Archive of Our Own (BETA rev. 2101)

::

"Why does this shit always happen to me?"

"It doesn't." Nurse Chapel doesn't even blink before answering. Usually, McCoy's fond of her wit; it makes dehumidifiers in the med lab unnecessary. "This is the first time you have been turned into a woman by alien machinery."

"Right. I'm so very thankful for this correction, Chris."

Especially now that his head is starting to hurt - on the right side only, with little flares of light inhibiting his vision. Probably a side effect of what he is calling the Great Genderfuck of 2258. And isn't this just great? He's having a migraine for the first time in his life that happens and he can't even bitch about it because no way he's running into that joke with Kirk later on.

They both turn to stare at the contraption in the middle of the lab that helpful hands had hooked up to the power supply - after it had been checked for virtual critters and AI subroutines, but obviously not before someone double-checked what the device actually did. McCoy snorts. Life Health Scan, his ass.

He takes the time to stare down at himself, too: the way his clothes are suddenly not fitting right, stretched tightly across his breasts – okay, not thinking about this right now. "Chris, I need to tell the Captain. And then I need Uhura."

She nods at the former - protocol; this clusterfuck could well count as an alien influence and force him to sign off duty - but frowns at the latter. "Some lieutenant from the xenolinguistics department already went over the language of the manual we also found in the ruins."

"And that's precisely why I need Uhura - after this." McCoy steps to the computer screen. "Computer, locate Captain Kirk."

There's no way he's doing this on the Bridge - if he's going to be relieved from duty, it needs to be done privately. He checks the system response: Kirk is in his quarters, after hours.

Small favours in a vast universe that clearly loves to bend him over.

::

"Oh hel-lo -"

The door has barely slid open. The fact that the words are out of Kirk's mouth before that flickering glance over his - his! - body is finished proves once and for all to McCoy that flirting is a physiological reflex with him.

"Shut up, Jim."

That actually does it, which is a bit surprising. But then, surprise is the Word of the Day, written into James T. Kirk's face, from the wide eyes to the soft slant of his ever-expressive mouth. "Bones. I can honestly say I didn't expect this. You. You like this."

Understatement: the Captain suffers from it. "Yes, me, exactly like this. Not one of the ambassadresses, female VIP passengers, or rescued colonist ladies who come to visit you in your quarters just about now."

That gets McCoy a slow smile; Jim is readjusting immediately, as always. "In my quarters, Bones? Or in your dreams?"

Kirk-style antics - but the truth is that McCoy started it with his little jibe. They both know that Kirk would flirt with a wall (and, in fact, once did that time on Bhenaian Prime, that one with the telepathic moss organism growing on it) but doesn't habitually bed alien women, on the ship or elsewhere - and he doesn't do more than flirt in very casual ways with any Starfleet crew members. Those outside his immediate chain of command.

Kirk is already sitting up from his bed where he'd been stretched out on top of the covers, a book tossed down next to him. Not a novel, by the looks of it. There's a starship structure on the cover, and the only bold-face word McCoy can decipher is "Systems." Makes sense; for all the ease and charm he lets the world see, Kirk also isn't stupid. Not always. Just often.

"Okay, tell me what happened." Captain mode.

There's not much to tell, but what there is, he tells: self-experiment by the Chief Medical Officer gone wrong.

"Wrong?" Kirk looks pensive, which again isn't as unusual a look for him as some people think. "Sure, you didn't plan it, but this seems a little too perfect to be a malfunction."

Perfect? He's not quite sure how to react to this description. "I was going to check it out again with Uhura. And, Jim, am I -"

"Signed off? Not for now, no. You seem fine to me. Look fine, too - hey, don't give me the old pissy look again." A smirk, but underneath, there is a serious note, too, coupled with determination. "All your reactions appear to be the same as before; I can't detect anything unusual. As long as we have no medical cases or other emergency situations that require your full attention, I won't ask you to step down officially." He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a second. "You mentioned Uhura - always a good choice. Permission to take her off her shift. Go by the bridge first, though. Third, ask Scotty. You know he talks to machines." Kirk sits back on the bed, and while his eyes are still intent, the tension in his shoulders is fading away again. "Just, do me one favour?"

"Which one?"

"Don't turn Scotty into a woman too. I can't see him turning out half as well."

::

Of course, the Bridge falls silent when he enters. A short glance around confirms that all eyes are in fact on him. Sulu's forehead is more creased than the Cygniai desert floor after a dry spell; Chekov all but falls out of his seat; Spock's eyebrows are bravely ascending towards his hairline. Of course, they often go on these kinds of hiking missions.

Time for the formalities. "Commander?"

"Dr. McCoy. In an - unusual state." If Spock calls him fascinating, he swears he will deck the green-blooded bastard. "Am I correct in assuming you have already talked to the Captain and have taken steps to further explore this reverse of your biological sex?"

'course. A Vulcan wouldn't call this a genderfuck. All proper terms, all the time: gender between your ears, sex between your legs. "Yes. On my way back to the med bay for a consultation with Lieutenant Uhura to decipher the manual to the machinery as well as with Lieutenant commander Scotty. Uhuara will be there in -" he checks his chronometer, "actually, she's already there as we speak."

"Then you shouldn't keep her waiting. Thank you for keeping us updated at all times about your special situation."

Spock would win any euphemism championship, McCoy's sure of it. He's right, though, as much as that fucks with his mind. From an objective point of view, the situation doesn't even come close to emergency levels, not on a general and not even on an individual level: He's healthy, he's functional, and he wants this to be over.

"Will do, Spock. Now, if you'll excuse me."

::

He's gotta hand it to Uhura: She does only the smallest of double-takes at the sight of him…which must look a lot like a 'her' at this point. "Dr. McCoy. I take it this wasn't intended?"

Only her tone prevents a less filtered reply. "Do I look like - no, don't answer that one."

Her lips twitch a little at that. She has a sense of humour; in her position, she just doesn't get a chance to express it as often as she probably would like. "I had the file read out to me on the way to the med lab, so I'm already aware that this is about that Hermean artefact found during the mission into the Pegasus galaxy."

Artefact. She got the fact part right: he has to deal with himself in a woman's body at some point. But not now. "Yeah, supposed to be a health scan - the notes talked about 'life' and 'preservation of society' and 'bodily integrity.' Harmless - and medically so advanced as to be promising." Promising fun times, alright.

Uhura's steps closer - to the machine; not to him. Eyes on the prize, already scanning the surface, the metal tablets laid out next to it. McCoy was a curiosity, for a moment, but what she's truly curious about is this device now.

Scientists are like that, and he's fucking glad for it.

After a short while, she looks up. "Maybe it's of some help that from what I can tell, the procedure should be perfectly safe and not pose a danger to your health."

This he knows only from the factual side; he's run every possible scan on himself immediately after waking up - with the help of Christine, who is by now busy behind the hastily drawn-up dividing curtains. Busy with running the day-to-day of the med lab in his stead, that is. He is somewhat pre-occupied.

Because he's a woman. Which in itself is fine and dandy and a great opportunity for medical study. But really, did he need another thing screwing up the mission? At least he's not relieved of his duties.

McCoy takes a breath."That confirms my own tests. Have you found out more about it?"

Uhura nods once. "You're not the first or only person ever who's had this procedure performed."

Maybe she hasn't hung out with Spock enough, after all, because isn't this simple logic? "Any people building a machine that genderswitches successfully - minus this fucking headache, I must add - used it at least once."

"If you had let me finish," the expression on her face is amused enough to remind him of Kirk, "you'd know that it goes far beyond that: from what I can tell, genderswitching was performed routinely, by every citizen of this civilisation."

But - "Why?!"

"That's a question for the xenosociologists, I'm afraid." She had taken some classes on the subject; he remembers her talking about that after Kirk's blunder with the goats and the propellers on Gù. But McCoy guesses speculation without any basis is not her way.

"Fine, I get it: The historical and cultural background isn't included in the manual. Question is: does it reverse itself?"

She bends over the computer screen again, taps it gently but nimbly a few times. "The procedure is reversible. But the time-frame is said to be -" her brow furrows for a moment in a way the old Kirk would have proclaimed adorable; as a Captain and since the Spock relationship reveal, he hasn't said or done anything like that. "Six months."

"Half a year? Unacceptable." Because it is. Starfleet would have something to say about it, if only through a million forms and documents for him to fill out. In triplicate. He might have trouble passing his combat requirements to get certified for starship duty. His balance is off and his arms don't have the reach they used to have – hell, how is he supposed to perform surgery when his limbs are unfamiliar?

"McCoy." A warm hand on his wrist, gently letting him step off his train of thought. Uhura levels a warm smile at him, too. The highly unusual touch tells him louder than words that he looks like he needs some reassurance. Great. "First, this is only a recommendation. Second, I'm sure Scotty can do something about it."

He's not a pessimist; he's a grumpy realist: "Genderfuck machines are not part of his repertoire."

"Neither are most of the issues we all encounter on the Enterprise. And yet we've always succeeded so far."

::

When Scotty shows up, he too displays a lot of optimism. Turns out that while the engineering routines that underlay the machinery are highly complex and the biological systems involved naturally sensitive – yeah, like McCoy wouldn't have known that already, and much better to boot - Scotty earnestly shares how sure he is that once he has Uhura's full notes, he will be able to work out some kinks, no pun intended, and render the procedure gentler or possibly even gradual so that it won't take six months, or even six weeks.

Imperative words are "will be," though. It "simply can't be done in an instant!"

Which brings McCoy back to Kirk. Or Kirk back to him. Depends on how one wants to view his brief message:

Off-duty? You, me, and that bottle of Thomas H. Handy Rye.

There's a PS, too (how 19th century of him).

Yes, that's an order, Bones.

::

"So how are you doing?" It's a testament to Kirk's multi-tasking abilities that he says this with the same genuine interest he's putting into the process of pouring each of them a whiskey.

"Utterly fantastic, why do you even ask?" Okay, that came out a little more stand-offish than planned. It's not that he feels more emotional - arguably even more emotional - but it might seem so from the outside, with his higher voice and a body the reactions of which he can't quite gauge yet. Still, from what he can tell so far, the whole hormonal thing is either bullshit or really dependent on the precise time in the 28-day-period. "Physically, from a physician's viewpoint, I'm 100% healthy."

"Yeah, but we both know that's not what I'm asking." Jim flashes him a grin, but charming as it is, there's no chance to mistake it for harmless.

To buy time, he reaches for the glass. Lets the liquid run over his tongue: a fruity spiciness that only teases the nose and smoothly goes down his esophagus. Kirk may be an Iowa hick kid, but at some point, he acquired a sense for good whiskey - or the money for it, anyway. "Hate to say this as a licensed medical professional, but it's a little weird. Being in a woman's body when the woman is you."

"Bad-weird?" Jim's mouth is smiling, but his eyes aren't.

Hard to tell whether this is a Captain's duty or a friend's care; McCoy thinks probably a bit of both. With a male creature's attention for a female creature thrown in. Much like a female creature's attention for a female creature. Or a male creature's attention for a male creature. But the latter's a minefield he doesn't like to tread on right now. Doesn't even need to tread on.

"No," he says slowly, realising it's true. "Everything's more complicated than before, on top of the usual problems -"

"Challenges."

"- on top of the usual problems. But, fine. I can deal with this body; just watch me."

Kirk is. Watching him, that is. He often does, but not quite with this kind of intensity. One reason could be that Kirk checks his tone, probably even his face for truthfulness – and seems satisfied.

"Well. If you need help with that particular dealing..."

Rimshot. McCoy lets his head thunk against the wall very gently. "Jim, stop fucking with my mind."

"I'm hardly talking about your mind, Bones. Besides, you know me: When do I ever joke about sex with a beautiful woman." Do lines like that really work for James T. Kirk? It's impossible to imagine. Also?

"I'm not -" oh, fuck it; McCoy doesn't even know whether to contest the woman or the beautiful part. "Pour me another one, willya?"

Jim does, but when he hands the whiskey glass over, he makes sure to let their fingers touch. Just a slight, swift brush, but it's still startling, making his skin tingle, not at all like the 10³ times they've touched casually, as friends. This time, Kirk does it with intent.

Time to put a stop to this. "Did I mention I'm -"

Jim smirks knowingly. Bastard. He really shouldn't have told Kirk about that time with his roommate in med school. Or the one on the engineering deck with that tech guy. Or –

"- really not interested."

Which makes James T. Kirk pout a little, but lean back. Back off.

Great. That's great. Excellent, even.

Really, it is.

::

Later, when he's back in his quarters and more than just slightly inebriated - the med school tomes didn't lie when they said a woman's tolerance for alcohol was lower - he undresses without swaying too much and then stares at his reflection in the mirror for a good long while.

It's not a bad body; if he didn't know himself, he might even find it attractive: round, firm breasts that are warm and sensitive under his fingers; the same hazel eyes, only a little bigger - or perhaps it's that his face is smaller; dark hair as short as always but different in structure - bangs in his eyes, and a messiness that looks artful even though it isn't because he'll be damned if he starts thinking about his hair.

More solid than beauty fashion on Earth dictates, but the shift of muscle and bone, of tendons and fatty tissues worked pretty well, overall. He looks female, with the hips and the thighs and of course those breasts, but strong. In-shape. Hell, he's thirty-six years old: this is more than adequate.

Jim certainly seems to think so.

James T. Kirk. Who to this very day has never shown any romantic, read: sexual interest in him.

And he was good with that because he didn't want Kirk like that. As a friend, yes. Fuck, he's a grown man of the 23rd century. Of course he loves the reckless idiot - as a buddy, and as a Captain too. Anything else crossed his mind, sure, but not so much his heart: McCoy's never been one of those guys who pine after pretty girls - or the occasional pretty boy - unattainable and elsewhere. Attraction has, for him, always been a mutual thing.

But the kicker is: suddenly, it could be exactly that with Jim.

::

So it's comprehensible when he takes Kirk up on his invitation three days later (one day later, there's the accident with the barrel on the 2nd deck; two days later, a brawl breaks out between the Gorn consul general and a belligerent faction of refugees that has half the ship's visitors join in, for some reason).

This time, there's no whiskey. There is, however, mood lighting and -

"Do I hear soft-rock music in the background, Jim?"

"Yeah. Don't like it?" It doesn't even come out defensive. Kirk is just that confident - and not beyond singing along, slightly off-key, "So many different worlds...so many different suns..."

Unbelievable. McCoy makes sure to tell him so. That takes a while.

Afterwards? "Oh, come on, Bones." Sweet, but dogged too. "You know I have a reputation to uphold."

Oh, doesn't he. "Sometimes, I think it's your damn reputation that holds you up."

The Kirk smirk that follows is almost - but not quite - contemplative. "Bones, I don't even know what that's supposed to mean. But since a double entendre from a woman is always hot, I'll take it."

"I give up." At the amusement in Jim's face, he rolls his eyes and follows it up with, "Not like that. What's it like, being stuck in perpetual puberty?"

"Pretty damn great, most of the time." Kirk slouches back on the bed, propped up on his arms. He's wearing a Starfleet t-shirt, yes, but one that's shrunk a bit too much in the supersonic laundry chamber. It's riding up a little now, displaying a taught stomach with a light spattering of hair, and as careless as Kirk makes the pose look, McCoy knows him. His moves aren't studied, but they're tried-and-tested. "Why are we talking about me, Bones? I mean, not that it isn't fun, usually."

"You already know everything about me." Not quite true, but it'll do.

"Not everything - you play a few cards close to the chest. Like the good times with your ex-wife that must've existed."

"The ex-wife existed."

"The times. Good ones; let them roll, and all that." Kirk's gotten a little quiet on the last words. "Or take actual details about your - family." He knows what Kirk was going to say, and it gives him an odd pang. Because this man does know him, despite not knowing everything.

McCoy's always felt a little sorry for the girls who fall for Kirk - for a pair of pretty eyes and a few less than pretty lines. To actually be among them is a lot sorrier, even though his reasons are different. Come to think of it, so's the whole situation up to and including their relationship. Their friendship.

"But I gotta tell you, Bones," Kirk's voice is still so soft, the teasing tone momentarily gone, "right here, right now, you're letting me see your whole deck."

Too many dirty puns in response to that to even begin - and the fact McCoy knows this proves once and for all he's been with Kirk for too long. "So what's my hand?"

"Let's see." Jim leans forward, and, for the second time now, their fingers touch. The sharp buzz through his system isn't any weaker than it was the last time, and the fact that his hand almost disappears in Kirk's doesn't help with the momentary vertigo. "Hmm." Kirk looks down at them, runs his thumb lightly over those unmarked knuckles (all his scars have disappeared, which makes sense but is still unsettling).

He forgets, sometimes, that Kirk can be one smooth player.

"You're as curious as I am - and just as affected by this change." A circular gesture between their laps. "But you're holding back. Are you afraid it'd be weird afterwards?" Yeah, those eyes are very, very blue alright.

"No, Jim. I'm sure it would be weird afterwards."

True enough. Just not the entire truth.

"I'm sorry." McCoy stands, disentangles their hands and leaves Kirk's quarters without looking back. Cowardly? Absolutely. But leaving is not only rational in a way Spock would understand. It's also a lot emotionally safer for one Leonard McCoy.

::

Whereas slipping of his clothes and into this new mode of masturbation turns out to be – a whole lot less so.

The plan is good, of course: make sure to take the physical edge off, at least. In the darkness of his own place - so he dims the light when he's in a female body; sue him - it's easy to slip his hand down. First to his his breasts, nipples that have been hard since that whole hand-holding. Then down - vulva, vagina, words too clinical for what he feels. He'd given this body a little test drive the first night, naturally: McCoy's a man, and a man of science too. The orgasm had been inwards, not outwards; longer waves if he did it just right. It had been great.

But not like this.

Because tonight, it's impossible not to touch himself and the silky wetness that's been there from before. From Kirk - his words, his hands, his damn face that's almost too pretty to be handsome.

So much for safer options.

::

In the oft-heard praise heaped upon James T. Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise, "empathy" is a rare mention. Neither is the qualifier, "tries hard to." But this time around?

"Come on, Bones. I promise not to hit on you when you're a guy again."

Kirk is not thinking with his dick as much as his heart - took McCoy's words to it, anyway. Only that he's got it all wrong. The weirdness issue has a different slant.

"Jim. You're straight."

"See? A promise easily kept!"

Funny. But. "Maybe this is exactly the problem here." Kirk calls this a challenge, Kirk won't make it to the Personnel quarters they're both approaching but have to take a detour to the med bay. This time around, McCoy's fine with his words coming out exactly as pissy and emotional as feels.

However, he has to stop and turn around, because Kirk has actually stopped.

In said praise? "Surprisingly quick thinking" features heavily. "Okay. I get it."

Scariest thought: that he really might. "Oh, really?" Lemons have nothing on McCoy.

"Yeah, really." Jim doesn't smile, but he doesn't let go of the topic. "Let's take this to your quarters, please. I promise -" he breaks off and sighs. "I promise nothing. But there's something more to this."

This sort of talk is never auspicious, no matter who's involved. But what choice does he have against the puppy-dog eyes? He's a sucker for them, and Kirk knows it. Always has.

Once the door slides shut, Jim flops onto his bed and, uncharacteristically, frowns. "It took me a moment, Bones, because while I was well aware of your thing for at least some guys, I had no idea that you might have one for me."

"Because I didn't!" He imagines that in a second, Kirk will smirk and nod, and not believe a fucking word McCoy says, no matter how true.

What happens is this: Kirk nods. "Yeah, I know; you didn't before this genderfuck." Ah. He's not the only one, after all. ""But you and I, we've been friends for a long time. I saw you like this, hell, started to want you like this - and you also reconsidered. Refelt."

"That's not even a word."

"And still you know what I mean."

Of course he does. On the whole, this was a lot easier when Kirk was merely trying to charm his way into a pair of McCoy pants. Or skirts.

"My point is, Bones, it's not the body."

"What?" Okay, this is - new. And making him feel a little light-headed. Hormones, finally. What else could it be?

"It's not simply your oh-so-female body, okay? Lots of women on this ship. Plus, you know that now that I'm Captain, I don't mess with the chain of command." No double-entendre in sight, not even the trace of a smirk. "It's true that I don't usually go for guys, but I had entertained the thought -" a deep breath, and those hot eyes again, "If there was a spark, someday, somehow, I'd try it, Bones. With you. Or do you honestly think I'd hit on Spock had he so cheerfully jumped into that damn machine to further the fine field of medical science? Or Sulu? Or Chekov?"

"Well, Chekov's pretty." But even as McCoy says it - no, he doesn't think that.

And yet, there are all sorts of issues left - mostly that this whole touching treatise doesn't actually mean Kirk will turn out to be as flexible as he undoubtedly is in bed.

"Bones. I wouldn't want any of them if they came in DD cups, a Starfleet miniskirt, and nothing else."

Kirk believes it, that much is sure. And - oh, hell. Maybe it's enough that he does. Enough for both of them.

"Okay. Fine. Let me be the girl and give in with a longing sigh. I could fall into your arms as well, how about that?"

Jim looks amused and relieved, and no quick laugh of his can cover that. "Mockery and sarcasm. You know that you actually make them seem quite sexy?"

"Sounds more like the old Kirk."

"He's never been gone." A tentative note in the way Jim steps closer, reaches out.

Oh, what the hell. McCoy closes the distance between them, and despite it all, it's too easy to close his fingers around those offered. To tilt his head up and brush his lips over Kirk's. For a moment, there's no response, but then he can feel Kirk smile against his mouth, feel his right hand cupping, stroking his cheek with something like care. Tenderness.

He will blame this slight shiver on this female body. He will.

But for now, he'll just enjoy this. Kirk's mouth, his playful but never pushy tongue, how he closes his eyes while they're kissing. He tastes familiar yet new; his hands on this body are strong and sure (and should there be a slight tremble in them, too, that's fine: better than fucking fine). There's a line of heat, then prickly chill where Kirk licks down the side of his neck, to his left nipple, and Kirk in turn moans at being nipped at, just a little, and groans when - smaller but just as knowing - hands close around his cock. Never one to be outdone, Kirk doesn't even start teasing like that but slips his fingers inside where McCoy's so fucking wet - one, two fingers; he cannot remember being this turned on in the longest time. He wants to suck Kirk; wants Kirk to put that clever tongue to good use on his cunt, the only right term here and now. But right now, they kiss again, and although it's not even a decision, just a shift, two pairs of eyes meeting, it's happening differently: Kirk on his back, McCoy poised above, and there is a flash of how this would be, otherwise - how good that would be. Then, there's nothing but the hot slide of his cock when he takes Kirk inside, and - oh. Yeah.

It's about then that he stops thinking altogether.

"Hey, Bones," Kirk whispers before they are both drifting off, arms wrapped around, tentatively yet tight. "I got you."

And it's true. For now.

::