stop. look. listen.
You get what you ask for.
The alarm clock chimes up half an hour before her shift. Her actual shift, one she is scheduled for, as opposed to others she works, because sometimes she’s as bad as Jim when it comes to doing everything on her own. Of course, her workaholism is only going to make her tired and grumpy (not much change there, then), and possibly ruin her social life (her what?), while Jim is going to get himself killed one of these days, so, not comparable.
Speaking of Jim and doing stupid things (and how often do those come up in her train of thoughts in a close proximity? Really fucking often), his breathing as he lies next to her is calm and even, and she goes from panic to tenderness back to panic again, and wonders if she’d be able to sneak out before they have to talk.
It’s really unfair, to have this awkward feeling after they didn’t sleep together but, she figures, it’s not fucking around with James T. Kirk that poses a problem; half of the Academy had done that and there was no residual awkwardness. And fuck, considering that about two thirds of the ship’s crew, if not more, is made of fresh recruits, if sleeping with Kirk left any residual awkwardness, this mission would be pretty damn impossible.
In hindsight, she should have slept with him years ago, while she still wasn’t sure she even liked him, but he was pretty entertaining to be around.
“Bones, negative thinking makes the bed uncomfortable,” Kirk mutters into her good pillow that he seems to have stolen somewhere during the night. “So fucking stop that.”
The worst thing, one she hadn’t even considered before now, is that she can’t even kick him out of her room because a) he’s still injured, and b) it’s the beginning of the busiest shift on the ship, there’s no way no one would notice him leaving her room, and the entire ship is already convinced they’re fucking. (Well, half of the ship is. The other half thinks Jim’s doing Spock, and has Lena alternatively banging Scotty or Christine. She’s not sure how to react to those rumours, but Jim finds them rather amusing. He would.)
“I decided you might have to sneak out through the window,” she tells him as she stands up. Sleeping in her clothes was a very bad idea, but not as bad of an idea as sleeping with her head pulled into a knot at the back of her head, because now they stick in every possible direction, defying gravity.
“Spaceship, Bones.”
“Tough, Kirk,” she shoots back and closes the doors of her bathroom with a considerable force.
Only after a long moment does she consider that Jim Kirk might consider this an invitation to her shower. She had seen him make more idiotic leaps, and yes, it is possible. She freaks out when she realizes she wouldn’t mind it all that much and promptly locks the doors.
Denial and avoidance are a full time job, and she already has two; the doctor thing, and making sure Jim doesn’t get himself killed.
By the time she comes back out, Jim is more or less fully awake, and helping himself to her secret stash of coffee. Of all her secret stashes, this one is least likely to fuck up with his meds, which is a good thing, but on the other hand, is the one that’s hardest to replenish. Any idiot can get alcohol from the still Scotty set up in the engineering, but getting good coffee? Priceless. And impossible.
“Do you have any milk?” he asks, and she gives him a look.
“I’m a doctor, not a barista,” she says automatically, and Jim raises his mug in a silent acknowledgement. “And as your doctor, obliged to tell you that you shouldn’t mix caffeine with the meds you’re on.”
“Not talking to my doctor now, Bones. Talking to my,” he hesitates, briefly but noticeably, and she grits her teeth, “best friend.”
“Jim, is this going to be this weird thing between us?” she asks, trying for amused and casual, and probably hitting the ballpark of incredibly nervous. “So I kissed you, big deal.”
And of course, of all the moments Jim fucking Kirk could choose to be serious, some of them really, really good moments for that, he chooses this one.
“It kind of is.”
See what she means? Fucker.
“Fine, have it your way,” she mutters and steals his coffee (well, her coffee actually, thank you very much) and downs it in one go, then proceeds to tie her still wet hair into a ponytail. “I’ll be expecting you in the infirmary at the end of the shift, so I can look at that leg.”
He nods and doesn’t argue, not at all, and it makes her highly suspicious. “Jim?” she asks, and the next question dies on her lips as he stands up and kisses her, nibbling at her lower lip, and fuck it, no wonder he was able to get a better half of the campus to sleep with him, if he can kiss like that.
It’s all very annoying and unhelpful.
“Damnit, Jim,” she mutters, even as she’s using every available ounce of willpower not to be undoing his pants. “Do I really have to tell you how much of a colossally bad idea this is?”
“You can try,” he says, warm breath against the skin of her neck, sending her pulse racing. “I promise to take your reasons into consideration before I ignore them,” he adds, and fuck it all to hell, she can even feel his lips curl up into a smile.
“Starting with the regulations…” she says and stops, and laughs at the same moment he does, because he just might have melted her brain completely with just a damn kiss if it conjured an image of Jim Kirk obeying regulations. Sure, he knows every single rule by heart; she had long suspected that as one has to, to break them so methodically and efficiently. “You are injured,” she says instead.
“Yes, I think the crutches add to my enigmatic image.”
“Kirk, you don’t have an enigmatic image.”
“Sure I do. I’ll add an eye patch, and I’ll be a dashing space pirate.”
She’d actually pay good money to see Spock’s reaction if Kirk makes good on this promise.
“So, your issue is with the timing, not the kiss per se?” Jim asks seriously, and that’s what she’s talking about, the damn fucker is too sharp for his own good.
“Didn’t say that.”
“Not protesting that much either,” he points out and takes a step back, head tilted in a serious consideration. She wants to protest the loss of skin contact, and then remembers that this is what she was trying to achieve. Need to keep up. “Lena, why not?”
“Because one of these days, your stupidity is going to get you killed, and I’ll probably have to watch as it does?” she asks, shrugging. “Or, you know, I’ll kill you myself. It’s also likely.”
“If you hadn’t killed me so far, considering all the stupid shit you’ve seen me doing, chances are you won’t.”
He does make a good point. She had seen him do some extremely stupid shit.
“Tell you what,” he says, in that tone that says he has an idea that he thinks is just brilliant and which will end up in either a brawl, or… no, it usually ends up in a brawl. “I will go and do the captainy things now.” Which meant, annoy Spock a lot. “But at the end of your shift, you and I are going to have a dinner in the rec room three. And by dinner I mean date.”
“I really think all the concussions finally did something to your brain,” she tells him.
“That’s not a no,” he points out. “And since it’s a date, I’m going to bring wine, and you’re going to wear a dress,” he says the last one with a shit eating grin, and she’s not an idiot, she knows when the battle is lost.
“You show up with wine, I’m punching you. And I don’t even own a dress uniform, what makes you think I own an actual dress?”
“Terms can be negotiated,” he agrees breezily. “I am even prepared to let you tie me up, like you wanted.”
“What are you…” she starts and stops, shaking her head. It’s sometimes advisable to just let him have his way and wait it out. He’ll get bored eventually, and even if he doesn’t, then, well… “Fine. Fucker,” she adds for a good measure. “Dinner.”
How bad of an idea can it be? No, don’t answer that.
Speaking of Jim and doing stupid things (and how often do those come up in her train of thoughts in a close proximity? Really fucking often), his breathing as he lies next to her is calm and even, and she goes from panic to tenderness back to panic again, and wonders if she’d be able to sneak out before they have to talk.
It’s really unfair, to have this awkward feeling after they didn’t sleep together but, she figures, it’s not fucking around with James T. Kirk that poses a problem; half of the Academy had done that and there was no residual awkwardness. And fuck, considering that about two thirds of the ship’s crew, if not more, is made of fresh recruits, if sleeping with Kirk left any residual awkwardness, this mission would be pretty damn impossible.
In hindsight, she should have slept with him years ago, while she still wasn’t sure she even liked him, but he was pretty entertaining to be around.
“Bones, negative thinking makes the bed uncomfortable,” Kirk mutters into her good pillow that he seems to have stolen somewhere during the night. “So fucking stop that.”
The worst thing, one she hadn’t even considered before now, is that she can’t even kick him out of her room because a) he’s still injured, and b) it’s the beginning of the busiest shift on the ship, there’s no way no one would notice him leaving her room, and the entire ship is already convinced they’re fucking. (Well, half of the ship is. The other half thinks Jim’s doing Spock, and has Lena alternatively banging Scotty or Christine. She’s not sure how to react to those rumours, but Jim finds them rather amusing. He would.)
“I decided you might have to sneak out through the window,” she tells him as she stands up. Sleeping in her clothes was a very bad idea, but not as bad of an idea as sleeping with her head pulled into a knot at the back of her head, because now they stick in every possible direction, defying gravity.
“Spaceship, Bones.”
“Tough, Kirk,” she shoots back and closes the doors of her bathroom with a considerable force.
Only after a long moment does she consider that Jim Kirk might consider this an invitation to her shower. She had seen him make more idiotic leaps, and yes, it is possible. She freaks out when she realizes she wouldn’t mind it all that much and promptly locks the doors.
Denial and avoidance are a full time job, and she already has two; the doctor thing, and making sure Jim doesn’t get himself killed.
By the time she comes back out, Jim is more or less fully awake, and helping himself to her secret stash of coffee. Of all her secret stashes, this one is least likely to fuck up with his meds, which is a good thing, but on the other hand, is the one that’s hardest to replenish. Any idiot can get alcohol from the still Scotty set up in the engineering, but getting good coffee? Priceless. And impossible.
“Do you have any milk?” he asks, and she gives him a look.
“I’m a doctor, not a barista,” she says automatically, and Jim raises his mug in a silent acknowledgement. “And as your doctor, obliged to tell you that you shouldn’t mix caffeine with the meds you’re on.”
“Not talking to my doctor now, Bones. Talking to my,” he hesitates, briefly but noticeably, and she grits her teeth, “best friend.”
“Jim, is this going to be this weird thing between us?” she asks, trying for amused and casual, and probably hitting the ballpark of incredibly nervous. “So I kissed you, big deal.”
And of course, of all the moments Jim fucking Kirk could choose to be serious, some of them really, really good moments for that, he chooses this one.
“It kind of is.”
See what she means? Fucker.
“Fine, have it your way,” she mutters and steals his coffee (well, her coffee actually, thank you very much) and downs it in one go, then proceeds to tie her still wet hair into a ponytail. “I’ll be expecting you in the infirmary at the end of the shift, so I can look at that leg.”
He nods and doesn’t argue, not at all, and it makes her highly suspicious. “Jim?” she asks, and the next question dies on her lips as he stands up and kisses her, nibbling at her lower lip, and fuck it, no wonder he was able to get a better half of the campus to sleep with him, if he can kiss like that.
It’s all very annoying and unhelpful.
“Damnit, Jim,” she mutters, even as she’s using every available ounce of willpower not to be undoing his pants. “Do I really have to tell you how much of a colossally bad idea this is?”
“You can try,” he says, warm breath against the skin of her neck, sending her pulse racing. “I promise to take your reasons into consideration before I ignore them,” he adds, and fuck it all to hell, she can even feel his lips curl up into a smile.
“Starting with the regulations…” she says and stops, and laughs at the same moment he does, because he just might have melted her brain completely with just a damn kiss if it conjured an image of Jim Kirk obeying regulations. Sure, he knows every single rule by heart; she had long suspected that as one has to, to break them so methodically and efficiently. “You are injured,” she says instead.
“Yes, I think the crutches add to my enigmatic image.”
“Kirk, you don’t have an enigmatic image.”
“Sure I do. I’ll add an eye patch, and I’ll be a dashing space pirate.”
She’d actually pay good money to see Spock’s reaction if Kirk makes good on this promise.
“So, your issue is with the timing, not the kiss per se?” Jim asks seriously, and that’s what she’s talking about, the damn fucker is too sharp for his own good.
“Didn’t say that.”
“Not protesting that much either,” he points out and takes a step back, head tilted in a serious consideration. She wants to protest the loss of skin contact, and then remembers that this is what she was trying to achieve. Need to keep up. “Lena, why not?”
“Because one of these days, your stupidity is going to get you killed, and I’ll probably have to watch as it does?” she asks, shrugging. “Or, you know, I’ll kill you myself. It’s also likely.”
“If you hadn’t killed me so far, considering all the stupid shit you’ve seen me doing, chances are you won’t.”
He does make a good point. She had seen him do some extremely stupid shit.
“Tell you what,” he says, in that tone that says he has an idea that he thinks is just brilliant and which will end up in either a brawl, or… no, it usually ends up in a brawl. “I will go and do the captainy things now.” Which meant, annoy Spock a lot. “But at the end of your shift, you and I are going to have a dinner in the rec room three. And by dinner I mean date.”
“I really think all the concussions finally did something to your brain,” she tells him.
“That’s not a no,” he points out. “And since it’s a date, I’m going to bring wine, and you’re going to wear a dress,” he says the last one with a shit eating grin, and she’s not an idiot, she knows when the battle is lost.
“You show up with wine, I’m punching you. And I don’t even own a dress uniform, what makes you think I own an actual dress?”
“Terms can be negotiated,” he agrees breezily. “I am even prepared to let you tie me up, like you wanted.”
“What are you…” she starts and stops, shaking her head. It’s sometimes advisable to just let him have his way and wait it out. He’ll get bored eventually, and even if he doesn’t, then, well… “Fine. Fucker,” she adds for a good measure. “Dinner.”
How bad of an idea can it be? No, don’t answer that.
