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Everyone's heard of sex pollen.
It's just one of those stories you grow up knowing, and can't remember where you first heard about it, or from whom. Light years from Earth, there's a gorgeous little planet, inhabited by gorgeous humanoids. They cultivate a species of flora that looks harmless to the eye and the sensor reading. Get too close, though, and you'll find yourself with a face full of pollen, and a libido that's damn near uncontrollable. At least until you've fucked a sufficient number of natives. Or the girl – or guy – you've been wanting secretly for half the voyage.
It's a great story, especially if you like a little plot with your porn. (Which McCoy does, he's not ashamed to admit. On occasion.)
The thing is, though, it's just a story. No one actually finds planets like that. Or, if they have, they're keeping quiet about it. (So Jim says, and he'd know, since that's exactly the sort of thing that would pique his interest.)
So it's not one of many things McCoy worries about when Jim and his team of scientists and security officers beam down to a new planet. He worries about hostile fauna, toxin-producing bacteria, cultural misunderstandings that lead to violence, seismic unrest, unexpected Klingons, Jim's allergies… The list goes on and on (McCoy isn't paranoid – space exploration is dangerous, damn it) but sex pollen isn't on it.
And yet.
When Jim returns early from an away mission, and calls McCoy to his quarters, insisting that it's urgent - but not so urgent that they need to meet in Sickbay… When McCoy shows up, breathless with concern, medkit banging against his thigh – because God knows what the kid's gotten himself into this time … And he finds Jim splayed across his bed, not only naked as a jaybird but very obviously aroused, his very first thought is:
Fuck! Sex pollen!
As the door slides shut behind McCoy – nearly catching the back of his shirt because he's struck immobile by the sight of his captain, his best friend – Jim turns his head and smiles. It's a bewitching smile; McCoy has seen it often enough, mostly aimed at other people, and it almost always bodes ill for someone (usually McCoy). He swallows, and something cold settles in the pit of his stomach, even as his dick gives a half-interested twitch because – fuck. Look at him.
"Hey, Bones." There's a low purr in Jim's voice that sends shivers up McCoy's spine. As he watches, dumbstruck, Jim reaches between his legs, wraps his fingers around his erection, and tugs. He grunts and his eyes flutter closed for a second, and damn it, a tiny whine escapes McCoy's half-parted lips. He snaps back to his senses a moment later when Jim says, his eyebrows cocked, his lips smirking, "Could use a hand here, Doctor."
Because that's just stupid. It's a stupid, stupid line, and McCoy is a doctor, damn it, and he doesn't have time for this bullshit (and there are ethics, and fuck his own desires) when Jim is obviously suffering from some alien aphrodisiac. While Jim runs his hands over his body (God, those thighs, God, that flat belly and sculpted chest) McCoy fumbles with his medkit and if he drops a few things onto the carpeted floor, at least he manages to get the tricorder out and running in relatively short order.
Of course, in order to actually scan Jim, he has to get closer to him. Clinical detachment, he tells himself as he inches toward the bed. Damn it, man, use the same clinical detachment you would if he were having any other kind of negative reaction to alien flora.
(Of course, the truth is that he's never managed perfect clinical detachment, not where Jim is concerned.)
A cursory scan reveals nothing to be physically the matter with Jim. His blood pressure is up, of course, and his heart rate is elevated. His brain activity is consistent with that of someone in a state of arousal. McCoy scans him again, and gets the same results. As he's scanning him a third time – because there has got to be something really wrong with the kid, something McCoy can cure with a hypospray – Jim makes a sound of frustrated impatience.
He's fast and graceful as a leopard. He fucking bounds off the bed and winds himself around McCoy, who just stands there like an idiot because what the hell is he supposed to do? Clock the kid with the tricorder? "Jim," he croaks, feeling completely ineffectual.
Jim's skin is hot, almost feverishly so. His pupils are completely blown; McCoy gets a glimpse of them, and of his own horror reflected in their depths, right before Jim mashes their mouths together.
God, that mouth.
If McCoy is honest with himself – and he supposes he has to be, since he's honest with just about everyone else, except when he's lying through his teeth – he has to admit that he's had fantasies like this. Not with sex pollen necessarily, and definitely not with Jim out of his senses. But, naked? Kissing him, teasing McCoy's lips with the tip of his tongue? Exploring his body with deft, eager fingers?
Yeah, he's had this fantasy.
Later, McCoy will feel guilty about how long he lets this go on. (Just a few seconds, really. Not even a minute.) He'll kick himself for being so weak, for being a bad friend, a bad doctor.
Later.
Now, he's more concerned with peeling Jim off him. The kid is strong. Tenacious. McCoy turns his head, trying to evade those hungry lips. He pockets the tricorder and wraps his hands around Jim's wrists. He can feel the rapidfire pulse against his fingertips, the quick, hot breath against his cheek. He can see the pollen too: tiny gold grains, finer than sand, dusting Jim's upper lip. McCoy doesn't want to think about what could happen if any of them get on him.
"Please, Bones," Jim whispers, trying to cling to him. "I need you."
"I think what you need," McCoy grunts, "is a cold shower." He should be relieved, he supposes, that Jim summoned him and not someone else. Not that anyone aboard this ship is likely to take advantage of the captain – or anyone else – when he's impaired like this; officers and crew are screened pretty thoroughly. But some of the newer men and women – the ones who don't know Jim so well – might get the wrong idea. Or they might freeze up and find themselves doing things they don't really want to do, because Jim is the captain. Or they might hurt Jim, trying to restrain him.
The thought makes McCoy shudder.
"Bones," Jim pants, wriggling against him. "C'mon, let me touch you. I need to touch you, why won't you let me? Don't you want me? I love you."
The words sear, but McCoy ignores that as he tries to maneuver Jim in the direction of the bathroom, awkwardly twisting his body to avoid the press of his erection.
"I love you," Jim gabbles, kissing his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe. "I love you, Bones. Let me show you. I want to suck you. 'Til your eyes roll back and you're about to explode. Then I wanna fuck you. Please let me fuck you. It'll feel so good, it won't hurt, I'd never hurt you, I just need—"
Though he can't possibly know what he's saying, there's desperation in his voice, and in the frantic thrusts against McCoy's thigh. McCoy palms the bathroom door open and hauls Jim bodily over the threshold. Jim seizes the opportunity to drape an arm over McCoy's shoulder and pull him down into another kiss. This time, McCoy fails to get his lips clamped in time, and gets a mouthful of tongue. Choking, he heaves Jim into the shower stall, fumbling for the controls.
The water comes on in an ice-cold spray. Jim squawks, and McCoy shoves him away. He hits the back of the stall with a thump, and for a moment he just stands there, stunned. Water pelts McCoy's face and the front of his uniform, but he doesn't move. His hands are shaking. His lips still buzz with the memory of Jim's kisses.
Slowly, very slowly, Jim blinks. His mouth opens, but it's a few moments before he's able to say anything. Then it's just, "Bones?" in a broken little croak.
"Stay there!" McCoy barks. And he wishes he'd turned away sooner, or averted his eyes, because then he wouldn't have seen Jim flinch like he'd been slapped. "Just stay there," he mutters. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't leave, and don't, for the love of God, call anyone else."
McCoy steps out of the shower stall, drags his fingers through his hair, and tries to think. Who beamed down to the planet with Jim? Would it make more sense to mobilize his nurses, or seek people out himself? Should he take a phaser?
He thinks longingly of the bottle of Kentucky's finest, stashed under his bed. What he wouldn't give for a drink right now. Just to wash the taste of Jim out of his mouth.
"Bones? I need—"
"Use your goddamn hand!" McCoy thunders and slams the shower door shut. He has work to do.
He uses his medical override to lock Jim in his room and sets the computer to monitor his vitals, before hurrying down to the transporter room. Mercifully, it doesn't take long to get everything sorted. Of the six members of the away team, only Jim beamed back early, and he and Lieutenant Inazaah were the only two who'd stopped to smell the bright yellow flowers. Inazaah's reaction to the pollen is considerably different from Jim's, thanks, McCoy supposes, to her Thaanish physiology. He gives her a hypo and some salve for the hives, then sends her to quarters with instructions to comm Nurse Chapel if her skin doesn't begin to clear in an hour or so.
It's a good twenty minutes before he finds himself in Jim's quarters again. As soon as the door closes behind him, he's made aware of the extent of his idiocy: he can still hear the water in the shower running. Swearing under his breath, hoping with all his heart that he's wrong, and Jim isn't that stupid, McCoy hits the panel on the wall beside the bathroom door so hard that he actually bruises his hand.
He was right; Jim's that stupid.
McCoy finds him huddled in the shower stall, his head bowed, icy water pelting his splotched skin. His knees are hugged tight against his chest, his toes are curled – and for some reason, it's the sight of those curled toes that break McCoy.
"Jim," he says, and when the kid doesn't look up, he steps into the shower stall, reaches over him, and turns off the water. "Jim," he says again, dropping to his knees. He takes him by the shoulders and finds that his skin is like ice. "I didn't mean—" he starts to say, but he has to stop because he did mean it when he told Jim to stay here. He was angry with Jim, disgusted with himself, frightened – and yeah, part of him meant it.
McCoy reaches behind him for a towel. Draping it over Jim's shoulders, trying awkwardly to pat him dry, he mutters, "I'm sorry."
"You did the right thing." Jim's voice is muffled by his knees. "The rest of the away team. Fletcher and the rest. Are they—"
"Back on the ship, and perfectly fine. Except for Inazaah, who's going to be fine. Gave Spock sort of an abbreviated report, which he didn't exactly appreciate, but… If you think he needs to know about your exceptionally poor taste in men while under the influence of alien pollen, you can tell him about it yourself. And no, I didn't do the right thing. I should've—" Then he just bursts out, "Damn it, Jim! The one time you follow my orders to the letter—"
"Yeah, well." Jim raises his head finally. His lashes are clumped together, and his bottom lip looks raw, like he's been worrying it with his teeth. He lets out a wheezy breath. Needlessly, he says, "I'm not gonna attack you again. Just in case you were worrying."
"I wasn't. I know. Come on. Let's get you warmed up."
He starts to haul Jim to his feet, but the kid hangs back and casts his glance sideways, like he's afraid to meet McCoy's eyes. "What if I'd hurt you?"
This is all wrong, McCoy thinks. Jim doesn't play the what-if game. With mounting alarm he says, "You didn't. All right?"
"It's not all right. I could have."
"Jim…" McCoy supposes reluctantly that it's true; if he'd wanted to, Jim could have done real damage. Strange that that hadn't even occurred to him before. But now isn't the time to be thinking about it. Jim's teeth are starting to chatter, and McCoy can feel him shivering through the towel. "You didn't," he says again flatly. "Just – you didn't." Something else occurs to him and his frown deepens. "You remember what you did. Do you remember everything you said?"
Jim is quiet.
Fuck, McCoy thinks. It hurts, but he makes himself say, "Don't worry about it. You were out of your head. You're not – I know you didn't mean it. It's all right. Come on."
Jim remains silent while McCoy towel-dries his hair, then helps him into his pajamas. He allows himself to be tucked into bed, where he curls up on his side, his cheek pressed against his folded wrists, the covers drawn up to his shoulder.
"Computer, raise room temperature by ten degrees. Lights, five percent," McCoy says. It's only mid-afternoon by the ship's reckoning, but Jim seems completely drained. Sleep is the best medicine right now. "I can get you some tea," he offers.
Jim shakes his head.
"I'll send you my report, the one I gave Spock. You might wanna make some adjustments to it. Later."
"Yeah, later."
McCoy looks down at him. In the dimness, his expression is hard to read, but he seems to have sunken into the bedding. For about a second, McCoy is seized by the wild fear that Jim is somehow slipping away from him, that he's losing him. Of their own accord, his knees bend and he finds himself seated on the edge of Jim's bed, reaching for him. His fingertips brush the cool, rough skin of his jaw, find that tiny scar just below the corner of his mouth – and then he freezes. He can feel Jim's wary gaze on him.
"Things don't have to change, you know, just because of this." McCoy's voice sounds strange, detached, like a recorded message. "Between us, I mean. These things happen."
"I guess."
"It was a kiss. It was words. That's all. Frankly, I'm surprised we never kissed at the Academy. All those drunken nights. And—" He's aware that he's babbling. He's aware too – though he's trying to ignore the fact – that his hand hasn't left Jim's face.
"Yeah," says Jim. Then, with a weak, bitter laugh: "Bones, why are we pretending? You know damn well I meant every fucking word. You know I wouldn't've called anyone but you, because there's no one on this ship … I mean, there's no one anywhere…"
"You'd rather suck until his eyes roll back?" McCoy supplies dryly.
Jim's breath hitches. "Yeah."
There's his out, right there. He can get up and walk away, and they'll pretend that nothing's changed, and maybe, after a while, they'll forget that they're pretending. He can get up. It's simple mechanics. All he has to do is push himself up off the bed, and onto his feet.
Simple and impossible.
McCoy curls over Jim. He slides an arm under his shoulders, turning him slightly. Their foreheads touch, then the tips of their noses, then their lips. It's a gentle kiss. There's no tongue involved, no teeth. McCoy's one desire – for the moment – is to breathe a little warmth back into Jim.
It's hard to tell if it's working. The kid lies so still, his lips barely moving beneath McCoy's. But – no, it has to be working. He can feel the quickening breath, the rhythmic heartbeat. They're in the same place, he and Jim. It's kind of a fucked-up place, but they're together. Somehow, without either of them really trying, they got here.
"What do you need?" McCoy whispers. When Jim doesn't answer right away, he strokes the cold, damp hair. "It's okay. What do you need from me right now? Do you need me to stay?" Telling himself that he won't be hurt or surprised if Jim says no - he'd revealed things he hadn't meant to reveal, after all, and is clearly still shaken - McCoy waits, his fingertips lingering close to Jim's cheek, but not touching.
"What I need is to get up and get dressed. I should go see the away team, give them some excuse for just leaving them down there. I don't know what to tell them, but I need to tell them something. I can't tell them I left them to get laid."
"Tell them you were taken ill. That's not a lie, and you'll be confirming what I implied when I talked with them. Later, though. I'm taking you off-duty for the rest of your shift." When Jim's jaw tenses, McCoy adds, "You're coming down from quite a high. You damn near gave yourself hypothermia. We need to make sure you're really all right. I want you to rest. I need you to rest." Crooking his fingers, he strokes Jim up and down the sharp angles of his jaw, until he relaxes. McCoy's relief is intense and leaves him dazed. Has it really only been half an hour since Jim first commed him?
"Is that the only thing you need?" Jim's voice is low, rough. He's really asking something else. McCoy knows, even if Jim can't say the words right now.
"For now," McCoy replies carefully. "But I was thinking…" He hesitates for just a moment while he considers. Then he makes up his mind. "I'll stick around until you fall asleep. If you can sleep. I want you to try, at least. Then I need to finish my shift. Then … I'll come by. I'll bring some food from the galley, maybe some soup, and then…" He shrugs, as if to say, We'll see what happens. He feels lightheaded; it's probably good that he's sitting. We're doing this, he thinks. Good God, we're doing this.
"Sex pollen," McCoy continues dryly as he ghosts his knuckles over Jim's cheeks and brow. "And we all thought it was a legend. You looked it up." He quirks his eyebrows and gets a flash of a smile in response.
"I remember," Jim says, with a trace of his customary élan. "Still. Don't forget I'm kind of a legend too."
McCoy kisses his mouth again. This time Jim responds enthusiastically, tilting his head for a better angle, tugging his hands free of the blanket so he can touch McCoy's face and neck.
And, all right, maybe these things do happen. Not to normal people. Not even to normal Starfleet officers (they just get purple hives). But to anomalies like Jim Kirk? And by association, Leonard McCoy? Yeah, maybe.
5/13/2010