blue flamingos


Fandom: Star Trek 2009

Category/Rated: Slash, PG13

Year/Length: 2010/~1539 words

Pairing: McCoy/Kirk

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.

Warning: Transgender McCoy

Author's Notes: This was written for kanata's transfic mini-fest, which is part of 3 weeks for dreamwidth, and I'm going to use the prompt I filled as a summary, since it works best: ftm!McCoy & Kirk, even when the physical transition is easy, explaining it to your best friend when that best friend is Jim Kirk? Not so much. (feel free to go to the slashy place if you like). This totally went to the slashy place.

Beta: Beta'd by scrollgirl

Feedback: Yes please. Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.


"Oh," Jim says, opening McCoy's pants, and not in the good way that he had when McCoy had pinned him against the door and kissed him, or when he'd pushed McCoy down onto the bed and crawled over his body. "Oh, um," Jim adds, sitting back on his heels where he's straddling McCoy's thighs.

McCoy lets his head drop back against the pillows, and fights the urge to sigh. So much for Jim Kirk's much vaunted anything-with-corresponding-genitals-and-the-ability-to-consent policy. "Any other intelligent comments you want to make?" he asks, tensing to push Jim away, or at least zip his pants again. He should have known this was a bad idea – did know it was a bad idea, but passing his flight practical without panicking or throwing up made it seem less of one than it's turning out to be. One more reason to hate flying.

"Wait a minute," Jim says, shifting his weight to hold McCoy in place, and finally looking back up to his face. A year of spending most of their time together, and McCoy still can't read Jim's face all that well. "Don't – I'm just surprised."

"Surprised," McCoy echoes, not sure if he means it to be sarcastic or not. He fastens his pants, but doesn't try to shift Jim off him. What's the point – it's not like they haven't had more awkward conversations, or been in more intimate positions while they had them, up to and including half naked like they are now. "Can't be the weirdest thing you found in someone's pants."

"No, but I thought –" Jim starts, cocky grin sliding back in place, then apparently thinks better of whatever it was and shakes his head. "What about your ex-wife?"

McCoy blinks. He wasn't expecting that question, at least. "What about her?"

Jim makes a hand gesture that could mean anything from an elephant to imminent asteroid attack. "Is that why you got divorced?"

"No, Jim, my wife didn't divorce me because I don't have a dick," McCoy says, and it sounds so stupid out loud that he wants to laugh. So much for his best friend the genius.

"I meant did she divorce you because you want one," Jim says. He touches McCoy's chest, almost too light to feel. "You've still got scars here, kind of. Like it was recent."

McCoy shrugs as well as he can on his back. "Dermal regeneration isn't always perfect." They're too faint to see unless someone's looking real close. Like Jim is. "Trust me, our divorce had nothing to do with me getting surgery, or the other way around."

He'll explain, if Jim keeps pushing, about sitting Jocelyn down when they got to the point that being naked together seemed likely and talking her through it – surgery that he wasn't sure about yet, how things maybe didn't quite match up to what she was expecting. How to make it work. That she nodded, said okay with a shrug.

No, his transition had nothing to do with how their relationship ended.

"But you've got a daughter," Jim persists.

McCoy gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. "This isn’t the twentieth century, Jim. You'd have bankrupted yourself buying condoms if it was."

Jim grins at him for a moment, then rolls off him and flops down on his back next to McCoy. It's a risky prospect, given how narrow the dorm beds are, even in the single room that McCoy's medical license earned him, which Jim seems to realize, shifting until they're pressed close together, skin against skin. "How come you haven't finished?" he asks.

"How do you know I haven't?" McCoy asks. He's looking at the ceiling, but he can still feel Jim looking at him, can picture the appraising look on his face, like he can't quite figure out if McCoy's joking or not.

"Have you?" he asks, like there's no way McCoy might not want to share this.

"I don't know yet," he says. He's glad, now, that he can avoid looking at Jim, because this part he does find it awkward to talk about. "I…" There's more, in his head, but he doesn't have the words for it. Maybe it's too complicated to put into words.

"You don't want to, um, match?" Jim asks, curious, like he's asking about something interesting McCoy's mentioned from a class.

"I'm not a pair of shoes," McCoy says, nudging closer to actually insulted than he has been so far. "You're telling me, all the people you've slept with, they were exactly like you expected?"

"No," Jim says slowly. "But most of the humanoid ones, yeah." He rolls onto his side, puts a hand on McCoy's bare arm before McCoy can get really riled up. "Not that I'm trying to make it sound like I think you're not – like I think it matters."

Not human, McCoy finishes in his head. It should hurt, but he knows Jim's telling the truth – to him, people are people, even when they're not Earth-human people. He's hardly going to start making an exception for McCoy. "So that's why we're talking about it instead of having sex?" he asks anyway, not quite ready to let it go.

"I told you, I was surprised," Jim says, a touch defensive. "I never met anyone who did that before."

McCoy can't help laughing at that, even when Jim's hand tightens on his arm and he says, "What's so funny?" like he's offended.

McCoy turns his head to look at him, fighting to control what he suspects might sound like slightly hysterical laughter. "For someone who likes to make out he's such a man of the world, you can be real innocent, kid."

"I am a man of the world," Jim protests, predictably. "Several worlds, actually, if we're going by –"

"We're not talking about your sexual conquests right now," McCoy says, cutting him off, because Lord knows, that's a topic Jim could lecture a forty credit course on. "I'm just saying, I'm not the only trans person at Starfleet. Not even the only one in our intake."

"Really?" Jim asks, back to curious. "Who?" McCoy raises an eyebrow at him, which Jim can apparently read better than McCoy can read Jim, because he ducks his head a little. "I'm just curious."

"Maybe it should tell you something that we've been friends for a year and this is the first time you heard about me?" McCoy suggests.

He's not sure what he was expecting Jim to say in response to that, but he sure wasn't expecting Jim to look back up, his eyes bright and warm, his smile touched with something McCoy would call shyness if it were anyone else, and calls pleasure instead, since it's Jim. "Does this mean I'm the first person you've told here?" he asks.

"Yeah," McCoy says. He's hardly told anyone – his records have listed him as male since he was a teenager, when he started taking hormones, and he's never really looked feminine, specially when he's dressed. Most people have never even thought to wonder.

"Oh," Jim says. His smile's sweet, now, there's no other word for it, his voice warm and pleased. "Thank you," he adds.

"Didn't exactly have much choice," McCoy points out, but that's not completely true – he's not giddy in love with Jim or anything, could have just gone on being friends without sleeping together. And he knows how much Jim loves to know things – how much it means to him when people share something. He suspects sometimes it's why they're friends, that McCoy started off their acquaintance with his divorce and his aviaphobia, sharing. "But you're welcome."

Jim makes a small, pleased sound, and puts his head down on McCoy's shoulder, wrapping an arm around his chest. McCoy pulls him closer, and they lie there for a while, still half dressed in their red uniforms amidst all the detritus of dorm living that sometimes makes him forget that he's nearly thirty, a divorced father with a medical license, not a wide-eyed kid like most of the other cadets.

"You know," he says eventually, "I'm starting to think this might be the longest Jim Kirk was ever in bed with someone without getting off. I'm not sure if I'm insulted or touched." He is, in fact, oddly touched, but damned if he's telling Jim that.

Jim kisses his shoulder. "I was waiting for the moment to come back," he says.

McCoy rolls them over so he's the one straddling Jim, and Jim's eyes flash with interest. "I thought you didn't believe in waiting for the moment," he says.

Jim rests one hand on his thigh and holds McCoy's eye. "Tell me what you want," he says, almost solemn.

"Someone make a note – Jim Kirk asked what to do in bed," McCoy says, instead of any of the dumb, sentimental things that makes him want to say.

Jim reaches up, pulls him down for a slow, easy kiss. "Tell me," he says against McCoy's mouth.

McCoy does.

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