[Bones wasn't one for complicated metaphor where he could avoid them, but damn if Jim Kirk wasn't like a star. Not the tinseltown kind, not the word-of-mouth mega-sensation that was wrapped up in more rumors than an Orion Girl, and not in the sense that Jim was the star of every vocal dissertation on How To Save A Planet By Following Literally No Rules. He was all those things too, but no. Jim Kirk was like an actual goddamn star. Astronomical in some ways, a thousand moving parts that maybe shouldn't fit all holding itself together by its own gravity and tossing warmth and light out at anything it could. Always moving inside itself, always the center of the action. Suspended in the cosmos, and now, reaching across time-- people would learn about Jim Kirk, the way they'd learned about his father, the way they studied light from a hundred-thousand years ago.
The problem with a star was, you leave it alone for long enough? And it just burns up all its fuel. Implodes, all at once, just like that. Goes supernova, bang. And that wasn't good, for the star or anyone orbiting it. With Jim, you could usually tell it was coming-- it tended to be punctuated by flurries of motion, fake, one-note laughs or shrugs, and cursing.
Whatever was happening here, Bones felt like it might spiral. And he damn well didn't want that.
Facts later. Feelings now, Bones decided, setting that drink more firmly down and stepping up to Jim, pulling up to his full height and holding his eye bbfore his hands would blindly find his belt-- or the waistband of his pants, if he wasn't wearing one-- and in one strong motion, would tug him in. Close. Hip to hip, pelvis to pelvis.
He wasn't going to let this devolve into simple sex, not just yet. But that reminder that Jim didn't need to carry all his own gravity? That he could give, he hoped, by leaning in to give him a solid kiss to his mouth, one finger threading its way through a belt loop.
He'd linger there a moment, tasting the alcohol on him, before pulling back just enough to level a raised brow at him and a concerned scowl. Not scolding-- just worried.]
Hell, they can demote you. Like it or not, that's how the military works. Easier still, they can promote you to some cushy job, or transfer one of us. Look, call this whatever the hell you want to call it-- it's no skin offa my nose. But I ain't going to pretend to be cavalier when the stakes are whether or not we lose one another. I don't like being on a bucket of bolts sitting on top of a truckload of photon torpedos, but knowing you're on the same bottle rocket to hell makes me feel a whole lot better about it.
So let's take a deep breath and decide what to do.
[Because 'fuck the rest' didn't tend to work in the military-- which, "science adventurers" or not, was a whole lot like what Star Fleet really was. And despite Jim's track record of making 'fuck it' work for him, that wasn't a gamble Bones was willing to take if Jim was about to get bold about announcing this.]
all of your tags are beautiful, i'd wait all month.
The problem with a star was, you leave it alone for long enough? And it just burns up all its fuel. Implodes, all at once, just like that. Goes supernova, bang. And that wasn't good, for the star or anyone orbiting it. With Jim, you could usually tell it was coming-- it tended to be punctuated by flurries of motion, fake, one-note laughs or shrugs, and cursing.
Whatever was happening here, Bones felt like it might spiral. And he damn well didn't want that.
Facts later. Feelings now, Bones decided, setting that drink more firmly down and stepping up to Jim, pulling up to his full height and holding his eye bbfore his hands would blindly find his belt-- or the waistband of his pants, if he wasn't wearing one-- and in one strong motion, would tug him in. Close. Hip to hip, pelvis to pelvis.
He wasn't going to let this devolve into simple sex, not just yet. But that reminder that Jim didn't need to carry all his own gravity? That he could give, he hoped, by leaning in to give him a solid kiss to his mouth, one finger threading its way through a belt loop.
He'd linger there a moment, tasting the alcohol on him, before pulling back just enough to level a raised brow at him and a concerned scowl. Not scolding-- just worried.]
Hell, they can demote you. Like it or not, that's how the military works. Easier still, they can promote you to some cushy job, or transfer one of us. Look, call this whatever the hell you want to call it-- it's no skin offa my nose. But I ain't going to pretend to be cavalier when the stakes are whether or not we lose one another. I don't like being on a bucket of bolts sitting on top of a truckload of photon torpedos, but knowing you're on the same bottle rocket to hell makes me feel a whole lot better about it.
So let's take a deep breath and decide what to do.
[Because 'fuck the rest' didn't tend to work in the military-- which, "science adventurers" or not, was a whole lot like what Star Fleet really was. And despite Jim's track record of making 'fuck it' work for him, that wasn't a gamble Bones was willing to take if Jim was about to get bold about announcing this.]