In Which Pushups are the Sexiest Thing Ever
Summary: Also, Bones proves that medics can be more badass than soldiers (and that turns Jim on). Army AU for a prompt at the st_xi_king_meme.
DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and everything affiliated with it belongs to JJ Abrams and all those other people who own it. All I own is the plot…
Rated: T
"Private Kirk."
Jim cringes at the sound of his title, coming from the voice of his commanding officer, Staff Sergeant Christopher Pike. Straightening—embarrassed at being caught but more at being called out in front of Privates Uhura and Wallace—he turns his best I'm-totally-innocent-and-cute-but-still-cocky grin on Pike, who looks unimpressed. (Not for the first time, Jim wishes he'd gotten assigned to a commanding officer who hadn't lived next door for a good portion of his life and thus grown immune to his charms. Or better, a woman.)
Seeing the expression on Pike's face, he snaps to attention. "Sergeant."
Pike gives him that wan smile that means he's pretending to be pleasant but is actually about to make his life a living hell. He gives a dismissive nod to the ladies, who salute and then leave (although they don't go far, eager to see the show), and says, "Private, as nice as it is hear that your…guns are in working order, they're looking a little small, don't you think?" Still smiling, Pike claps him on the shoulder. "How about we fix that, eh? Give…say…two hundred pushups? That ought to do it."
"Yes, sir." Jim mutters, and gives him a half-hearted salute.
"Excuse me? I didn't quite hear you?"
"Yes, sir!" He yells.
"Better. Now get started, Private."
"Yes, sir!" He barks, and drops to the ground, hoping that everyone blames his dark flush on the heat. "One, two…"
He's pretty good until he hits a hundred—whatever Pike might think, he does keep himself in good shape, thank you very much—but a few pushups later his arms start shaking a bit. By this point, a few people have gathered around (God only knows why, the lazy fuckers, and God must also be the only one to know why they don't have to do pushups, too. Dammit), alternately cheering for and booing at him. Finally, though, he hits two hundred, and collapses to the ground without much care for who's watching and what they think of it.
Except then he hears the soft, snuffling laugh that belongs to the squadron's resident doctor, one Leonard Don't-Call-Me-Bones McCoy. And, okay, it's one thing for other members of the squadron to poke fun at him, but some clean-cut, noncombatant doctor? No fucking way, best friends or not.
"Shut up, Bones." He grumbles as he hauls himself up, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I'd like to see you do better."
Bones shrugs, arms are crossed over his chest, an unimpressed expression on his face. "Don't reckon I oughta show you up in front of all these people, Jimmy boy."
Jim snorts, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the small wad of cash he finds there. After a cursory glance at it, he says, "Fifty-eight bucks says you're full of shit."
Bones shrugs again. "Alright." He says in a way that is supposed to make Jim think he'll regret it (but it doesn't). Then he strips off his uniform shirt, leaving him in a khaki t-shirt. He rolls the sleeves up, showing off not-inconsiderable muscles, and drops without further ado. He starts counting, and the crowd gets steadily larger as people are attracted to the spectacle as if knowing by instinct that the punishment has become a betting game.
At fifty, with hardly a break in his stride, Bones pushes himself up hard enough that both hands leave the ground for a few seconds. During that short time, he folds one arm behind his back and actually sneers at Jim, that snarky bastard, before he falls back to the ground and continues without any indication that anything has changed.
Actually, there is a small indication that only someone who's looking would notice: a bit more of a bunch in his muscles as they strain (without seeming to strain) to hold his weight. Everyone is looking.
"A hundred." Bones says, and shoves himself up again, switching hands as he falls.
Without really realizing he's doing it, Jim's eyes wander, starting at the hand on the ground, up Bones' arm to the faint tan line a few inches above his elbow. Then to his back, where his muscles bunch under the straining, sweat-drenched fabric of his standard issue t-shirt. To the hand resting in the small of his back, twitching at what seem to be odd intervals until Jim realizes they twitch in time to Bones' counting. His gaze lingers at Bones' buttocks briefly, then he suddenly breaks out of whatever daze he's gone into, eyes snapping back to Bones' face. Bones isn't looking at him—isn't looking at anyone—but there's this grin tugging on the edge of his lips like he knows exactly what Jim was just doing; what everyone in the crowd has been doing for the past few minutes.
"A hundred 'n fifty." Bones says, thrusting himself up again, and he's just showing off, now, because he's switching off hands at every fifth beat, no longer pushing himself up much further than with a normal pushup so that he only has a split second for the switch.
A small bead of sweat rolls down his face and drips to the ground. Another follows the line of his bicep, and there isn't a person in the crowd whose eyes don't follow that bead of sweat.
"Two hundred." Bones stands, swings his arms a few times and cracks his neck.
Wordlessly, barely able to keep his jaw from dropping, Jim holds out the money and Bones' shirt. Bones plucks both out of Jim's grasp, eyes flickering over Jim's body in a way that makes him shiver just a bit.
Then Bones arches an eyebrow at him, smirks, and walks away.