Title: Lessons in Love
Genre: Romance / Humor
Rating: M
Pairing: McCoy x Kirk
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: Real antagonism is based on love, a love which has not recognized itself.
Word Count: 5,486
Warnings: A little bit of 'aliens made them do it' but just a splash
Disclaimer: Not mine. Summary is from Henry Miller.
A/N: Yay, Reboot cast and their attractiveness. (Though I have a soft spot for TOS Kirk). But I've loved Karl Urban since Cupid in Hercules/Xena.
"Dammit, Jim, what have you gotten yourself into now?!" The grin the captain flashes his way is sheepish and guilty as sin. But it fades when he basically trips off the transporter padd and is only saved from slamming face-first into the bulkhead by McCoy's quick reflexes. "D- damn fool!" McCoy shifts Jim upright, but pauses when Jim hisses sharply. He can't reach his tricorder from this position, so he can't for certain say what is wrong, but from the gasping breaths and bleeding forehead he can fathom broken ribs and a concussion at least.
"Ah, Bonesy," the captain sing-songs, words slurring from what McCoy assumes is blood loss. "Don't be like that – I was jus' doin' my job."
"He is correct, Doctor." When McCoy shifts half his attention to Spock, the Vulcan continues. "The Captain managed to prevent the explosion of the Antarres main temple, and save the lives of thousands of natives."
"I don't care about all of that, you hobgoblin!" His attention was now back on Jim, who was getting heavier and heavier as he sank closer and closer to unconsciousness. "He's lost a ton of blood – where were you when all of this was happening?! I need a hand here!" The last is shouted out the open door.
One of Spock's eyebrows quirked in the Vulcan's expression of irritation. "Doctor, that is unjustified, I – "
"I don't want to hear it!" At that moment, two more medical personnel rushed in and Jim falls suddenly and heavily unconscious. "Quick, I need to get him to Sick Bay."
Spock watches the doctor rush out behind the two nurses carting the captain away on a stretcher, his tricorder flipped open, eyes frantically scanning the readouts as he holds it over the six inch wound on Jim's head. Spock wasn't sure if he realized his hand was shaking or not.
"Bones?"
His name is a slurred, sleepy mess, but he shoots awake forcibly at the quiet sound, hands scrambling for a tricorder even as his eyes land on Kirk's face. After a quick glance at the numbers on the screen, he drops the device to grab his friend's shoulders instead. "Jim, you idiot, what were you thinking?!"
He expects a carefree answer, typical James T. Kirk, bowling down orders and protocol and not caring a wit. But that's not what he gets. Instead, the answer is soft and tentative. "I couldn't leave them in that temple, Bones. It would have been too much like… too much like Vulcan."
McCoy deflates at that. Besides Spock, the destruction of Vulcan hit Jim the hardest. It ate at him, McCoy knew. Jim thought he had failed, that his father could have 'done better.' He cursed Pike in his head for the thousandth time for saying those words to Jim, positive that they were a lot of the reason Jim did half the foolhardy things he did, trying to prove them wrong. His blossoming friendship with Spock just makes him regret even more he couldn't save Vulcan.
"Oh, kid, you're gonna be the death of me." He doesn't say anything else, just sits back down in the chair besides the hospital bed. When Jim slips asleep – a true sleep this time, not the blackout of blood loss – McCoy lets his eyes rove over that face he has come to know so well, the face he has patched up countless time in the past several years. Asleep, it shows his youth, crinkles just beginning to form at the corners of his eyes from laughter, but his brow is smooth like this, his jaw slack with sleep, his hair tousled. McCoy's fingers twitch to fix it, but he lets him slumber.
It is easy for others to forget, because they do not know, how fragile their hero Captain is. To them he is the Kirk who leaps from ships, who battles Klingons, who disregards the Prime Directive, who bluffs in times of crisis. But to Bones he is Jim – Jim who is allergic to 27 different medications and at least one local plant life on every planet they have ever been to, Jim who's slept with more people than Bones could count but still feels lonely, Jim who felt the pain of each crew member like it was his own.
"You really are gonna be the death of me, kid."
"Booonnnesss."
"Jiiimmmm." His name is echoed back to him with the same inflection, the doctor arching a brow at the puppy dog eyes his friend is throwing his way.
"Come on, Bones. It'll be fun!"
"I'm too old to be goin to some pleasure planet and playin' wing man to you, kid." He glanced back down at his pad.
"I'll wingman you if you want!" He waggles his eyebrows, grin widening.
McCoy glances up, eyes sweeping over his over eager friend. They'd been orbiting Risa for a few days, Jim making sure the crew got their leave before he took his own. He'd been trying to convince Bones to come with him ever since they got here, but so far no luck. He was clearly ready to head down – dressed for a day in the sun and sand with a beautiful woman. Tight pants (he'd be sweltering in the Risa sun, but Bones knew for a fact that Jim wore those specific pants because of what they did for his ass), and an open vest. No shirt. His gaze lingered there for longer than a moment, tanned skin flecked with scars, taut muscles covered by skin. His eyes flicked up to his face, bright blue eyes earnest and cajoling. "I'm too old for that kinda thing, too."
Blue eyes roll and Jim has clearly had enough posturing, reaching out to grab McCoy's hand and pull him to his feet. There is no resistance, just acceptance from the doctor. Like always, he follows. To space, to Risa, whatever. "Ah, nah, look at you," he says, with a sweeping gesture. "A tall drink of water like you with a killer accent? You'll have your pick of partners." He winks roguishly. "Maybe I'll find someone just like you."
The captain is already leading him away, so he doesn't see the ruddy, unbecoming flush spread across McCoy's face. "Jim!"
Bones slams the empty glass of bourbon down on his desk with almost enough force to crack it. Luckily, it holds, because he is already pouring himself another glass. Damn him – damn him!
The planet they'd landed on was the stuff of Jim Kirk's wet dreams. Paradise, beautiful women everywhere – all 11's on a 10 scale – and so few men that they were all scrambling to broaden their gene pool. Women only married after they'd born at least two sons, and men only after they'd fathered four. Then and only then were they faithful to one another. But this group of women were all single and ready to mingle. They were eating Jim up.
"Come on ladies, there's not enough of me to go around." He grinned cheekily. "Though I'll try my best."
The Headwoman – buxom, blonde, and leggy – smiled. "We will give you all the time you need, James. But of course we only wish to seed a handful of our women with your genes, so you should prove sufficient." Her eyes slide down him in a hungry, predatory manner. "You are a remarkable specimen. We will certainly give you all the time you need."
McCoy had to hand it to them, they certainly knew how to show off assets – the outfit Kirk was wearing looked like it should be a ridiculous toga contraption, but it didn't detract from his looks – of course. It hung off his shoulders in a way that showcased their breadth, slits along the side revealed smooth, tantalizing glimpses of tanned skin. It was also very clearly designed to be taken on (and off) quickly. He was also preening like a bloody peacock at all of the attention – flexing his arms, quirking that Casanova smile that always made people go weak-kneed and pliant, men and women alike.
"Uh, well, about that," he was rubbing at the back of his head embarrassedly, trying to backtrack his previous offer. "As much as I'd love to spawn the next generation of Zylons, we're on a pretty tight schedule. The work of a Starship Captain, and all." He grinned.
The Headwoman was not smiling back. "This is unsatisfactory to us. We will accept no excuses from you on this matter, Captain." Her eyes trailed over the entourage behind him. McCoy, Uhura, Chekov, and a big guy from security. "Unless of course you are partnered with one of these individuals. We would respect a bond and nothing else. We are not savages."
"Yes! That is it exactly, I just didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Prove it."
McCoy's eyes shot to Jim at that blunt statement. Jim's back was ramrod straight, but his face was open and easy, his eyes betraying nothing. When he turned, McCoy could see the wheels in his head turning. Chekov – too young. Pennington, from security – nope. Uhura – Please, God, Uhura don't be a prude about this. But McCoy could already read the arch of her finely shaped brow. It said, 'In your dreams, Kirk." With a burgeoning sense of dread, Kirk turned to him, eyes puppy-dog and pleading, already apologizing.
McCoy opened his mouth to deny it, to come up with another excuse, but he never got around to it. Because suddenly his mouth was full of James Kirk and he couldn't speak around the tongue sweeping impetuously through his mouth.
For a moment, his hands hovered uncertainly over his friend's shoulders, his eyes wide open and staring cross-eyed at Jim's, which were pressed tightly closed. But then he caught a glimpse of the native's faces and realized he'd have to play along if they were going to get out of this with the captain's manhood still intact.
With a sigh of resignation he slammed his eyes closed as he dropped his hands and hauled Jim closer. Fine, fine - this was not what he became a doctor for, but fine! He didn't become a doctor and join Starfleet to have a gaggle of alien women force his best friend to make out with him but whatever! He heard Jim make a muffled noise of surprise against his mouth at his abrupt movement, but after a split second, he sank into the kiss, tilting his head up so McCoy could slant his mouth down against his with greater accuracy. He hummed in appreciation when McCoy's tongue slid into his mouth, and the sound shivered up the doctor's spine. When calloused fingers curled around the nap of his neck and nails scraped against his hairline, he growled in pleasure, the hands he'd had settled on Jim's hip stiffened and he wrapped them around the captain, lifting, wanting to feel those legs wrap around him –
"Five to beam up."
When they materialized on the transporter pad there was silence. Jim slid his legs down, holding onto McCoy's shoulders to steady himself, turning to face the room. Spock, standing by the door, was as surprised as McCoy had ever seen him – his eyebrows were almost in his hairline they were arched so high. "Uh, hey Commander Spock, thanks for the beam out."
"Captain." The Vulcan nodded at him, glanced at Uhura, then glanced at McCoy. "Doctor." If McCoy didn't know any better he'd say the Vulcan sounded amused.
He frowned. "I'll be in Sick Bay." And he marched out, head held high despite the giggling he heard coming from Uhura's direction.
The bourbon he'd been drinking ever since he sat down in his office was doing absolutely nothing to wash away the taste of Jim's mouth – sweat and mint and whiskey and Jim – and McCoy was cursing the day he'd ever sat down next to that boy on a shuttle craft. There wasn't a person who'd met Jim Kirk who didn't know he was attractive. It was a fact. Like people knew Spock was intelligent. Jim was an attractive man. Bones had always known it, with a sort of detached air, plus he'd cured him of enough sex-related injuries to last him a lifetime. So he knew people found him attractive to them.
But now he was worried that Jim Kirk was attractive to him.
He downed another shot of bourbon. Damn him.
"Doctor, we require your assistance with the Captain, we're bringing him to Sick Bay now."
McCoy clicked his badge. "This is McCoy, what's the problem, Spock?" He was already leaving the mess hall as he spoke.
"Ensign Morales lost her footing attempting to retrieve some fungus on a cliff side and fell into a river below. The Captain leapt in after her."
"He what?!"
"Doctor, control yourself. He rescued Morales and vacated the river in one piece. Unfortunately, our onsite Med-Kit only contained one thermal blanket and he demanded we use it for the Ensign." McCoy is running through the halls now. "During the trek back to beam out range, the Captain began exhibiting signs of hypothermia."
"Thanks, Commander." At that, Bones spins around the corner and barges into Sick Bay. Chapel is hovering around Kirk's bed, cutting the wet clothes from him as quickly as she can. He is shaking so hard the bed is moving. His lips are almost as blue as his eyes. "Jim – "
His eyes snap to Bones' face. "B-B-B-Bones." His teeth are chattering, and he hisses in a painful breath when McCoy takes his hand, too hot against his frigid skin.
"What are his stats, nurse?"
"His core temperature is dangerously low, Doctor. Nurse O'so is preparing the heating chamber for use as soon as we remove this clothing."
"Understood." He grabs another pair of scissors, beginning to cut through Kirk's pants, which Chapel removes his boots. But when the first expanse of skin is bared, a long, lean line of muscled thigh, Bones hand stutters to a halt. He suddenly, vividly, remembers a brief, brief moment when this leg was wrapped around his waist, hot and demanding. But now it is cold, twitching with shivers, bleached almost white from the freezing water.
"Doctor?" Chapel is worried, confused as to why he stopped.
He shakes his head. "It's nothing, come on." And he continues working.
"Captain, should you not be consuming a more health contentious item?"
"Ah, Spock, don't be such a fun sucker."
The Vulcan's brow arches at the insult, but he makes no comment on it, merely continues with his original point. "I am merely pointing out, Captain, that perhaps ingesting a… Popsicle…" It appears to physically hurt him to say the word, "isn't the most nutritious choice of a meal." He stares pointedly at him. "You were, after all, only recently released from Sick Bay."
"Yeah, but it's tradition!" At Spock's blank look, he elaborates. "Like when you're a kid and you go to the doctor? When you leave you always get a candy, right?" Spock nods, though whether in agreement or simple understanding is anyone's guess. "Well I'm always allergic to the dyes in most candy, so Bones had these replicated special for me back at the Academy." Half a dozen pairs of eyes snap to Bones seated at the head of one side of the table, with Jim on the opposite head, the rest of their group in between. But Bones resolutely continues to eat his chicken and ignores them. "So now I get one every time I'm released from the good doctor's care."
Spock focuses on the doctor. "But why popsicles, Doctor?"
He shrugs, finally looking up. "I don't know, seemed like a good – " He breaks off abruptly.
Jim, directly across the long width of the table from him, has sucked the Popsicle completely down his throat, cheeks hollowed with the motion, red juice drippling from the corners of his mouth. It is incredibly suggestive, though Bones can't be sure that Jim isn't just a moron who eats his popsicles like a child. But whether intentional or accidental, the sight makes Bones instantly hard as rock.
"McCoy?"
He snaps back to reality, concerned faces starting at him intently. Jim, too, glances up over his treat at him, sliding the Popsicle from his mouth with a wet sound that goes straight down McCoy's spine to throb in his pants.
"Did someone call for a doctor?" He asks, standing abruptly, chair scraping against the tile.
"Um, no…"
"Okay, then, I should be off." And he leaves, only one speed below a dead run, like the coward that he is.
It is weeks, weeks, before someone, everyone, corners him in a turbo lift on his way back to his quarters after rounds. He had been content to stand there in awkward silence, but then Uhura slams on the breaks and screeches the lift to a halt, before spinning and facing him, arms crossed, face disapproving.
"Somethin' for you, Lieutenant?"
"You need to talk to the Captain."
He looks away, spine suddenly rigid. "I talked to him just yesterday."
She slaps his arm hard enough that he yelps and rubs at the mark. "No, you idiot! Not that weird, uncomfortable dance you've been playing with him for weeks. Talk. To. Him!" Each word is a poke on the chest with a pointed finger. "He's too dumb to figure it out unless you tell him."
At that he glances at her. "Tell him what exactly?" That the simple sight of his best friend these days made him question his preferences, made him want to finish what he started on Zylon, that he wanted to give Jim something besides a Popsicle to occupy his mouth?
"Well, that you love him."
He snaps out of his thoughts with a lurch. "I what?!"
She blinks at his outburst in surprise, glanced around at the rest of the crew in the crowded lift. "Did you… did you not know that?"
"No! I mean, I don't!" His panicked gaze travels from officer to officer, looking for something to dispute this, but they all seemed as confused at his panic as Uhura. "I don't love him!" He feels the beginning of a panic attack resting high in his throat, constricting his airway.
"I disagree, Doctor. Based on your previous interactions with the Captain, I find this is the logical conclusion."
"Yes, Doctor!" Chekov is a ball of excitement. "It vas just obvious, da?"
McCoy turns back to Uhura, hoping for reason, for explanation, for – anything – but she is merely staring at him in shock. "You really didn't know, did you?" He is gaping at her, terrified at the swiftly growing fear that she might be, possibly, crazily, right. "Holy shit, how could you not know, Leonard? Oh man, we should probably not have sprung this on you like this."
"How – how long?"
Another blink. "How long have you loved him? I mean, well, I don't know. I noticed the way you spoke to him like a year ago," she glanced at Spock, worried, "so then, I guess. If it makes you feel any better, I don't think Kirk knows that you love him, he just thinks you hate him – are you okay?"
"I have to find Jim." He frantically presses buttons on the turbo lift, until Spock leans over him and neatly and concisely presses the correct one.
"Computer, Officer's Deck." The lift surges back to life at Spock's command.
When it stop, the doors are barely open before McCoy is bolting through them, hurrying down the corridor. Three sets of eyes watch him go with fond amusement.
He enters his medical override without a thought, rushing into Kirk's quarters in a whirlwind of movement. Kirk shoots up out of his bed, padd flying out of his hands in shock. "Bones! What's wrong? Is someone dead?!"
"Jim," Bones falls to his knees besides the bed as Kirk is trying to untangle himself from his sheets and stand. Jim pauses at the motion, then positively freezes when McCoy grabs his hips, slides his hands up and up and up until they cup Jim's face. "Jim."
"B-Bones?" His eyes are impossibly wide in his face, bluer than the Georgia sky. They are confused, but they are not scared or frightened.
"I'm sorry."
Kirk blinks. "For what – "
"I didn't realize, like a damn fool." He's rubbing those cheeks with his thumbs, up and down, watching the motion over tan skin, hypnotized by it. There are questions in those cerulean eyes and Bones swallows thickly, terror in the pit of his stomach, as he forces himself to say the words. "I love you." If it's even possible, those eyes widen even more, but before he can say anything, Bones does what he's been dreaming of since Zylon, and presses their lips together.
When Jim's lips open under his, immediate, unquestioning, McCoy groans guttural and deep. Finally, finally, finally. Leaning upwards, he crawls until he's pushing Jim backwards, down, farther, until he's leaning over him, in between the spread of his legs. A quick slide of his hands and he grips those hips again, so he can lift them up and toss Jim backwards, into the center of the bed. Jim gasps at the motion, but McCoy is already back above him, now settled firmly on the bed where he can press his weight down onto the man below him. His breath hisses out of him when he pushes into that cradle of hips, groins pressing together. He can't help the shallow thrust he gives, wanting to feel the friction.
Jim groans. "Fuck." His head falls back at the sensation. "Bones."
How could he not have realized how much he loved this, when this is what he was missing? How long could he have been sliding his hands under this shirt to caress this chest, to flicker teasingly down sides he knew were ticklish? How had he let himself miss out on these gasps, these moans, these panting breaths?
He fuses their mouths together again, needing to feel that mouth pliant and wanting under him. Tongues twirl around each other and teeth clack together until they part for air. But McCoy can't sit still, can't resist what's before him. His mouth leaves a trail of kisses down Jim's neck, stopping to suck hard bruises behind his ear and into the sinew at the base of his neck in moves that have Jim keening and squirming beneath him, his hips a restless slow roll that is driving McCoy crazy.
When his nails scratch lines into Kirk's side, Jim's hands suddenly come alive, scrambling at Bones' shirt and pants frantically. McCoy reciprocates, and they both pull back far enough to divest each other of clothing. When they fall together again it is glorious skin on skin, hot and slick and wonderful, and McCoy wants to sob with the perfection of it all.
He doesn't know what he wants to do first, so he continues that trail of kisses and nips and laving tongue. Teeth nick at nipples until they're peaked as hard as diamonds, before soothing it with this tongue. He understands why Jim comes back from shore leave with so many marks of his encounters now. As his doctor, he was annoyed and irritated. But now, now he understands. He wants to mark every inch of this flesh as his, wants to claim it, wants to own it. When he sucks at Jim's bellybutton, hands fasten in his hair. When he swirls his tongue inside, Jim arches off the bed with a startled cry.
McCoy smirks against that skin. "Your bellybutton, huh?"
Jim is panting, too flushed with pleasure to even begin to be embarrassed. "That's a first."
"Well, to each his own, kid."
You can hear his frown in his next words. "Don't call me 'kid.'"
"Whatever you say, darlin." To his immense surprise, at this statement, Jim arches against him, fingers digging into his shoulders with bruising strength. McCoy lifts his head from Jim's stomach, so he can peer up the length of torso at a flushed face, blue eyes wide with shock. "Was that a first, too?" He grins wolfishly, letting more of that Southern drawl bleed into his voice as he adds, "darlin" in a long, slow twang.
"Ah…" Jim's eyes drift closed, even as his hips give several mindless thrust against him.
McCoy shudders at the feeling of that hard flesh rutting against his chest and immediately resumes his previous task of marking that skin for himself, but now with one added bonus. He sucks another harsh bruise around that bellybutton. "You like that, swwetheart?" A long swipe of tongue across the piece of flesh above his groin so he can bite another bruise directly onto the protruding hip bone. Jim is a whining, writhing mess beneath him, and he stills the rolling movement of hips by pushing his chest down into the motion. It just makes Jim whine louder. "It's alright, baby, I'll make it real good for you." Hands on Jim's hips keep them still and he slides down, and he is confronted with Jim's impressive length. He pauses, momentarily unsure. For all his bluster and bravado, this is still the first time he's done this.
"B- Bones, you don't… have to…" But once glance up at Jim's face, the glassy eyes, the swollen lips, the flushed cheeks, and McCoy is done.
"Don't stop me yet. It's my turn for a treat, kid." Jim lifts his head, a retort on his lips about the nickname, but at that very moment McCoy swallows him down, and whatever he had been about to say transforms into a garbled groan as he slumps backward, a boneless mass. It takes several long moments for him to get the rhythm down, to stop gagging at the feeling of fullness in the back of his throat that's making his eyes water. But Jim doesn't seem to notice or mind or care. His fingers are tangled tightly enough in McCoy's hair that under different circumstances it might hurt, but now he doesn't mind, welcomes it even. Like he welcomes the way Jim's thighs are gripping his chest with bruising force.
One of the hands in his hair reaches down to grasp one of his hands on Jim's hips, tugging and yanking it upwards. Bones is confused until he feels two of his fingers slide into Jim's mouth. He groans when that mouth licks and laves at them, sucking hard. The groan reverberates up the flesh in his mouth and Jim thrusts hard, hitting the back at McCoy's throat, making him swallow reflexively.
"Holy fuck, Bones." His name is almost a sob.
Fingers wet and free, he wastes no time reaching them underneath Jim to swirl around his entrance, soothing touches to help him relax. He relaxes those muscles so swiftly that McCoy knows with a sense of annoyed detachment that he has done this before, but now he focuses on sliding those fingers inside, sucking harshly to make Jim focus on the pleasure. When he relaxed back against those probing digits, McCoy quirks them just so and Jim shouts his name. He smirks. New to this he might be, but being a Doctor had its advantages. An intimate knowledge of anatomy and clever fingers were just the best of them. His fingers begin a slow gentle in and out, winding Jim tighter and tighter.
"Bones, Bones, please, wait, Bones."
But he is focused too much on this moment, concentrating on making this perfect, one hand continuing his slow, gentle assault of Jim's prostrate, his other reaching down to his own leaking length to pump it slowly in time with the bobbing of his head. So he is started when there is a sudden surge of upward movement from below him. Jim slips from his mouth with a wet pop that makes Jim let out a sob, but before McCoy can comment, he finds himself flipped abruptly over, Jim poised above him like a poster child for sin.
McCoy can barely take stock of this new position, when Jim lifts himself up on his knees, grasps McCoy in one steady hand, and slides smoothly downward, sheathing that length inside of him. Though his eyes want to clench in pleasure, he forces them to stay open so he can watch Jim tip his head back in blissful surrender, his spine a perfect arch. It is positively wicked, the look on his face as he starts to lift himself up and down, riding McCoy like a prized stallion. His fingers grip hips so tight they leave perfect fingerprint bruises, he is shaking from forcing himself not to thrust up into that tight head, his toes are curling against the sheets. When Jim shifts himself just so and manages to hit that perfect spot again, his mouth falls open in an 'o' of ecstasy.
When he glances down to meet McCoy's eyes, his pupils are blown so wide the blue is the merest sliver of color. "Bones," he sobs with ragged need. His hands slip from McCoy's shoulders to fist the neglected length in front of him and at the side, Bones surges back into motion.
Another flip, and Jim is underneath him and McCoy can force those thighs high and wide, can sink even farther in him, fuse their mouths together harshly. From this angle Jim is a mess of pleasure, nails leaving scratches from McCoy's spine, his heels are digging into his shoulders, his sides. When Bones pulls back to breath, Jim is whining of every exhale, a steady stream of "ah, ah, ah's" that make Bones thrust harder, deeper, just to hear them more.
He is a mess, this is too perfect, Jim is too perfect. He could have lost this without ever knowing he could have had it. Explosions, First Contact, hypothermia, he could have lost this. He presses his face into the curve of neck, behind Jim's ear, presses his eyes tightly closed to try and stop the sob he feels coiled in his chest. "I love you."
He murmurs it with his lips pressed against the flesh, but Jim hears it. Stops his litany of panting breaths to his "Yesss…fuck, yes, ah, ah."
"Fuck, Jim." The feeling in his gut is clenching tighter and tighter, so tight it's almost painful now. Jim's length, caught between them, is leaving leaking trails of fluid across his chest, weeping with the friction. "Love this, love you."
"Bones, please, oh fuck me, please, I can't, I can't, I can't." His head is tossing from side to side, his hips are an ungraceful roll as he tries to find that last piece to give him his release. But Bones is already hitting that place inside him with every thrust, he needs more. "Bones, pleeaasee."
Bones is close now, so close he can taste it, so he slides his lips up the Jim's ear, breath hot and moist and close. "You're almost there, baby. Come on." That twang bleeds deep into his next works, makes his voice rasping and low. "Come for me, darlin."
Jim comes with a cry, his muscles clenching around McCoy so tight his eyes go wide and blind from the sensation, spilling himself inside Jim before he can make another thrust. It is long moments before he comes down, before he can put down Jim's shaking thighs, and pull wetly out of him.
Hazy blue eyes open slowly, lethargic and exhausted. But when they meet his own they shine with contentment. "You know I love you, too, right?"
Happiness blooms in his chest.
Later, while they are clean and curled around each other, Jim cradled against him and tracing idly patterns down his chest, Kirk asks, "So when did you realize you loved me?"
He's fishing for complements but McCoy is going to have to disappoint him here. "Uh, well, Uhura told me." He's mumbling, hoping the kid won't hear.
But Jim is rearing backwards, to look flabbergasted into his eyes. "What now?!" Those eyes are all amusement and mirth, and McCoy can feel the chuckle already shaking him. "Someone had to tell you?!" The laugh he'd been trying to contain breaks free when McCoy narrows his eyes at him in warning. "Holy shit, Bones! You really are out of prac-"
The only way to shut him up is with his mouth. And if Jim Kirk thinks he's out of practice, well he'll just have to prove him wrong.