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transatlanticism
He awakes, bright and early and it feels like world is his.
He lays on his bed for just a moment longer, feeling the tingle of his dog tags brush against his chest, warmed by his flesh and the sun that filter through the translucent curtains. He simply stares up at his plain ceiling, a wide smile cracking his face and crinkling his eyes as he tightens his hand around the phantom one he can feel gripping his own. He’s never felt that phantom hand, but he imagines it to be large, broad and calloused and talented. He wonders what they’d feel like on his flesh, kissing sweat damp scars and tugging him towards a broad body.
He turns on his side for a moment, dog tags tickling his chest, before he smothers his elated laughter into his numerous pillows. Today is the day, he thinks, and he’s not sure he’s ever been more excited since Pike recruited him for SpecOPs.
“C’mon, Captain,” He says lowly, smile warping his face as he kicks the thick duvet from him. “Time to meet ta’ love of ya’ life,” He giggles, feeling the words roll off his tongue. He heaves himself from the bed, his weak arm shaking under his weight as he tried to avoid looking at the scars that warped the sun tanned skin, shivering at the coldness of the tiled floor beneath his feet. He shifted the covers even further from him, the warming air filtering around him slowly as the sun gilded his hair and skin.
Shamelessly, he bounds to his bathroom, large smile still tugging his lips as he turns the shower onto hot. He steps in, shivering at the feel of warm water sluicing down his muscles. It’s still a luxury, after the sparse washes he’d had in the desert, with sand still sticking his hair and staining his flesh; this is his really only indulgence and he’d never give it up for the world.
He smothers up his flannel with shower cream, the scent filtering through the air and making him relax as the water pounded onto his tense shoulders. Scrubbing it with his hand to get it foamed up, he rinses it over his muscles, feeling the catch of scratchy material against rough scars and uneven flesh.
It makes him bite his lip, doubt filtering through his mind even as the high remains. How could he want someone like me? He thinks, running the flannel automatically over his thighs, feeling the catch of it against a poorly healed scar. But that brief tug of pain breaks something deep inside of him, like a great yawning chasm that makes his stomach spasm as he hardens. He bites his lips, flush rising in his cheeks as he thinks of him.
He drops the flannel, washing finished as the water sluices over him in an erotic wave that makes his cock harden even more. He gasps as he moves to the side and there is a brief catch of pounding water against his aching erection, before he arches his back and the water is raining onto the small of his back, making him ache and want as he slaps his shivering hands onto the wet tile of the shower stall, feeling the slip and slide of it even as his cock throbs between his thighs and his arse clenches.
His head drops between his shoulders as his arms drop, his face smushed against the wall, wet and slipping, as a hand reached up slightly into the soap tray where he keeps several packets of hypoallergenic lubricants just for this.
He rips the silver packet with his teeth, too impatient and wanting for finesse as he slicks his fingers, shivering with his lust as it burns through his stomach and quivers his thighs. As he presses one slender finger to his own opening, he bites his lips.
He thinks of ruffled dark hair, thick and elegant, of dark amber eyes that remind him of sun light through undrunk whiskey, sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue that drawls in that thick accent that never fails to make him moan. He curls his finger inside himself, feeling the slight burn of inadequate preparation even as he moans, gasping desperately against the water slick wall as the thought of just that accent threatens to undo his tenuous control.
He bites his lip again, skin red and plump with the abuse, and crooks his finger once more, gasping needily as it causes something inside of him to break open, yawning wider and wider like a great canyon of emotions that threaten to pull him under and never let him go (to be honest, he doesn’t think he’d want them to let him go).
He presses a second slender finger against himself, hearing his dog tags settle with a sort of familiarity of repetition as he presses both his shoulder to the wall, his other hand finding his throbbing erection between his thighs. He thinks of broad hands, talented and probably calloused. He thinks of how they’d grip his hips, making him ride the man, leaving sex bruises as teeth grip onto his neck and refuse to let him go. He thinks of those hands holding his own, thicker and broader with a different sort of callouses that’d catch on his scars and make them itch in a way he’s been craving but never actually able to replicate-
The very though makes him cry out, desperate and arching like a great decadent cat sunning itself in the bright sunlight that filters lazily. His two fingers are pressed fully inside him, his muscles pulsing around them as he comes, brutally, with him on his mind, all dark and gorgeousness with that smooth accent, holding him tight and threatening to never let him go. He slouches against the wall, exhausted in an entirely different manner as his head fogs headily, thick is lust and elation, but as he washes the slick of his hands and off his body again, he wishes there was physical remnants of his pleasure apart from his seed sliding down the drain.
He wants bruises and bites, fingers buried deep beneath his hips and teeth catching on the nape and hollow of his throat, he wants marks and possession littered over his skin and hands gripping him to a broad body.
He shakes his head, the water cooling slightly as he massages hypoallergenic scentless shampoo into his cropped hair, thinking about him, with his thick accent, sweet and deep as chocolate. He thinks of a drawling voice, crackled and given a higher-pitch by the use of Skype and Facetime, the pixelated pictures not doing any justice to the angular jaw and the proud brow set above a proud nose and thin lips
. He thinks of what it’d be like to kiss them; would they be chapped? Or slicked with saliva and chapstick? Would they be rough and giving not an inch? Or would they be soft and sweet, giving and taking in equal measure as they found the perfect counterbalance for them.
He tips his head back into the stream of water, closing his eyes as the shampoo is washed from his hair with water and dexterous fingers. He wonders how long it will take for this man to hate him, to hate the scars of his body and the paranoia in his eyes. He wonders if this man could love him at all.
He washes the shampoo from his hair, keeping his eyes firmly closed so he can pretend that the stinging burn of them is from clenching them tightly; he doesn’t fool himself.
As he shuts the shower off, the water having cooled, and wrapping his towel around his waist, he wonders what the man will do when he sees him. Will he run, coward and unwanting at the very sight of him? Or will he be brave, standing tall and confident as he looks into blue eyes and says hello? Even as the towel drops, water sliding down his flesh, he thinks.
He’d always been able to talk to him, in a way he’d never been able to talk to his mother or his friends in the squad. He had been too closed off, heart icy and blocked, but then he’d met him on the internet, through a website about medic training and he’d been hooked with the man.
Eventually, they’d started chatting and it was like a whole new world had opened up to him. He’d always been able to talk, night or day, come hell or high rain, the words had flown from his lips like cheap poetry, weaving through the air like some sort of spell, filtering his soul into perfect light as he lay his heart bare to his stranger and got so much more in return.
Perhaps the distance had been what he needed, he thinks, wiggling into a pair of jeans. It had certainly made talking about himself easier, like his stranger had been a friend his entire life and he’d never felt more at home, never felt more at ease and it had been a heady feeling, still is a heady feeling, one he doesn’t want to give up. Because his stranger makes his heart pound, his breath shorten and his palms sweat in a way he’d never thought someone could.
It’s only when he pulls a white short-sleeved shirt over his head and it settles against his exposed ribs that it really sets in.
He’s seeing his boyfriend for the first time today.
Well, he’s not sure if you can call a man you’ve been internet dating for a little over two years and whom you’ve never actually met your boyfriend, but he knows, deep in his gut and right in his heart that this man is for him. He doesn’t know why, but he can feel it through his ankles and his wrists, sees it in his heart and his chest and when he is in his strangers arms, he’s never letting go.
His smile is blinding as he kicks on his combat boots and throws a leather jacket over his shirt, glasses perched on his nose.
He picks up his bike keys.
It feels as close to flying he’ll ever get again.
Jim Kirk flies and he only wants to be caught by one man.
…
The terminal leaves a lot to be desired.
It’s crowded, packed really, with screaming children and harried parents and though Jim isn’t really in the business of being irritated a lot and very easily, his nerves are already shot, they’re on a blades razor edge and it feels as if one small push will be all it takes for the edge to be lost and he’ll blow up this entire airport if he’s pushed the wrong way. It makes him feel a little too big for his skin, and he paces outside Terminal 3, Gate 7 with all the grace of a hungering lion, leather jacket pulled taught against his shoulders as his dog tags jangle musically beneath his too big shirt.
He stands, stiffly, just in front of the gate when an irate mother with a quiet child glares at him one too many times, fists clenched at his side as he waits. Waiting is something he was never good at.
“Jim?” A loud voice says overhead and he freezes. “Jim, is that you?”
He knows that voice.
Something opens deep inside of him as his fists clench tighter, shoulders stiffening as his eyes screw up tight. It feels like a pleasant bruise, soft and tender and encompassing the skin around it with a sort of soft beauty that shouldn’t be possible in its ugly origin and it aches, aches like a gunshot that’s never been properly healed but a good ache, that leaves his head light and spinning, palms sweaty and slipping across tender flesh and eyes fluttering.
He turns and his skin stretches as the world begins anew.
“Bones?” He chokes out, a statement more than answer because how could he not recognise that beautiful man with his dark ruffled hair and his whiskey amber eyes and that smirking mouth that Jim has longed to feel on his for months. He’s never been as close as he has now.
He stands still for a minute, drinking him in and he knows, knows that the pixelated images never did do his justice. Not near enough justice. He’s taller, by one or two inches, with broader shoulders and thicker arms, with a proud nose and thin lips, arching cheekbones under tanned skin leading to a sturdy neck and broad, thick shoulders that leave a shallow pool of lustful shame in Jims stomach that he doesn’t pay attention to as he stares at the man.
He’s dressed in a thick leather jacket thrown over a grey hoodie, loose jeans for the flight over almost indecent as one of those broad, large hands grip a large back bag thrown over his shoulder. He’s beautiful, brighter than the sun and the moon and Jim is breathless, breath escaping from him in soundless exhales as his lips curl into a shy smile.
“Jim,” Leonard McCoy says, and it’s reverent, wanting and knowing in the same pull and push and they stand for a moment, simply staring at each other in a distant kind of awe. This is the closest they’ve ever been.
“Bones,” he says, pushing up his glasses and wishing to God he’d forgone them today. He smiles shyly, ducking his head at the older man and staring at him through his lashes. Leonard looks a little stunned, eyes wide and mouth somewhat slack. He clears his throat loudly.
“Jesus, kid,” He breaths, a large hand reaching out to cup one of Jims cheeks. “Keep smiling like that and I’ll-,” He falters for a moment, and something strange passes in his eyes, but then his thumb slowly strokes under Jims eyes and Leonards lips are smiling. “Just keep smiling,” He says and something mends in Jim, like a broken piece he hadn’t notice.
“Hi,” He says stupidly, because it’s all he can see as he leans closer into Leonards hand. His breath catches as he smells Leonard’s cologne, the forest and pine filtering through his senses. Leonard smiles just as stupidly, eyes bright and fixed on Jim as his back bag fell to the floor unnoticed.
“Can I kiss you?” Leonard asks, low and quietly, and it’s not in shame, Jim realises, but it’s in a sort of reverence Jim uses for the stars, uses when he stares up at the planets after a nightmare and he can’t get back to sleep. A hot flush grasps his tanned cheeks and his palms slicken a little. His tongue peeks out, wetting his drying lips and his breath hitches when he notices Leonards eyes zeroing in on them.
“Yes,” He whispers, just as low and just as secretive and he’s blinded by the sun in Leonards eyes.
Leonard smiles for a moment, bright and just as shy as Jim before a hand tangled in Jims for a moment, all calloused fingers and broadness before it skims up Jims arm, playing patterns over the leather of his jacket before skimming lovingly onto the scars of his jaw, cupping Jims cheeks in his broad hands as he dips down for a moment-
There’s a sharp pain for a moment, and Leonard swears lowly beneath his breath, pressing their foreheads together to ease the pain as their noses collide clumsily. Jim catches Leonards eyes for a moment and they giggle helplessly, mild pain in their foreheads all but forgotten as they stare at each other.
“Christ,” Leonard say. “That’s a good start,” But he’s teasing and his hands are back onto Jims cheeks and it feels a little like coming home.
“Well,” Jim says breathlessly, quiet and low as he watches Leonard watch him. “You’ll just have to try again,”
“Supposed I’ll havta,” Leonard drawls quietly and then he’s bending down somewhat, hands cupping Jims cheeks softly and then his lips are on Jims-
The world falls from under him. It’s soft and sweet, a mere press of chapped lips on slick lips but it feels like home, it doesn’t feel rough and hard. No, this is nights in front of a fire, curling up beneath a well beloved and well worn blanket stretched over aching legs as a storm rages outside. This is rain lashing against tightly secured windows and wind howling outside as time slows, this is chimes tingling musically in front of the roaring fire place, this is drawling accents speaking Shakespeare, this is the tangle of dog tags over a grey hoodie as Jim grips this beautiful man by the lapel of his leather jacket and refuses to let go ever again.
Leonard pulls back for a moment, cheeks flushed and then Jim draws him back in again, both hands clutching Leonards leather coat in shaking hands and the world implodes. Jim kisses him with a fever he can’t explain, something deep and solid from the pit of his stomach and he keens in the back of his throat as Leonard clutches Jim to him, as if he never wants to let go. Jim clutches that jacket tighter as he tilts his head slightly, feeling the sharp scratch of stubble catching his shaven cheeks, the catch of Leonards nose over his glasses. Something nips at his lower lip and he exhales sharply-
Leonard pulls back, breathing heavily with swollen lips and half lidded eyes as he rests his forehead against Jims and simply pants breathlessly against his lips. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” He confesses, gripping Jim’s face in both broad hands.
Jim smiles, soft and shy. “I know,” He says, and it feels like the world is in the very palm of his hand.
…
The walk from the terminal is strange and familiar in both turns.
They stay close together, cheeks blushed and taking turns to glance at each other from the corners of their eyes only to flush brightly when they’re caught by the other. Leonard grips his bag tightly over his shoulder but his face is loose and gentle even as he purposely knocks Jim with his free shoulder. Jim looks away for a moment, blush burning his cheeks and something burns low in Jims stomach, tight and coiled, as he sees the gentle look in Leonards eyes.
He bumps Leonard back softly, leather against leather and their hands find each other unerringly. Leonards are bigger than his, though his are rougher, and they almost drown his and Jim has never felt as safe as he does. He curls his fingers into the spaces left between Leonards, pressing soft marks into the tanned flesh as he thinks of flowers between graves of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms and wonders if this is how they felt when they realised that they’d be going home, hot and uneasy but so relieved.
He looks up when they enter the parking lot, cars and vans and motorcyles crowding the tarmac, from where he had been staring avidly at their interlocked hands.
“Where’s ya’ car?” Leonard says, turning round with a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t let go of Jims hand.
Jim throws his head back and laughs gaily, bright and golden and he smiles at Leonard, dangling the keys of his bike teasingly. “And miss and having you pressed close to me?” He teases, tugging on Leonards hand still tightly wrapped around his. “Fat chance, Bones,”
Leonard rolls his eyes, but his tone is fond. “Should’a thought a’ that, shouldn’t I?” he askes rhetorically. “C’mon then, brat, take me ta’ this death trap a’ yours,”
Jim grins, quick and blinding, and it makes a faint blush bloom on Leonards cheeks. “C’mon!” He says, gripping Leonards hand all the tighter and practically dragging him towards a battle ship grey with small gold writing on the rear hulking beast of a motorcycle. “This!” Jim waves his hands dramatically. “Is the Enterprise II!” He says it proudly, affection and fondness in his voice that makes it hard for Leonard to reign in the urge to kiss him again. Jim runs a fond hand over her sleek paint work, longing in his face that Leonard doesn’t understand.
Jim turns to him, flashing a bright smile before straddling the bike in an easy movement, loosening his hand from Leonards reluctantly. He picks up a bland black helmet, turning to give it to Leonard who was hovering over him.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “This is for-“
Leonard grasps his face in his two large hands again, and Jim shivers at the feel of callouses against his scarred cheeks, a flush blooming like flowers across his cheek and down his chest as Leonard looks down at Jim with dark whiskey amber eyes before Jim can feel slick lips pressing against his again and the world ceases to exist. He moans quietly in the back of his throat, helmet dropping unharmed to the thick tarmac as Jim crawls a hand up Leonards thick biceps, hidden beneath leather and a thick hoodie that Jim vaguely wonders if he can steal later. He twists around until he’s sitting, side straddling the Enterprise, opening his thighs easily as Leonard traces an inquisitive tongue across the seam of their lips, moving ever closer to stand in between Jims splayed thighs.
“Bones,” Jim gasps breathlessly, mouth still pressed against Leonards.
Leonard breaths heavily, pulling back for a moment before diving straight back in, sealing his lips to Jims in a world stealing kiss that leaves Jim breathing star dust and bones that lighten him towards the moon. His hands drop to Leonards trim hips, gripping them softly to urge Leonard ever closer to him as a fire burns in his stomach as Leonard groans in the back of his throat at the first sensation of tongue against tongue.
“Jim,” Leonard groans softly, softly tearing saliva wet lips from saliva wet lips as if to get some semblance of reality back.
Leonard leans his forehead against Jims, hunching down at the height difference as his hands gently cradle Jims face as though it’s something precious. Something in Leonards soft gaze makes Jim think that’s what exactly Leonard thinks of him, that’s he something precious and loving and it makes something bloom in his chest, wild and loving that runs unchecked.
“Hi,” Jim breaths foolishly, as Leonard strokes his thumb under Jims eye again. Jim closes his eyes, tilting his head up to savour the touch. It moves like soft electricity over his skin, soft and wanting and loving in all the same pull and it makes something yawn wider and wider in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want this to end.
“Jim?” Leonard whispers lowly, and Jim smiles slightly when he feels Leonards breath skitter over the high arch of his cheekbone, tickling slightly.
“Hmmm?” He offers, closing his thighs somewhat around Leonards, keeping the other close and himself grounded as his head threatened to drift into space with the sheer pleasure he was feeling. He wonders how he could have ever doubted this man.
He feels movement against him, though Leonard never moves his hands from Jims face nor tries to get out from his bracketing thighs. A mouth is pressed wetly to the sharp edge of his cheekbone before it’s pressed close to his ear.
Leonard’s breath hitches for a moment. “I love you,”
It feels like a punch to the gut, like a metal fist has just burrowed into his chest and gripped his heart it its cold grip even as the sun shines and the moon rises each night and falls each morn only to find itself more in love with the morn that it’ll ever be with the night.
“I love you, too,” He whispers back, and it’s a promise and a warning and an oath all in one and Jim can tell by Leonards softening expression he heard it al and even more. His heart swells.
He grins suddenly and impishly and Leonard pulls back somewhat to raise an eyebrow at him. “What?” He asks wearily, and Jim beams.
“At least we didn’t bump heads this time,”
“Oh my god, get on the bike, ya’ infant,”
He laughs and when Leonard wraps his thick arms around his waist, one hand clutching his stomach protectively even as another found his covered dog tags and clutched them, it felt a lot like home.
He thinks he doesn’t have to be afraid again.