Get In This Car, Let’s Run

South Dakota is nothing more than a stop-gap.

There’s a dingy motel along the main route and that’s where McCoy is stopping for the night. He doesn’t have more than his old beater pick-up truck and the duffel bag that Jocelyn had been so kind to throw at him from the second story window. She’d also thrown the television out at him, but that possession hadn’t exactly survived the long leap. Dinners are crap here and the weather is September-dreary. McCoy can’t wait to get the hell out of the town. Turns out he’s not alone and he meets his westward-bound soulmate during the early-bird special.

He’s just trying to get it back to the room, but they won’t let him go.

“I’m a grown man, I can use a fork and knife and manage not to make a mess!” he shouts at the hostess, voice rising by the second.

“Sir,” she counters mildly.

“I just want to eat my meal in peace, not with all the other sad locals!” he shouts, earning a couple of glares in the process, but his opinions on having his feelings hurt got left behind during one of the longer shouting matches with Jocelyn. “Look,” he insists, digging out his wallet. “I’ll pay you extra, just let me get this to go.”

“Sir, we can’t do that.”

“How about you sit here?” That’s a new voice and McCoy looks over to study where it came from. It’s the corner, an obscured section of the restaurant, where a young man sits. When McCoy had first entered, he’d dismissed the young man as a sex-worker, most likely, in for a meal before he heads out to work. The too-tight jeans are his tip off. “I promise I won’t bite.”

McCoy isn’t sure that he’s ready to make the same promise in turn.

The hostess seems eager to shuffle him off to be sat amidst the exiled patrons, pushed to the corner to the point that he can be easily forgotten. McCoy would complain more, but he sees a bottle of red wine at the table and he snatches it as he sits down, taking it as a victorious conquest.

“Sure,” the trick remarks evenly. “Just take my wine.”

“You invited me to sit,” McCoy points out. “You inherited the risk of anything. I could be a psychotic killer or a real bore, but apparently, I’m a wine-thief.” He pours the wine into his water-glass to the very brim and salutes with the cheap little piece of glassware that was probably picked up at the price of four for one go. “Cheers. And I won’t keep you, I’m sure you’ve got appointments lined up.”

The blond kid’s brow rises curiously and McCoy would focus on it, but he’s still deeply involved in feeling selfish. He feels like he’s allowed this because he’s spent years being selfless and getting fucked over for it. Now that it’s his turn, he can be as self-involved as he damn well pleases. If anyone has anything to say about it, then they can march right up to South Dakota and tell him.

“Okay, Wine-Thief,” says the boy, ignoring his comment about his appointments. “I can settle with that so long as you aren’t planning on chopping off my limbs in a fit of psychosis,” he deadpans. “I’m Jim Kirk.”

“Leonard McCoy, hungry, and you’re buying. And how about you get them to bring over a second bottle of this wine?”

To his great surprise, Jim does just that with a signal to the waiter. Suddenly, South Dakota gets a lot more interesting.

They’re roughly three bottles into the wine by the time they start talking about specifics, but they’re both reticent about the details of their lives. McCoy manages to tell Jim about the divorce, but not the why of it and he definitely doesn’t mention that he’s trying to get himself a job for just long enough so that he can triumphantly return and snatch Joanna away.

Jim tells a vague story about a stepfather and bruises, but he purposely doesn’t give all the information and McCoy doesn’t push.

They finish off the third bottle of wine and Jim orders port without missing a beat. McCoy just laughs low and rough because it’s South Dakota and there’s nothing better to do, but he still hasn’t expected to go down into the dingy hours of the night drinking this hard. McCoy can feel his head swimming around and all his thoughts slowly get carried away by the wash of the alcohol coursing through his blood.

It’s the intoxication that comes right before bad ideas and McCoy lets it dull his limbs and loosen his tongue until suddenly he’s telling embarrassing sex stories about him and the ex-wife as if somehow he can wound her from this many miles away.

It’s the intoxication that comes just before they pay their bill and are summarily kicked out of the restaurant for being a nuisance.

The night doesn’t feel cold when they find their way out the front doors, but McCoy knows that’s as much to blame on the wine as it is on the fact that Jim’s given him a fluffy down coat to wear. It’s white and has frilly bits around the neck and one look at Jim demands explanation. “I had a girlfriend and now I don’t,” is all he’s given. McCoy wants to bitch about the fact that he’s inherited some ex-girlfriends’ clothes like a hand-me-down, but he’s too damn cold and they’ve arrived at his truck.

He hadn’t chosen to stay one more night because San Francisco beckons. There’s a job interview there and McCoy thinks that if he makes an appearance, it might abate some of the criticism coming from friends of the family who think that he shouldn’t let the divorce just stop his life dead in its tracks.

McCoy leans his hip heavily against the truck, the alcohol still weighing down his body and making his limbs feel three times their weight.

“Guess,” he starts, tongue feeling sticky and heavy, “I’ll see you ‘round, then. Or not.” He hasn’t asked where Jim is headed, it doesn’t even occur to him until now. “East or West?”

“West,” Jim replies, peeking around McCoy’s shoulder to glance into the truck curiously. “This your ride?”

“And my bed,” McCoy agrees, as the epiphany that he isn’t driving anywhere comes to him in the blink of an eye and a mild groan that draws its way out of his throat against his will.

He looks back to Jim and doesn’t know what to make of the spark in his eyes until suddenly he’s being shoved against the crimson-red pick-up truck and Jim’s hands are clumsily ripping the woman’s coat off of him, shoving it to the dirt as he tries to coax McCoy along by the hips. They kiss and take turns being shoved up against the bed of the truck until they’re at the very back and Jim is gracefully (too much grace considering the amount of alcohol they’ve both had) hopping onto the platform of the bed, legs wrapping around McCoy’s waist.

“I just got divorced,” McCoy gets out, barely gets out while Jim is coaxing a kiss from McCoy that seems aimed to steal the very breath from him.

Jim just smiles serenely as he unbuttons his jeans and shoves the zipper down, yanking McCoy closer by the fabric of his plaid shirt. “Ireally don’t mind being a rebound,” he swears. The night is too frigid fucking freezing cold for this, is what McCoy thinks, but when Jim mouths hot air against his clavicle in the form of a hungry kiss, he stops caring and remembers what it feels like to have sex when you aren’t trying to win in some fierce competition to be better, to win the divorce, to come out breathing.

Those too-tight pants of Jim’s slide down off of him as he lies back on the truck, hips arching upwards like an arc to heaven and McCoy isn’t wasting a second more climbing atop him and straddling Jim, burgeoning the truck with extra weight.

“Front pocket,” Jim coaxes, his voice husky.

McCoy goes searching and finds a condom, but nothing else. “I’m not about to dry-fuck you into my truck,” he growls and doesn’t know what he’s said that’s so funny because suddenly Jim is crowing in laughter like McCoy’s a goddamn comedian instead of a doctor. “What!” he demands sharply.

“That rhymes,” Jim blissfully replies and doesn’t give McCoy an opportunity to reply because he’s too busy wiggling his hips and grabbing hold of McCoy by the plaid shirt to haul him closer again, extending his palm. “Spit,” he encourages.

“Dirty fucking boy,” McCoy notes in amazement.

“Spit,” Jim insists again.

McCoy grabs hold of Jim’s wrist with insistent fingers, pressing hard enough to cause white indentations in the shape of his fingerprints on Jim’s tanned skin. He catches Jim’s gaze, makes sure he’s looking at McCoy and only then does he spit into his palm, taking the opportunity to divest himself of his pants and underwear as Jim shoves his hand lower, spreads his legs and goes to while McCoy gets busy sliding the condom on himself.

It’s still as cold as before and McCoy knows he’s rushing Jim onwards, but he strokes himself several times, trying to lubricate as best as nature allows since his one-night-stand is apparently someone who likes it good and rough. McCoy has to wonder about those stories about the step-father and just what kind of warping those old beatings did to Jim’s brain.

“Someone’s happy to see…”

Jim doesn’t get the opportunity to finish his sentence. He’s been ready for twenty seconds and has angled his ass towards McCoy for perfect entry. Better yet, apparently sliding the full length of his cock into Jim’s body and hesitating just inside is the easiest way to shut him up. If only he’d known that, he might have hauled Jim onto the tablecloth, stripped off his pants, and fucked him at dinner in order to free up some of the tables with good ol’ shock value. Sure, it’s probably not the most painless way to fuck a guy you’ve just met, but it’s definitely going right up there on the list of ‘amazing sensations that McCoy doesn’t feel enough’. He shudders and grabs at the truck for leverage as he stares up at Jim from the angle he’s entered.

“Count to three,” McCoy hoarsely orders.

“Wha…”

“Count. To. Three.”

Jim squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as he tips his head back to the night-sky and lets out a brisk laugh, his breath appearing in a sharp burst of cloud. “One,” he says and nothing happens because McCoy just waits, sliding one hand from off the bed of the truck and closer to Jim’s hip. On one-and-a-half, he grips Jim’s hip firmly. “Two.” Two means that Jim’s cock gets a second hand on it.

McCoy grins and grips the truck tighter as he waits for…

Three, oh Jesus shit you fucking asshole!” Jim sings out his praises as McCoy starts to fuck Jim by sliding out and then thrusting in just enough to hit his prostate while his other hand grabs hold of Jim’s cock and starts to tease sensitive areas, rubbing rough skin against the underside and applying medically-talented hands to the head. The truck is creaking and shuddering as it bounces in time with McCoy’s rhythm, rubber tires bracing the impact of the both of them as Jim lets out constant cries of profanity that’s sure to get the neighbours pissed off.

There isn’t any more counting after three, but McCoy drags his teeth down Jim’s neck and fucks him hard and rough and it hurts just enough that it’s not perfect. For some reason, that makes Jim see even more stars than the ones in the sky.

“C’mon,” Jim grunts, trying to encourage McCoy on. “C’mon, you fucker, fuck me,” he coaxes. “Fuck my ass harder,” he gets out through clenched teeth.

“Fucking pushy,” McCoy growls under his breath, fumbling to loosen his other hand from Jim’s hip and to adjust his angle to push in his fingers alongside his cock, stroking himself right up until the point where McCoy’s cock is in Jim. He doesn’t stop so much as he slows, sliding those fingers in slowly until Jim is howling at the pain of the push. And god, he loves it. Out of the corner of his eye, McCoy sees curtains being pulled back and curious motel-goers peeking at what’s making all the noise. “You’re getting us noticed,” McCoy accuses, making Jim laugh breathlessly at all the attention they’re earning (even if the sides of the truck keep them mostly covered).

“Leonard,” Jim groans as he’s fucked with so much precision that it almost makes the roughness seem out of place. McCoy’s fingers slide out and go back to teasing Jim and coated slick with nothing but the workings of their own bodies, he rubs his wet thumb over the head of his cock slowly, pressing the blunt edge of his nail just lightly enough to apply pressure inside and out.

It’s too cold to be sweating very much, but there’s nothing like chills happening when McCoy pushes up against Jim and angles to try and brush against his prostate. He’s always missed more times than he’s hit (and good god, but doesn’t that bring back a slew of nightmares in the form of Jocelyn complaining that he could never find the right spot when they were ‘making love’). McCoy sets about fucking Jim with more determination, even though he can’t exactly explain that he’s trying to banish a spectre of a woman in his mind.

It doesn’t seem to matter much, because Jim takes to the faster (harder) pace like a duck takes to water, bucking up and letting out short and sharp happy cries, jerking himself off with both hands in a triangular shape, sliding his cock up and down through calloused hands.

McCoy looks up, meets Jim’s eyes, looks at this stranger who he won’t be able to pick out of a line-up tomorrow and just pushes harder.

He exhales raggedly and groans as he comes, not wasting time as he withdraws and slides off the condom, flicking it into the parking lot (some underpaid teen can find it in the morning and hate him from afar) and sliding his pants back up.

“Hey,” Jim snaps, affronted. “I’m not done here.”

McCoy’s one leg out of the truck, but at Jim’s complaint, he pushes back up and slides his body horizontal over Jim’s, grabbing those hands of his and pinning them above his head forcefully, straddling his body and rocking forward, just enough to give him slight friction from his jeans.

He pins the wrists down harder and looks down to challenge Jim with a single look, wondering just how exactly he ought to finish this off before they part ways.

“Am I your first rebound?” Jim wonders when McCoy hesitates yet another minute.

“I know enough about ‘em to know they shouldn’t talk so goddamn much,” McCoy snaps, releasing Jim’s wrists and sliding back down his body, taking Jim’s cock into his mouth and giving him a good quick suck, laving his tongue over the base and dragging it upwards to flick for just a moment at the head. Another repetition of this little pattern and he’s rewarded with Jim’s come in his mouth.

He eases to his knees and spits over the side of the truck to the dusty ground below, grabbing hold of that white monstrosity of a coat Jim gave to him and wipes his mouth with the sleeve. When he’s done touching his cheeks as if to convince the flush to go down, he takes a long look at Jim and gives a noncommittal grunt of a noise.

“Well,” he starts. “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Jim echoes, the laughter all but bubbling out in a sudden amused burst. “You’re pretty polite for a divorced rebound who just fucked me raw,” he says, pleased as punch. “And you’re thanking me.” Jim shakes his head as he redresses, causing the truck to shake a little, but McCoy is more preoccupied by how good Jim’s lips look in the moonlight. “Thanks,” he says again, under his breath as he digs out his keys. “You are something else, you know that?”

And that’s the last Jim has to say for the night.

In the morning, McCoy drives off before the complimentary breakfast is even set out and he tries to keep his mind off Jim, trying to dismiss him as nothing more than a good rebound.

*

He’s exiting the lobby of the Fairmont in San Francisco when he sees a familiar flash of blue eyes and a familiar form disappearing into the foggy rolling streets. For a moment, he considers going the other way towards the wharf and forgetting this strange coincidence, but then McCoy notices that his pace is strangely slow, as if he’s waiting to be caught up with.

The bruise on his neck from those teeth makes his decision for him and he chases downhill after that one-night-stand that’s somehow stalked him all the way to the coastline. He never, never should have mentioned where he was going. He curses at himself with every step, hating that he’s actually going after a man that he had thought endlessly annoying at first.

He catches up to him on the corner, Chinatown gleaming in the background with tourists interspersed with hanging lanterns and signs shilling wares.

Jim is hanging off a lamp pole with one arm, grinning and leaning with his back against the heavy architectural piece.

“Get off that,” McCoy sharply lectures. “Did you even stop to think about the endless number of germs that are propagating on that?”

“Propagating, I like that,” Jim replies with a keen grin and a mischievous spark to his eyes. “So uh, fancy meeting you here.” McCoy crosses his arms over his torso and tries to affect his best ‘I don’t give a shit’ look, not wanting his sheer pleasure at Jim’s presence to actually show. “I might have looked into the hotel you were staying at.”

“And how many casual visits did it take before I showed up?”

“Oh, you know, six. But your place serves an amazing brunch,” Jim points out, running his sneaker up and down the pole. “Am I still propagating?”

“I didn’t tell you where I was going.”

“You said West,” Jim says like it’s never been any big mystery. “And then you mentioned the hospital you were interviewing at and you kind of mentioned the hotel to the waitress when you were ordering more wine. I pay attention to more than how tightly you can hold me down.” Jim easily falls into step at McCoy’s side and shows off his wrists, decorated lightly in blacks and blues fading to yellowed tones. “Which, incidentally, you earn a gold star in suppression.”

McCoy isn’t sure why he’s even paying attention to any of this. Jim ought to be in his dust back in a crappy motel instead of here on the streets of San Francisco, falling in step with him like they’ve been doing this forever.

“What do you want?” McCoy finally demands, when they’re halfway to the pier and McCoy hadn’t even wanted to go that way. He’d just kept walking in the hopes that Jim was going to stop following at some point.

He can’t figure it out. He’s racked his brain to think of reasons, but he can’t think of anything that would have brought Jim to San Francisco. The sex was good, sure, but it’s not like he’s ever been the kind of man that people drop their lives for, following a trail halfway across the country.

“What else did I have to do?”

So he’s the backup plan. McCoy rolls his eyes and stops in the middle of the street, realizing that he doesn’t actually have to put up with this. He hails a taxi and gives Jim a long glare, but one look at him in the plaid shirt and the tight jeans and he’s thinking about what’s under there and how Jim’s hands had felt on his body. One more night can’t hurt, he supposes, and he sighs heavily and gestures to the door of the cab. “Fine,” he exhales heavily. “Get in.”

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, mostly because every time Jim opens his mouth to say something, McCoy elbows him in the ribs hard, as if anticipating some kind of humiliation that he isn’t ready to deal with. He’s not equipped to deal with a stranger who’s stalked him to San Francisco.

Each step up to the hotel room is rife with McCoy thinking that every single passerby knows exactly what he’s doing. Worse, he thinks they’re convinced that Jim is a trick that McCoy’s picked up and the sad thing is that McCoy doesn’t even know enough about the man to know whether or not that’s truth. McCoy opens the door to his suite and ushers Jim in quickly, which only looks more incriminating.

Considering what McCoy is planning on doing to Jim, he’s not sure that he doesn’t deserve the shame.

The door shuts heavily behind him and McCoy doesn’t waste much time searching the room to find something that’ll do the trick. He stops at the ties strewn over his chair from earlier in that day. He’d been picking between three different colors of ties and inevitably went with a bold red because some goddamn article said that it’s supposed to make him more attractive to people in general.

He grasps the purple and the royal blue in his hands and wanders closer to Jim, pushing him onto the heavy duvet and straddling him as he grips one of Jim’s bruised wrists and studies his palm considerately.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to go all swami on me,” Jim groans, throwing his head back wantonly onto the pillows. “I should have known not to pick up a man in South Dakota.”

McCoy’s primary focus is on the knots, but he takes the time to reply. “I don’t recall asking to be stalked all the way to San Francisco,” he says very calmly as he tightens the knot on Jim’s other hand and takes a moment of perverse delight in the way Jim’s fingertips go slightly white. McCoy is a doctor. He knows exactly how much circulation Jim needs and the way he’s got him knotted up, this is definitely going to be very interesting when the rest of Jim’s blood starts rushing for his cock.

Carefully, McCoy slides Jim’s hands up the posts of the bed, resting them above his heart as he studies Jim’s body and debates what part he’d like to mark first. There are still vague bruises from South Dakota and McCoy has no interest in repeating himself, not when there’s so much new space to make a mark of.

“I barely know you,” he gets out while he’s digging out lube and condoms.

Jim glances at McCoy with a faintly bemused grin. “I didn’t know that sex suddenly required full personality assessments. If you untie me, I’ll write one out for you,” he offers.

“You’re staying put,” McCoy growls at him, unbuttoning Jim’s jeans for him and shoving them down roughly, well-enough to provide a good amount of friction to Jim’s cock. He takes his time with Jim’s boxers, leaning forward to take Jim’s cock into his mouth.

It’s been ages since he’s blown another man, but he doubts they rewrote the manual in the years since. He knows what he likes and it’s damn well easy enough to apply when you’re on the giving end and not the receiving line. He tightens his lips over the head of Jim’s cock, sliding lower, fingers pressing against his balls.

Every time Jim thrusts his hips up, McCoy shoves his hand down, forcing him back. He might be willing to blow Jim, but he’s not willing to deep throat him. There are just some things you don’t do with someone you’re only seeing for the second time ever.

Jim eventually takes the hint and stops trying to rush right through the script. It’s around then that McCoy actually starts to enjoy any of this – as far as any given man can enjoy blowing another – and doesn’t worry about fancy flickers of his tongue or whether or not Jim’s enjoying this. All that McCoy needs to worry about is constant hot pressure against Jim’s cock and the startled and constant cries coming from the bed.

Every creak of the bedframe and the posts being tested is sign enough that he’s doing a good job and they become a steady rhythm as McCoy works, taking Jim as deep as he can before his gag reflex kicks in and he has to beat a hasty retreat, only to do it all over again.

He only considers it success when Jim starts kicking at his side with his heel in a clumsy attempt to match his verbal warning of ‘McCoy, hey, you gotta get off,’ choked out. McCoy eases back and straddles Jim’s waist to start rocking slow and steady

He doesn’t lay a hand on Jim’s cock, just shifts forward and rocks until he can coax forward the kind of friction that will bring him off.

When he feels the splash of warm come against his stomach, McCoy smirks with the kind of satisfaction of a man who’s done a good job. He lazily reaches up and unties only one of Jim’s hands, catching his bruised wrist firmly and coaxing it lower in order to stroke at McCoy’s cock, puppeting Jim’s hand and showing him exactly what he is expected to be doing.

Jim keeps trying to protest and break away from what McCoy is coaching, but every time a word of frustration might ghost past his lips, McCoy is there to kiss him and silence it. Every time his fingers stray, McCoy tightens his grip, more than happy to keep Jim from following his own script. He keeps it to nothing more than a one-handed blowjob as Jim arches clumsily off the bed in strange angles because of his still-tied hand.

“Fuck,” Jim exhales, a bark of frustration pressed into a messy kiss as McCoy starts loosening his grip and his control, as close to coming as he is. “Fuck,” he whines, as if he’s being denied something necessary, like oxygen. He eventually beats McCoy’s hand away when McCoy finds his own climax and uses it to haul their bodies closer together, friction just a moment or two too late, but it’s good enough anyway.

They collapse on the hotel bed in panting and heavy breaths, bodies sweaty and lumped together without definition or separation.

“Did we manage to get enough propagating in?” Jim mumbles sleepily, but with his exhaustion, it sounds strange and gummy.

McCoy just laughs at that and bows his head forward, thinking that maybe South Dakota wasn’t such a bad stop at all, to have given him two encounters like this. “I’m gonna go out and get some coffee,” is what he says, minutes before he puts on clothing and grabs his personal belongings.

He also takes the last piece of luggage he has with him and rather than sticking around, he goes East.

*

McCoy is drinking sweet tea with his mother in Georgia when the ramifications of running away for coffee catch up to him. The doorbell rings and Eleanor McCoy dispatches him to answer it. He takes his porcelain mug with him and heads to the door to find an affronted Jim Kirk on his doorstep.

“You said you were going for a venti black coffee and it’s been five days. I could have gone to an actual Viennese coffee house and back three times over,” Jim complains, searching his hands and clasping the cup. “I’ll take this as a start, but don’t think that you’re out of the proverbial hot water.” He sips the tea, blinking in surprise. “Mm! Good,” he praises.

McCoy stares at the intruder in shock, not understanding exactly how he knew to come here. San Francisco had been one thing. McCoy had drank too much in South Dakota and blurted that out, but McCoy had never said that he was heading back home after the foggy shores of the Californian city.

“How’d you…”

“Find you?” Jim interrupts. “I guess it doesn’t really come out while you’re having an incredible fuck that I’m kind of a genius. If you want to be specific, I’m a repeat-offender genius. Hacking a couple systems to find your plane ticket reservation was a breeze,” he says cheerfully. “So is this your place?”

“Leonard, who is it?” his mother’s voice rings out in a warm sing-song tone.

Dear god, McCoy can’t see this ending well.

“This is stalking,” McCoy hisses at Jim as he invites himself inside, wandering into the foyer and studying the pieces of art and sculptures decorating the area.

Jim glances at McCoy and slides in so close that McCoy can feel Jim’s breath on his neck. “I’m pretty sure stalking isn’t the word for it when you look so very happy to see me. Both of you.” Jim sips at the tea in his hands as he passes by him. “No need for alarm, I’m just a friend of Leonard’s,” Jim says as he makes his way into the main room with a confident stride while McCoy bites at his heels with something like panic.

McCoy offers his mother a desperate look from over Jim’s shoulder.

“Would you happen to be one of Leonard’s very good friends?”

Jim swivels easily, staring at McCoy curiously with a broad grin. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“Ma, I met him when I was trekking out West for that interview,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he marvels at the portrait of chaos that has become his life, somehow. It involves Jim Kirk sipping at his tea with his pinkie in the air and his mother looking at Jim as if she’s just discovered water in the desert. “We just met up there before we parted ways. He is not special in any way except the special way in which he annoys me.”

“Well, I’m just heading out to the garden,” Eleanor notes wryly as she sizes up Jim in no more than a three-second stare, not that Jim exactly knows what she’s doing. “The hydrangeas, Leonard, need constant attention. They wilt, otherwise.”

“Ma,” McCoy complains, but that doesn’t stop her from exiting out the sliding glass door to the large backyard, giving him privacy with a man he barely knows. He turns and glares at Jim (who looks painfully out of place in the foyer with all its perfect ceramic and crystal and potted plants. “You’re a stalker.”

“And you’re the best fuck I’ve had,” Jim bluntly replies. “And if you really were pissed with me, I think you’d have kicked me out by now. So is the truck junked?”

“Probably. I left it in the lot back in San Francisco.” McCoy is feeling uneasy and he grabs hold of Jim’s shirt and jerks him along. “Let’s go,” he insists sharply, hauling Jim up the stairs in the direction of his childhood room. “I’m not having this conversation where my mother is more than capable of spying on me.”

Jim doesn’t give much resistance and lets McCoy lead him wherever he likes. They go straight into a well-preserved room that has posters framing the walls. They’re not of starlets or musicians, but of different sections of the body.

Jim casts a dubious look on McCoy as he lets his fingers trail up the spine on a poster near the door. “There’s more bones in here than a serial killer’s backyard,” Jim says and raps his knuckles lightly against a fluorescent poster of a hand stripped down to its many bones.

McCoy just crosses his arms over his torso and makes sure Jim’s well-aware that he isn’t amused by his remarks.

Jim looks back over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for a laugh that will never come and seems to be inches away from prompting it. He inevitably gives up with a hapless shrug of his shoulders and wanders over to McCoy, burying his fingers in his hair.

“Are we going to talk about you travelling the country to come stalk me to my childhood home?” McCoy points out.

“Can we talk about the fact I have nothing better to do, Bones?” Jim mimics, making McCoy scowl when Jim’s thumb rubs up and down one of the posters on the wall when he says the word ‘Bones’, drawing it out like it’s some kind of endearment instead of the annoying pet name that it is.

McCoy grasps Jim’s jacket with his other hand and brings him over to the bed that’s been in that room since McCoy turned seven. It doesn’t take long for them to get tangled up in the sheets, to lose their shirts, or for McCoy to press his lips to Jim’s and start making out with him like they belong in the backseat of a car instead of a childhood room.

That said, as far as wanton acts of suddenly expressed intimacy go, the remnants of a room McCoy spent hundreds of hours in as a teenager isn’t exactly a bad place to be doing it.

He slowly sits Jim up, pushing him to his feet and walking him over to the desk. McCoy’s left a couple of things here and he’s brought some home. The lube and condoms he draws out are new additions, but the balled-up tie dates a long way back.

“You know, I think you have a thing for bondage,” Jim observes as McCoy ties him loosely to the solid desk chair. “You really should bring that up more.”

“Yeah,” McCoy sarcastically replies, “Next time I strike up rebound sex, I’ll bring up my need to tie down the person I’m having sex with. Don’t make me gag you, Jim,” he warns. He tightens the tie and shoves Jim slightly until his torso meets with the desk and McCoy can bend him over. From here, they’re just barely shaded from the window to the backyard and McCoy slouches just enough so that his mother doesn’t see him.

Hell, he doesn’t care about her finding out he’s had sex. He’s fairly sure she already knows that fact. He’s more concerned about the fact that he’ll get comments that run along the lines of ‘this soon after the divorce, sweetheart?’ in that condescending tone.

McCoy slicks up his fingers and slides them in slowly, taking his time to trace his free hand down Jim’s bare back, touching old scars and new marks that McCoy’s made in South Dakota and San Francisco and are fading with great slowness.

McCoy doesn’t give Jim too much time to prepare himself before he’s slowly pushing in, expanding Jim’s asshole with his cock, gripping his cock with one hand and Jim’s shoulder with the other, positioning them and making sure Jim doesn’t get any fancy ideas about standing up or shoving his hips back.

When McCoy is in good and tight, he shifts that hand to Jim’s hip and then pinches there lightly before sliding all the way around to grab hold of his cock. “I’m gonna set the pace here,” he drawls out, the words soft and heavy against Jim’s ear. “You just go along for the ride.”

Jim lets out a soft exhalation, which McCoy is going to take as a reply of assent.

McCoy starts to push in with no real rush. He’s got no place to be and he doesn’t exactly need to be shouting down the walls. He just sets a steady pace of pushing in deep enough until he can make Jim let out a throaty cry and then pulls out and does it all over again. He digs his nails into Jim’s shoulder and enjoys the sharp cries they evoke, picking up the pace of his rhythm only then because it’s like he’s been given permission to go faster to get to the ending they both know they’re driving at.

“Oh, fuck, McCoy,” Jim is gasping out hoarsely. “Fuck.” He’s even keeping his voice down like he’s concerned about Mrs. McCoy hearing any of this and McCoy doesn’t have the heart to say that he doesn’t care that badly – not ever since the time when he was sixteen and his mother walked in on him and Jocelyn.

It’s all been downhill from there, if he’s honest.

“Please,” he begs and McCoy gives in, jerking Jim off just a bit faster than before, just to give him what he wants so that he isn’t torturing the poor man. He brings Jim off until Jim comes all over his palm and then McCoy just lifts those fingers up to Jim’s mouth and lets the other man kiss and suck it all away.

It’s heady in a way that, when mixed with McCoy’s thrusts, pulls him forward to the edge and it only takes a tiny step to go tumbling over, coming hard and fast in Jim’s ass and making a mess of the man – messier than he was a moment ago, at least, because McCoy’s not sure of Jim at all. Hell, he could be the world’s biggest mess for all McCoy knows and all he’s been doing is enjoying him for his body – and a little bit his brain.

He lets out a shaky breath and tries to compose himself.

He doesn’t even manage to do that until dinner much, much later. He’s sitting at the head of the table flanked by his mother on one side and Jim on the other, poking at cauliflower and potatoes and trying to decide what topics are going to be safe.

His mother decides for him when she turns to Jim and asks, “So how long will you be staying with us?”

McCoy breaks in before Jim can even think to answer and speaks for him: “He’s leaving soon.” He casts Jim an apologetic look. “He was just visiting.” He holds Jim’s questioning gaze and they have a silent conversation over their steak in which Jim seems to ask ‘do you want me to get gone right now?’ and McCoy is left uncomfortably trying to tell him, I don’t want to talk about this in front of my mother.’

“I have to get home to my family,” Jim explains, rather than voice his apparent irritations aloud. “Iowa’s a bit of a drive.”

McCoy just stares across the table at Jim, earning new information about him. It takes him a few moments to even realize that he’s sitting at the family table with Jim, eating dinner with his mother, and learning tidbits of information about Jim’s life.

They’re miles away from just being a rebound at this point.

“I might just pop up,” is coming from McCoy before he even realizes what he’s saying. “If Jim will have me there for a visit.”

By the look on Jim’s face, it looks like nothing in the world would ever make him happier. Still, he manages to subdue his grin and shrug, like maybe it’ll happen and maybe it won’t. “We’ll just have to see. I’ll make sure to be in touch,” he says and reaches across the table to squeeze McCoy’s hand for just a passing, brief, thrilling moment.

*

McCoy is sitting at the coffeeshop on Main Street, just like the letter said to be. He’s there for 2PM and he’s sipping a black coffee while keeping an eye on the street around him. New York to Iowa isn’t exactly the closest of drives, but this is where Jim wants to meet and McCoy is just now curious enough to give into his whims.

2PM passes and Jim doesn’t show up. McCoy starts to think that he’s been stood up.

It’s 2:20 when he sees a familiar face carrying a bundle of orange carnations in hand and for a brief moment, McCoy thinks that this is where he gets broken up with by a road trip rebound for some pretty girl-next-door type that he just can’t compete with. That moment disappears when Jim shows up at his table and lays the flowers down on the linen tablecloth, takes the seat opposite McCoy, and reaches over the table to kiss him firmly on the lips.

“So,” Jim says, sipping McCoy’s coffee like it’s been there waiting for him. “I think that this is the point where we admit that we’re dating.” McCoy’s fingers are still raised in the air to make a fuss about his coffee being stolen, but he’s still a little too shell-shocked by the flowers, the kiss, and the arrival of the word ‘dating’ into a conversation with a man who used to be his rebound.

McCoy finally drags out speech when he stares at Jim and sees a smiling man who doesn’t look displeased in the least about starting off something new and strange and scary with the man he met on the road.

“Fine,” he finally exhales. “But if we’re dating, we’re getting local.” He steals back his coffee and drinks down half of it defiantly so that Jim can’t steal much more of it. He waits until he swallows to add, “Because my gas budget can’t take much more chasing you down.”

He does have to admit, though, that getting that wide-grin from Jim is so very worth every penny spent to get to here.

END

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| September 4th, 2012 | Posted in Star Trek |

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