Fic: Walk Into the Sea
Sep. 20th, 2009 09:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: Walk Into the Sea
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Notes: ~1,800 word AU; written for the Pirate Prompt Fest, for which![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
ohownovel provided the prompt: "Pirate Captain!Kirk/Imperial!Physician Bones. The Captain needs a doctor. He takes one hostage from the nearest fleet ship to do his bidding." Absolutely zero consideration given for historical accuracy; the dialogue is entirely of this era, but they are wearing breeches. This version is slightly edited from the original posting.
Summary: Life at sea is dangerous enough for Doctor McCoy's tastes; stepping foot on Captain Kirk's ship seems akin to walking into the sea altogether.
It was his own fault for looking up when one of those beastly pirates asked for the doctor, though one of these cowardly Imperial imbeciles was bound to give him up, anyway. They were all likely thankful the savages didn't want any other hostages, enough to ignore the oddity of the rather specific request. Doctors weren't exactly replaceable, but once the crew saw the skull and crossbones flag waving in the distance, they knew they were going to give the notorious Captain Kirk and his dastardly shipmates whatever it was they wanted.
And what they wanted was Doctor Leonard H. McCoy.
So that's how McCoy ends up on this new and equally idiotic ship, his breeches soggy from the transport. He hates being at sea. He had a perfectly nice medical practice on dry land back home before he was tapped to serve the Imperial Fleet. It took three months for the seasickness to subside, and it still flares up every now and then, especially when a particularly massive wave comes along. Or a storm. McCoy really hates storms.
"Get your paws off me!" he yells at one of the offending pirates. Granted, the guy is about twice his size in both height and width, and he doesn't seem too pleased with McCoy's insinuation that he's more animal than human. "Oh, what, you're gonna hit me?" McCoy taunts, feeling strangely brave, or maybe just masochistic.
He's just about to get his face smashed in by one of those hairy paws when someone steps on deck and clears his throat.
"Is that any way to treat your captors?" the man says, brandishing an impressively large sword. McCoy grunts and then looks up into the bluest pair of eyes he's ever seen, eyes that rival the sea in their color and look to be just as deep. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come, and the man laughs. He's obviously in charge around here, and therefore must be the infamous Captain James T. Kirk. "I didn't expect the doctor we found to be so sassy. Lucky me." Then he winks.
"Found?! More like kidnapped, don't you think? Taken against my will? Those seem a little more accurate to me." McCoy huffs, still being held in place by the large man. "And I didn't expect you to be a damned kid. What are you, fifteen?"
"You ask too many questions. Relax."
Kirk shakes his head and reaches up to wipe his brow, appraising McCoy silently. McCoy frowns but takes a moment to look over the kid more carefully. He seems to be sweating a lot, actually, and his eyes aren't entirely focused. Now it all makes sense; he must be ill somehow.
"How long have you had that fever?" he asks. Kirk's head snaps up and he looks momentarily surprised. Then he turns on his heel, placing his sword back in its sheath and nodding to the henchman.
"Bring him down to my quarters," he instructs, and leaves the deck. McCoy grunts again, watching him go, and then looks off in the distance, spying the Imperial ship already making its way to the East.
They're not coming back for him; that's for sure.
*
When he's brusquely shoved into Kirk's quarters, he snarls and holds onto his medical bag, the one thing they'd allowed him—nay, insisted he take. Kirk is sitting on the edge of his bed, slightly hunched over, facing the wall. He's also shirtless, which is a much nicer sight than McCoy imagined he'd see today when he first woke up this morning; a change from the endless water, the equally endless string of annoying Imperial Fleet patients, and more water.
"All right, what's the problem, kid?" he says, walking toward the bed. Kirk looks up with fiery eyes, though they're still as unfocused as before, perhaps even more so.
"Around here, I'm the Captain, Doctor."
"Fine. Captain. Tell me what the hell's bothering you so much that you had to come in, with all that bravado and swashbuckling crap, and pull me off an Imperial ship."
Kirk purses his lips before he turns, just enough to reveal a sizeable wound along the side of his torso—the nasty consequence of some highly dangerous swordplay, McCoy imagines. It's not all that fresh and it's definitely infected.
"Holy hell, Kirk. How long have you been walking around with that thing?" He steps toward the bed and kneels in front of him, opening his bag and already pulling out supplies, all business. Kirk's eyes seem to soften as he watches McCoy work.
"Call me Jim," is all he says. McCoy looks up at him, reaching up to check his temperature, a hand to his forehead. He lingers a bit too long, only removing his hand from Kirk's burning skin when he sees him staring and licking his lips.
"Well, lay back, Jim. You got any fresh water around here?"
Kirk nods and follows the order, to McCoy's surprise, pointing to a basin in the corner. The kid must be suffering if he's not putting up a struggle; Kirk isn't exactly known in these waters for his acquiescence. He goes over and finds a few washcloths by the basin, soaking one in the water and returning to drape it gently over Kirk's forehead. The sound of relief he makes as he closes his eyes is both a shock and bittersweet surprise to McCoy, to know that one small act of kindness alone has given the kid some comfort.
"What do I call you?" Kirk murmurs, causing him to still.
"Doctor McCoy," he replies. "Leonard."
"I'll call you Bones," Kirk says, likely delirious from the fever. McCoy doesn't ask questions, just rolls his eyes and goes to the small stove to start boiling some water.
*
By the next day, the wound already looks a hell of a lot better when McCoy checks under the dressing, and Kirk's no longer riddled with fever or trembling like a leaf. McCoy's been dozing on the bed beside him, mainly at Kirk's own behest; also, he hasn't been given any proper quarters in which to stay. And it is pretty obvious that he's here to stay; unless the Imperial Fleet decides to go on a suicide mission to rescue their captured doctor, he's not going anywhere. And while he was the best doctor they had, they'll find another one like him somewhere. Probably one who's a lot less grumpy, for that matter, and without a chronic case of seasickness.
That familiar nausea flares up when the ship hits a heavy crest of water and McCoy feels his stomach lurch, causing him to sit up with a faint groan. Kirk stirs and looks at him.
"Wha's wrong, Bones?" he slurs, and seeing that McCoy looks ready to leave the bed, reaches over to sling an arm over his chest, pulling him back down. "Don't go."
"Where am I gonna go, Jim?" he sighs. "Either I jump into the sea or stay here forever with you and your delightful crew, now that you took me away from my life."
"What life? Like it was so great working for the Imperial Fleet? I heard nobody even liked you on that ship, you were such a cranky bastard."
"So you did your research," McCoy mutters.
"Yep. I also heard you were a brilliant, self-assured and ridiculously handsome doctor. And I figured: hey, I'm wounded all the time and I like handsome men; I could use someone like that around here." Kirk grins at him, and McCoy is actually startled by how the simple, easygoing expression manages to make him even more transcendentally good-looking. "And I even like the bitchy bedside manner, unlike those Imperial ingrates. So, think of it more like...I rescued you."
"Rescued me," he repeats, deadpan.
"Rescued you," Kirk agrees, nodding. "I'm your hero."
"You're a hero-sized pain in the—"
Kirk shifts and cuts him off with a kiss, slightly messy and wet; when they part, his eyes seem to cut right through the darkness of the room. McCoy doesn't need to hesitate; he slides a palm to the nape of Kirk's neck and kisses him again, pressing their bodies together while being careful of the wound and bandages. Kirk is quick to see to it that McCoy joins him on the topless front. It's crazy, McCoy knows it, rolling around in a bed with an infamous, bloodthirsty (or so he's heard) pirate captain, but there's something about the kid that makes McCoy, like so many braver men and ships before him, want to raise the white flag of surrender.
"Jim," he moans, when a hand slips down into his breeches, touching him where, he too, is hot and feverish. "Careful of your side, I just stitched that..."
"Aww, Bones, you really do care."
"No, I just don't want to have to waste my time, doing it again."
"No, you do," Kirk murmurs. "Good doctor. Good man."
He curls his fingers around McCoy's thickening shaft with a taunting squeeze, then slides his thumb slowly down the vein there. McCoy shudders and lifts up into the touch, tugging down Kirk's low-slung breeches from his hips, exposing more of that warm, golden skin.
A quick, shared glance is enough for each of them to convey what he wants to the other, and a gust of laughter tells them that it's the same thing. McCoy's breeches are cast aside as well and their legs intertwine to pull their hips together, angling so as not to disturb any part of the dressing. Kirk's skin burns as if he's on fire, clammy and slick from the broken fever, and McCoy almost reels at the flesh-on-flesh contact he's been deprived of for so long. He feels desperate as he rocks against Kirk, feels every inch of him sliding against his own heated skin, and he grips wherever he can—Kirk's bicep, his thigh, his firm and flexing ass—just to hold on, to bring him closer. He inhales deeply, getting acquainted with Kirk's scent, now that he'll surely be surrounded by it, for all of his remaining days.
"Bones," Kirk gasps. He can surely sense this sudden onslaught of desire, a veritable tidal wave that, for once, McCoy can actually appreciate. It's like he's waded into the surf of an angry ocean, facing down his fate as it tumbles toward him, unabated. "I rescued you," he whispers. McCoy groans, half annoyed and wholly aroused.
"More like I rescued you...from dying a terrible death. Remember?"
"Yeah," Kirk pants, nodding frantically and rocking faster. "You rescued me...and I rescued you." He reaches down and wraps his hand around both of their cocks, stroking as he drags his thumb over each of their slits. The rough pad slides back and forth through the wetness, relentless, maddening. "Say it," he commands.
"You rescued me," McCoy whispers, throwing his head back. It's the last he utters, aside from Kirk's name, before he gives up and lets the tide take him under.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Notes: ~1,800 word AU; written for the Pirate Prompt Fest, for which
ohownovel provided the prompt: "Pirate Captain!Kirk/Imperial!Physician Bones. The Captain needs a doctor. He takes one hostage from the nearest fleet ship to do his bidding." Absolutely zero consideration given for historical accuracy; the dialogue is entirely of this era, but they are wearing breeches. This version is slightly edited from the original posting.Summary: Life at sea is dangerous enough for Doctor McCoy's tastes; stepping foot on Captain Kirk's ship seems akin to walking into the sea altogether.
It was his own fault for looking up when one of those beastly pirates asked for the doctor, though one of these cowardly Imperial imbeciles was bound to give him up, anyway. They were all likely thankful the savages didn't want any other hostages, enough to ignore the oddity of the rather specific request. Doctors weren't exactly replaceable, but once the crew saw the skull and crossbones flag waving in the distance, they knew they were going to give the notorious Captain Kirk and his dastardly shipmates whatever it was they wanted.
And what they wanted was Doctor Leonard H. McCoy.
So that's how McCoy ends up on this new and equally idiotic ship, his breeches soggy from the transport. He hates being at sea. He had a perfectly nice medical practice on dry land back home before he was tapped to serve the Imperial Fleet. It took three months for the seasickness to subside, and it still flares up every now and then, especially when a particularly massive wave comes along. Or a storm. McCoy really hates storms.
"Get your paws off me!" he yells at one of the offending pirates. Granted, the guy is about twice his size in both height and width, and he doesn't seem too pleased with McCoy's insinuation that he's more animal than human. "Oh, what, you're gonna hit me?" McCoy taunts, feeling strangely brave, or maybe just masochistic.
He's just about to get his face smashed in by one of those hairy paws when someone steps on deck and clears his throat.
"Is that any way to treat your captors?" the man says, brandishing an impressively large sword. McCoy grunts and then looks up into the bluest pair of eyes he's ever seen, eyes that rival the sea in their color and look to be just as deep. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come, and the man laughs. He's obviously in charge around here, and therefore must be the infamous Captain James T. Kirk. "I didn't expect the doctor we found to be so sassy. Lucky me." Then he winks.
"Found?! More like kidnapped, don't you think? Taken against my will? Those seem a little more accurate to me." McCoy huffs, still being held in place by the large man. "And I didn't expect you to be a damned kid. What are you, fifteen?"
"You ask too many questions. Relax."
Kirk shakes his head and reaches up to wipe his brow, appraising McCoy silently. McCoy frowns but takes a moment to look over the kid more carefully. He seems to be sweating a lot, actually, and his eyes aren't entirely focused. Now it all makes sense; he must be ill somehow.
"How long have you had that fever?" he asks. Kirk's head snaps up and he looks momentarily surprised. Then he turns on his heel, placing his sword back in its sheath and nodding to the henchman.
"Bring him down to my quarters," he instructs, and leaves the deck. McCoy grunts again, watching him go, and then looks off in the distance, spying the Imperial ship already making its way to the East.
They're not coming back for him; that's for sure.
*
When he's brusquely shoved into Kirk's quarters, he snarls and holds onto his medical bag, the one thing they'd allowed him—nay, insisted he take. Kirk is sitting on the edge of his bed, slightly hunched over, facing the wall. He's also shirtless, which is a much nicer sight than McCoy imagined he'd see today when he first woke up this morning; a change from the endless water, the equally endless string of annoying Imperial Fleet patients, and more water.
"All right, what's the problem, kid?" he says, walking toward the bed. Kirk looks up with fiery eyes, though they're still as unfocused as before, perhaps even more so.
"Around here, I'm the Captain, Doctor."
"Fine. Captain. Tell me what the hell's bothering you so much that you had to come in, with all that bravado and swashbuckling crap, and pull me off an Imperial ship."
Kirk purses his lips before he turns, just enough to reveal a sizeable wound along the side of his torso—the nasty consequence of some highly dangerous swordplay, McCoy imagines. It's not all that fresh and it's definitely infected.
"Holy hell, Kirk. How long have you been walking around with that thing?" He steps toward the bed and kneels in front of him, opening his bag and already pulling out supplies, all business. Kirk's eyes seem to soften as he watches McCoy work.
"Call me Jim," is all he says. McCoy looks up at him, reaching up to check his temperature, a hand to his forehead. He lingers a bit too long, only removing his hand from Kirk's burning skin when he sees him staring and licking his lips.
"Well, lay back, Jim. You got any fresh water around here?"
Kirk nods and follows the order, to McCoy's surprise, pointing to a basin in the corner. The kid must be suffering if he's not putting up a struggle; Kirk isn't exactly known in these waters for his acquiescence. He goes over and finds a few washcloths by the basin, soaking one in the water and returning to drape it gently over Kirk's forehead. The sound of relief he makes as he closes his eyes is both a shock and bittersweet surprise to McCoy, to know that one small act of kindness alone has given the kid some comfort.
"What do I call you?" Kirk murmurs, causing him to still.
"Doctor McCoy," he replies. "Leonard."
"I'll call you Bones," Kirk says, likely delirious from the fever. McCoy doesn't ask questions, just rolls his eyes and goes to the small stove to start boiling some water.
*
By the next day, the wound already looks a hell of a lot better when McCoy checks under the dressing, and Kirk's no longer riddled with fever or trembling like a leaf. McCoy's been dozing on the bed beside him, mainly at Kirk's own behest; also, he hasn't been given any proper quarters in which to stay. And it is pretty obvious that he's here to stay; unless the Imperial Fleet decides to go on a suicide mission to rescue their captured doctor, he's not going anywhere. And while he was the best doctor they had, they'll find another one like him somewhere. Probably one who's a lot less grumpy, for that matter, and without a chronic case of seasickness.
That familiar nausea flares up when the ship hits a heavy crest of water and McCoy feels his stomach lurch, causing him to sit up with a faint groan. Kirk stirs and looks at him.
"Wha's wrong, Bones?" he slurs, and seeing that McCoy looks ready to leave the bed, reaches over to sling an arm over his chest, pulling him back down. "Don't go."
"Where am I gonna go, Jim?" he sighs. "Either I jump into the sea or stay here forever with you and your delightful crew, now that you took me away from my life."
"What life? Like it was so great working for the Imperial Fleet? I heard nobody even liked you on that ship, you were such a cranky bastard."
"So you did your research," McCoy mutters.
"Yep. I also heard you were a brilliant, self-assured and ridiculously handsome doctor. And I figured: hey, I'm wounded all the time and I like handsome men; I could use someone like that around here." Kirk grins at him, and McCoy is actually startled by how the simple, easygoing expression manages to make him even more transcendentally good-looking. "And I even like the bitchy bedside manner, unlike those Imperial ingrates. So, think of it more like...I rescued you."
"Rescued me," he repeats, deadpan.
"Rescued you," Kirk agrees, nodding. "I'm your hero."
"You're a hero-sized pain in the—"
Kirk shifts and cuts him off with a kiss, slightly messy and wet; when they part, his eyes seem to cut right through the darkness of the room. McCoy doesn't need to hesitate; he slides a palm to the nape of Kirk's neck and kisses him again, pressing their bodies together while being careful of the wound and bandages. Kirk is quick to see to it that McCoy joins him on the topless front. It's crazy, McCoy knows it, rolling around in a bed with an infamous, bloodthirsty (or so he's heard) pirate captain, but there's something about the kid that makes McCoy, like so many braver men and ships before him, want to raise the white flag of surrender.
"Jim," he moans, when a hand slips down into his breeches, touching him where, he too, is hot and feverish. "Careful of your side, I just stitched that..."
"Aww, Bones, you really do care."
"No, I just don't want to have to waste my time, doing it again."
"No, you do," Kirk murmurs. "Good doctor. Good man."
He curls his fingers around McCoy's thickening shaft with a taunting squeeze, then slides his thumb slowly down the vein there. McCoy shudders and lifts up into the touch, tugging down Kirk's low-slung breeches from his hips, exposing more of that warm, golden skin.
A quick, shared glance is enough for each of them to convey what he wants to the other, and a gust of laughter tells them that it's the same thing. McCoy's breeches are cast aside as well and their legs intertwine to pull their hips together, angling so as not to disturb any part of the dressing. Kirk's skin burns as if he's on fire, clammy and slick from the broken fever, and McCoy almost reels at the flesh-on-flesh contact he's been deprived of for so long. He feels desperate as he rocks against Kirk, feels every inch of him sliding against his own heated skin, and he grips wherever he can—Kirk's bicep, his thigh, his firm and flexing ass—just to hold on, to bring him closer. He inhales deeply, getting acquainted with Kirk's scent, now that he'll surely be surrounded by it, for all of his remaining days.
"Bones," Kirk gasps. He can surely sense this sudden onslaught of desire, a veritable tidal wave that, for once, McCoy can actually appreciate. It's like he's waded into the surf of an angry ocean, facing down his fate as it tumbles toward him, unabated. "I rescued you," he whispers. McCoy groans, half annoyed and wholly aroused.
"More like I rescued you...from dying a terrible death. Remember?"
"Yeah," Kirk pants, nodding frantically and rocking faster. "You rescued me...and I rescued you." He reaches down and wraps his hand around both of their cocks, stroking as he drags his thumb over each of their slits. The rough pad slides back and forth through the wetness, relentless, maddening. "Say it," he commands.
"You rescued me," McCoy whispers, throwing his head back. It's the last he utters, aside from Kirk's name, before he gives up and lets the tide take him under.
