Fandom: Star Trek XI/Reboot/AOS/nu!trek
Rating: NC-17 because boys kiss and that's dirty.
Warning(s): Sex in a hammock (Hey, maybe someone tried it and failed and now reading about it causes PTSD flashbacks. Stranger things, folks). Real Warning: First time man-on-man sex writing. You have been warned.
Summary: Only a fool would be discontent on such a world, tucked into an airy bungalow situated on a private beach, with ten days between himself and anything resembling work, and with views like this. Jim and Bones take some well-deserved shore leave.
Because the jim_and_bones meta discussions are evil and this is all their fault.
There was a time in his life when the thought of long periods of time in the artificial environment of space ships or space stations was both horrifying and unnatural. Despite years in the sterile, controlled atmosphere of hospitals and surgical suites, the buildings and dorms of the Academy – deliberately designed to mimic the recycled air and carefully maintained life support of living and working in space – had felt awkward and uncomfortable. It was all mental, of course – modern hospitals used the same air filters and self-contained atmospheres of a ship, controlled and sterilized and regulated, and he'd never once felt the disconnect between himself and Earth while in a hospital. Despite knowing that, it had taken months for him to feel truly comfortable in any building but Medical at the Academy; only the coming of San Francisco's winter – wet and damp and cold, at least to a Southerner – had forced him to close his window at night.
That time was long gone now, and Leonard was in a position he'd never, not once, imagined he'd ever be in: more comfortable in the mechanically maintained environment of a space ship than in the open air and solid earth of a temperate planet. If Jim found out, he'd never live it down.
Jim was never going to find out.
The feeling, thankfully, passed quickly. Why should he feel odd on a beautiful, semi-tropical world with two suns and fourteen hours of daylight, with white sand and pristine aquamarine oceans and fruit-bearing trees full of bright, jewel-like birds? Only an idiot would dwell on how comfortable a man who once swore he'd never leave his home world could become on a floating tin can in space after just six months. Eleanor McCoy might have raised a snarky, grumpy, sarcastic bastard of a son, but she did not raise a fool.
And only a fool would be discontent on such a world, tucked into an airy bungalow situated on private beach, with ten days between himself and anything resembling work, and with views like this.
“You better be wearing sunscreen, you idiot. Do you want skin cancer?”
There was a mutter from the sprawled mass of golden limbs and sleek muscles that might, under different circumstances, answer to the name James T. Kirk. The words – if there had been any, instead of an inarticulate sound of pleasure – were lost in the fabric of the hammock that Starfleet's youngest captain had his face pressed into, leaving his back exposed to the soft honeyed sunshine of Nirva.
Since Jim couldn't see him, Leonard – not Bones, no matter how often he thought of himself as such, damn the kid – smiled at the sight. None of the stresses of Captain lingered in Jim's shoulders or neck, where he'd taken to carrying the weight of command these last six months. There was no instant coming alert at the slightest noise, ready to pull on a uniform and reclaim his chair at a moments notice; no dozen PADDs with reports and updates and mission assignments constantly in reach. It was the most relaxed Bones – damnit, Leonard – had seen the kid since the Academy, and even then it had been rare and something only he got to see.
“Was there any words in there, Jimmy?”
Of course, he was one to talk about overworking and job stresses. Jim might be responsible for the lives and safety of a crew of hundreds, but he was in charge of their health and wellbeing – and the Engineering department alone made his job a constant reiteration of some variant of 'what the fuck did you do this time?'. When you added the senior staff – lead cheerfully by their captain and his faulty sense of self-preservation – and a staff of sixteen was not enough. Then there was the paperwork – stupid to call it that since there wasn't a piece of paper on the ship outside of Jim's old-fashioned books – which was a daily exercise in sadomasochism with him as Starfleet's bitch.
So, maybe, under torture, he'd admit that this was the most relaxed he'd been since the Academy, as well. That going barefoot on warm sand, wandering from house to the shore without having to bother putting on more than the loose shorts he wore, was somewhere after hundred-year-old liquor and before lazy, all-day sex on his personal scale of pleasurable experiences. If he didn't complain a little, Jim would either wonder if he was sick – or be insufferably smug over the fact that their shore leave plans had been his idea.
If Jim got all smug, it'd ruin his enjoyment of the view. He might only be wearing shorts – Jim couldn't be bothered even with that.
Best part of shore leave? Definitely the view.
“No harmful UV rays here – ozone's too thick,” Jim turned his head slightly, revealing a single eye; the blue rivaling the ocean forty feet away.
He snorted. “You wanna test that – go right ahead.”
“Spock's geeks told me so.”
“Jim, you took more science credits than half his department – you're a geek.”
“That's not a nice thing to say to someone who rocked your world – twice – today.” He might not have been able to see the kid's mouth, but he knew that damned smirk was there. Of course, it was hard to argue when one of the 'twice' involved a blow job so hot and dirty that his vision had actually whited out for a moment.
He'd let Jim get away with being smug that time.
“Since when am I nice, kid?” Looking was great – touching was better. Leonard – oh, fuck it, he was Bones and had been since that first shuttle ride and he was tired of correcting his own thoughts like he'd been doing for months, though the first person not Jim who called him that was getting a very thorough physical complete with vaccinations – wandered over to the stretch of cloth perfectly positioned to get the most sunlight. The kid's impossibly blue eye laughed at him, which he pretended not to notice since that would force him to say something sarcastic.
He prodded Jim's shoulder, warm and relaxed and – yes, that was sunscreen, whadda ya know he could be taught – and grumbled, “Shove over, kid.”
“Nope, no clothes allowed.”
Normally he'd bitch, growl, mutter about infants and oversexed captains, and either shove the kid himself, or resist until Jim took matters into his own hands. It'd be pleasant – fine, mind-blowing though he'd never say that to Jim whose ego already defied the laws of physics, thank you – and would ultimately end up with them naked and at ease and probably sleeping in the damn hammock.
'Normally' wasn't after six months of opposing schedules, of separate rooms for the first time since they'd met. It wasn't senior officers' quarters that should have been peaceful but after three years of falling asleep to the quiet sounds of Jim's breath and restless limbs moving over standard-issue bedding and quiet murmur of him talking to himself while reading or studying – just seemed empty, quiet, and lonely. Normal wasn't joining Jim in bed after double shifts when he was too tired to put on pajamas, much less take advantage of the fact that Jim hadn't either and was naked and warm but even if he wasn't, Jim had already passed out.
'Normally' didn't include eleven broken ribs, two concussions, six allergic reactions, a kidnapping, and a Klingon daqtagh that resulted in a punctured lung, liver, and spleen, five pints of transfused blood and eight hours of surgery. Those scars would fade to nothing within another few weeks and one more dermal regeneration; now they were still faintly visible to his trained eye, raised and pink against Jim's golden skin and standing out against the older, faded scars of a hard life.
'Normally' shouldn't be having to schedule time into both their weekly calendars where they could share a meal or paperwork or time in the rec room just so they could see each other outside of the briefing room and sickbay and without anyone interrupting for an hour or two because, goddammit, sharing a bed was fine but he wanted to see his best friend as well as his lover, and Jim must have felt the same way because he'd told his yeoman that nothing short of imminent explosive decompression or a tear in the fabric of space-time was sufficient for interrupting any time blocked out in his schedule as Bones no matter how much fucking paperwork he had.
Except, of course, for the fact that that was normal – now, at least. Or at least for as long as it took for Jim and, to a lesser extent, the Enterprise crew to prove that they were more than a one-trick pony and a PR campaign and a recruitment tool all in one. Which, considering the idiocy of half of Starfleet Command, could be a while.
It was probably time to accept his new normal.
He couldn't see Jim's mouth, but he knew the kid was grinning as he stripped off his shorts by the way the corner of his eye crinkled. He had, after all, made a dedicated study of one James T. Kirk, including all his many facial expressions. “Move over, kid.”
“Gladly.” They fitted themselves together with ease, long limbs tangling comfortably after long practice. Their mouths followed, pressing together in long, drugging kisses and teasing nips. Jim shifted away momentarily, but before he could question why, a hand slicked with coconut-scented oil slid over his hip and towards his cock.
“Wouldn't want you to burn anything important, would we?”
Since the smug, cocky little brat was jacking him with one oiled hand and cupping his balls with the other, his response wasn't as witty as he'd like.
“Fuck! Jesus – yes!”
He'd get the little bastard back for chuckling later. Much later.
He rolled onto Jim, pressing his weight against him and rubbing their cocks together. Jim moaned, laughter fading from his face as he focused on the sensation. Bones thrust against him again, using the motion to lean forward and snag the bottle of oil with his fingers. Hands slid over his ass, gripping and spreading suntan lotion in the same movement while he poured oil into his hand.
Rutting, kissing, and fingering a tight asshole all at the same time took coordination and more brain cells than most men had while they were erect much less Jesus Christ hard enough to hammer nails, but he was a surgeon and Jim could multitask like a fucking Vulcan. The hammock didn't allow for much leverage and the taunt fabric was slick enough that Jim moved with each thrust, but it was enough – Christ, more than enough – and the finger Jim had buried knuckle deep in him and the two fingers he'd hooked against Jim's prostate more than made up for the lack of traction.
There was a bed forty feet away, a shower just beyond that. The bungalow had multiple pieces of furniture far better suited than the hammock, ones that would provide leverage and the opportunity for a good, hard fuck. It didn't even occur to either of them to move, to pause their lazy, uncoordinated, oil-slicked bout in the bright sunshine.
He knew Jim was close when he started babbling, gasping out demands and pleas and “oh, Jesus, Bones, please just...fuck yes, like that, more, don't stop” before his hole clenched down on his fingers and hot come splashed across their chests and Bones' cock. Jim grunted and gasped through his orgasm before latching onto his neck right – Jesus, yes, right there – biting and sucking in exactly the spot that drove him out of his goddamn mind and thrusting his finger deeper while using his other hand to press against his perineum and fuck yes.
When they calmed down and were sure that no, neither of them were blind, thanks and yes, despite the panting they could, in fact, still breath, and were sweaty and slick with more than ridiculously scented sun oil and able to move enough to shift into their usual post-coital position which was absolutely not cuddling no matter what anyone might say, Jim chuckled into his throat – where the kid habitually burrowed in and yes, nuzzled.
“What are you laughing at, infant?”
“Best. Shore Leave. Ever.”
“Shut up and sleep like a normal human male after sex.”
The kid – smug, insufferable, arrogant, beautiful bastard – laughed, relaxed and content and so goddamn Jim that he had to agree. He just wouldn't tell Jim that.
He kissed the spot behind Jim's ear, settling in for a well-deserved nap.
“We should go surfing this afternoon.”
“Are you nuts? It's not bad enough we live on a floating tin can in space with only bulkheads between us and a vacuum, you want to get up on a piece of fiberglass and deliberately go looking for the biggest waves to let them smash you into the ocean for fun?”
“Nope – I just wanted to hear you rant about it.”
No one could argue with the fact that Jim deserved to be dumped out of the hammock and on his ass in the sand – no one.
Jim's laughter carried across the beach and the water, bright as the twin suns above them and just as warm.
Bones held onto his scowl, despite the heat and soft pleasure and amusement that laugh filled him with.
He wouldn't tell Jim that, either.