fic: ny
title: NY
fandom: star trek 09
pairing: pike/kirk (!), kirk/mccoy
rating: R for jim's brain.
word count: 1291
notes: prompt here. Bones in a suit, reading the Times. Why is this Mobster!AU? We may never know.
He glances at the picture.
Then at the man.
Then at the picture again.
Yep, it’s definitely him.
Jim Kirk tosses his cigarette onto the floor of the ratty subway car and grinds it out with one huge boot. That’s one of his favorite things about playing spy, that he has free reign to be whatever, whoever he wants. Sure, he’s not really a spy, more of a jack-of-all-trades, but Pike needed someone to look like a fuck-all city kid and Jim with his blue eyes and skinny body worked fine with the eyeliner and the tight shirt that reads FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT across it in big letters. Too well, Pike rumbled, deep in his throat, before he put other things deep in his throat.
The thought gives Jim a little pleasurable tingle.
He forcibly puts his mind back on track.
”We need a doctor, Jim,” Pike had said to him, glaring through the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap beer that hung over the hide-out for one of the most frightening mobsters in the city. “A good doctor. Not one that’ll flee at first blood or scream and cry when we point a gun at him. I know just who we need.”
He’d given Jim the picture, because he trusted Jim more than anyone else in the world. His second-in-command.
“This is Leonard McCoy. Find him, and bring him back here.”
It takes all weekend and a couple of heaps of disguises to track the guy down. And here he is, on a Saturday night when he could be picking up some hot ass, sitting in a subway car, the same subway car as his target. Leonard McCoy is reading the New York Times and muttering to himself about filthy liberals. How cute, Jim thinks.
The nice thing is, though, the man definitely falls under the definition of ‘hot ass.’ Smoking hot, somehow managing to push all of Jim’s buttons despite Jim knowing that Pike gets all pissed when he has fun with anyone but the boss himself. Maybe that’s part of it. Leonard’s worth the possible beating or sex being withheld, though, with that rounded jaw, clean shaven. The strong lines of his neck curve into broad, powerful shoulders, hidden by the dual layers of blazer and button-up shirt. The man’s plain black tie gives Jim a suggestion he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to. It’s clipped to his shirt and slinks, a tease, into McCoy’s twice-buttoned jacket
Back to his face, Jim. You haven’t even talked to him yet. You can think about him fucking you senseless in a little bit. Maybe you can even convince Pike to let him in…
Jim finds himself licking his lips unconsciously, then curses under his breath and reapplies lip gloss.
Leonard has dark hair, just long enough to be attractive without looking immature. Jim finds one hand, covered in a fingerless glove, twitches slightly. He’d like to run his fingers through that hair, he decides. Even if he can’t convince the guy to work for Pike (and sign his own death warrant by not doing so), he definitely wants to seduce him. That urge to seduce is only amplified when Jim studies Leonard’s face further, finding his breath go short at the dark brow that creates heavy shadows over eyes focused on small print. There’s a scowl in the lines around those eyes, an unconscious one, like McCoy is always scowling.
He admires those strong shoulders again because there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Leonard’s suit has no breast pocket, so he can’t be too ridiculous a doctor - it doesn’t look too tailored, either, or any one of the high-class brands that Pike normally finds his tastes wander too. Modest and efficient, without losing image.
Jim Kirk is definitely aroused.
He folds the picture into one of the many pockets in his pants, brushes a hand through his multicolored hair, and plops down next to the well-dressed doctor.
“Cigarette?” He asks, offering the pack to the guy as he reads the Times over his shoulder.
As Jim expected and as New Yorkers are wont to do, Leonard barely spares him a half-scowl before shifting away from him, into the college-looking girl on the other side of the subway bench.
“I mean, I know they’re bad for you,” Jim continues, moving next to him again. He lights one himself, admires the zippo Pike bought him a few years ago. “But I figure, what’s the worst that could happen?” He takes a puff, ignores all the glares people give him for smoking on the subway. “Mobster’s friend spends three days tracking you because you’re such a good doctor, or lung cancer? Honestly, what’s worse?”
Leonard turns the page of his newspaper and ignores him entirely. He’s still, to Jim’s great amusement, muttering about filthy liberals and their mutilation of the healthcare system and socialized medicine. Jim looks down at own his black pants, riddled with cloth straps and chains, and is glad they very easily hide the gun strapped to his thigh. Not only that, but they also hide the tops of his ass-stomping boots, which conceal knives.
When the subway stops, Leonard shoots him one last glare and stands up, stalking out of the doors. His walk is almost a stomp, Jim notices, and there’s a certain annoyed, proud element in it, as well as that usual New York don’t fuck with me confidence. The doctor gives him one sour glance.
Doesn’t help that someone steps on the hem of Jim’s pants while he’s been glanced at, and he stumbles, nearly cracking his face open on the dirty pavement of the subway station. Leonard twitches an eyebrow before putting his nose back in the paper.
Guy’s good at being an asshole. Oh well. Jim takes one last puff of the cigarette, drops it to the ground, and reaches a hand into his pants. With three steps of legs that the pants make look shorter, he’s right behind McCoy again. This time, he jams the butt of the gun into the man’s spine.
Leonard doesn’t ignore him this time, but doesn’t speak, just fixes him with that same glare he was using to nearly burn the ink off the paper.
“What’s worse, Leonard?” Jim asks, and he maneuvers his body to hide the gun he’s shoving into his back. “Lung cancer, or mob boss asking for you by name?”
“I don’t have time for your threats, kid,” McCoy finally snarls.
What a fucking voice to go with that figure, to go with the strong face, strong body, strong suit. There’s just the bare hints of what Jim would call a southern drawl on the edges, like the guy moved from the south - Alabama or Mississippi or Tennessee - a couple years ago. Mostly, it sounds default-annoyed. Jim tries not to imagine what it sounds like when it talks dirty. Leonard’s voice is probably just hoarse enough to set his skin on fire.
Stop thinking with your dick, Jim.
“No threat,” he says, nearly laughing. “Just a question. Maybe you should hang out with me and my boss? We’re pretty nice people. I could make the time up to you, if you’d like. You’re smoking hot and I really don’t want to paralyze you from the waist down, so just come on.”
Leonard finally folds his newspaper and tucks it under an arm, then turns, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lead the way, brat,” he growls. “And if I’m not back for the Sunday Times tomorrow, there’ll be hell to pay.”
fandom: star trek 09
pairing: pike/kirk (!), kirk/mccoy
rating: R for jim's brain.
word count: 1291
notes: prompt here. Bones in a suit, reading the Times. Why is this Mobster!AU? We may never know.
He glances at the picture.
Then at the man.
Then at the picture again.
Yep, it’s definitely him.
Jim Kirk tosses his cigarette onto the floor of the ratty subway car and grinds it out with one huge boot. That’s one of his favorite things about playing spy, that he has free reign to be whatever, whoever he wants. Sure, he’s not really a spy, more of a jack-of-all-trades, but Pike needed someone to look like a fuck-all city kid and Jim with his blue eyes and skinny body worked fine with the eyeliner and the tight shirt that reads FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT across it in big letters. Too well, Pike rumbled, deep in his throat, before he put other things deep in his throat.
The thought gives Jim a little pleasurable tingle.
He forcibly puts his mind back on track.
”We need a doctor, Jim,” Pike had said to him, glaring through the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap beer that hung over the hide-out for one of the most frightening mobsters in the city. “A good doctor. Not one that’ll flee at first blood or scream and cry when we point a gun at him. I know just who we need.”
He’d given Jim the picture, because he trusted Jim more than anyone else in the world. His second-in-command.
“This is Leonard McCoy. Find him, and bring him back here.”
It takes all weekend and a couple of heaps of disguises to track the guy down. And here he is, on a Saturday night when he could be picking up some hot ass, sitting in a subway car, the same subway car as his target. Leonard McCoy is reading the New York Times and muttering to himself about filthy liberals. How cute, Jim thinks.
The nice thing is, though, the man definitely falls under the definition of ‘hot ass.’ Smoking hot, somehow managing to push all of Jim’s buttons despite Jim knowing that Pike gets all pissed when he has fun with anyone but the boss himself. Maybe that’s part of it. Leonard’s worth the possible beating or sex being withheld, though, with that rounded jaw, clean shaven. The strong lines of his neck curve into broad, powerful shoulders, hidden by the dual layers of blazer and button-up shirt. The man’s plain black tie gives Jim a suggestion he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to. It’s clipped to his shirt and slinks, a tease, into McCoy’s twice-buttoned jacket
Back to his face, Jim. You haven’t even talked to him yet. You can think about him fucking you senseless in a little bit. Maybe you can even convince Pike to let him in…
Jim finds himself licking his lips unconsciously, then curses under his breath and reapplies lip gloss.
Leonard has dark hair, just long enough to be attractive without looking immature. Jim finds one hand, covered in a fingerless glove, twitches slightly. He’d like to run his fingers through that hair, he decides. Even if he can’t convince the guy to work for Pike (and sign his own death warrant by not doing so), he definitely wants to seduce him. That urge to seduce is only amplified when Jim studies Leonard’s face further, finding his breath go short at the dark brow that creates heavy shadows over eyes focused on small print. There’s a scowl in the lines around those eyes, an unconscious one, like McCoy is always scowling.
He admires those strong shoulders again because there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Leonard’s suit has no breast pocket, so he can’t be too ridiculous a doctor - it doesn’t look too tailored, either, or any one of the high-class brands that Pike normally finds his tastes wander too. Modest and efficient, without losing image.
Jim Kirk is definitely aroused.
He folds the picture into one of the many pockets in his pants, brushes a hand through his multicolored hair, and plops down next to the well-dressed doctor.
“Cigarette?” He asks, offering the pack to the guy as he reads the Times over his shoulder.
As Jim expected and as New Yorkers are wont to do, Leonard barely spares him a half-scowl before shifting away from him, into the college-looking girl on the other side of the subway bench.
“I mean, I know they’re bad for you,” Jim continues, moving next to him again. He lights one himself, admires the zippo Pike bought him a few years ago. “But I figure, what’s the worst that could happen?” He takes a puff, ignores all the glares people give him for smoking on the subway. “Mobster’s friend spends three days tracking you because you’re such a good doctor, or lung cancer? Honestly, what’s worse?”
Leonard turns the page of his newspaper and ignores him entirely. He’s still, to Jim’s great amusement, muttering about filthy liberals and their mutilation of the healthcare system and socialized medicine. Jim looks down at own his black pants, riddled with cloth straps and chains, and is glad they very easily hide the gun strapped to his thigh. Not only that, but they also hide the tops of his ass-stomping boots, which conceal knives.
When the subway stops, Leonard shoots him one last glare and stands up, stalking out of the doors. His walk is almost a stomp, Jim notices, and there’s a certain annoyed, proud element in it, as well as that usual New York don’t fuck with me confidence. The doctor gives him one sour glance.
Doesn’t help that someone steps on the hem of Jim’s pants while he’s been glanced at, and he stumbles, nearly cracking his face open on the dirty pavement of the subway station. Leonard twitches an eyebrow before putting his nose back in the paper.
Guy’s good at being an asshole. Oh well. Jim takes one last puff of the cigarette, drops it to the ground, and reaches a hand into his pants. With three steps of legs that the pants make look shorter, he’s right behind McCoy again. This time, he jams the butt of the gun into the man’s spine.
Leonard doesn’t ignore him this time, but doesn’t speak, just fixes him with that same glare he was using to nearly burn the ink off the paper.
“What’s worse, Leonard?” Jim asks, and he maneuvers his body to hide the gun he’s shoving into his back. “Lung cancer, or mob boss asking for you by name?”
“I don’t have time for your threats, kid,” McCoy finally snarls.
What a fucking voice to go with that figure, to go with the strong face, strong body, strong suit. There’s just the bare hints of what Jim would call a southern drawl on the edges, like the guy moved from the south - Alabama or Mississippi or Tennessee - a couple years ago. Mostly, it sounds default-annoyed. Jim tries not to imagine what it sounds like when it talks dirty. Leonard’s voice is probably just hoarse enough to set his skin on fire.
Stop thinking with your dick, Jim.
“No threat,” he says, nearly laughing. “Just a question. Maybe you should hang out with me and my boss? We’re pretty nice people. I could make the time up to you, if you’d like. You’re smoking hot and I really don’t want to paralyze you from the waist down, so just come on.”
Leonard finally folds his newspaper and tucks it under an arm, then turns, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lead the way, brat,” he growls. “And if I’m not back for the Sunday Times tomorrow, there’ll be hell to pay.”