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the_dala at 04:36pm on 01/08/2009 under star trek xi fic
the_dala at 04:36pm on 01/08/2009 under star trek xi ficI wrote kink meme fic! It almost didn't have the kink part but then I beat it into submission (which also caused it to exude sap ::ducks head::). Additional note that I've found very useful in this fandom: when in doubt, a wizard aliens did it.
Title: Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose
'They're not the kind of scars that give a man character.'
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: standard applies; title from "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls
Notes: written from the kink meme prompt here
Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose
As far as being tortured goes it's not the worst Jim's had to endure. McCoy would give that dubious honor to the telepath planet where they manipulated him into viciously attacking his crewmembers, or maybe the time he sustained sufficient cranial damage to put him in a coma for three weeks. This rescue mission goes smoothly and he's cleared for light duty by the end of the week.
Still, he figures that with one thing and another Jim might need some space. So he carries some of his uniforms and data padds back to his own disused quarters, dusts off the bookshelves, keeps himself warm at night with guilt and worry and his own right hand. A whole week passes without Jim sneaking down to sick bay for a quickie in his office and it's weird. Jim keeps flinching away from any light touch and the merest attempt at a kiss, even after the bandages come off, and it's not weird so much as hurtful and confusing.
He's back to his irascible James T. Kirk self on the bridge, joking that maybe the Klingons will take him seriously now instead of suggesting he ask his mommy for permission to negotiate. But McCoy has no idea how he's coping in private because they haven't been alone together since Zenorusa. He's not cold or unfriendly - he's just not there at the end of the day, like he has been for the five years of their friendship and eight months of whatever they are now. McCoy backed off because he figured Jim would come to him when he was ready, but here he is still waiting.
After nearly two months of an empty bed, McCoy learns that Jim is still holding his weekly chess matches with Spock. He's tried to be patient but this is the last straw. He marches down to the captain's quarters after dinner and demands to be let in. Jim finally caves after McCoy threatens to declare him mentally unfit for duty.
His vision clouds over in the dim light. Jim's standing over by the sofa, shifting his weight from foot to foot. McCoy thinks he looks nervous, but it's hard to read his expression because it's so damned dark in here.
"Lights on full," he snaps. Jim shrinks back as he strides across the room. "Damn it, Jim, you're a starship captain, not a vampire!"
His posture stiff, Jim looks past McCoy's ear as he speaks. "Did you need something, Bones?"
"Yeah." McCoy digs his nails into his palms, fighting down the urge to shake him. "I need to hear you say you're done with me in clear Standard, because I don't speak Uncommunicative Asshole as well as Uhura."
His face is pale but for the marks, which stand out vividly. "I...thought I would make it easier for you."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Jim turns away from him, dropping his head just like Joanna used to do when she wanted to hide in her long hair. McCoy's heart speeds up as he starts to get an inkling of what Jim means.
"Make what easier for me, Jim?" he asks quietly.
His voice is bitter, a little, but mostly it’s heavy with resignation. "Saying goodbye to your pretty boy."
McCoy stares at the back of his neck and hears a familiar refrain, low and lust-rough. Come for me, pretty boy and Want that gorgeous mouth on my cock and Fuck, Jim, so fucking sexy, just look at you. Strangers’ voices, because it’s a natural response to a young blue-eyed flirt with a smile like the sunrise; and his own voice because it was always easier that way. Because he preferred maintaining an illusion of self-preservation to telling Jim the things no one ever told him before, what he needs to hear now more than ever.
God, he’s an idiot.
Reaching out, he pulls on an elbow until he gets Jim turned around. Jim looks down but McCoy crooks a finger under his chin to tilt his head up; and then he stares back, eyes blazing with defiance. For the first time McCoy studies him without the clinical focus of a doctor or the forgiving abstraction of a lover.
It’s as though someone got one good look at his handsome face and took grave offense to it. Spock and his damned mind-reading informed him that this was not the case: in fact it was a sign of respect in the Zenorusan culture. A scarred visage denotes a life lived by the sword, after which a warrior may travel to the afterworld with honor. Though paltry criminals were executed with little fanfare, gifting a warlord with the marks of battle before he met death was a ritual honed by thousands of years of tradition.
They had found the notion of the Federation absurd but Jim an admirable leader of his people, his worth proved by the phaser at his hip and the advanced weaponry aboard his ship. So they took him and they cut his face to ribbons. Again per tradition, the wounds were treated with a sacred salve. When the Enterprise team recovered him four days later, the chemical compound had been absorbed too thoroughly for even the most cursory analysis.
They would never know how it was made, but the effects become obvious once they got back to sick bay. McCoy burned out three dermal regenerators trying to knit raw flesh and skin back together. All it did was cause the patient to thrash and scream in agony. For the second time in McCoy’s career, modern medical technology completely and utterly failed him.
He thought of his father as he willed his hands steady and ordered Chapel to bring him a case that hadn’t been opened since he brought it aboard. The University of Mississippi Medical School and Starfleet Medical sure as hell never taught him how to stitch up a six-inch facial laceration but David McCoy had, for the simple reason that knowledge gained was wisdom learned. McCoy never had a chance to be grateful for it until that moment and hoped he never would again. Though he had to admit there was a sickening kind of symmetry in using a near-forgotten, barbaric method to heal wounds inflicted under an older and even more barbaric custom. It worked, in any case, at least as far as staunching the bleeding and keeping out infection.
Only the scars remain now.
They’re not the kind of scars that give a man character – a pathetically romantic notion in a society where the most invasive surgery leaves nary a mark on the skin. Some have faded to white but the thicker, deeper ones are shiny-pink still. He’s read about ritual scarification in some Earth societies but here there is none of the symmetry usually found in such marks: they’re scattered at random over the planes of Jim’s face. They are ugly and painful and McCoy can’t doctor, magic, or curse them away.
His fingers are gentle as he touches one jagged slash that could have taken Jim’s right eye with just a flick of a broad alien wrist. Jim’s so tense it feels like he might shatter into a thousand pieces. And McCoy would put those back together too, as best he could.
“Don’t see any pretty boys around here,” he says, curling one hand around Jim’s neck and leaning forward to brush his lips against a maimed cheek. “Just the best friend I ever had, and the only man I’ll ever want.”
Jim makes a choked sound deep in his throat, fists his hands in McCoy’s shirt. The kiss is a little awkward, neither of them accustomed to a mouth that doesn’t stretch or move quite the way it used to. But it tastes like warmth and home and Jim. They stumble back, falling on the bed in a tangle of limbs and lost breath.
Jim peels his clothes off with shaking hands while McCoy rifles through the nightstand for the lube. A distant part of his mind thinks maybe they’re moving too fast but he shoves it back because this is what he needs Jim to know, more than anything. He shifts onto his side so he can stroke Jim’s hardening cock and watch his face at the same time. Jim twists under his arm, restless with desire and discomfort both. He opens his mouth and McCoy kisses him before he can turn the lights out again, kisses him over and over until they’re both dizzy with it and Jim is groaning and rocking into the sliding grip on his erection.
While he's thus distracted, McCoy traces a thin, curving scar on his jaw. Jim’s muscles lock up at once but McCoy keeps licking, his tongue warm and wet against the ridge of skin, until Jim starts to relax again. He blinks in surprise when McCoy leans back and spreads his legs, lifting an eyebrow in their code for what, you need a written invitation? Uncertainty flickers in Jim’s eyes even as he reaches down to press a slick fingertip inside.
“Jim, yeah,” he breathes – it’s been so long and he’s tight but Jim is careful, stretching him with another finger, working him open. “Feels so good.” McCoy nips at an earlobe, nuzzles at a knot of scar tissue that creeps up into his hairline.
The long fingers withdraw, leaving him feeling empty as Jim pulls back – pulls back far enough for McCoy to turn over. “Bones, you want to…?”
Stop trying to give me an out, he thinks before he manages to swallow frustration down. It’s his own damn fault for letting Jim stew in his own insecurities for weeks instead of keeping him close. McCoy tugs him back, hands on his waist, refusing to give any more ground than he mistakenly has already.
“I want you to fuck me, just like this.”
He’s never shown hesitation in bed before and it doesn’t suit him. Well aware, Jim takes a deep breath and pushes into him, easing slowly for a moment and then surging forward with a grunt. Instinct tells him to squeeze his eyes shut at the inexorable pressure, the burn of being filled and fucked and wanted.
But he ignores the urge, gasping at the effort as much as the first thrust. And Jim, whose usual response to a steady gaze on him is to preen or smirk, turns his face away and closes his eyes.
“It’s okay,” says McCoy softly, snaking an arm up between their bodies to cup his cheek. “Come on, sweetheart, look at me.” The endearment curls on his tongue, a fragile new thing that makes Jim’s eyes snap open. Blue shines around wide black pupils, cast sideways to regard his hand with suspicion. McCoy’s thumb fits into the notch cut into his nose and Jim’s breathing hitches.
Holding his head in both hands now, McCoy draws him down. It’s not a good angle for moving hard and deep the way he likes but it traps his cock against the quivering muscles of Jim’s belly and he moans at the friction – moans against Jim’s lips because now he’s near enough to kiss if McCoy arches his spine. Jim’s panting, getting too close to spare a thought for shame. McCoy’s calves flex against the backs of his thighs with every brush of his prostate.
He grabs Jim’s shoulders so his fingertips won’t dig into already-marked skin. Holds tight to him, looks and looks at that broken face, and lays the last of his heart bare as he comes.
“Love you, Jim – I love you.”
Jim’s open mouth falls to his neck. He thrusts once, twice and goes still, crying out something McCoy can’t decipher over the white noise rushing through his own head
Strange, he thinks in that brief flush of post-climax clarity. He was always afraid of this, of what it would sound like and what it would feel like. But now he’s stared the moment down and it has relieved him of a burden he never realized he was carrying. He’s offered everything he has, everything he is – all he can do is hope Jim believes.
Jim bargains the glare down to forty percent in a voice just barely loud enough for the computer to hear. McCoy nudges closer, wraps an arm around him. They’re left with enough light to see that his eyes are very bright. His mouth twitches up, the damaged nerves of the left side a slight impediment.
“I love you, too,” Jim whispers. He smiles the crooked smile he’ll have for the rest of his life; and McCoy thinks he’s never been so beautiful as he is right now.
Title: Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose
'They're not the kind of scars that give a man character.'
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: standard applies; title from "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls
Notes: written from the kink meme prompt here
Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose
As far as being tortured goes it's not the worst Jim's had to endure. McCoy would give that dubious honor to the telepath planet where they manipulated him into viciously attacking his crewmembers, or maybe the time he sustained sufficient cranial damage to put him in a coma for three weeks. This rescue mission goes smoothly and he's cleared for light duty by the end of the week.
Still, he figures that with one thing and another Jim might need some space. So he carries some of his uniforms and data padds back to his own disused quarters, dusts off the bookshelves, keeps himself warm at night with guilt and worry and his own right hand. A whole week passes without Jim sneaking down to sick bay for a quickie in his office and it's weird. Jim keeps flinching away from any light touch and the merest attempt at a kiss, even after the bandages come off, and it's not weird so much as hurtful and confusing.
He's back to his irascible James T. Kirk self on the bridge, joking that maybe the Klingons will take him seriously now instead of suggesting he ask his mommy for permission to negotiate. But McCoy has no idea how he's coping in private because they haven't been alone together since Zenorusa. He's not cold or unfriendly - he's just not there at the end of the day, like he has been for the five years of their friendship and eight months of whatever they are now. McCoy backed off because he figured Jim would come to him when he was ready, but here he is still waiting.
After nearly two months of an empty bed, McCoy learns that Jim is still holding his weekly chess matches with Spock. He's tried to be patient but this is the last straw. He marches down to the captain's quarters after dinner and demands to be let in. Jim finally caves after McCoy threatens to declare him mentally unfit for duty.
His vision clouds over in the dim light. Jim's standing over by the sofa, shifting his weight from foot to foot. McCoy thinks he looks nervous, but it's hard to read his expression because it's so damned dark in here.
"Lights on full," he snaps. Jim shrinks back as he strides across the room. "Damn it, Jim, you're a starship captain, not a vampire!"
His posture stiff, Jim looks past McCoy's ear as he speaks. "Did you need something, Bones?"
"Yeah." McCoy digs his nails into his palms, fighting down the urge to shake him. "I need to hear you say you're done with me in clear Standard, because I don't speak Uncommunicative Asshole as well as Uhura."
His face is pale but for the marks, which stand out vividly. "I...thought I would make it easier for you."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Jim turns away from him, dropping his head just like Joanna used to do when she wanted to hide in her long hair. McCoy's heart speeds up as he starts to get an inkling of what Jim means.
"Make what easier for me, Jim?" he asks quietly.
His voice is bitter, a little, but mostly it’s heavy with resignation. "Saying goodbye to your pretty boy."
McCoy stares at the back of his neck and hears a familiar refrain, low and lust-rough. Come for me, pretty boy and Want that gorgeous mouth on my cock and Fuck, Jim, so fucking sexy, just look at you. Strangers’ voices, because it’s a natural response to a young blue-eyed flirt with a smile like the sunrise; and his own voice because it was always easier that way. Because he preferred maintaining an illusion of self-preservation to telling Jim the things no one ever told him before, what he needs to hear now more than ever.
God, he’s an idiot.
Reaching out, he pulls on an elbow until he gets Jim turned around. Jim looks down but McCoy crooks a finger under his chin to tilt his head up; and then he stares back, eyes blazing with defiance. For the first time McCoy studies him without the clinical focus of a doctor or the forgiving abstraction of a lover.
It’s as though someone got one good look at his handsome face and took grave offense to it. Spock and his damned mind-reading informed him that this was not the case: in fact it was a sign of respect in the Zenorusan culture. A scarred visage denotes a life lived by the sword, after which a warrior may travel to the afterworld with honor. Though paltry criminals were executed with little fanfare, gifting a warlord with the marks of battle before he met death was a ritual honed by thousands of years of tradition.
They had found the notion of the Federation absurd but Jim an admirable leader of his people, his worth proved by the phaser at his hip and the advanced weaponry aboard his ship. So they took him and they cut his face to ribbons. Again per tradition, the wounds were treated with a sacred salve. When the Enterprise team recovered him four days later, the chemical compound had been absorbed too thoroughly for even the most cursory analysis.
They would never know how it was made, but the effects become obvious once they got back to sick bay. McCoy burned out three dermal regenerators trying to knit raw flesh and skin back together. All it did was cause the patient to thrash and scream in agony. For the second time in McCoy’s career, modern medical technology completely and utterly failed him.
He thought of his father as he willed his hands steady and ordered Chapel to bring him a case that hadn’t been opened since he brought it aboard. The University of Mississippi Medical School and Starfleet Medical sure as hell never taught him how to stitch up a six-inch facial laceration but David McCoy had, for the simple reason that knowledge gained was wisdom learned. McCoy never had a chance to be grateful for it until that moment and hoped he never would again. Though he had to admit there was a sickening kind of symmetry in using a near-forgotten, barbaric method to heal wounds inflicted under an older and even more barbaric custom. It worked, in any case, at least as far as staunching the bleeding and keeping out infection.
Only the scars remain now.
They’re not the kind of scars that give a man character – a pathetically romantic notion in a society where the most invasive surgery leaves nary a mark on the skin. Some have faded to white but the thicker, deeper ones are shiny-pink still. He’s read about ritual scarification in some Earth societies but here there is none of the symmetry usually found in such marks: they’re scattered at random over the planes of Jim’s face. They are ugly and painful and McCoy can’t doctor, magic, or curse them away.
His fingers are gentle as he touches one jagged slash that could have taken Jim’s right eye with just a flick of a broad alien wrist. Jim’s so tense it feels like he might shatter into a thousand pieces. And McCoy would put those back together too, as best he could.
“Don’t see any pretty boys around here,” he says, curling one hand around Jim’s neck and leaning forward to brush his lips against a maimed cheek. “Just the best friend I ever had, and the only man I’ll ever want.”
Jim makes a choked sound deep in his throat, fists his hands in McCoy’s shirt. The kiss is a little awkward, neither of them accustomed to a mouth that doesn’t stretch or move quite the way it used to. But it tastes like warmth and home and Jim. They stumble back, falling on the bed in a tangle of limbs and lost breath.
Jim peels his clothes off with shaking hands while McCoy rifles through the nightstand for the lube. A distant part of his mind thinks maybe they’re moving too fast but he shoves it back because this is what he needs Jim to know, more than anything. He shifts onto his side so he can stroke Jim’s hardening cock and watch his face at the same time. Jim twists under his arm, restless with desire and discomfort both. He opens his mouth and McCoy kisses him before he can turn the lights out again, kisses him over and over until they’re both dizzy with it and Jim is groaning and rocking into the sliding grip on his erection.
While he's thus distracted, McCoy traces a thin, curving scar on his jaw. Jim’s muscles lock up at once but McCoy keeps licking, his tongue warm and wet against the ridge of skin, until Jim starts to relax again. He blinks in surprise when McCoy leans back and spreads his legs, lifting an eyebrow in their code for what, you need a written invitation? Uncertainty flickers in Jim’s eyes even as he reaches down to press a slick fingertip inside.
“Jim, yeah,” he breathes – it’s been so long and he’s tight but Jim is careful, stretching him with another finger, working him open. “Feels so good.” McCoy nips at an earlobe, nuzzles at a knot of scar tissue that creeps up into his hairline.
The long fingers withdraw, leaving him feeling empty as Jim pulls back – pulls back far enough for McCoy to turn over. “Bones, you want to…?”
Stop trying to give me an out, he thinks before he manages to swallow frustration down. It’s his own damn fault for letting Jim stew in his own insecurities for weeks instead of keeping him close. McCoy tugs him back, hands on his waist, refusing to give any more ground than he mistakenly has already.
“I want you to fuck me, just like this.”
He’s never shown hesitation in bed before and it doesn’t suit him. Well aware, Jim takes a deep breath and pushes into him, easing slowly for a moment and then surging forward with a grunt. Instinct tells him to squeeze his eyes shut at the inexorable pressure, the burn of being filled and fucked and wanted.
But he ignores the urge, gasping at the effort as much as the first thrust. And Jim, whose usual response to a steady gaze on him is to preen or smirk, turns his face away and closes his eyes.
“It’s okay,” says McCoy softly, snaking an arm up between their bodies to cup his cheek. “Come on, sweetheart, look at me.” The endearment curls on his tongue, a fragile new thing that makes Jim’s eyes snap open. Blue shines around wide black pupils, cast sideways to regard his hand with suspicion. McCoy’s thumb fits into the notch cut into his nose and Jim’s breathing hitches.
Holding his head in both hands now, McCoy draws him down. It’s not a good angle for moving hard and deep the way he likes but it traps his cock against the quivering muscles of Jim’s belly and he moans at the friction – moans against Jim’s lips because now he’s near enough to kiss if McCoy arches his spine. Jim’s panting, getting too close to spare a thought for shame. McCoy’s calves flex against the backs of his thighs with every brush of his prostate.
He grabs Jim’s shoulders so his fingertips won’t dig into already-marked skin. Holds tight to him, looks and looks at that broken face, and lays the last of his heart bare as he comes.
“Love you, Jim – I love you.”
Jim’s open mouth falls to his neck. He thrusts once, twice and goes still, crying out something McCoy can’t decipher over the white noise rushing through his own head
Strange, he thinks in that brief flush of post-climax clarity. He was always afraid of this, of what it would sound like and what it would feel like. But now he’s stared the moment down and it has relieved him of a burden he never realized he was carrying. He’s offered everything he has, everything he is – all he can do is hope Jim believes.
Jim bargains the glare down to forty percent in a voice just barely loud enough for the computer to hear. McCoy nudges closer, wraps an arm around him. They’re left with enough light to see that his eyes are very bright. His mouth twitches up, the damaged nerves of the left side a slight impediment.
“I love you, too,” Jim whispers. He smiles the crooked smile he’ll have for the rest of his life; and McCoy thinks he’s never been so beautiful as he is right now.
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