Kirk/McCoy fic: The Sum of Us
I am totally blaming this on greenabsinthe and andrealyn. Mostly the last part. THEY KNOW WHAT THEY DID.
It was supposed to be drabbles. It is not drabbles. There's angst, there's sap (for reals), there's not really any smut because good god I only have so much smut in me okay! Fuck it, I will just do a header.
Title: The Sum of Us
A series of vignettes tracing the evolution of Kirk and McCoy's relationship over the years. Or, five people are let in on the worst-kept secret in the Federation.
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: standard applies
The Sum of Us
means you’ve got a talented tongue
For the most part, Uhura is able to avoid Jim Kirk around campus. They’re on different career tracks from the start and she’s got a year on him. But by their fourth semester, he’s somehow managed to accumulate enough credits to enroll in a couple of the mid-level courses she takes. He’s not an idiot, she’ll give him that - despite the evidence to the contrary, as he still hits on her with implacable cheerfulness. She’s just grateful that their circles of friends don’t overlap so he doesn't get the opportunity more often.
On this particular night, her luck runs out. A few of the cadets from her Xenobiology class coax her into celebrating a birthday at a local dive, though she usually prefers the campus bars. The bartender at least makes a good Cardassian sunrise, which is why she’s on her third when Kirk saunters through the door. He’s followed by one of the med students, whom she assumes is his roommate because she sees them together all the time. She doesn’t know the guy’s name since all Kirk ever calls him is Bones (she counts herself lucky that he never did get to make up a name for her). He's a few years older than the average cadet and good-looking, despite appearing to be in a rotten mood.
Uhura sinks down in her seat by the far wall. If she doesn’t move or talk, he can’t possibly zero in on her air of indifference. But Kirk’s not looking into the corners: he heads straight for the bar and the female patrons draped over it. A few give him the once-over and he smirks, half-turning to show off his ass in well-fitting jeans. His roommate rolls his eyes and grabs the beer Kirk ordered.
For the next hour, she halfheartedly participates in the conversation at her table while watching Kirk get progressively drunker out of the corner of her eye. The other man is drinking too, his scowl growing deeper with every glass even as Kirk’s grin widens. When he gets up to use the bathroom, a heavily made-up brunette plops down in his seat next to Kirk. It takes him approximately twelve seconds to introduce himself before she’s got her tongue down his throat. Uhura sighs and feels sorry for his friend, although really, what did he expect from a night out with Jim Kirk?
The grim-faced doctor returns to the table in step with a very large, very red-faced stranger. It goes just like Uhura would’ve predicted: the girl’s eyes light up as her cards fall into place, the guy throws a punch at Kirk, and his poor friend gets a beer thrown on him. The fight only lasts long enough for the bartender to fetch a pair of phasers from under the bar, gesturing with her tentacles in a way that needs no translation. Kirk looks downright disappointed as his friend drags him out.
Uhura makes her goodbyes and wishes Carruthers one more happy birthday. It’s not like she’s exclusively leaving to check if Kirk’s bleeding on the pavement; she really does have reading to finish before bed. Still, she glances around the corner of the building into the narrow alleyway.
They’re too far down for her to hear the doctor’s words, but his tone is grumpy enough to carry. He’s got Kirk propped up against the brick wall, running sure hands over him to check for breaks, wiping blood and traces of lipstick away from a corner of his lips. Kirk’s looking at him through half-lidded, intent eyes; he speaks in a low voice and the man growls something unintelligible in response. He’s got a fistful of Kirk’s grubby shirt in one hand, the other on his hip. Uhura still doesn’t quite process their body language until the doctor suddenly lunges forward, smashing his mouth against Kirk’s.
Her own mouth falls open. It must be painful, kissing that fiercely with bruises blooming all over your face, but Kirk doesn’t seem to mind. He yanks the other man closer and licks at a smear of blood on his cheekbone, making him groan. The doctor shoves Kirk back against the wall and pins his hands above their heads, so that all Kirk can do is whimper and rock his his hips with a kind of desperation that makes her catch her breath. His friend - roommate - lover - whatever chuckles darkly as he bends down to bite at Kirk's neck.
Maybe they’ll have sex right there in the alley, maybe they’ll make it back to their room - Uhura’s not sticking around to find out. She’s got a folder of articles to read, an essay on thorax variations in humanoid species to edit, and Commander Spock in the morning. She’s never been late to one of his lectures and she’s not about to start now.
But she does set aside twenty minutes for a hot shower before she climbs into her bed.
our reward for a safe return
It’s the quiet that wakes him from a fitful doze. After countless hours of toxins screaming through his nervous system and the echoing haze once he’d woken from surgery, the absolute stillness of the sick bay at rest should be comforting. It isn’t. And Pike isn’t much looking forward to the things he knows he’ll see in his dreams if he manages to achieve true sleep.
Even in ship’s night, of course, it’s not completely deserted. The efficient blond nurse who had been checking his vitals is nowhere in sight, but Pike can see McCoy thumbing through a padd. God only knows when he last managed to get some rest. Pike would like to think it happened while he was unconscious, but even if that’s true, the dark circles under the doctor’s eyes are proof enough that it didn’t do him any good. He wonders if he’s still got the authority to order McCoy off duty. Probably not, he concludes with more than a trace of bitterness, and tries not to think about how he can’t feel his legs.
The doors chime to announce the arrival of Acting Captain Kirk, who looks even more like hell than when he was dragging Pike’s ass out of Nero’s ship. His face isn’t quite as puffy as that first night they met, but the marks on his throat more than make up for it.
McCoy glances up and jabs a finger at the bed against which he’s been leaning.
“I just came to see how Pike’s doing,” says Kirk with a hint of wheedle in his raspy voice, taking a step back. McCoy's eyes narrow and he points again.
“Now, damn it. I’m too fucking tired to chase you down.”
Pike closes his eyes as Kirk moves past him, catching the faint hiss of pain as he settles himself on the bed. If he hasn’t cracked a rib or two, Pike will eat the damned slug he just knows is lurking in a jar of alcohol somewhere in the room.
“That’s what I thought,” McCoy mutters. Pike takes the chance of opening his eyes again now that the doctor’s got another patient to torture. He finds McCoy peeling Kirk’s shirt off, making angry noises about the dark bruises liberally sprinkled over his torso. Working in silence aside from the grumbles, he wraps the knuckles of Kirk’s right hand and applies a topical anesthetic in half a dozen places, including his neck. It might just be the longest Pike has ever seen Kirk sit still.
Finally McCoy leans back, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head as he studies Kirk’s battered face. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Pike suppresses a snort with some effort. Thirty looks quite a bit different from the other side. Still, he’s got a point - putting up with Jim Kirk on a regular basis would prematurely age anyone. McCoy deserves a commendation just for rooming with him.
“Are not,” says Kirk wearily, in the manner of an old, oft-repeated argument. He rubs a thumb between McCoy’s brows, smirking. “Except for these frown lines, maybe.”
McCoy takes a step closer, his thighs coming to rest against Kirk’s knees. “You should know, you put ‘em there.” His tone is equal parts accusation and affection.
“These too,” Kirk murmurs, touching his reluctantly upturned lips, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He drops his head onto the doctor’s shoulder. McCoy glances up, to either side, before uncrossing his arms to wrap them around his friend and captain. Kirk sighs at the touch, sagging against him. He’s exhausted and beaten and so heartbreakingly young that Pike has to turn his head away - out of this reason rather than respect for their privacy, he would admit if pressed. He studies the bland white curtain beside his bed as McCoy lets out a soft noise against Kirk’s mouth. Though it will be awkward for everyone, he’s going to have to fake waking up if they continue in this vein for much longer - and how the hell either of them can even think about it when they’re this worn out, he doesn’t want to know.
Fortunately for his sanity, the kiss is a prelude to a hypospray full of sedative. He watches through his lashes as McCoy adjusts Kirk’s heavy limbs on the bed.
“You can give me hell for this in eight to ten hours, Jim,” he says, brushing his fingertips over the cut on Kirk’s cheek. “But you’re not running yourself into the ground on my watch.”
Oh, they’re going to want him. Taking over this top-notch medical bay with a severely depleted staff when he hasn’t even graduated yet, treating the refugees from Vulcan, performing the surgery that will have Pike walking again within a year - the fat cats of Starfleet will fight to claim Leonard McCoy as CMO.
Pike’s really looking forward to watching them duke it out; he understands now that McCoy’s not going anywhere except wherever Kirk happens to be. If he can keep the reckless kid alive long enough to turn him into a decent captain, it might even be worth Pike throwing his weight around on their behalf.
you should be here
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you last year. We didn’t get back planetside until six months into your mission.”
“I know,” Jim replies, fiddling with his straw. “You sent a note for graduation, Mom. It’s okay.”
Winona can tell that the shock hasn’t quite worn off yet. The look on his face when she’d shown up at his office…she wanted it to be a surprise, she reminds herself. And you weren’t sure if you would go through with it until you knocked on the door, says a small voice in her head that still sounds like George after all these years.
Her son gives her a smile, sincere but also calculated to put her at ease. As a child he was never angry with her when she came home after months away - he was angry about a lot of things, she knows, but it never got aimed at her. He tried to be good when she was there, right up until he left home. This time it’s been years instead of months and still he’s looking anxiously at her like she might bolt from the table. Which kind of makes her want to. She clears her throat and holds up the menu to hide the guilt on her face.
“What’s good here?”
“The club sandwich is - bones.”
She blinks, wondering if this is some new slang, then realizes he’s waving someone over. Winona stands when he does, turning around to greet a tall man with dark brown hair. Jim claps him on the arm.
“Bones, this is my mother, Winona Kirk.”
She holds out her hand with a smile, recognizing him from the newsvids now that she's gotten a look at his handsome face. “You must be Dr. McCoy, Jim’s CMO.”
“That’s right.” His voice is pleasant enough, with just the barest hint of a Georgia drawl - but his eyes bore into her. When they shake hands, Winona feels like she’s being judged on her grip and the state of her fingernails.
Jim doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss; something outside the window has caught his interest. He steps around the side of the booth.
“Hey, Mom, can you give me a second? Our head of engineering just wandered into a shop across the street, and I’d like to interrogate him about a couple of modification requests that have made their way onto my desk while he’s supposed to be on leave.” McCoy rolls his eyes and they exchange a rueful look. “Bones’ll keep you company.”
The doctor doesn’t protest, so there’s not much she can say. “Sure, Jimmy.”
“I’ll be right back.” He smiles again, quick and bright, and ducks out the door of the little café.
Winona smoothes her skirt as she takes her seat, McCoy sitting stiffly across from her in Jim’s place. He’s still staring at her with evident dislike. She opens her menu once more as the waiter arrives. “I’ll have the club sandwich on wheat, please. Doctor, did you want…?” He shakes his head, so she orders for Jim. “And a cheeseburger, no mayo.”
“Medium well,” McCoy mutters, taking a sip of Jim’s water.
She spreads her napkin across her lap. It’s been a while since she’s been forced to make small talk, especially with someone unwilling, but she can make do.
“So you’ve been friends with Jim since the Academy, is that right?”
“Yes,” says McCoy, folding his long fingers on the tabletop. “Did you know that your husband used to beat him so badly he couldn’t sit down?”
Winona feels the color drain from her face.
He continues in the same conversational tone, “He still has the scars - just a few, small and scattered. Most people wouldn’t notice them. I guess you never did.”
“I -” His brown eyes spark with repressed anger. She chooses her words carefully, though she doubts it will do any good. “I was aware that Frank disciplined the boys, but I didn’t…” Her hands curl into fists, in her lap. “He never told me.”
But you knew. Deep down you knew, and you left your babies in the hands of a man who didn’t have enough patience or love for them.
“No, he wouldn’t have,” says McCoy coolly. “Because he didn’t want to upset you, and because he was afraid you wouldn’t believe him.”
Jim never told him all this, she knows that sure as she’s breathing (too fast, like she’s been running - like she ran away from her own pain and her own home). He must have some psych training in addition to his general degree, to be able to put the pieces together.
No, she realizes, looking at his rigid shoulders, his face lit from within. It’s because he loves her son. Better than she ever could.
“For some godforsaken reason, he’s never blamed you.”
Winona meets his gaze squarely. “But you do.” She shakes her head, propping her elbows on the table to give herself the illusion of defense. “As you should. Why do you think -“
She breaks off to say thank you as the waitress sets two plates down. McCoy peers down at Jim’s burger to make sure it’s all of a piece, then steals a couple of his fries. When he looks up his face is a bit less strained and a deal more sad.
“Ma’am, I don’t pretend to know what your life was like after your husband died, although I can imagine.” He taps the fingers of his right hand against his left, between the knuckles. “I only know Jim’s life, and I can tell you it’s a miracle he didn’t turn out…more damaged than he already is.” He was about to say ‘more fucked up,’ she knows; but his own mama raised him better than that.
“There’s nothing I can say to make up for it,” she whispers to her sandwich, not a bit hungry anymore. “Why do you think I never visit, Dr. McCoy? I know I didn’t take care of him the way -”
“I take care of him,” McCoy snaps, his eyes and his voice sharpening again. She flinches. “Jim doesn’t need you and I don’t know why he cares so goddamn much. But he -” He swallows hard, dragging a fry through a pool of ketchup. “He’d like it if you called more often, maybe made an effort to see him more than once every few years. It would never occur to him to ask, so I’m asking.”
Winona almost smiles despite it all. He thinks he’s so much older than Jim, but they’re both boys still. They haven’t quite got the hang of this yet. It hurts to know she’ll never be the most important person in Jim’s life, in no small part because it’s her own damn fault - but she is so grateful he's found someone to fight for him.
“I can do that.” It’s the very least you can do, but it’s not too late. It’s not too late.
“Hey, get your own fries,” says Jim, knocking McCoy’s shoulder. He makes to slide into the booth beside him, but McCoy pushes him out of the way.
“Sorry, Jim, I’ve got a date with Chapel - we have to finish inventory or else Starfleet won’t give us new stuff no matter how nicely I ask.” Jim shrugs, amiable after having worked out his issue with Engineering. McCoy gives Winona a polite nod. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Kirk.”
She touches the back of his hand and feels quite certain, suddenly, that his mother is dead. She wonders how old he was when it happened. “And you, Doctor.”
Jim’s eyes track McCoy across the restaurant even as he picks up his burger and says, “Man, I’m starving.”
Winona picks at her food, watching her son tuck in with relish, remembering how it felt to be young and in love with her whole life stretching out across the stars.
received a distress signal
It’s his fault. It’s his fault. The captain is dying and it’s his fault.
Chekov huddles against the wall as close to Kirk as he dares. Spock is meditating to his left, breathing so slow and deep that he might as well be comatose. Dr. McCoy paces at the mouth of the cave, cursing busted communicators, electro-magnetic interference, medical bags lying at the bottoms of ditches several kilometers away, planets with rival tribes and primitive projectile weapons, and apparently the universe at large. He’s been going on for five minutes straight and has yet to repeat himself. Chekov’s only ever heard Uhura swear so thoroughly, and she has multiple languages at her disposal.
The captain twitches, shivering and sweating by turns. Chekov was glad when he dropped off to sleep, but his distress follows him there. The wound at his right shoulder stopped bleeding easily enough - that was never the problem. The flesh around it is striped in angry red; the poison pooled there but it’s slowly filtering through his system, choking his blood. McCoy could not analyze it without equipment and had to be physically restrained from running out into an acid rainstorm to retrieve his kit. Even now, he’s making Chekov nervous with how close he gets to the pitted cliffside.
Knees tucked up to his chin, Chekov stares at the broken arrow by his feet. If they get back, the doctors can scrape the residue off the point to make an antidote. If it is indeed a simple formula made from local flora as Spock theorized. If the Enterprise can get a reading through the storm and the atmosphere to locate them. If the Ut’a’nll don’t find their shelter first. If Kirk’s famous luck holds out for just a little longer.
If Chekov had been faster, been as fast as his school record claims -
If, if, if.
Kirk’s breath stutters. His eyes fly open, wide and red-rimmed, and he clutches at his chest.
“Doctor, he cannot breathe!”
McCoy is at the captain’s side in an instant, rolling him over and pulling him into a sitting position. The Heimlich, Chekov thinks - except that’s stupid because Kirk is not choking on a foreign object. The swelling from the poison has obstructed his airway and is now exacerbated by panic.
“You’re all right, Jim, listen to me.” McCoy’s eyes are wild, but his voice is steady. He spreads his hands across Kirk’s ribs as if he can grasp his lungs and will them to clear. “You can do this, come on - breathe. In, out.” Kirk kicks his legs blindly. His lips are turning blue. He presses back against McCoy, holding onto his braced arms and trying to find the rhythm.
“Breathe with me, that’s it.” Chekov counts with him, silently - in, beat, out, beat. Spock crouches beside Chekov, tense, helpless to do anything but watch. At last Kirk's muscles go slack and he breathes - it makes a horrible, painful wheezing sound in his chest and throat, but he’s breathing. Chekov glances at Spock, whose eyes flicker away from the captain to nod, once. The crisis is past. For now.
“Bones,” Kirk whispers thickly, shaking all over. “Hurts, Bones.”
McCoy moves gingerly until his back is against the cave wall, shifting Kirk so he can rest his head against his shoulder.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs against the shell of Kirk’s ear. “I know it hurts. Quit trying to talk, would you?”
He seems to have entirely forgotten anyone else is there. Spock gazes out of the mouth of the cave; clearly he is unsurprised. Chekov looks away from McCoy cradling the captain in his arms. This is not meant for his eyes. He wonders that he has never realized just how deep their feelings run, in nearly three years serving with them both; and he is ashamed of himself for gawping when it’s his fault Kirk is in this position to begin with.
McCoy presses his face into Kirk's sweat-soaked hair, repeating the same words in a low voice until they run together like a prayer: "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay." To convince himself as much as Kirk, Chekov thinks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one. McCoy would not hear if he shouted, and Spock glances at him with the faintest trace of confusion in his eyes. He realizes that he spoke in Russian.
In the end the captain does not die, although it is a very near thing. McCoy has to shock his heart when they get him home. Chekov goes to his own quarters to shower and change, then to as short a debriefing as Spock will allow himself, then back to sick bay.
The captain is supine in a bio-bed, monitors beeping comfortingly above him. Chekov’s relief at seeing the color returned to his skin makes his knees buckle. McCoy glances up from his seat beside Kirk’s bed, padd on his lap. His expression is tired and heartsick, though not unkind.
“Did we miss something in all the hullabaloo, Ensign? Acid burn or insect bite or something?”
“No, I came to see Captain Kirk,” Chekov explains, approaching with caution.
McCoy nods at the captain’s still face. “He’ll be out for an hour or so yet.”
Chekov takes a deep breath and faces him, clasping his hands behind his back. “Then I shall address my apology to you, Doctor.” McCoy frowns, puzzled. A drop of sweat rolls down Chekov’s spine. “The captain was protecting me when he was struck by the arrow.”
McCoy sighs and stretches, rubbing at his temples. “Oh, hell. It’s not your fault, kid. The damn fool would have done the same for any one of us, or else gotten himself injured in one of a hundred other ways. That's just what he does.”
“All the same, I…” He has no wish to make McCoy uncomfortable, but he feels compelled to say these things so he can sleep without remembering the captain's deathly pallor and the doctor's dark, haunted eyes. “I nearly took him from you, and for that I am sorry.”
He looks at Chekov for a long, long moment, pursing his lips.
“Just ‘ccept th’ ‘pology,” Kirk mumbles. His eyes are still closed. McCoy turns his head to glare down at him.
“The peanut gallery can shut the fuck up, since it’s not supposed to be awake yet on account of it dying for forty-seven seconds earlier today.”
Kirk’s dry lips curve faintly. “Love you too, Bones.”
“And you,” McCoy adds, now leveling his glare at Chekov, “I don’t want to see your ass on the bridge for two days, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” says Chekov, feeling a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. He waggles his fingers in Kirk’s direction. “Good night, sir!”
The captain will be fine. The doctor will be fine. The Enterprise will be fine. Sulu will most definitely not be fine if he wakes up to find Chekov missing, so Chekov hurries back to their quarters and crawls into bed. Turning in his sleep, Sulu burrows against his warmth and resumes snoring. Chekov strokes a palm down his back and finally, finally closes his eyes.
This is how they get by, out here in the black.
no one goes back for seconds
“Are you gonna marry my dad?”
Jim paused the game to get a cookie and now he chokes on it, boggling at her. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.
Joanna rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m thirteen, not stupid. I’m the only one who’s slept in Dad’s room for years, and I know you guys don’t play chess all night in the captain’s quarters. Uncle Jim, did you seriously think I didn’t know?” She presses the pause button on her controls and the frozen space battle races across the screen again. It might be easier to talk about this if they don’t have to look at each other.
“Shit,” Jim mutters as she takes out one of his fighters. “I don’t think I have the credentials for this conversation, Joanna.”
“Because I’ve been thinking about it,” she says as if he hasn’t spoken, dropping her shoulder to send her ship into a roll. “You went on this five-year mission, right? And you’re going back out into space together. So the first mission was kind of like an engagement, and now you’ve decided you like each other enough to do it again.” Spock would say her logic is sound, she’s sure of it.
As if he’s following her train of thought, Jim says, “Mr. Spock is continuing on as First Officer, but I’m not about to marry him.”
Giggling at the thought of what Uhura would do to him, she switches to a view of her main fighter squadron and commences wiping him out.
Jim growls with frustration, almost bouncing on the sofa as her larger force cuts a swath through his limping fighters. “Stop killing my guys!”
“Stop trying to change the subject,” Joanna retorts, sticking her tongue out when he sends a burst of fire across the starboard bow of her battleship.
“Can’t put anything past a McCoy,” Jim sighs dramatically.
“Nope, but you can keep trying all you want. So anyway,” she continues, annoyed that he’s evading her questions way more easily than her photons, “why not? All I can see is reasons why you should, so give me one reason why you shouldn’t. And it has to be a real reason, not something dumb like ‘I don’t have a dress.’”
Jim huffs out a breath and puts on his Grown-Up Voice. She’s never had the heart to tell him it doesn’t work. “Well, there are all kinds of…circumstances, and considerations…”
With most of their fighters gone, the game’s moved on to a battle between the big ships. Joanna knocks out his aft shields with a couple of well-placed blasts. Her small, brightly-colored captain cheers as she asks quietly, “Is it ‘cause of me?”
Jim sacrifices the rest of his shielding in order to turn and look at her. “Thought you said you weren’t stupid, Jo.” He hugs her tight with one arm and she smiles, taking out his warp drive. He groans, graceless in defeat.
The game runs a long, kind of boring sequence in which the losing captain hands over the ship to the winning captain; they’ve played it enough times to have lost interest. Joanna drops her controller on the coffee table and spins around on the couch to face him. Jim props his elbow on the armrest, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t. I guess I just never thought he’d want to get married again, after what happened with your mom.”
This is one of the things she likes best about Uncle Jim. He talks about stuff in her life like that’s just how it is, rather than going on and on about how tough the divorce must have been on her and how much she must miss her father, seeing him only a dozen times since she was little (with the undertone of what a terrible, selfish man he is, if it’s her grandmother). There’s not much Joanna hates more than people feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t remember a lot from when her parents were together, except for the fighting. And it sucks that Dad is gone so often, but he has a really important job and she loves him anyway. Plus she likes her stepdad okay, which is something because she knows Jim’s stepfather, for example, was really awful. Paul's not nearly as cool as Jim, though.
“I’ll bet you five ice cream sundaes,” she says gravely, “that he thinks you would never want to.”
Jim snorts. “The odds are in your favor, kiddo, but I’ll pay up anyway.” He swats her knee with a pillow. “Since you seem to know everything about my relationship with your dad, tell me this: how would I ask him?” He’s teasing her, but his eyes are kind of serious. She keeps her glee inside as she considers the question.
“Hmm. I think he proposed to Mom on a dinner date, with candlelight and French food and everything. Like in the movies.”
He makes a face. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening any time soon.”
“Well, we’ve got to think of something - you guys are leaving for real space in two weeks and I will never forgive you if you get married without me there.” She sits up straight and glares at him so he knows she’s not kidding. Jim hits her with the pillow again.
“Don’t do that, you look exactly like Bones when you do that.”
Dad comes in then, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss the top of her head. He always takes a shower after his shift but he still smells a little bit like medical stuff, and she’ll never figure out why he doesn’t get that she doesn’t mind. “Hey, JoJo.”
“Hi, Daddy. Look, I kicked Uncle Jim’s butt again.” She points to the screen, where Jim’s captain is shedding a single tear for her lost honor.
“Damn it, Jim, you know I don’t like those violent games,” he grumbles, dropping down between them.
“It’s okay, Dad, he never puts up much of a fight so it doesn’t get all that violent.”
Jim heaves a long-suffering sigh, clutching the pillow to his stomach. “Your kid is a bloody-minded savage, Bones. She’ll fit perfectly in the family business.”
Joanna doesn’t think much about the whole marriage thing until a couple of days later. She’s down in sick bay, helping Nurse Chapel organize vaccines while she waits for her father to finish his paperwork so they can get dinner. Jim comes in, completely ignoring Dad’s shout of “I’m busy, jackass.” Just before he slips into the office, he winks at Joanna. At once she scrambles up to peek through the open door.
Dad’s sprawled in his chair, fingers steepled as he looks up at Jim, who’s perched on the edge of the desk.
“No,” he says flatly. Joanna’s heart sinks into her shoes.
Jim chooses to take this as a challenge rather than a refusal. He tends to do that a lot, actually. “Aw, come on, Bones! Women, men, beings of indeterminate gender would all line up to marry Captain James T. Kirk! I'm a catch.” He sweeps a hand up and down to showcase himself.
“You just want an excuse for a party.” Dad kicks him lightly in the shin. One corner of his mouth is turned up and there’s warmth behind his eyes, and she’s not so nervous anymore.
“No, I don’t want to start looking for another CMO,” Jim counters, leaning down on the arms of the chair, putting their faces close together. His blue eyes only light up like that for her father. Joanna grins to herself. Dad usually harrumphs and suggests it's her bedtime when Jim gives him that look, even if it's the middle of beta shift. “Because you’re just going to have to find a new job if you won’t make an honest man out of me.”
She doesn’t hear what Dad says because Jim kisses him then, but it would have been “Yes.” Or possibly “Oh, fine, but just to shut you up” which is close enough.
Joanna activates the door controls - she loves them both, but she’s not about to stand here and watch them make out all night - and hopes Uhura will let her borrow a real Starfleet uniform so she doesn’t have to wear the stupid pink dress Mom made her bring.
It was supposed to be drabbles. It is not drabbles. There's angst, there's sap (for reals), there's not really any smut because good god I only have so much smut in me okay! Fuck it, I will just do a header.
Title: The Sum of Us
A series of vignettes tracing the evolution of Kirk and McCoy's relationship over the years. Or, five people are let in on the worst-kept secret in the Federation.
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: standard applies
The Sum of Us
means you’ve got a talented tongue
For the most part, Uhura is able to avoid Jim Kirk around campus. They’re on different career tracks from the start and she’s got a year on him. But by their fourth semester, he’s somehow managed to accumulate enough credits to enroll in a couple of the mid-level courses she takes. He’s not an idiot, she’ll give him that - despite the evidence to the contrary, as he still hits on her with implacable cheerfulness. She’s just grateful that their circles of friends don’t overlap so he doesn't get the opportunity more often.
On this particular night, her luck runs out. A few of the cadets from her Xenobiology class coax her into celebrating a birthday at a local dive, though she usually prefers the campus bars. The bartender at least makes a good Cardassian sunrise, which is why she’s on her third when Kirk saunters through the door. He’s followed by one of the med students, whom she assumes is his roommate because she sees them together all the time. She doesn’t know the guy’s name since all Kirk ever calls him is Bones (she counts herself lucky that he never did get to make up a name for her). He's a few years older than the average cadet and good-looking, despite appearing to be in a rotten mood.
Uhura sinks down in her seat by the far wall. If she doesn’t move or talk, he can’t possibly zero in on her air of indifference. But Kirk’s not looking into the corners: he heads straight for the bar and the female patrons draped over it. A few give him the once-over and he smirks, half-turning to show off his ass in well-fitting jeans. His roommate rolls his eyes and grabs the beer Kirk ordered.
For the next hour, she halfheartedly participates in the conversation at her table while watching Kirk get progressively drunker out of the corner of her eye. The other man is drinking too, his scowl growing deeper with every glass even as Kirk’s grin widens. When he gets up to use the bathroom, a heavily made-up brunette plops down in his seat next to Kirk. It takes him approximately twelve seconds to introduce himself before she’s got her tongue down his throat. Uhura sighs and feels sorry for his friend, although really, what did he expect from a night out with Jim Kirk?
The grim-faced doctor returns to the table in step with a very large, very red-faced stranger. It goes just like Uhura would’ve predicted: the girl’s eyes light up as her cards fall into place, the guy throws a punch at Kirk, and his poor friend gets a beer thrown on him. The fight only lasts long enough for the bartender to fetch a pair of phasers from under the bar, gesturing with her tentacles in a way that needs no translation. Kirk looks downright disappointed as his friend drags him out.
Uhura makes her goodbyes and wishes Carruthers one more happy birthday. It’s not like she’s exclusively leaving to check if Kirk’s bleeding on the pavement; she really does have reading to finish before bed. Still, she glances around the corner of the building into the narrow alleyway.
They’re too far down for her to hear the doctor’s words, but his tone is grumpy enough to carry. He’s got Kirk propped up against the brick wall, running sure hands over him to check for breaks, wiping blood and traces of lipstick away from a corner of his lips. Kirk’s looking at him through half-lidded, intent eyes; he speaks in a low voice and the man growls something unintelligible in response. He’s got a fistful of Kirk’s grubby shirt in one hand, the other on his hip. Uhura still doesn’t quite process their body language until the doctor suddenly lunges forward, smashing his mouth against Kirk’s.
Her own mouth falls open. It must be painful, kissing that fiercely with bruises blooming all over your face, but Kirk doesn’t seem to mind. He yanks the other man closer and licks at a smear of blood on his cheekbone, making him groan. The doctor shoves Kirk back against the wall and pins his hands above their heads, so that all Kirk can do is whimper and rock his his hips with a kind of desperation that makes her catch her breath. His friend - roommate - lover - whatever chuckles darkly as he bends down to bite at Kirk's neck.
Maybe they’ll have sex right there in the alley, maybe they’ll make it back to their room - Uhura’s not sticking around to find out. She’s got a folder of articles to read, an essay on thorax variations in humanoid species to edit, and Commander Spock in the morning. She’s never been late to one of his lectures and she’s not about to start now.
But she does set aside twenty minutes for a hot shower before she climbs into her bed.
our reward for a safe return
It’s the quiet that wakes him from a fitful doze. After countless hours of toxins screaming through his nervous system and the echoing haze once he’d woken from surgery, the absolute stillness of the sick bay at rest should be comforting. It isn’t. And Pike isn’t much looking forward to the things he knows he’ll see in his dreams if he manages to achieve true sleep.
Even in ship’s night, of course, it’s not completely deserted. The efficient blond nurse who had been checking his vitals is nowhere in sight, but Pike can see McCoy thumbing through a padd. God only knows when he last managed to get some rest. Pike would like to think it happened while he was unconscious, but even if that’s true, the dark circles under the doctor’s eyes are proof enough that it didn’t do him any good. He wonders if he’s still got the authority to order McCoy off duty. Probably not, he concludes with more than a trace of bitterness, and tries not to think about how he can’t feel his legs.
The doors chime to announce the arrival of Acting Captain Kirk, who looks even more like hell than when he was dragging Pike’s ass out of Nero’s ship. His face isn’t quite as puffy as that first night they met, but the marks on his throat more than make up for it.
McCoy glances up and jabs a finger at the bed against which he’s been leaning.
“I just came to see how Pike’s doing,” says Kirk with a hint of wheedle in his raspy voice, taking a step back. McCoy's eyes narrow and he points again.
“Now, damn it. I’m too fucking tired to chase you down.”
Pike closes his eyes as Kirk moves past him, catching the faint hiss of pain as he settles himself on the bed. If he hasn’t cracked a rib or two, Pike will eat the damned slug he just knows is lurking in a jar of alcohol somewhere in the room.
“That’s what I thought,” McCoy mutters. Pike takes the chance of opening his eyes again now that the doctor’s got another patient to torture. He finds McCoy peeling Kirk’s shirt off, making angry noises about the dark bruises liberally sprinkled over his torso. Working in silence aside from the grumbles, he wraps the knuckles of Kirk’s right hand and applies a topical anesthetic in half a dozen places, including his neck. It might just be the longest Pike has ever seen Kirk sit still.
Finally McCoy leans back, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head as he studies Kirk’s battered face. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Pike suppresses a snort with some effort. Thirty looks quite a bit different from the other side. Still, he’s got a point - putting up with Jim Kirk on a regular basis would prematurely age anyone. McCoy deserves a commendation just for rooming with him.
“Are not,” says Kirk wearily, in the manner of an old, oft-repeated argument. He rubs a thumb between McCoy’s brows, smirking. “Except for these frown lines, maybe.”
McCoy takes a step closer, his thighs coming to rest against Kirk’s knees. “You should know, you put ‘em there.” His tone is equal parts accusation and affection.
“These too,” Kirk murmurs, touching his reluctantly upturned lips, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He drops his head onto the doctor’s shoulder. McCoy glances up, to either side, before uncrossing his arms to wrap them around his friend and captain. Kirk sighs at the touch, sagging against him. He’s exhausted and beaten and so heartbreakingly young that Pike has to turn his head away - out of this reason rather than respect for their privacy, he would admit if pressed. He studies the bland white curtain beside his bed as McCoy lets out a soft noise against Kirk’s mouth. Though it will be awkward for everyone, he’s going to have to fake waking up if they continue in this vein for much longer - and how the hell either of them can even think about it when they’re this worn out, he doesn’t want to know.
Fortunately for his sanity, the kiss is a prelude to a hypospray full of sedative. He watches through his lashes as McCoy adjusts Kirk’s heavy limbs on the bed.
“You can give me hell for this in eight to ten hours, Jim,” he says, brushing his fingertips over the cut on Kirk’s cheek. “But you’re not running yourself into the ground on my watch.”
Oh, they’re going to want him. Taking over this top-notch medical bay with a severely depleted staff when he hasn’t even graduated yet, treating the refugees from Vulcan, performing the surgery that will have Pike walking again within a year - the fat cats of Starfleet will fight to claim Leonard McCoy as CMO.
Pike’s really looking forward to watching them duke it out; he understands now that McCoy’s not going anywhere except wherever Kirk happens to be. If he can keep the reckless kid alive long enough to turn him into a decent captain, it might even be worth Pike throwing his weight around on their behalf.
you should be here
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you last year. We didn’t get back planetside until six months into your mission.”
“I know,” Jim replies, fiddling with his straw. “You sent a note for graduation, Mom. It’s okay.”
Winona can tell that the shock hasn’t quite worn off yet. The look on his face when she’d shown up at his office…she wanted it to be a surprise, she reminds herself. And you weren’t sure if you would go through with it until you knocked on the door, says a small voice in her head that still sounds like George after all these years.
Her son gives her a smile, sincere but also calculated to put her at ease. As a child he was never angry with her when she came home after months away - he was angry about a lot of things, she knows, but it never got aimed at her. He tried to be good when she was there, right up until he left home. This time it’s been years instead of months and still he’s looking anxiously at her like she might bolt from the table. Which kind of makes her want to. She clears her throat and holds up the menu to hide the guilt on her face.
“What’s good here?”
“The club sandwich is - bones.”
She blinks, wondering if this is some new slang, then realizes he’s waving someone over. Winona stands when he does, turning around to greet a tall man with dark brown hair. Jim claps him on the arm.
“Bones, this is my mother, Winona Kirk.”
She holds out her hand with a smile, recognizing him from the newsvids now that she's gotten a look at his handsome face. “You must be Dr. McCoy, Jim’s CMO.”
“That’s right.” His voice is pleasant enough, with just the barest hint of a Georgia drawl - but his eyes bore into her. When they shake hands, Winona feels like she’s being judged on her grip and the state of her fingernails.
Jim doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss; something outside the window has caught his interest. He steps around the side of the booth.
“Hey, Mom, can you give me a second? Our head of engineering just wandered into a shop across the street, and I’d like to interrogate him about a couple of modification requests that have made their way onto my desk while he’s supposed to be on leave.” McCoy rolls his eyes and they exchange a rueful look. “Bones’ll keep you company.”
The doctor doesn’t protest, so there’s not much she can say. “Sure, Jimmy.”
“I’ll be right back.” He smiles again, quick and bright, and ducks out the door of the little café.
Winona smoothes her skirt as she takes her seat, McCoy sitting stiffly across from her in Jim’s place. He’s still staring at her with evident dislike. She opens her menu once more as the waiter arrives. “I’ll have the club sandwich on wheat, please. Doctor, did you want…?” He shakes his head, so she orders for Jim. “And a cheeseburger, no mayo.”
“Medium well,” McCoy mutters, taking a sip of Jim’s water.
She spreads her napkin across her lap. It’s been a while since she’s been forced to make small talk, especially with someone unwilling, but she can make do.
“So you’ve been friends with Jim since the Academy, is that right?”
“Yes,” says McCoy, folding his long fingers on the tabletop. “Did you know that your husband used to beat him so badly he couldn’t sit down?”
Winona feels the color drain from her face.
He continues in the same conversational tone, “He still has the scars - just a few, small and scattered. Most people wouldn’t notice them. I guess you never did.”
“I -” His brown eyes spark with repressed anger. She chooses her words carefully, though she doubts it will do any good. “I was aware that Frank disciplined the boys, but I didn’t…” Her hands curl into fists, in her lap. “He never told me.”
But you knew. Deep down you knew, and you left your babies in the hands of a man who didn’t have enough patience or love for them.
“No, he wouldn’t have,” says McCoy coolly. “Because he didn’t want to upset you, and because he was afraid you wouldn’t believe him.”
Jim never told him all this, she knows that sure as she’s breathing (too fast, like she’s been running - like she ran away from her own pain and her own home). He must have some psych training in addition to his general degree, to be able to put the pieces together.
No, she realizes, looking at his rigid shoulders, his face lit from within. It’s because he loves her son. Better than she ever could.
“For some godforsaken reason, he’s never blamed you.”
Winona meets his gaze squarely. “But you do.” She shakes her head, propping her elbows on the table to give herself the illusion of defense. “As you should. Why do you think -“
She breaks off to say thank you as the waitress sets two plates down. McCoy peers down at Jim’s burger to make sure it’s all of a piece, then steals a couple of his fries. When he looks up his face is a bit less strained and a deal more sad.
“Ma’am, I don’t pretend to know what your life was like after your husband died, although I can imagine.” He taps the fingers of his right hand against his left, between the knuckles. “I only know Jim’s life, and I can tell you it’s a miracle he didn’t turn out…more damaged than he already is.” He was about to say ‘more fucked up,’ she knows; but his own mama raised him better than that.
“There’s nothing I can say to make up for it,” she whispers to her sandwich, not a bit hungry anymore. “Why do you think I never visit, Dr. McCoy? I know I didn’t take care of him the way -”
“I take care of him,” McCoy snaps, his eyes and his voice sharpening again. She flinches. “Jim doesn’t need you and I don’t know why he cares so goddamn much. But he -” He swallows hard, dragging a fry through a pool of ketchup. “He’d like it if you called more often, maybe made an effort to see him more than once every few years. It would never occur to him to ask, so I’m asking.”
Winona almost smiles despite it all. He thinks he’s so much older than Jim, but they’re both boys still. They haven’t quite got the hang of this yet. It hurts to know she’ll never be the most important person in Jim’s life, in no small part because it’s her own damn fault - but she is so grateful he's found someone to fight for him.
“I can do that.” It’s the very least you can do, but it’s not too late. It’s not too late.
“Hey, get your own fries,” says Jim, knocking McCoy’s shoulder. He makes to slide into the booth beside him, but McCoy pushes him out of the way.
“Sorry, Jim, I’ve got a date with Chapel - we have to finish inventory or else Starfleet won’t give us new stuff no matter how nicely I ask.” Jim shrugs, amiable after having worked out his issue with Engineering. McCoy gives Winona a polite nod. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Kirk.”
She touches the back of his hand and feels quite certain, suddenly, that his mother is dead. She wonders how old he was when it happened. “And you, Doctor.”
Jim’s eyes track McCoy across the restaurant even as he picks up his burger and says, “Man, I’m starving.”
Winona picks at her food, watching her son tuck in with relish, remembering how it felt to be young and in love with her whole life stretching out across the stars.
received a distress signal
It’s his fault. It’s his fault. The captain is dying and it’s his fault.
Chekov huddles against the wall as close to Kirk as he dares. Spock is meditating to his left, breathing so slow and deep that he might as well be comatose. Dr. McCoy paces at the mouth of the cave, cursing busted communicators, electro-magnetic interference, medical bags lying at the bottoms of ditches several kilometers away, planets with rival tribes and primitive projectile weapons, and apparently the universe at large. He’s been going on for five minutes straight and has yet to repeat himself. Chekov’s only ever heard Uhura swear so thoroughly, and she has multiple languages at her disposal.
The captain twitches, shivering and sweating by turns. Chekov was glad when he dropped off to sleep, but his distress follows him there. The wound at his right shoulder stopped bleeding easily enough - that was never the problem. The flesh around it is striped in angry red; the poison pooled there but it’s slowly filtering through his system, choking his blood. McCoy could not analyze it without equipment and had to be physically restrained from running out into an acid rainstorm to retrieve his kit. Even now, he’s making Chekov nervous with how close he gets to the pitted cliffside.
Knees tucked up to his chin, Chekov stares at the broken arrow by his feet. If they get back, the doctors can scrape the residue off the point to make an antidote. If it is indeed a simple formula made from local flora as Spock theorized. If the Enterprise can get a reading through the storm and the atmosphere to locate them. If the Ut’a’nll don’t find their shelter first. If Kirk’s famous luck holds out for just a little longer.
If Chekov had been faster, been as fast as his school record claims -
If, if, if.
Kirk’s breath stutters. His eyes fly open, wide and red-rimmed, and he clutches at his chest.
“Doctor, he cannot breathe!”
McCoy is at the captain’s side in an instant, rolling him over and pulling him into a sitting position. The Heimlich, Chekov thinks - except that’s stupid because Kirk is not choking on a foreign object. The swelling from the poison has obstructed his airway and is now exacerbated by panic.
“You’re all right, Jim, listen to me.” McCoy’s eyes are wild, but his voice is steady. He spreads his hands across Kirk’s ribs as if he can grasp his lungs and will them to clear. “You can do this, come on - breathe. In, out.” Kirk kicks his legs blindly. His lips are turning blue. He presses back against McCoy, holding onto his braced arms and trying to find the rhythm.
“Breathe with me, that’s it.” Chekov counts with him, silently - in, beat, out, beat. Spock crouches beside Chekov, tense, helpless to do anything but watch. At last Kirk's muscles go slack and he breathes - it makes a horrible, painful wheezing sound in his chest and throat, but he’s breathing. Chekov glances at Spock, whose eyes flicker away from the captain to nod, once. The crisis is past. For now.
“Bones,” Kirk whispers thickly, shaking all over. “Hurts, Bones.”
McCoy moves gingerly until his back is against the cave wall, shifting Kirk so he can rest his head against his shoulder.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs against the shell of Kirk’s ear. “I know it hurts. Quit trying to talk, would you?”
He seems to have entirely forgotten anyone else is there. Spock gazes out of the mouth of the cave; clearly he is unsurprised. Chekov looks away from McCoy cradling the captain in his arms. This is not meant for his eyes. He wonders that he has never realized just how deep their feelings run, in nearly three years serving with them both; and he is ashamed of himself for gawping when it’s his fault Kirk is in this position to begin with.
McCoy presses his face into Kirk's sweat-soaked hair, repeating the same words in a low voice until they run together like a prayer: "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay." To convince himself as much as Kirk, Chekov thinks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one. McCoy would not hear if he shouted, and Spock glances at him with the faintest trace of confusion in his eyes. He realizes that he spoke in Russian.
In the end the captain does not die, although it is a very near thing. McCoy has to shock his heart when they get him home. Chekov goes to his own quarters to shower and change, then to as short a debriefing as Spock will allow himself, then back to sick bay.
The captain is supine in a bio-bed, monitors beeping comfortingly above him. Chekov’s relief at seeing the color returned to his skin makes his knees buckle. McCoy glances up from his seat beside Kirk’s bed, padd on his lap. His expression is tired and heartsick, though not unkind.
“Did we miss something in all the hullabaloo, Ensign? Acid burn or insect bite or something?”
“No, I came to see Captain Kirk,” Chekov explains, approaching with caution.
McCoy nods at the captain’s still face. “He’ll be out for an hour or so yet.”
Chekov takes a deep breath and faces him, clasping his hands behind his back. “Then I shall address my apology to you, Doctor.” McCoy frowns, puzzled. A drop of sweat rolls down Chekov’s spine. “The captain was protecting me when he was struck by the arrow.”
McCoy sighs and stretches, rubbing at his temples. “Oh, hell. It’s not your fault, kid. The damn fool would have done the same for any one of us, or else gotten himself injured in one of a hundred other ways. That's just what he does.”
“All the same, I…” He has no wish to make McCoy uncomfortable, but he feels compelled to say these things so he can sleep without remembering the captain's deathly pallor and the doctor's dark, haunted eyes. “I nearly took him from you, and for that I am sorry.”
He looks at Chekov for a long, long moment, pursing his lips.
“Just ‘ccept th’ ‘pology,” Kirk mumbles. His eyes are still closed. McCoy turns his head to glare down at him.
“The peanut gallery can shut the fuck up, since it’s not supposed to be awake yet on account of it dying for forty-seven seconds earlier today.”
Kirk’s dry lips curve faintly. “Love you too, Bones.”
“And you,” McCoy adds, now leveling his glare at Chekov, “I don’t want to see your ass on the bridge for two days, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” says Chekov, feeling a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. He waggles his fingers in Kirk’s direction. “Good night, sir!”
The captain will be fine. The doctor will be fine. The Enterprise will be fine. Sulu will most definitely not be fine if he wakes up to find Chekov missing, so Chekov hurries back to their quarters and crawls into bed. Turning in his sleep, Sulu burrows against his warmth and resumes snoring. Chekov strokes a palm down his back and finally, finally closes his eyes.
This is how they get by, out here in the black.
no one goes back for seconds
“Are you gonna marry my dad?”
Jim paused the game to get a cookie and now he chokes on it, boggling at her. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.
Joanna rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m thirteen, not stupid. I’m the only one who’s slept in Dad’s room for years, and I know you guys don’t play chess all night in the captain’s quarters. Uncle Jim, did you seriously think I didn’t know?” She presses the pause button on her controls and the frozen space battle races across the screen again. It might be easier to talk about this if they don’t have to look at each other.
“Shit,” Jim mutters as she takes out one of his fighters. “I don’t think I have the credentials for this conversation, Joanna.”
“Because I’ve been thinking about it,” she says as if he hasn’t spoken, dropping her shoulder to send her ship into a roll. “You went on this five-year mission, right? And you’re going back out into space together. So the first mission was kind of like an engagement, and now you’ve decided you like each other enough to do it again.” Spock would say her logic is sound, she’s sure of it.
As if he’s following her train of thought, Jim says, “Mr. Spock is continuing on as First Officer, but I’m not about to marry him.”
Giggling at the thought of what Uhura would do to him, she switches to a view of her main fighter squadron and commences wiping him out.
Jim growls with frustration, almost bouncing on the sofa as her larger force cuts a swath through his limping fighters. “Stop killing my guys!”
“Stop trying to change the subject,” Joanna retorts, sticking her tongue out when he sends a burst of fire across the starboard bow of her battleship.
“Can’t put anything past a McCoy,” Jim sighs dramatically.
“Nope, but you can keep trying all you want. So anyway,” she continues, annoyed that he’s evading her questions way more easily than her photons, “why not? All I can see is reasons why you should, so give me one reason why you shouldn’t. And it has to be a real reason, not something dumb like ‘I don’t have a dress.’”
Jim huffs out a breath and puts on his Grown-Up Voice. She’s never had the heart to tell him it doesn’t work. “Well, there are all kinds of…circumstances, and considerations…”
With most of their fighters gone, the game’s moved on to a battle between the big ships. Joanna knocks out his aft shields with a couple of well-placed blasts. Her small, brightly-colored captain cheers as she asks quietly, “Is it ‘cause of me?”
Jim sacrifices the rest of his shielding in order to turn and look at her. “Thought you said you weren’t stupid, Jo.” He hugs her tight with one arm and she smiles, taking out his warp drive. He groans, graceless in defeat.
The game runs a long, kind of boring sequence in which the losing captain hands over the ship to the winning captain; they’ve played it enough times to have lost interest. Joanna drops her controller on the coffee table and spins around on the couch to face him. Jim props his elbow on the armrest, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t. I guess I just never thought he’d want to get married again, after what happened with your mom.”
This is one of the things she likes best about Uncle Jim. He talks about stuff in her life like that’s just how it is, rather than going on and on about how tough the divorce must have been on her and how much she must miss her father, seeing him only a dozen times since she was little (with the undertone of what a terrible, selfish man he is, if it’s her grandmother). There’s not much Joanna hates more than people feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t remember a lot from when her parents were together, except for the fighting. And it sucks that Dad is gone so often, but he has a really important job and she loves him anyway. Plus she likes her stepdad okay, which is something because she knows Jim’s stepfather, for example, was really awful. Paul's not nearly as cool as Jim, though.
“I’ll bet you five ice cream sundaes,” she says gravely, “that he thinks you would never want to.”
Jim snorts. “The odds are in your favor, kiddo, but I’ll pay up anyway.” He swats her knee with a pillow. “Since you seem to know everything about my relationship with your dad, tell me this: how would I ask him?” He’s teasing her, but his eyes are kind of serious. She keeps her glee inside as she considers the question.
“Hmm. I think he proposed to Mom on a dinner date, with candlelight and French food and everything. Like in the movies.”
He makes a face. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening any time soon.”
“Well, we’ve got to think of something - you guys are leaving for real space in two weeks and I will never forgive you if you get married without me there.” She sits up straight and glares at him so he knows she’s not kidding. Jim hits her with the pillow again.
“Don’t do that, you look exactly like Bones when you do that.”
Dad comes in then, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss the top of her head. He always takes a shower after his shift but he still smells a little bit like medical stuff, and she’ll never figure out why he doesn’t get that she doesn’t mind. “Hey, JoJo.”
“Hi, Daddy. Look, I kicked Uncle Jim’s butt again.” She points to the screen, where Jim’s captain is shedding a single tear for her lost honor.
“Damn it, Jim, you know I don’t like those violent games,” he grumbles, dropping down between them.
“It’s okay, Dad, he never puts up much of a fight so it doesn’t get all that violent.”
Jim heaves a long-suffering sigh, clutching the pillow to his stomach. “Your kid is a bloody-minded savage, Bones. She’ll fit perfectly in the family business.”
Joanna doesn’t think much about the whole marriage thing until a couple of days later. She’s down in sick bay, helping Nurse Chapel organize vaccines while she waits for her father to finish his paperwork so they can get dinner. Jim comes in, completely ignoring Dad’s shout of “I’m busy, jackass.” Just before he slips into the office, he winks at Joanna. At once she scrambles up to peek through the open door.
Dad’s sprawled in his chair, fingers steepled as he looks up at Jim, who’s perched on the edge of the desk.
“No,” he says flatly. Joanna’s heart sinks into her shoes.
Jim chooses to take this as a challenge rather than a refusal. He tends to do that a lot, actually. “Aw, come on, Bones! Women, men, beings of indeterminate gender would all line up to marry Captain James T. Kirk! I'm a catch.” He sweeps a hand up and down to showcase himself.
“You just want an excuse for a party.” Dad kicks him lightly in the shin. One corner of his mouth is turned up and there’s warmth behind his eyes, and she’s not so nervous anymore.
“No, I don’t want to start looking for another CMO,” Jim counters, leaning down on the arms of the chair, putting their faces close together. His blue eyes only light up like that for her father. Joanna grins to herself. Dad usually harrumphs and suggests it's her bedtime when Jim gives him that look, even if it's the middle of beta shift. “Because you’re just going to have to find a new job if you won’t make an honest man out of me.”
She doesn’t hear what Dad says because Jim kisses him then, but it would have been “Yes.” Or possibly “Oh, fine, but just to shut you up” which is close enough.
Joanna activates the door controls - she loves them both, but she’s not about to stand here and watch them make out all night - and hopes Uhura will let her borrow a real Starfleet uniform so she doesn’t have to wear the stupid pink dress Mom made her bring.