Title: Easy Access
Fandom: Star Trek (2009, but with a lot of TOS influence)
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or places mentioned in this fic. I'm not making money.
A/N: Written for this prompt at the![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
st_xi_kink.
“My god, Jim! What happened to you?”
Jim collapsed against the doorway of sickbay, clutching at his side. He was breathing hard, still out of breath from the fight and desperate run that took place on the planet below. “Big, big alien,” he gasped, raising his arms to indicate size before dropping them in exhaustion. He took a few more steps into the room and crumpled on the closest bed.
McCoy was at his side immediately, medical tools flashing and whirring as he used them to examine him. He muttered under his breath as he did so, and Jim closed his eyes and let the familiar sounds--the beeps from the medical equipment, the steady hum of his ship’s engines, and yes, even Bones’ stream of angry curses--lull him into a sort of daze. He hadn’t been lying when he said his opponent on the planet below was big. It had been a tough fight, and never before had Jim been so grateful for all the bar fights he’d gotten into before. It was good thing he was used to fighting guy’s three times his size, or else he wouldn’t have survived.
Bones finally pulled back with a sigh. “Well, nothing too serious, Jim. Just a few cuts and bruises, thank god. When I saw the state of your shirt I thought you’d been stabbed or something.”
Jim managed to gather enough energy to pry open his eyes and glance down at his shirt. It was ripped in several places, completely exposing one shoulder and most of his chest. “Nah,” he said, giving McCoy an exhausted but smug grin. “It just wanted to see me naked. It’s not the first time a shirt has been sacrificed to that cause.”
Bones gave a sort of annoyed huff and pushed Jim down to lie on the bed.
***
The door to sickbay opened with a woosh and they stumbled into it, Spock supporting him with one arm around his back and a hand clamped on his arm, keeping him from losing his balance and falling down.
“Doctor McCoy,” his first officer snapped out, “the Captain is in need of medical assistance.” Spock helped him to a cot with a gentleness that belied the impatient tone of his voice but Jim still couldn’t help the tiny groan as he lay back.
“My god.” He could feel Bones hovering, hands already using a scanner on him. “What happened down there, Jim?”
The room was spinning. And Jim had a distinct feeling that he might throw up. A lot. So he just closed his eyes and let his First answer the question.
“I believe he has been poisoned. Someone might have slipped something into the Captain’s drink, though it is possible that the alcohol itself is not meant for human consumption. I have brought a sample to see if that is the case.”
Jim opened his eyes just enough to see a blurry Spock pass Bones a small bottle filled with a reddish liquid, and swore--not the for the first time--that he would never drink again. Especially if it was untried alcohol from any of the planets they were visiting. Whiskey, he thought, vow already forgotten, he’d stick with whiskey from now on. That never served him wrong.
Well. Not like this anyway.
“But Spock,” McCoy muttered, and even sick and out of it Jim could recognize that low, impatient tone easily, “what happened to him? Look at his shirt, man! It’s torn to shreds.”
“Ah. Well that is the least mysterious of the events from this evening. Our Captain was merely participating in what seems to be one of his fondest activities.” There was a beat of silence and then: “A bar room brawl.”
When he was treated, Bones was not nearly so gentle with Jim as Spock was.
***
Jim eyed Bones. For someone who was dead just a little while ago, he looked surprisingly unharmed. “So…” he started. “This is a theme park.”
Bones nodded, with his arms still wrapped around the dancer girls’ wastes and an all too pleased smile on his face. “That’s right. Turns out the species that owns this planet are telepathic. They get into your head to see what would most entertain you and then make it happen. Amazing technology. You should see their medical facility, Jim.” He gestured at himself, as if they needed further proof that he was very much alive. “Magnificent!”
“I see.” Jim turned to look at his First Officer, who was scanning one of the dancers with a tricorder.
“Fascinating, Captain,” he muttered. “It seems that they are not alive at all. They are merely a machine covered in a rubber substance that closely resembles human flesh.” He lowered the tricorder and turned to face Jim fully. “Robots, Captain.”
Jim considered this. “So the danger, the…”he gestured at McCoy “death. It was just this species’ idea of a thrill ride? And we were never in any danger at all?”
“That would appear to be correct.”
He grinned. “Fantastic.”
Bones looked Jim up and down, taking in the bloody lip, messy hair and shirt, which was ripped so bad that one sleeve was hanging from his wrist, completely separated from the rest of the shirt. “So Jim,” he began, “you’re idea of entertainment is to chase after and beat up an old rival?”
“Old boyfriend actually, but yeah,” he continued, grin only growing wider at the raised eyebrows of his chief medical officer and second in command. “I had the time of my life.”
***
Bones only raised his eyebrows when Jim walked into sickbay, clad only in his pants, a sort of leather harness and a collar. “Slave traders,” was his short answer to the unasked question.
Bones gave an exasperated huff. “So what are you down here for then?”
Jim pulled his hand from where he’d been covering his head since he came in and showed Bones the blood on his palm. The gash on his head was the only wound he’d received during the battle to the death he’d participated in just twenty minutes earlier.
Really, he thought, this had been one of his better days.
***
“I swear Jim,” his chief medical officer muttered at him as he prepared a hypo, “you do this on purpose, don’t you?” When Jim didn’t answer he growled. “Admit it. Deep inside, you just love having your shirt torn off. It fulfills some need you have to feel rugged and savage. Or maybe it just feeds the delusion you have of being so desirable that people will just rip off your clothes to get to you.”
Jim tried to look offended but couldn’t quite manage it with the smug little smirk that made its way to his face. “Really, Bones, I’m not doing this on purpose. But if the universe decides that I should go through life shirtless, who am I to argue?”
McCoy rolled his eyes. “Well, at least this way I can easily administer a hypo into your arm.”
“And believe me,” Jim replied, “I would sacrifice many a shirt just to make sure you didn’t stab me in the neck with a hypo again.”
Bones raised one eyebrow and swiftly administered the hypo he‘d prepared. In Jim’s neck.
Just for spite.
***
Bones was in the transporter room waiting for him when he boarded the ship, and his particles and molecules have barely rearranged themselves before his eyebrows are raised in curiosity--but not quite surprise--at Jim’s attire. “What was it this time?” he asked as he took in the tight, deer skin pants and the tiny open vest that barely covered Jim’s chest.
Jim spread his arms and lifted his chin. “They thought I was a god,“ he announced. Then he stepped off the transporter pad and swiftly marched out of the room. Bones muttered something about encouraging his megalomania as he followed him.
***
Pain. That was all he could focus on. He was vaguely aware of Spock and Scotty carrying him through the ship, Scotty’s come on and that’s it, laddie a constant litany in the background, but they didn’t matter. It was the pain, the burning that consumed him.
God, it hurt.
“Jim! My god, Spock, what happened?”
“We were not successful in our attempt to bring peace to the two tribes. During the treaty a fight broke out and the Captain got caught in the middle of it. He was stabbed, twice, with a knife that was laced in poison.”
On the edge of his consciousness he realized that he’d been placed on a bed and that it was Spock who was talking above him, but he couldn’t keep track of what he was saying. The pain was too strong, spreading too far, for him to think about anything else. Someone touched him, reaching past the tattered remains of his shirt to lightly the trace the inflamed edges of his wounds and Jim hissed and pulled away.
“Easy, Jim, easy. I just need a sample in case it’s a type of poison we don’t know about.” A firm hand was placed on his shoulder to keep him still and he heard the beginnings of a low pitched humming.
Medical scanner. Bones. Jim nearly sighed with relief. He could relax now, and let go. He was home, safe, and Bones would take care of him.
“No, Jim, don’t go to sleep. I need you awake for this, you hear me? Jim. Jim! Don’t do this. Damnitt, Jim!”
A hand was shaking him but he barely noticed. The pain and the voice was fading, and so was everything else.
***
It started out as a small drink of brandy to celebrate the one and only mission that went right from beginning to end. Which of course, led to stories of missions that didn’t go right, at all, and that led to even more brandy, which led to the whiskey and even a bit of the illegal Romulan Ale.
And all of that, led to here: stumbling into the walls of sickbay, bodies mashed together, fingers groping and grasping with all the grace of the magnificently drunk, mouths pressing hot, clumsy kisses to each other’s face and neck and jaw, biting down on the cord of muscle between neck and shoulder, seeking the other’s to capture little gasps and stifled moans. They laughed into each other’s mouths, fumbling fingers eager to find the skin underneath (too many) clothes, and when they fell sideways into a rack of medical equipment one of them--Jim wasn’t sure which--laughed and suggested they find their way to Bones’ office, where there was a cot.
That was a fantastic idea, even though it took them several knocked down medical trays and bruised knees and few hurt elbows to get there. But when they reached the office and the door closed behind them, all there was was the dark and the cot beneath them and even the sudden sound of tearing cloth couldn’t distract him because there was the sensation of a warm mouth on his chest and then a hot tongue circling a nipple and when he skated his palm along the other’s jaw there was the scrape and burn of stubble and god it was so familiar and he hadn’t had this since his second year at the academy and yes, he’s missed this, missed the gruff voice in his ear and the fingers that tightened and curled into his shoulders and the broad palm cupping him through his pants and the rest of the night was just a blur of bodies and mouths and heat and pleasure and right.
The next morning, after the hangover cure that Bones immediately went for (god bless him), Jim held up the remains of his ripped shirt and stared at Bones, both eyebrows raised in question.
Bones shrugged. “Everyone else seems to have ripped your shirt off at one time or another. I just thought it was my turn.”
Jim snorted in amusement before looking back down at the shirt in his hands. A mournful look came over his face as he stared at it.
“What is it?” Bones asked.
“This was my last gold one,” Jim told him, a small, unintentional pout curling his lips. “I’m going to have to wear the light green one now.”
Bones rolled his eyes. “Well, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well, it’s just… that v-neck, it seems,” he grimaced, “girly.”
Bones gave a short laugh before his expression turned thoughtful. “That the wrap around one, with the flimsy clasp at the front holding it together?”
“Yeah. What’s your point?”
“Well, I think I’ve just helped you achieve something I’m positive you’ve been striving for at least two years.”
Jim looked at him in suspicion. “And what’s that?”
“Simple,” Bones replied, lips turning up in a smirk. “Easy access.”
Fandom: Star Trek (2009, but with a lot of TOS influence)
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or places mentioned in this fic. I'm not making money.
A/N: Written for this prompt at the
st_xi_kink.“My god, Jim! What happened to you?”
Jim collapsed against the doorway of sickbay, clutching at his side. He was breathing hard, still out of breath from the fight and desperate run that took place on the planet below. “Big, big alien,” he gasped, raising his arms to indicate size before dropping them in exhaustion. He took a few more steps into the room and crumpled on the closest bed.
McCoy was at his side immediately, medical tools flashing and whirring as he used them to examine him. He muttered under his breath as he did so, and Jim closed his eyes and let the familiar sounds--the beeps from the medical equipment, the steady hum of his ship’s engines, and yes, even Bones’ stream of angry curses--lull him into a sort of daze. He hadn’t been lying when he said his opponent on the planet below was big. It had been a tough fight, and never before had Jim been so grateful for all the bar fights he’d gotten into before. It was good thing he was used to fighting guy’s three times his size, or else he wouldn’t have survived.
Bones finally pulled back with a sigh. “Well, nothing too serious, Jim. Just a few cuts and bruises, thank god. When I saw the state of your shirt I thought you’d been stabbed or something.”
Jim managed to gather enough energy to pry open his eyes and glance down at his shirt. It was ripped in several places, completely exposing one shoulder and most of his chest. “Nah,” he said, giving McCoy an exhausted but smug grin. “It just wanted to see me naked. It’s not the first time a shirt has been sacrificed to that cause.”
Bones gave a sort of annoyed huff and pushed Jim down to lie on the bed.
***
The door to sickbay opened with a woosh and they stumbled into it, Spock supporting him with one arm around his back and a hand clamped on his arm, keeping him from losing his balance and falling down.
“Doctor McCoy,” his first officer snapped out, “the Captain is in need of medical assistance.” Spock helped him to a cot with a gentleness that belied the impatient tone of his voice but Jim still couldn’t help the tiny groan as he lay back.
“My god.” He could feel Bones hovering, hands already using a scanner on him. “What happened down there, Jim?”
The room was spinning. And Jim had a distinct feeling that he might throw up. A lot. So he just closed his eyes and let his First answer the question.
“I believe he has been poisoned. Someone might have slipped something into the Captain’s drink, though it is possible that the alcohol itself is not meant for human consumption. I have brought a sample to see if that is the case.”
Jim opened his eyes just enough to see a blurry Spock pass Bones a small bottle filled with a reddish liquid, and swore--not the for the first time--that he would never drink again. Especially if it was untried alcohol from any of the planets they were visiting. Whiskey, he thought, vow already forgotten, he’d stick with whiskey from now on. That never served him wrong.
Well. Not like this anyway.
“But Spock,” McCoy muttered, and even sick and out of it Jim could recognize that low, impatient tone easily, “what happened to him? Look at his shirt, man! It’s torn to shreds.”
“Ah. Well that is the least mysterious of the events from this evening. Our Captain was merely participating in what seems to be one of his fondest activities.” There was a beat of silence and then: “A bar room brawl.”
When he was treated, Bones was not nearly so gentle with Jim as Spock was.
***
Jim eyed Bones. For someone who was dead just a little while ago, he looked surprisingly unharmed. “So…” he started. “This is a theme park.”
Bones nodded, with his arms still wrapped around the dancer girls’ wastes and an all too pleased smile on his face. “That’s right. Turns out the species that owns this planet are telepathic. They get into your head to see what would most entertain you and then make it happen. Amazing technology. You should see their medical facility, Jim.” He gestured at himself, as if they needed further proof that he was very much alive. “Magnificent!”
“I see.” Jim turned to look at his First Officer, who was scanning one of the dancers with a tricorder.
“Fascinating, Captain,” he muttered. “It seems that they are not alive at all. They are merely a machine covered in a rubber substance that closely resembles human flesh.” He lowered the tricorder and turned to face Jim fully. “Robots, Captain.”
Jim considered this. “So the danger, the…”he gestured at McCoy “death. It was just this species’ idea of a thrill ride? And we were never in any danger at all?”
“That would appear to be correct.”
He grinned. “Fantastic.”
Bones looked Jim up and down, taking in the bloody lip, messy hair and shirt, which was ripped so bad that one sleeve was hanging from his wrist, completely separated from the rest of the shirt. “So Jim,” he began, “you’re idea of entertainment is to chase after and beat up an old rival?”
“Old boyfriend actually, but yeah,” he continued, grin only growing wider at the raised eyebrows of his chief medical officer and second in command. “I had the time of my life.”
***
Bones only raised his eyebrows when Jim walked into sickbay, clad only in his pants, a sort of leather harness and a collar. “Slave traders,” was his short answer to the unasked question.
Bones gave an exasperated huff. “So what are you down here for then?”
Jim pulled his hand from where he’d been covering his head since he came in and showed Bones the blood on his palm. The gash on his head was the only wound he’d received during the battle to the death he’d participated in just twenty minutes earlier.
Really, he thought, this had been one of his better days.
***
“I swear Jim,” his chief medical officer muttered at him as he prepared a hypo, “you do this on purpose, don’t you?” When Jim didn’t answer he growled. “Admit it. Deep inside, you just love having your shirt torn off. It fulfills some need you have to feel rugged and savage. Or maybe it just feeds the delusion you have of being so desirable that people will just rip off your clothes to get to you.”
Jim tried to look offended but couldn’t quite manage it with the smug little smirk that made its way to his face. “Really, Bones, I’m not doing this on purpose. But if the universe decides that I should go through life shirtless, who am I to argue?”
McCoy rolled his eyes. “Well, at least this way I can easily administer a hypo into your arm.”
“And believe me,” Jim replied, “I would sacrifice many a shirt just to make sure you didn’t stab me in the neck with a hypo again.”
Bones raised one eyebrow and swiftly administered the hypo he‘d prepared. In Jim’s neck.
Just for spite.
***
Bones was in the transporter room waiting for him when he boarded the ship, and his particles and molecules have barely rearranged themselves before his eyebrows are raised in curiosity--but not quite surprise--at Jim’s attire. “What was it this time?” he asked as he took in the tight, deer skin pants and the tiny open vest that barely covered Jim’s chest.
Jim spread his arms and lifted his chin. “They thought I was a god,“ he announced. Then he stepped off the transporter pad and swiftly marched out of the room. Bones muttered something about encouraging his megalomania as he followed him.
***
Pain. That was all he could focus on. He was vaguely aware of Spock and Scotty carrying him through the ship, Scotty’s come on and that’s it, laddie a constant litany in the background, but they didn’t matter. It was the pain, the burning that consumed him.
God, it hurt.
“Jim! My god, Spock, what happened?”
“We were not successful in our attempt to bring peace to the two tribes. During the treaty a fight broke out and the Captain got caught in the middle of it. He was stabbed, twice, with a knife that was laced in poison.”
On the edge of his consciousness he realized that he’d been placed on a bed and that it was Spock who was talking above him, but he couldn’t keep track of what he was saying. The pain was too strong, spreading too far, for him to think about anything else. Someone touched him, reaching past the tattered remains of his shirt to lightly the trace the inflamed edges of his wounds and Jim hissed and pulled away.
“Easy, Jim, easy. I just need a sample in case it’s a type of poison we don’t know about.” A firm hand was placed on his shoulder to keep him still and he heard the beginnings of a low pitched humming.
Medical scanner. Bones. Jim nearly sighed with relief. He could relax now, and let go. He was home, safe, and Bones would take care of him.
“No, Jim, don’t go to sleep. I need you awake for this, you hear me? Jim. Jim! Don’t do this. Damnitt, Jim!”
A hand was shaking him but he barely noticed. The pain and the voice was fading, and so was everything else.
***
It started out as a small drink of brandy to celebrate the one and only mission that went right from beginning to end. Which of course, led to stories of missions that didn’t go right, at all, and that led to even more brandy, which led to the whiskey and even a bit of the illegal Romulan Ale.
And all of that, led to here: stumbling into the walls of sickbay, bodies mashed together, fingers groping and grasping with all the grace of the magnificently drunk, mouths pressing hot, clumsy kisses to each other’s face and neck and jaw, biting down on the cord of muscle between neck and shoulder, seeking the other’s to capture little gasps and stifled moans. They laughed into each other’s mouths, fumbling fingers eager to find the skin underneath (too many) clothes, and when they fell sideways into a rack of medical equipment one of them--Jim wasn’t sure which--laughed and suggested they find their way to Bones’ office, where there was a cot.
That was a fantastic idea, even though it took them several knocked down medical trays and bruised knees and few hurt elbows to get there. But when they reached the office and the door closed behind them, all there was was the dark and the cot beneath them and even the sudden sound of tearing cloth couldn’t distract him because there was the sensation of a warm mouth on his chest and then a hot tongue circling a nipple and when he skated his palm along the other’s jaw there was the scrape and burn of stubble and god it was so familiar and he hadn’t had this since his second year at the academy and yes, he’s missed this, missed the gruff voice in his ear and the fingers that tightened and curled into his shoulders and the broad palm cupping him through his pants and the rest of the night was just a blur of bodies and mouths and heat and pleasure and right.
The next morning, after the hangover cure that Bones immediately went for (god bless him), Jim held up the remains of his ripped shirt and stared at Bones, both eyebrows raised in question.
Bones shrugged. “Everyone else seems to have ripped your shirt off at one time or another. I just thought it was my turn.”
Jim snorted in amusement before looking back down at the shirt in his hands. A mournful look came over his face as he stared at it.
“What is it?” Bones asked.
“This was my last gold one,” Jim told him, a small, unintentional pout curling his lips. “I’m going to have to wear the light green one now.”
Bones rolled his eyes. “Well, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well, it’s just… that v-neck, it seems,” he grimaced, “girly.”
Bones gave a short laugh before his expression turned thoughtful. “That the wrap around one, with the flimsy clasp at the front holding it together?”
“Yeah. What’s your point?”
“Well, I think I’ve just helped you achieve something I’m positive you’ve been striving for at least two years.”
Jim looked at him in suspicion. “And what’s that?”
“Simple,” Bones replied, lips turning up in a smirk. “Easy access.”
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