[It's a good thing that Jim didn't always think aloud-- Bones' eyes would probably get stuck permanently in the backs of their sockets if he had to suffer through the light-novella style storytelling of their Gay Space Pirates arc as it unfolded in the verdant imagination of Jim Kirk, dodging the law and making a colony for themselves on some backwater planet, where somehow the later chapters wouldn't end in the entire former bridge-crew stark-raving-mad and trying to choke one another to death.
For all his "logic" and calm demeanor, he had a feeling Spock would be the first one in line to lose his cool. He'd seen their resident Vulcan do it before. And that man had a grip.
He was comfortable in that dual gravity just like that though, in encroaching on Jim's space, feeling the vague outline of his weight and gait, smelling the shampoo off his hair. It's a sort of stance he's grown to like, one hand still at his hip in an almost possessive grip, except the fingers were too soft around the curve of his hip-- protective, then. No one could, or ever should, possess something as free as all that energy. But you couldn't stop the natural human curiosity to put a firefly in a jar from time to time, to look at it up close, before you let it go again.
And then it came. The suggestion.
If Bones had been idly rocking to the dual pull of their two bodies, he stopped now. A fret in his brow from wondering what the hell Jim was about to serve up to 'force' Starfleet to keep them together grew dead on his face.
They could get married.
That's what Jim was saying. Without saying it. Because what he was actually saying was this is a fool-made, but fool-proof plan. A marriage based on current needs, not anything as 'icky' as romance.
The problem here was two-fold. First: Bones was a romantic, for all his griping. Second: Bones was dead afraid of marriage. He'd seen what it could do to people. He'd seen what it'd done to him. He'd seen a happy enough relationship with strong enough foundations torn down to cores he didn't know they'd had. He'd spent years putting the drywall back up, and Jim Kirk, well-- he always found a crawl space back in, didn't he? He'd chipped away, found a vent, and landed solidly in the living room of the little hearth in his heart Bones had rebuilt, where the fire was always burning for humanity, for his patients, for life, for love-- but so rarely afforded it to himself, so rarely extended to other long-term guests.
Married. Hell.
Releasing him, almost like a god damn zombie, he'd turn back to the table, back to his drink, which he'd pluck up and finish in one. Not a word. Not an expression. Not a sound.
A surefire sign he was stressed to hell, when someone had managed to strike him silent.
Marriage ruined things. It could ruin this. It could ruin them, and when space wasn't an option, there was nowhere left to run.]
no subject
For all his "logic" and calm demeanor, he had a feeling Spock would be the first one in line to lose his cool. He'd seen their resident Vulcan do it before. And that man had a grip.
He was comfortable in that dual gravity just like that though, in encroaching on Jim's space, feeling the vague outline of his weight and gait, smelling the shampoo off his hair. It's a sort of stance he's grown to like, one hand still at his hip in an almost possessive grip, except the fingers were too soft around the curve of his hip-- protective, then. No one could, or ever should, possess something as free as all that energy. But you couldn't stop the natural human curiosity to put a firefly in a jar from time to time, to look at it up close, before you let it go again.
And then it came. The suggestion.
If Bones had been idly rocking to the dual pull of their two bodies, he stopped now. A fret in his brow from wondering what the hell Jim was about to serve up to 'force' Starfleet to keep them together grew dead on his face.
They could get married.
That's what Jim was saying. Without saying it. Because what he was actually saying was this is a fool-made, but fool-proof plan. A marriage based on current needs, not anything as 'icky' as romance.
The problem here was two-fold. First: Bones was a romantic, for all his griping. Second: Bones was dead afraid of marriage. He'd seen what it could do to people. He'd seen what it'd done to him. He'd seen a happy enough relationship with strong enough foundations torn down to cores he didn't know they'd had. He'd spent years putting the drywall back up, and Jim Kirk, well-- he always found a crawl space back in, didn't he? He'd chipped away, found a vent, and landed solidly in the living room of the little hearth in his heart Bones had rebuilt, where the fire was always burning for humanity, for his patients, for life, for love-- but so rarely afforded it to himself, so rarely extended to other long-term guests.
Married. Hell.
Releasing him, almost like a god damn zombie, he'd turn back to the table, back to his drink, which he'd pluck up and finish in one. Not a word. Not an expression. Not a sound.
A surefire sign he was stressed to hell, when someone had managed to strike him silent.
Marriage ruined things. It could ruin this. It could ruin them, and when space wasn't an option, there was nowhere left to run.]