Disclaimer: Semmi

Warnings [separated by section for your convenience]:

Prayer - Profanity, themes of spirituality.

Better - K/Mc slash. Mush.

Requital - Profanity, implied child abuse.

Fetishism - Sexual situations, K/Mc/Chair. Not entirely seriously. (It was "fetishism," what did you expect?)

A/N: THIS IS NOT A FOLLOW-UP TO "LOVELY." Figured I'd put that in big letters, because I'm sure most of you were expecting a follow-up to "Lovely." I know I was. The damn thing is fighting me, though, and so while we all wait I figured I might as well post the other things I'd written. And I wanted it to be in order, too. Humph.

Oh, also: It was suggested that I move this story up to the "M" rating, so I did. I figured I'd let you know in case you couldn't find the story. Though if you couldn't find it, how are you reading it now? You must be some kind of wizard!

Now, that could be the end of that. . . except now that we're hidden from the kiddies it suddenly feels like I have all this freedom to write about anything I want. Not that I don't do that anyway. But don't be surprised if things get a bit more violent or sexual or anything. I have released the hounds.

Prayer

Hey, God.

Long time, no see.

I know it's been a while since we last talked. And here I am, calling you out of the blue just to ask for a favor. It's kind of a crummy thing to do, I know, but I'm sort of running out of options. You're my last resort.

Yeah, sorry about that. I don't mean to make you feel left out. Then again, you haven't exactly been keeping up with me lately, have you? When was the last time you did something for me, huh? When were you ever there for me? Where have you been all my fucking life?

. . .Probably not a good idea to piss off my only hope, right? Sorry, I'll get back on track. This isn't really about me, anyway.

It's about my friend, Jim Kirk. My best friend. But you probably already knew that. Anyway, he's kind of... not doing so great right now.

You've heaped a lot of shit on Jim his whole life, you know that? First you kill off the poor bastard's father, and then you fuck his mother up in the head, and then you stick him with that sonofabitch of a step-father. . . but I shouldn't really blame you for all that, I suppose. Winona and Frank. . . their actions were their own. They had choices, and they made shitty ones. I won't let them use you as an excuse.

Still, though, Jim sort of gets bad luck raining down on him bucket-loads. I don't know what you've got against the kid. What's he ever done to you? Look, God knows (well, you know what I mean) that the kid can be annoying at times. But honestly? Jim really only deserves the best. He's the bravest, smartest, kindest bastard I know. . . But don't tell him I said that.

But even with all the shit you've put him through, this really takes the cake.

He's dying, you know. Of course you know. He's lying in that room behind me slowly dying and there is fuck all I can do for him. Goddammit.

. . .Sorry.

Anyway, God, look -- here's the deal. Jim's pretty. . . he's pretty special. And I think you know that. And I know you probably want him for yourself. I know you probably want him back. You want to take him away from this shitty mortal existence and have him sit up there in heaven with you. But here's the thing.

You can't have him.

I've spent a lot of time and effort on that kid, and I'm not about to let you swoop down and steal him away from me, okay? No poaching. Get your own damn hero.

Look, I realize you could probably send a lightning bolt down right now and smite me and all, even though we're in the middle of fucking space. But I'm telling you, you're not getting him without a fight.

Take me if you want. That's okay. I'm not worth a helluva lot in the long run.

But you can't have Jim.

Please. You can't take him from. Please don't take him from me.

He's all I got, you know?

So I'm asking you God, I'm begging you. . . I'm getting down on me knees. I know I probably should've done that when I started this, but I'm getting to it now, alright?

Please let him stay here. Please let him live.

I get that it's probably pretty selfish of me. I mean, I just told you all the tragedies that manage to come down around his head, and you're offering him the chance to get away from it all. To save his soul. He could finally be at peace.

But I am a sick, twisted bastard, I suppose, because I'd rather he be down here with me.

I guess I'm going to hell for saying I don't want my best friend to be in heaven, but that's okay. That's the truth.

You know, they say I could trade my soul to the devil for what I want most in the world. What about you, God? Are you willing to make a deal?

I used to hear this story in Sunday school when I was a kid, about how your son was willing to die in order to save the whole world.

I'm willing to die just to save him.

Hang me up on any cross, God. Do your worst.

Just don't take him away.

I haven't done a lot for you, God, but you haven't done a lot for me. Fuck, we're more estranged than me and my ex-wife. Let's mend this broken relationship of ours, okay? Fix our burned bridges.

You do this one thing for me, and we'll call it good.

Please, God.

I don't deserve it, I know. So don't do it for me. Do it for Jim. He deserves it. And I know he wants to survive. I don't think he's quite finished here, yet.

I know I said I didn't believe in you. But if anybody's taught me that there's a god somewhere out there, it's Jim. He gave me faith.

And damn you to hell if you take him away from me.

Uh, Amen.

Better

Jim stands in the middle of the room, an odd optical illusion of isolation. His chin is cocked up defiantly, muscles in his throat moving violently beneath soft exposed skin as he swallows hard. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, glossy and vaporous with curbed tears. His breath is loud and unsteady as he tries to hold whatever it is in him inside.

Bones watches him from his chair.

"Come here," He says.

Jim gives a deep, shaky inhale, eyes sliding closed as he breathes it out. He peels his feet off the floor and walks to Bones.

McCoy's hands reach up and pull, coax, gentle and insistent, and Jim slides into his lap. He curls in on himself and buries his face into McCoy's shoulder. Bones holds him firmly, pressing his cheek against the top of Jim's head. Jim huddles in his lap, still.

Jim is no light-weight, and after awhile McCoy's feet start to tingle.

"You're heavy," He grumbles. Jim shifts slightly and pressed against his skin Bones can feel his mouth bend into a smile.

Bones gropes with one hand and finds Jim's, threading their fingers together. The sliver of air between their palms grows warm and damp.

"Better?" Bones asks, tracing his free hand lightly down Jim's thigh. The muscle quivers slightly beneath his touch.

Jim tilts his head and presses a mellow kiss beneath the curve of McCoy's jaw, pulse drumming softly against his lips.

"Yeah," Jim whispers, grip tightening in McCoy's hand, "Better."

Requital

"I begged, you know," Jim says, voice flat. "I fucking begged her. I grabbed her hand when she was walking out the door and tripped when she pulled away and I fell to my knees and pleaded with her to take me away."

Bones doesn't say anything, but his throat is dry and he swallows hard.

"I'd told her. I'd told her so many times about what he did to me. And she wouldn't believe me. She refused to believe me. My face must've looked like road-kill and she looked at me and called me a liar." Jim's eyes are full of smothered flames.

There is a dull pain in the palms of his hands, and Bones realizes dimly he has dug his fingernails into his skin hard enough to bleed.

He doesn't say sorry. He can't say sorry. Jim will either laugh or punch him. Probably both. And then he'll run, and Bones can't have that.

Instead he forces his voice to stay level and asks Jim, "Why are you telling me this now?"

Because it's not that Bones doesn't want Jim to talk, doesn't wish he would say more, even if he isn't sure he really wants to hear it all. But Jim never talks about this. Never. So if he's saying it now, if he's disinterring these decade-old secrets, there's got to be a reason.

Jim slides a PADD across the table, jaw tight, and Bones picks it up gingerly. He scans the article displayed and his eyes widen.

"A heart-warming surprise today from Starfleet. Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise, Starfleet's flagship, has announced that he will be using his recent pay increase to found a children's charity. His only condition is that the non-profit organization be named after his mother, for, in his words, 'all the things she did when I was a kid.' And so, The Winona A. Kirk Voices of Children Foundation. Dedicated to helping children in abusive and neglectful homes. 'We listen when those who should, won't, and speak when those who wish they could, can't.'" Bones reads aloud, voice full of awe. "Oh, Jim. . ."

"Do you think," Jim says carefully, his hands flattening on the table and then relaxing so his fingers curl slightly like a dead spider's legs. "That that will make the headlines in Riverside, Iowa?"

"Starfleet's youngest captain in history, saviour of the world, protector of the federation, fantasy of every girl aged twelve and up in the entire universe donates his paycheck to start a charity?" Bones asks. "Yeah. I think it'll make headlines everywhere."

"Good." Jim says, eyes slightly cold. His mouth curves slowly into a tight smile.

Bones reaches out and grabs Jim's hand. For an instant he can see on Jim's face hurt and rage and fear and agony and then, as Bones squeezes his hand lightly, it is all gone. Jim smiles warmly at him, eyes calmed, and squeezes back.

Oh, wow, Winona Kirk. You're that woman who helps children, aren't you? Captain James Kirk's mother? You sure did a good job raising that one, didn't you? You must be so proud. Tell me, how does it feel? How does it feel?

How does it feel?

Fetishism

"Hello, baby," Jim croons, running his fingertips lightly over his chair's armrests. "Did you miss me?"

"You like that thing far too much," Bones grumbles, crossing his arms. "It's not healthy."

"Oh, yeah," Jim breathes out huskily, ignoring Bones. He closes his eyes as he slouches in the chair, fingers curving around the edge of the armrests in a pale grip, knees sliding apart as he sprawls. "Oh, beautiful, I missed you."

Bones licks his lips slightly and forces himself to turn away.

Bones isn't sure what Jim said to clear out everybody for the night except for the two of them, but the bridge is quiet. Its usual bright glow is muted into dim lighting that darkens the shadows in Jim's face and brings every curve of his bone structure into sharp relief.

Bones eyes Jim in his peripherals, and tugs lightly on the collar of his shirt.

Jim wriggles slightly in the chair, pulling himself up straight and then arching his back as he tips his head over the chair back. Pink lips part into an "o" and Bones watches his tongue slowly slide over his top incisors.

Bones can feel his own pulse thrumming in him as he looks at Jim's body, flexing and spread-out and open. Jim rubs his spine against the chair like a cat in heat, and a throaty moan pulls itself quietly from his throat. The back of his shirt sticks to the chair as he grinds against it, pulling up and exposing a sudden hint of skin.

Twisting his head, Jim's eyes snap open and lock onto McCoy's, sudden reflective sparks in the dimness. His fingers curl in an invitation.

"Are you coming over here, or what?" He demands quietly. His legs spread wider and one hand drops between them to rest on the seat of the chair, stroking back over the material towards himself.

Bones swallows.

"It is a rather nice chair, isn't it?" Bones asks, stepping towards him. Jim reaches out and pulls him down.

Half-kneeling on the edge of the chair, Bones erases the captain's grin with his lips.

You kids these days, you sher got it lucky when it comes to reviewin'. Why, back in my day, if we wanted reviews, we had t' go and get 'em ourselves. We didna have nona this fancy tech-nah-logy. Oh no sirree. No, if we wanted reviews, we had t' walk t' get 'em. Ten miles it was. Twenty miles on a bad day. And we couldn't afferd nothin' crazy like shoes, so we had to do it barefoot. 'Course, some of the kids like my cousin Jimmy Bo would peel the labels offa soup cans and tie those 'round their feet. And it was always snowin' too, so cold it'd freeze the udders offa the cows. Cold enough to freeze your feet solid, too, and you could loose a coupla good toes that way. They'd fall right off. Jimmy Bo lost his right pinky that way, after the snow chewed up his cream o' mushroom boots into nothin'. And 'course, wherever we was goin' it was up-hill both ways. That's how I met my Jebediah, you know. We was both walkin' to get us some reviews, he's a goin' north and I'sa goin' south, and natur'lly we're both goin' up. So, 'course, we both reach down to help each other up and whoo-ee, Jebediah 'bout swept me offa my feet. He charmed me with a bouquet of a dozen reviews, ev'ry week, and he'd carry me all the way up the hill when the snowin' got really bad and my toes seemed liable to start fallin' off and your still reading this? Seriously? You could've already reviewed by now. Twice.