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you know the drill. prompts, pics, starters, tfln: do it and receive rp.
you know the drill. prompts, pics, starters, tfln: do it and receive rp.
you know the drill. prompts, pics, starters, tfln: do it and receive rp.
you know the drill. prompts, pics, starters, tfln: do it and receive rp.
don't threaten me with a good time
[He would know. It isn't a good time if Jim Kirk hasn't been beaten, burned, stabbed, shot or any combination of the above. Regen units work for quite a bit of things, but that's only when you use them and his body is a map of scars from things he didn't have the chance to fix or didn't think important enough to bother with. He's seen enough doctors, usually from his own reckless stunts to spot the good ones from the bad, and maybe that's why he latched on to Bones in the first place. Because the man was a damn brilliant doctor, and while he still complained the entire time, he still patched Jim up at two am because he broke his nose again in a bar fight or cracked a rib during hand to hand practice.
That part isn't going in the proposal either. I need a good doctor because I'm good at breaking myself. And being a doctor really isn't the meat and potatoes of the reasons why Jim has latched on to him like a spider monkey. It's like a nice salad on the side. Something he needs but doesn't always want. The downside to be a reckless adrenaline junkie dating a doctor is that it's hard to lie to his partner when something's wrong.
He's very aware of the fact that this conversation has spiraled out of his control. All because his mom made a comment and it was like kickstarting the engine while forgetting to fix the brakes. It's definitely her fault this happened. So see if he gets her anything for her birthday. Or gives her a son-in-law clearly. Say goodbye to the dream of grandchildren from him. But that's what Sam was for, the wholesome family and continuing the Kirk name and Jim was good at making explosions so people would always pay attention to them.]
I wouldn't really call that a discussion. And I don't see you giving any ideas except for maybe 'don't piss off the admirals, Jim' because that's something I'm good at.
[Or maybe he's more like a dog with a bone and just drop it, Jim drop it. But he can't. Because he doesn't just let things go, and he doesn't know how to talk about something without starting a fight.]
How do you feel about space piracy? You'd still be stuck with me for life except because of felony criminal charges instead of a ring and a panic attack. We could even put an eyepatch on the Vulcan.
that's the only threat I make
Space Piracy.]
I'll tell you another thing you're no-good at-- this discussion your insisted on.
[That's right, he was giving Jim ownership of it. Full custody, as it were. He'd walked in here, ready at most for a very good time exploring the map of Jim's body, old faithful scars and trigger points along a web of nerves he liked to play instrumentally, a little too fond of the myriad of noises Jim could make in the rare moments where words failed him. At worst, he'd expected a stiff drink, a hot shower, and a good lie-in.
What he got? An emotional ambush, where it seemed they were both being held hostage, a gag shoved so far down their emotional gullets that neither one could scream or spit out anything useful.
Space. Fuckin'. Piracy.]
You propose, and as if that didn't feel ridiculous enough, you go ahead and ask if I'd like to commit treason and be forced to live with half-blind Spock for the rest of my days! I didn't get a damn medical degree and bring your moronic ass back from the dead so I could betray an inter-galactic army all because you read too many damn children's stories and want to wear a feather in your cap! [He could feel his temper rising. Admittedly, it was a common enough feeling.
Helped to smother down all the other ones, which he threatened to feel a little more acutely. Things like hurt or care. Those always came in too clear, too much to him. They were easier to tamp down under the guise of annoyance than to face, more often than not, even if they tended to steer the wheel anyway, unacknowledged.]
My no-ideas have been better than your ideas, so far! Hell, Jim-- if the options are marry you or treason, you'd better go pick out a white dress. Or else kiss my ass goodbye, because if this is all you've got, like hell I'm not getting a transfer.
no subject
[That's really not the point, James Tiberius Kirk and you know it, but something about always having to have the last word on a topic. But honestly, he wouldn't ruin his first officer's good eyes just because he wanted to do something rather funny. That's just cruel to think he would. Spock wouldn't let him put an eyepatch on him ever if they're being honest.
Or they could talk about something that's way bigger, way more serious and entirely his own fault. Though he's willing to lay a fair amount of the blame at Winona's feet for bringing it up at all. She knows him. She had to know it would set him off down a dark and messy path.
An angry Bones is one he can deal with, because usually (and almost always Jim Kirk's fault) Bones ranges from annoyed to livid and it's like a language that Kirk has gone out of his way to master. There's sixteen different meanings of the eyebrow wagging. At least seven different meanings of damnit Jim. It's the silence that trips him up.]
I also think you'd be wearing the white dress because I outrank you but ok.
[Again. Not the point. Kirk also tended to be on bottom more often then not which would, if they were sticking to antiquated ideas of sex and gender roles, put him in the dress.]
Bones, I love you. I want you to bitch at me for the rest of my life. It doesn't make any difference to me if we fill out a piece of paper and exchange rings or if we continue on the way we have been. I can't do this without you. I don't want to do any of it without you. So you better fucking believe I'd commit treason to keep you. Marrying you seems a little less dramatic.
/7 years later...
Bones' hand is already half-raised at that retort, unsure if he wants to gesture widely in a fan of fingers to an invisible audience as if to ask you see what I have to deal with?, or if he wants to put that hand up to cover his chin, his nose bridge, his forehead, or his entire damn face. The hand gets caught in limbo instead and just stays... up. As if he could catch the next quip clean out of the air. Because of course there'd be a next quip.
(It's always a tell, when he's anxious. How goddamn stressed his body gets, each muscle moving suddenly and without his direction, then holding still and stiff as a board. Tense. There's tenseness all over-- his jaw, his shoulders...)
And then there's the dress comment and it's all Bones can do not to storm out of the damn room. Or pour a third, fourth, and fifth drink and resume his inevitable descent into alcoholism.]
Nothing with you seems less dramatic.
[He managed through his teeth, a good portion of the romance in Jim's statement having been shafted by the first three sentences out of his mouth. Bones is trying, against his better judgement, not to explode. Not to get too defensive, too angry, while Jim is obviously trying his best not to downplay, not to focus on asides that make all this less vulnerable. Less real.
Both of them, for the record, are doing a shit job.
But they're trying.]
I'm not getting transferred and letting you run this damn ship into the ground, yourself inside it, with some sparkly-eyed new recruit with a perfect GPA and no experience as your CMO.
[It's the closest he can get to romance in return, with his fuse so burned out. Nearly to the quick, where the dynamite sat in wait.]
I am not getting a transfer and I am not committing treason and I am not letting you be a damn fool all alone in space with only Commander Hobgoblin looking over your shoulder, with the one eye you're leaving him.
So you'd better get a preacher and a sheet of paper for me to sign. 'Cause I guess that means we're getting married.
[And given half a second more to think about it, to let the adrenaline wear down, he might change his mind and bolt instead. He was going with the inertia, for now. When there was no better plan, you take the one that's as good as it gets.
He thought more of their relationship than that, and that could bug him later. For now, this.]
i will wait forever i told you!!
Shitty partner that he is, Kirk blinks several times in surprise when McCoy actually agrees to his suggestion. Proposal. It was a proposal. He asked someone to marry him and they said yes. He's not drunk, drugged, dying, under attack or forced. Because really, if you think about it, they're as good as married right now anyway. They spend most nights together, except for the ones where one of them (usually Jim) pisses the other off and they retreat to lick their wounds. Jim doesn't want anyone else, despite how much he shamelessly flirts with anything that moves. He knows for a goddamn fact that Bones isn't going anywhere. He meant it when he said he couldn't and didn't want to do this without his best friend-cum-lover.
It will just be official, with rings and a certificate and an iron clad promise they are in it for good and Starfleet won't separate them. It's win-win-win-win-lose the next time Bones has a panic attack about it. Or the next time Jim almost dies.
He starts to smile after a breath, like a goddamn girl and he crowds into McCoy's space, because he knows Bones is stressed and anxious. Can read his body language like a goddamn book and he catches that hand lingering in the air to keep him from retreating, lacing their fingers together like an anchor. There'll be no hiding it or playing dumb when someone asks if they're together after it's official. It won't be a rumor or an open secret. He could slide his hands in Bones' pockets and lay a big, messy, wet kiss on him in front of everyone whenever he wanted and it would piss Bones off so much and it would be so hilarious.
That's reason enough to do it.
And all the romantic, loving, committed partners stuff too.]
Commander Hobgoblin could do it. Technically. As XO. Just a thought.
[Kirk doesn't really want to keep talking about his first officer though, especially not as he hooks his free arm around McCoy's shoulders. He's good and stuck now. Tough luck.]
Another drink, dinner or blowjob?
[The Kirk special, if you will. They've talked about their feelings and they've figured out where to go from here so he moves on from talking about it to more fun things.]