but the headache prevents him from thinking straight as it is, anyhow.
And that his throat is painfully sore? Complete coincidence. He’s fine.
*
Three days after that unpleasant thunderstorm, Jim’s developed a nice cough to go along with the sore throat and random headaches, though, most likely, he has earned himself that by not wearing a scarf in the windy city when his throat was already hurting-but how could he have worn a scarf without alerting and proving Bones right?
So Jim grins and bears it, covers any cough around his roommate, doesn’t mention his headaches, merely shrugging it off whenever Bones catches him coughing, sneezing or groaning.
He’s fine, really.
*
“Jim, wake up. Jim. Damn it, Jim!”
He feels groggy and disoriented and tired, and he’s pretty sure his eyes usually open further than this, but Jim’s currently too confused to assess the situation properly. All he knows is that there’s Bones sitting on his bed, who looks surprisingly relieved to see him.
“Wha’s ‘rong?” He mumbles and, hey, if Bones furrows his brows any further, they might get permanently stuck in that position, and wouldn’t that be funny?
Not that he mentions as much, considering his friend already looks less than amused as it is. “You were wheezing all through the damn night, Jim,” he informs him, and, oh, yeah, that. It’s been a week since the rainy incident, and for the past two days, in addition to the sore throat, cough and headache, there’s this unpleasant stinging in his chest whenever he coughs. Or does even more mundane things, like, y’know, breathing.
“I’m fine, Bones,” Jim just murmurs, even though he looks like death warmed over, then rolls onto his side, and promptly falls asleep again.
For a brief moment (or maybe not so brief at all) McCoy wants to strangle him, he really does, because whatever the kid says, he is not fine.
*
It’s been nine days, and by now, McCoy is honestly worried. The kid has shitty immune system, that much he knows by now, but whatever he is currently harboring seems a lot worse than your average cold-and hell if the kid would let his friend try to examine him without dashing in the opposite direction.
Sure, Jim still goes about his day as he usually does (which is to say, entirely carefree, if not carelessly), but his retorts always come just a little too late, he looks tired and beat, and on more than one occasion, when Jim thinks Bones isn’t paying attention, he catches him rubbing his throat, or, more alarmingly, clutching his chest.
The only problem is, whenever McCoy tries to bring the topic up, Jim merely flashes him that carefree grin of his and tells him all’s fine, end of story.
And God knows, if the kid isn’t going to turn out fine, McCoy will kill him dead.
*
The twelfth day, even Jim has to admit that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t all that fine.
He comes home earlier than usual, too tired to function, his chest aching with every breath, and having skipped most of his classes, because they have simply become too stressful.
Stumbling into the door, he finds McCoy already waiting, arms crossed and looking exceedingly grave. Jim just grins, his fatigue written all over his face, but before he can even say anything, a coughing fit takes over, and before he knows what’s happening, his knees buckle beneath him.
It’s really for the best that Bones has been waiting for him, because instead of hitting the floor, he feels two strong, warm arms around him, and here’s the assertion that he’s “better going to be fine, damn it, Jim,” and it makes him smile, before the world goes black around him.
*
When Jim wakes up again, the room is too bright, and the bed isn’t his, and it all smells like … like hospital, damn. He groans, which elicits a response from his left. More specifically, a “You goddamn fucking idiot, Jim,” followed by a sigh that speaks more of relief than anything else and entirely betrays his friend’s tone, and inadvertently makes Jim smile again.
“Mornin’, Bones,” he mumbles, eyes still screwed shut against the brightness, before he dares open them despite that. Bones looks like he hasn’t slept a night or two, and Jim says as much: “You look like shit.”
“You’re one to talk,” comes the dry response, and he feels Bones’ hand on his forehead. “It seems the fever has gone down,” he points out, “And there’s at least no shadow on your lung.” Chart in his hand, the doctor rattles on, and when Jim tries to sit up in his hospital bed, McCoy doesn’t even have to look up to push him back into the mattress with his free hand.
Sighing, the younger man gives up without objection. His head is still pounding, and his friend tells him he’s now on antibiotics or something, and, hell, his lung still hurt something fierce with every breath, and after five more minutes of lecture (of which Jim mostly understands “idiot,” “fucking moron,” “gonna get yourself killed, fuck, y’er gonna give me a heartattack”), he finally interrupts.
“Bones. Bones. Bones!”
The other finally quiets down, one eyebrow arched. “That’s all fine and well, but why am I here?” Jim blinks in confusion, while McCoy just stares at him in disbelief for a moment. “Because you’re a goddamn moron, that’s why,” he tells him flatly, “You’ve got pneumonia.”
Oh, Jim thinks. “Is that serious?” For a second, it looks as if Bones’ eyes are threatening to bulge out of their sockets. “Look around you! What do you fucking think?!” And, right, hospital-yet, Bones’ tone is harsh enough to genuinely startle Jim, and he looks a bit intimidated and sounds the part when he stutters, “S-sorry, Bones, I-“
“No, no, it’s-shouldn’ta snapped at you-just…” A shake of his head and a sigh at that. “Scared me something good there, kid.”
At that, Jim manages a sheepish, “Sorry, won’t happen again,” even though they both know it will, and even McCoy quirks a smile.
“Liar. Get some sleep,” he tells him, briefly leaning over the bed to press a soft kiss to the younger man’s forehead. And, while somewhat puzzled at that, Jim feels pleasantly warm and does as told. For once.
*
Jim’s a lucky bastard, that’s what he is, and Bones tells him so once he gets to leave the hospital after five days. No septic shock, the pneumonia is viral, and he should be back on his feet in two weeks at worst. Jim thinks, although he doesn’t say as much, that he’s only gotten better this quickly because Bones showed up at the hospital daily, threatening to kick his ass if he didn’t get better soon, or, even better, holding his hand when he thought Jim was asleep.
Of course, Jim never points as much out, but it does make him sleep a little easier, and Bones is there to pick him up once the hospital says he’s off just as well at home.
Slinking down onto the couch, Jim sighs, though mostly in contentment.
“You’re not moving for the next two weeks,” Bones tells him, to which Jim has no objections, “And now you’re taking your medicine, kid.”
Jim pulls a face at that, however, while Bones scampers off to the bathroom to grab the antibiotics, and a glass of juice from the kitchen. “Do I have to?” His tone is miserable, much more miserable than he feels, that much McCoy knows, and he hands him the glass to hold, so he can get two little pills for Jim out of the package. For once, Jim would have preferred a hypo, really, but telling Bones that much would be like giving him a free pass to torment him with those, and he doesn’t need that.
Still, Jim takes the pills and downs the glass alongside with it, before making gagging motions. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you supposed to make me feel good, not torture me?” He asks, all bright blue puppy eyes and stuck out lower lip, but McCoy merely rolls his eyes. The only thing betraying Jim’s usual playfulness are his red-rimmed eyes, and that his voice is still too throaty to sound healthy, and after a moment, Bones sighs.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, motioning for Jim to scoot over on the couch some, before he grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around the other man, then flops down onto the couch himself. Jim knows better than to miss an opportunity, and before McCoy can say anything, he’s curled up against his side and tucks his face in between his neck and shoulder.
Sighing his defeat (which is really just a victory, if either of them would say as much), Bones loops his arm around the younger man and pulls him close. “Don’t do that to me again, you jerk,” he tells him, barely louder than a whisper, and he can feel Jim smile against his neck, though his answer gets lost against it.
“Come again?” Bones quirks an eyebrow upward, and Jim pulls back enough to speak. Audibly, that is. “But you always take care of me,” he mumbles softly, not quite meeting his best friend’s eyes, and for a moment, Bones blinks in confusion, before he manages a soft smile. “Someone has to, you idiot,” he tells him gently, one finger beneath Jim’s chin to tilt his head up, and the younger man takes the invitation to lean in and press his lips to Bones’.
It’s just a gentle brush of lips, warm and just right, and Bones pulls Jim a bit more tightly against him, until they have to pull back, because Jim’s still a bit short of breath.
“Y’er gonna get me sick,” Bones accuses him, his tone and smile completely betraying his statement, and Jim just grins in turn. “Got me there,” he mumbles, “But then I can take care of you for once.” And with that, he presses his lips once more to Bones'.
And yeah, he’s more than fine.
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Slash. D'uh.
Word count: ~2.500
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Originally written for the Star Trek kink meme. Just not kinky, actually.
There are many things one James T. Kirk is, but one stands out most of all: Stubborn.
Stubborn and proud. So when he’s leaving the dorm room he shares with his best friend and personal doctor, one Leonard H. McCoy, and is already reaching for an umbrella, he reconsiders when, without even looking up from his padd, the doctor tells him to take an umbrella with him because it’s going to rain, and the umbrella stays in its spot behind the door.
Because Jim Kirk hates doing as told, simple as that.
*
As he does more than not in these cases, Jim deeply regrets his decision no two hours later when it starts pouring rain while he’s on the way from one class to another-all day it had been too hot, too humid, and all signs had pointed to the icy thunderstorm now roaring above his head.
And it gets cold, really fucking cold, within mere seconds.
All around the young blond, umbrellas pop up, people scurrying about to get somewhere dry and warm, whereas Jim? Jim just huffs out a grumble, scowls at the sky for good measure, then tugs up the collar of his uniform to keep the rain from running down his neck, under his shirt-but it’s already too late, and he can feel the wetness seeping through all layers of his clothes.
Another grumble, and Jim defiantly trudges on through the train.
*
Between his sixth and seventh class of the day, Jim first contemplates returning to his shared dorm for that abandoned umbrella and a fresh change of clothes, because people in the auditorium are beginning to stare when he enters the room, and starts dripping all over the floor.
But, of course, he doesn’t, because that would mean that he would have to admit that Bones has been right, and, hey, he can’t do that, okay? It would mean admitting that Bones had won the competition--the competition, that was, that only existed in Jim’s head, Jim Kirk vs. the cumulative world, or, as McCoy would have corrected, Jim Kirk vs. common sense.
And no, no, he can’t do that.
*
By the time Jim returns to their dorm room, he’s wet to his bones (and hell if he doesn’t bark out a laugh at the unintentional pun in his head, when his Bones is most likely dry and warm) and freezing, yet, luckily his roommate and best friend isn’t home yet, so Jim thinks he can get away without the arched brow and I told you sos (also, it means no one’s around to wonder why he’s laughing to himself out loud).
“Jesus Christ, Jim.”
Of course, he’s wrong.
Jim has just stripped of his shirt, and has moved onto peeling off his undershirt when McCoy stands in the door, facing Jim’s half-naked back, since the undershirt is putting up some struggle when it comes to getting it off again.
“Did you take a damn bath in your clothes?” He asks, incredulously, and Jim doesn’t have to turn around to know the raised eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, I did,” Jim replies dryly as he finally does get the shirt off and turns around to see Bones, arms crossed and watching him dubiously. “I figured I could save us water costs if I bathe and was my clothes at the same time, y’know?” His very matter-of-factly demeanor is slightly undermined by the fact that he’s currently busy trying to get his pants off his legs somehow, but he’s stuck, and can’t even hopple away from the lecture that he knows is coming.
“Didn’t I tell you to take an umbrella?” - “Didn’t need one,” Jim insists, which earns him a roll of his eyes. “You’re going to get sick.” “No, I’m not, I’m-“ “You are not invincible, Jim.”
Alright, maybe, just maybe, they have had this conversation before, and maybe McCoy has proven to be right every single time, but Jim just sticks out his tongue at the older man. “I’m going to be fine, Bones.” And when the other just grumbles under his breath and walks off, Jim considers it a win-even if he gets his foot lodged in his pants and falls flat on his ass.
And sneezes.
Whatever. He’s going to be fine, and he totally wins this round.
*
The next day, Jim wakes up to a parade of elephants tap-dancing on his head-or at least that’s what it feels like. Odd, he has to admit, since he hasn’t even been drinking, but the headache prevents him from thinking straight as it is, anyhow.
And that his throat is painfully sore? Complete coincidence. He’s fine.
*
Three days after that unpleasant thunderstorm, Jim’s developed a nice cough to go along with the sore throat and random headaches, though, most likely, he has earned himself that by not wearing a scarf in the windy city when his throat was already hurting-but how could he have worn a scarf without alerting and proving Bones right?
So Jim grins and bears it, covers any cough around his roommate, doesn’t mention his headaches, merely shrugging it off whenever Bones catches him coughing, sneezing or groaning.
He’s fine, really.
*
“Jim, wake up. Jim. Damn it, Jim!”
He feels groggy and disoriented and tired, and he’s pretty sure his eyes usually open further than this, but Jim’s currently too confused to assess the situation properly. All he knows is that there’s Bones sitting on his bed, who looks surprisingly relieved to see him.
“Wha’s ‘rong?” He mumbles and, hey, if Bones furrows his brows any further, they might get permanently stuck in that position, and wouldn’t that be funny?
Not that he mentions as much, considering his friend already looks less than amused as it is. “You were wheezing all through the damn night, Jim,” he informs him, and, oh, yeah, that. It’s been a week since the rainy incident, and for the past two days, in addition to the sore throat, cough and headache, there’s this unpleasant stinging in his chest whenever he coughs. Or does even more mundane things, like, y’know, breathing.
“I’m fine, Bones,” Jim just murmurs, even though he looks like death warmed over, then rolls onto his side, and promptly falls asleep again.
For a brief moment (or maybe not so brief at all) McCoy wants to strangle him, he really does, because whatever the kid says, he is not fine.
*
It’s been nine days, and by now, McCoy is honestly worried. The kid has shitty immune system, that much he knows by now, but whatever he is currently harboring seems a lot worse than your average cold-and hell if the kid would let his friend try to examine him without dashing in the opposite direction.
Sure, Jim still goes about his day as he usually does (which is to say, entirely carefree, if not carelessly), but his retorts always come just a little too late, he looks tired and beat, and on more than one occasion, when Jim thinks Bones isn’t paying attention, he catches him rubbing his throat, or, more alarmingly, clutching his chest.
The only problem is, whenever McCoy tries to bring the topic up, Jim merely flashes him that carefree grin of his and tells him all’s fine, end of story.
And God knows, if the kid isn’t going to turn out fine, McCoy will kill him dead.
*
The twelfth day, even Jim has to admit that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t all that fine.
He comes home earlier than usual, too tired to function, his chest aching with every breath, and having skipped most of his classes, because they have simply become too stressful.
Stumbling into the door, he finds McCoy already waiting, arms crossed and looking exceedingly grave. Jim just grins, his fatigue written all over his face, but before he can even say anything, a coughing fit takes over, and before he knows what’s happening, his knees buckle beneath him.
It’s really for the best that Bones has been waiting for him, because instead of hitting the floor, he feels two strong, warm arms around him, and here’s the assertion that he’s “better going to be fine, damn it, Jim,” and it makes him smile, before the world goes black around him.
*
When Jim wakes up again, the room is too bright, and the bed isn’t his, and it all smells like … like hospital, damn. He groans, which elicits a response from his left. More specifically, a “You goddamn fucking idiot, Jim,” followed by a sigh that speaks more of relief than anything else and entirely betrays his friend’s tone, and inadvertently makes Jim smile again.
“Mornin’, Bones,” he mumbles, eyes still screwed shut against the brightness, before he dares open them despite that. Bones looks like he hasn’t slept a night or two, and Jim says as much: “You look like shit.”
“You’re one to talk,” comes the dry response, and he feels Bones’ hand on his forehead. “It seems the fever has gone down,” he points out, “And there’s at least no shadow on your lung.” Chart in his hand, the doctor rattles on, and when Jim tries to sit up in his hospital bed, McCoy doesn’t even have to look up to push him back into the mattress with his free hand.
Sighing, the younger man gives up without objection. His head is still pounding, and his friend tells him he’s now on antibiotics or something, and, hell, his lung still hurt something fierce with every breath, and after five more minutes of lecture (of which Jim mostly understands “idiot,” “fucking moron,” “gonna get yourself killed, fuck, y’er gonna give me a heartattack”), he finally interrupts.
“Bones. Bones. Bones!”
The other finally quiets down, one eyebrow arched. “That’s all fine and well, but why am I here?” Jim blinks in confusion, while McCoy just stares at him in disbelief for a moment. “Because you’re a goddamn moron, that’s why,” he tells him flatly, “You’ve got pneumonia.”
Oh, Jim thinks. “Is that serious?” For a second, it looks as if Bones’ eyes are threatening to bulge out of their sockets. “Look around you! What do you fucking think?!” And, right, hospital-yet, Bones’ tone is harsh enough to genuinely startle Jim, and he looks a bit intimidated and sounds the part when he stutters, “S-sorry, Bones, I-“
“No, no, it’s-shouldn’ta snapped at you-just…” A shake of his head and a sigh at that. “Scared me something good there, kid.”
At that, Jim manages a sheepish, “Sorry, won’t happen again,” even though they both know it will, and even McCoy quirks a smile.
“Liar. Get some sleep,” he tells him, briefly leaning over the bed to press a soft kiss to the younger man’s forehead. And, while somewhat puzzled at that, Jim feels pleasantly warm and does as told. For once.
*
Jim’s a lucky bastard, that’s what he is, and Bones tells him so once he gets to leave the hospital after five days. No septic shock, the pneumonia is viral, and he should be back on his feet in two weeks at worst. Jim thinks, although he doesn’t say as much, that he’s only gotten better this quickly because Bones showed up at the hospital daily, threatening to kick his ass if he didn’t get better soon, or, even better, holding his hand when he thought Jim was asleep.
Of course, Jim never points as much out, but it does make him sleep a little easier, and Bones is there to pick him up once the hospital says he’s off just as well at home.
Slinking down onto the couch, Jim sighs, though mostly in contentment.
“You’re not moving for the next two weeks,” Bones tells him, to which Jim has no objections, “And now you’re taking your medicine, kid.”
Jim pulls a face at that, however, while Bones scampers off to the bathroom to grab the antibiotics, and a glass of juice from the kitchen. “Do I have to?” His tone is miserable, much more miserable than he feels, that much McCoy knows, and he hands him the glass to hold, so he can get two little pills for Jim out of the package. For once, Jim would have preferred a hypo, really, but telling Bones that much would be like giving him a free pass to torment him with those, and he doesn’t need that.
Still, Jim takes the pills and downs the glass alongside with it, before making gagging motions. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you supposed to make me feel good, not torture me?” He asks, all bright blue puppy eyes and stuck out lower lip, but McCoy merely rolls his eyes. The only thing betraying Jim’s usual playfulness are his red-rimmed eyes, and that his voice is still too throaty to sound healthy, and after a moment, Bones sighs.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, motioning for Jim to scoot over on the couch some, before he grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around the other man, then flops down onto the couch himself. Jim knows better than to miss an opportunity, and before McCoy can say anything, he’s curled up against his side and tucks his face in between his neck and shoulder.
Sighing his defeat (which is really just a victory, if either of them would say as much), Bones loops his arm around the younger man and pulls him close. “Don’t do that to me again, you jerk,” he tells him, barely louder than a whisper, and he can feel Jim smile against his neck, though his answer gets lost against it.
“Come again?” Bones quirks an eyebrow upward, and Jim pulls back enough to speak. Audibly, that is. “But you always take care of me,” he mumbles softly, not quite meeting his best friend’s eyes, and for a moment, Bones blinks in confusion, before he manages a soft smile. “Someone has to, you idiot,” he tells him gently, one finger beneath Jim’s chin to tilt his head up, and the younger man takes the invitation to lean in and press his lips to Bones’.
It’s just a gentle brush of lips, warm and just right, and Bones pulls Jim a bit more tightly against him, until they have to pull back, because Jim’s still a bit short of breath.
“Y’er gonna get me sick,” Bones accuses him, his tone and smile completely betraying his statement, and Jim just grins in turn. “Got me there,” he mumbles, “But then I can take care of you for once.” And with that, he presses his lips once more to Bones'.
And yeah, he’s more than fine.