Work Header


Work Text:

World War III (known as Almost the End of the World) occurred in 20-- during Milan Fashion Week. It was short, it was bloody, and it was absolutely spectacular to see unfold. It was like watching the most important and stylish train wreck ever, and everyone knew it had made the utmost impact when D&G designed a whole collection around it next season.

The parties involved were as follows:

Belligerents: Enterprise, headquarted in New York City, New York, USA; and Narada, headquarted in Rome, Italy, EU. Both are fashion magazines of the upper echelon.
Commanders: Enterprise acting editor in chief James T. Kirk; Narada editor in chief Nero T’ren. Both have egos larger than the whole of the continent of Antarctica.

Enterprise emerged victorious. Soon afterwards James T. Kirk was promoted officially to editor in chief, relieving Christopher Pike, who had held the position since 1988, of duty. His right hand staff is as follows: Spock S’chn T’gai, fashion editor; Nyota Uhura, features editor.

Narada eventually limped along to regain some of its previous prowess in Europe, although the introduction of Enterprise Italia did not help.


Hikaru Sulu is idly savoring a cup of coffee and reading the Times at his favorite coffee shop when a curly haired Russian plops rather unceremoniously into the chair opposite him at the small table.

“Nice sunglasses, Pavel. You are aware it’s overcast, right?” Sulu smirks, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“I’m very aware. However, I was noticed by some teenage girls earlier and was not at all enjoying their... affections. As I own no cap that would hide my face, I thought sunglasses an appropriate choice.” He steals Sulu’s coffee and takes a sip, pulling a face. “You put too much cream and sugar in your coffee, Hikaru.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, in Soviet Russia coffee drinks you.” Sulu flips the page, scanning the columns for something interesting before he gives up and flings the paper down, reclaiming his coffee.

“That makes no sense.” Chekov points out, leaning back in his chair and sticking his legs out, having no issues with invading Sulu’s personal space.

“You need to spend more time on the Internet.” Sulu smirks, toasting the statement with his coffee.

“I fail to see the correlation,” he says and Sulu just shrugs. They fall into a comfortable silence, watching passers-by with critically raised eyebrows.

“What are you up to today?” Sulu asks finally, looking back at Chekov.

“I was just told by my manager that I am evidently doing a spread for Enterprise. Other than that, nothing.” Chekov sneaks the coffee back, grinning at Sulu.

“Stop drinking my coffee if you don’t like it.” He chides, trying to snatch it back. “And what a coincidence, I’m doing a shoot for them today too.”

“Are you? You always are though, Kirk adores you.” He holds the coffee just a bit too far away, grinning deviously.

“Oh please, Kirk only has eyes for a certain photographer. Gimme that back!” He stands up, leaning across the table to grab it back. Chekov just turns up the deviousness of his grin, although he does allow Sulu to finally get a hold of the cup.

“You should know by now that coffee that has been stolen is many times better than coffee that you purchased.” Chekov points out. Sulu just sighs. “After we are done with this shoot, I think we should get dinner, yes?”

Sulu just nods before finishing off the coffee and standing up, stretching. Chekov watches him, grabbing the empty cup and moving to toss it in the trash. It’s the least he can do for drinking half of it.

“Oh, by the way.” Sulu searches around in his jacket pockets for a few seconds before he produces a folded piece of paper with an ‘aha!’ and a triumphant smile. “I finished your latest equation.”

Chekov takes the paper and gives it a quick once over. The answer seems to be right. Scribbled at the bottom is a new equation that Chekov knows is for him. They’ve been doing this for months now, stealing each other’s coffee and trading complex math problems for fun. Sometimes it’s easier to try to solve the Collatz Conjecture than to admit that you’re maybe crushing on each other something major.


Pavel –

No math problem today (but something still numerical), instead I’ve got a (ridiculously cheesy) little saying for you to figure out: 8 letters, 3 words, 1 phrase. Consider it further education in your study of American idioms.



“Christine!” Leonard McCoy does not have time for this shit. It’s not even nine in the morning, he’s still sans coffee, and now the celebrity they’ve booked for the cover seven months from now, who’s already canceled this shoot once, is stuck in traffic somewhere in Brooklyn. Allegedly. McCoy’s not buying it. This is why he’s now at the Enterprise offices, doing pre-emptive damage control. Isn’t this what interns are for?

His assistant does not materialize when he calls her name, which is actually not that surprising, she may be his assistant, but she’s perfectly capable and more than willing to use her own brain, and therefore has probably headed various people off to do more damage control.

He stops one of the passing interns by yanking on the back of his shirt – oh gross, he’s wearing something from American Apparel, McCoy can see the tag, that is so low rent – and pulls the startled man forward, spinning him on the spot.

“Where’s Christine?” McCoy still hasn’t let go of the kid’s shirt. He enjoys intimidating grips, interns, assistants, you name it.

“M-Miss Chapel ran to get coffee, because Miss Rand evidently is going to be late, sir.” The boy looks like he’s hoping this is the right answer.

“Rand is going to be late?” McCoy repeats this dumbly, looking rather startled. “Rand is late?!” He drops the kid and goes running down the hall, nearly sending an intern ass-over-tea kettle in his mad dash. He only stops when he slams the door to Spock’s workroom open, breathing hard.

(This is not his job, he’d like to point out. More to the point, he doesn’t even work here.)

“Janice Motherfucking Rand is late.” Is all he has to say before Spock drops his usual façade of absolute calm for a much more petrified one. He doesn’t say anything, just adjusts his scarf (it’s blue today) and walks crisply out the door, McCoy hot on his heels. Spock opens the doors to the main floor of the offices with dignity, before saying, quite simply, to all the employees mulling around:

“Janice Rand is going to be late today.”

The office is suddenly in an uproar, there are shouts of “who’s getting Kirk’s coffee?!” and “where are my shoes?” and various other things, and McCoy just stands behind Spock, using him as a bit of a human shield.

“Today is gonna suck.” McCoy mutters, scowling. No, today is not going to be a good day. It’s just understood that Kirk’s assistant is always early, never on time or, heaven forbid, late. And just when things can’t get any worse, one of the assistants stands up and yells over the mess occurring around him.

“T’Pring just canceled the cover shoot again! The traffic over the Bridge is murder, evidently.” He’s waving a phone about wildly.

“Indeed.” Spock replies quietly to McCoy before sweeping off, no doubt to head off Kirk before he can destroy some poor, unsuspecting intern or page editor.

This is about when Chapel materializes at McCoy’s elbow, carrying four coffees and looking rather windblown.

“Mr. McCoy? I got you an espresso.” She hands it off to him before she wrestles her way through the mayhem, and it’s only when she shoves open the door to Kirk’s office that he realizes that she actually went out and got Kirk’s coffee too, bless her. He jogs after her, shouldering open the door to find her adjusting the coffee just so.

“You are a godsend, Christine.” McCoy sighs happily. “I knew I hired you for a reason.”

“You’re about to love me even more. I heard that T’Pring canceled again, so somewhere between here and Starbucks I booked a new cover.” Christine is looking downright devious.

“Who?” McCoy’s betting they have a minute, two, tops before Kirk comes in through that door and throws his coat at whoever’s closest. (Which is actually McCoy at this point, although he hopes that they know each other well enough that Kirk wouldn’t dare try to use him as a coatrack.)

“You know that up and coming Russian model who everyone’s going gaga for? The one who is driving Karl nuts because he just has to have him?” Christine grins.

“You – you. You booked Chekov in the span of three city blocks?” McCoy is staring at her, mouth slightly slack.

“I want a raise or a Hassleblad for Christmas, or you know, both-“

This is about when the doors to the office fly open, and McCoy sticks out a hand to automatically catch the pea coat that’s thrown his way, knowing it’s going to end up on the floor or his head otherwise.

“We need to move the Fall/Winter preview up if we ever want to squeeze that piece in about models through the ages, and see if you can figure out what happened to the shipment of shoes that just came in yesterday, they’re evidently not in the wardrobe. Also –“ Kirk stops dead when he sees Christine and McCoy, and Spock and Uhura, who have been following him, nearly crash into his back. “Morning, Bones.”

McCoy just rolls his eyes and tosses Uhura the coat, who shoots him a death glare that clearly says “you are so buying me a drink tonight”, although she does go to hang it up in the corner. Kirk, in the mean time, sidles up to Bones, and drops a quick kiss on his cheek before moving to sprawl in his chair.

“Jim-“ McCoy tries to explain what’s going on, but Kirk interrupts him. “Now, where’s Janice and where is that hot mess T’Pring?”

Everyone in the room winces, and Christine, as the youngest and most lacking in seniority at an office she doesn’t even work at (and therefore most likely to incur grievous bodily harm), slides out, leaving Kirk to deal with senior editors and favorite photographer.


The senior editors are all handpicked by Kirk. He and Spock didn’t get along at first, but Kirk knew that he would ground him and inject some much needed logic into the way things work. They work everything out eventually, and even take time to play Wii from time to time.

Jim chases Uhura for as long as he can before he had to admit defeat, when she grabs Spock and kisses him right after WWIII in front of everyone, because let’s face it, fashion is a life or death businesses and you never know when you’re going to be the next trend 6 feet under. Luckily, she had still agreed to put her wicked brain to use for Enterprise.

McCoy is just Bones to Kirk. He’s not handpicked, but he’s still where he is because Kirk suggested once, at a party in Tribeca on the wrong side of midnight, that he turn his gun in for a camera instead. The two just work in the most illogical way; they fit together perfectly in all their broken places. Cracks eventually heal, leaving behind frown lines and laugh lines and scars.


Christine Chapel had known from the moment that she got a job with Leonard McCoy that she was selling her soul to Enterprise (and, by extension, Enterprise Italia). That was just how things in this world worked, especially when your boss’s boyfriend was the most infamous figurehead in the industry, and said boss had a habit of being asked to shoot the covers for the biggest books in the business.

There were little things that she had worked out, however, about what went on at the magazine and how the natural order of things progressed. Kirk did a lot of bitching, but, when push came to shove, he was the driving force behind just about everything.

Spock kept Kirk in check and looked fabulous in scarves while doing so, and evidently also chose what fashions went where, and which ones weren’t even worth his time. He and Alexander McQueen had once had a long standing deep-seated hatred of each other for reasons that were unknown to everyone but the two of them, but he’d still been upset one day in February and vanished to England for the funeral.

Uhura in turn kept Spock in check and also was generally an evil genius, but she also kept everyone in the know when it came to interviews and shoots and feature stories, so no one got in her way.

(They also had a printer, who was some crazy Scottish dude who’d slept with more models than any printer ought too.)

And then there was McCoy. The best in the business, the guy who everyone wanted shooting their spreads, the one who could run off 150 photos in half an hour and still have every one of them end up flawless. Leonard McCoy did not believe that Photoshop was the first line of defense; he looked it as more of a last resort for when the models weren’t behaving. Christine had taken the job mostly because she knew that from now on all her resume had to say besides her name and address was “I was Leonard McCoy’s assistant”, but she was actually enjoying it somewhat. She got McCoy coffee, put up with Kirk when he showed up at shoots, and got to drag camera equipment around and meet some of the biggest models and celebrities. It wasn’t a bad gig, and it paid enough to keep her comfortable in a studio in Chelsea, which was a whole lot when all your friends were starving photographers working for the Post or the Daily Bugle.

There were a few things she still hasn’t worked out, like why Kirk called McCoy ‘Bones’, or why the two were probably screwing like bunnies behind closed doors and over disused office desks (it was probably unprofessional to think about her boss and his boyfriend in such a manner, but hey, they were both extremely good looking and she was entitled to just a little bit of daydreaming). As far as she knew Kirk was the biggest manwhore this side of the Hudson and McCoy was bitterly divorced, which sure put them at odds relationship-wise. Then again, McCoy was the only one who Kirk didn’t actively order around and instead listened to. Whether or not he heeded his advice was a whole other issue.

Christine is making sure that she’s got enough 16 GB memory cards to store a whole country on when someone shouts “Captain’s on deck!” and Kirk and McCoy come up, McCoy nursing a coffee like it’s his only care in life. His hair’s mussed and the belt he was wearing earlier in the day is missing, and Kirk’s sporting a bite mark that’s only halfway hidden by his shirt. Christine just rolls her eyes, sighing. The only way the two could get any more obvious would be if they started playing tonsil hockey in the middle of a shoot. The ‘best friends and partners’ angle has been pretty much blown out of the water at this point, even though they insist on using it when anyone comments on how close they are. Also, she’s not sure how they’ve managed to get up to anything in the last two hours between Kirk’s office and the warehouse McCoy operates out of, unless they were traumatizing Kirk’s driver.

“How’re we doing?” McCoy drawls, evidently among the living enough to care about photography. Which actually isn’t all that surprising, as far as Christine can tell he only cares about three things in life: being grumpy, Kirk, and photography. Possibly the last one the most.

“We’re all good, and Chekov is in hair and makeup.” She answers, a light meter in one hand and a memory card in the other.

“I told Bones he should let you have some time off for your quick thinking this morning.” Kirk grins, draping an arm loosely around McCoy’s shoulders. Christine doesn’t even know why he’s here, considering the disaster state he left the Enterprise offices in.

“Yeah, except if I give her time off then who’s going to make last minute bookings?” McCoy grumbles, but he’s smiling. Sort of. In a McCoyish way. “Now are you going to leave me to do my job, or have you taken up permanent residence glued to my hip?”

“I’m actually thinking about staying for the shoot.” Kirk shrugs with one shoulder. McCoy just raises an eyebrow.

“Because you’re actually interested, or because you want to see Russian twink jailbait draped all over Sulu?” Sulu is Kirk’s favorite model, and at this point he’s basically on the Enterprise payroll.

“Oh, a little of column A, a bit of column B.” Kirk looks downright mischievous, which is always a bad sign. He slips away from McCoy, but not before he leans in to whisper something in McCoy’s ear, licking his lips. Christine’s kind of surprised they get away with this kind of shit in public and don’t end up on Page 6.

“McCoy!” Someone yells, and suddenly a lanky kid with scarily gorgeous bone structure is being ushered past them, curls bouncing on his head. He stops dead center on the backdrop before turning around to face them, and it occurs to Christine that the kid’s wearing high healed boots with more zippers than absolutely necessary.

“Oh good, Spock found the shoe shipment and had it sent over,” Kirk says happily as McCoy boggles.

“Whose idea was it to put 10 zippers on a pair of boots?” He asks incredulously.

“Decarnin, weren’t you at that show?”

Christine hides her smile as McCoy just rolls his eyes.


(continued from page 89)

On Pavel: Rick Owens tank, $150; Rick Owens, NYC. TSE cardigan, $395; TSE, NYC. Balenciaga by Nicolas Ghesquiere trousers, $865; Balenciaga, NYC. Balmain multi zip suede boots, $2300; Balmain, NYC.

On Hikaru: Helmut Lang t-shirt, $92; Helmut Lang, London. Backlash leather bomber, $3469; Backlash, NYC. A.P.C. jeans, $155; A.P.C., NYC. Adidas Originals ankle height sneakers, $290; Adidas, NYC.


“So did Rand every show up?” Uhura asks as she dumps a stack of papers rather unceremoniously on Kirk’s desk, next to his feet, where they’re kicked up on the heavy wood desktop.

“Yeah, she did. And no, I’m not firing her. She’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. I may think about it if she’s late again, though.” Kirk picks up a few of the pages and shuffles through them, frowning.

“What ever happened to the McQueen tribute?”

“Spock.” Uhura answers dryly.

“Ah, right. Can we sneak it in anyway? He’s going to be busy debating over if he hates oxblood or peplums more this season, that’ll keep him busy for the next week. At least.” Kirk keeps flipping, eyes narrowing at certain things, mouthing words to himself from time to time.

“Can we get McCoy to let Christine Chapel do Paris fashion week?” He says finally.

“I thought she already was?”

“Yeah, but with McCoy. They can cover more ground if they’re both taking photos independently. Plus Bones is banned from Cavalli shows because The Ex works for Roberto, so Christine can cover that.”

“He’s not actually banned, you know that. You just want more time to fuck him silly in some swank Parisian penthouse.” Uhura sighs, running a hand through her hair. “And I have no control over Chapel or McCoy, you should ask him. She works for him.”

“Well sure, but I think she’s earned it after her fast call with Chekov today. And it’s not a penthouse.”

“Sulu should be thanking her too.”

Kirk looks confused for a few seconds before he’s grinning like a hyena again.

“Oh man, that’s perfect. Can we squeeze them into that ‘Models and their boyfriends’ feature for next month?”

“I’ll see.”

“You’re super awesome, Uhura.”

“I know.”


Meet the Boyfriends (Enterprise Aug ‘-- features)

Hikaru Sulu & Pavel Chekov

“I’m pretty sure we met at one of Jim Kirk’s infamous parties – I was joking around with some people, and I just remember someone pointing him out and going “That’s Chekov, he’s so hot right now”,” explains Sulu, who’s both a model and former member of the US Olympic team (fencing).

“I was most certainly young and unknown at the time,” Chekov laughs, “I ended up being taken in by Hikaru’s group of friends, I had only been in the US for a few months.” The two now live together in Brooklyn, even though they’re from wildly different parts of the world.

“I keep meaning to take him back to San Francisco and introducing him to my mom’s cooking,” Sulu says.

“I joke with him that cooking was a Russian invention, I’m much better at it,” is Chekov’s reply.

What do the two do when they’re not ribbing each other’s cooking and modeling?

“We’re geeks. We trade math problems,” Sulu admits with a smile.


Leonard McCoy and Jim Kirk’s first meeting goes something like this:

McCoy graduates with a degree in forensic sciences (and a passion for photography) from University of Mississippi and then high tails it to New York City, because he’s sick of little backwater towns where the most exciting thing to happen is when Mrs. Simmons gets a new cat or when old Bill Ford crashes his car into a mailbox up on the High Road. And, oh yeah, there’s that business with the divorce, if you want to get technical. He gets a job with the NYPD, goes through training, comes out a crime scene tech for the Manhattan South Unit, does that for a few years.

He moves into an old loft at 14th and Washington above a bar and across the street from a meat packing plant that has more to do with the mob than beef, but it’s not a big deal. It’s a bad neighborhood, but it could be worse, and he enjoys it. Plus he’s that much closer to work, what with all the bodies that seem to wash up out of the Hudson.

Jim is going to Columbia with no real direction in life (except horizontal, usual with a different person each night) and no one’s quite sure how he got in to the school in the first place. He takes classes in whatever he feels like and just sort of floats. Sure, he gets good grades, but that’s just because he doesn’t believe in anything below an A-. When Junior year internships roll around he applies for one at the fashion giant Enterprise as a joke more than anything. What’s disturbing is that he gets it, and that he actually ends up liking it. Two years later he graduates with a double degree in publishing and journalism. A few of his professors are still in shock that he actually picked one major, let alone two.

They meet at a coffee shop on 13th. McCoy’s exhausted and probably smells like decay and god knows what else, but he’s out of coffee at home, and there is no way he’s dealing with that. No sane man should have to. All he wants is coffee, a shower and a nap.

Jim’s just ditched a noontime quickie that happened in one of the back corners of the Daily Bugle’s offices (he had a reason for being there, he swears), and his hair’s kind of a mess, but whatever. He needs coffee before he heads back to work.

They both go for the same muffin sitting on a tray on the counter. Jim smiles, McCoy glares. They end up sitting down together somewhere along the way, and Jim decides that McCoy is more of a Bones than a Leonard after he hears what he does for a living, and McCoy decides that Jim is an insufferable brat who’s got delusions of grandeur.

3 years later Jim’s being handed the keys to the kingdom by then-editor in chief Christopher Pike and McCoy’s got a new career path that has to deal with a lot more live people than he’d like.


8:06 a.m. October 1, 20--

In the wake of current editor in chief Christopher Pike’s health issues and page editor James Kirk’s quick thinking at last week’s Milan Fashion Week, Enterprise has announced that this coming year they’ll have a new head honcho. James Kirk, who’s been with the magazine since starting in the mailroom 3 years ago, will take up the reigns come January 1.

With him comes a new set of senior editors, including the highly regarded Spock S’chn T’gai, who has dressed members of the British royal family, and Nyota Uhura, who was shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize in journalism (feature writing) this past year.


Leonard McCoy and Jim Kirk’s relationship goes something like this:

It’s been a long day. McCoy had spent all afternoon digging through the Life archives (in a basement in midtown, without a single window to make the process any better) in search of an Avedon photo that he knows the magazine owns the rights to, and had come up empty handed. At least, in that respect. Instead he’s splayed out on the Subway with a messenger bag full of contact sheets from the Chekov/Sulu shoot that a courier had been sent over with. The two have an insane amount of chemistry, and it’s making the photos pop in all the right ways.

The great thing about taking the Subway is that he doesn’t have to wait in traffic. The bad thing is that he spends about as much time winding through the tunnels on foot as he does actually on the Subway. Such is life. (Literally - he’s been getting off at the same stop for the past 12 years of his life.)

He scowls at some hipsters on his way up the steps out of the station at 14th, displeased with the display of tights as pants. He’s a fashion photographer and even he hates them, and he’s photographed models wearing some seriously weird shit.

His walk home consists of a permanent glare and hands in his pockets, hoping the glare will ward off anyone who dares to ask him for directions. Ever since this area got its scrawny ass gentrified there’s been an influx of tourists who want to know where places like “Hew-ston” Street are. When he claims he’s never head of it, he’s not lying. He, has, however heard of a “How-ston”, but he’s not about to offer up that kind of information to some adorable little family from Nebraska wearing shirts from Disney World. He’s just that kind of bastard.

When he gets to his building he kicks the door open – the super really, really needs to get around to fixing the broken lock – and tramps up the stairs, boots heavy against the old cement and wood. His place is on the top floor, which is exactly where it’s been since he was 23. It’s not that he doesn’t like change; it’s just that he really likes his loft.

He flips through keys (various ones for the warehouse, mailbox, his car that he pays what other people pay in rent to park), his sunglasses held between his teeth, when the door swings open. His first reaction is “oh shit, I’m about to be shot”, but when he recognizes the bright yellow Chucks on the person’s feet he instead settles for scowling.

“Dammit, Jim, how’d you beat me back to my own apartment?” Bones frowns, looking up to find Jim Kirk standing in his doorway, looking smug. “And you’ve had those shoes since you were like 6, isn’t it time to get rid of them?” He’s seen photos, he knows these things.

“I move fast and I was bored,” he says simply, ignoring the shoe comment, before turning on his heels and marching into Bones’ apartment. Bones just sighs and rolls his eyes, following Jim.

“Who told you to do the unlaced boots thing?” Jim calls over his shoulder, before plopping down on Bones’ couch.

“No one, I saw them in this fashion magazine and decided I just had to do it.” Bones draws out the ‘a’ in ‘had’ in a rather excellent imitation of Jim.

“Really?” He’s turned so that he can watch Bones, who’s currently toeing off aforementioned boots. The only reason he doesn’t tie them is because he’s way too lazy to deal with that. If it happens to be in style at the time, it’s not his fault. Things go in and out way faster than Bones can deal with, even if he’s part of the industry. “And would this fashion magazine happen to be run by a dashingly handsome young man of unparalleled skill and general awesomeness?”

“Your ego is astounding.” Bones sighs, coming over to drop his coat and bag on the couch. He stops in front of Jim, putting one hand on the back of the couch next to Jim’s shoulder and using the other to turn his chin so that they’re face to face. “If you really are bored, I have something we can do.”

“Oh, you do?” Jim leans forward, closing the distance between them.

“I do,” Bones says, voice heavy and drawling, a smirk curving on his lips as he moves to straddle Jim on the couch. “I think you’ll like it.”

“I think you’re right.” Jim purrs, looping his arms around Bones’ neck and pulling him in. “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

This is when, his voice dripping with Southern charm and a million unmentionable-in-polite-company suggestions, just a hair’s breadth from Jim’s lip, Bones simply says:

“Look over those proofs from Chekov’s shoot today.”

He doesn’t know if he’s even seen Jim that flustered in his whole life, but it’s certainly way too good to pass up and not do something about, like say, lean over and grab a camera out of his bag to document the moment for prosperity’s (blackmail’s) sake.


Subject: just to make sure I have a back up
Att: img001.png, img002.png

Nyota –

Just to make sure these survive if Jim finds them on my computer and deletes them, I’m sending you copies. Feel free to share with Spock.

He does have the greatest facial expressions, doesn’t he?

- McCoy


Spock has yet to ascertain exactly why his boss insists on sitting as he does in his desk chair. (Hands behind his head, fingers locked, leaning back with his feet thrown up on the desktop and crossed at the ankles.) The only thing he can think is that it is somehow comfortable, even though it looks like it takes too much practice to hold such a position for as long as he does, and he is most certainly unbalanced in his chair. Not that Spock would know from personal experience. And if he does, it is simply because he was conducting an experiment as to see if it was actually comfortable to sit in such a way.

He’s in his workroom, carefully flipping through advance preview catalogues that designers have been sending them for the spring season, when he shares this fact with Nyota. She’s busy typing away on her iPhone, no doubt fixing scheduling conflicts and booking interviews.

“He sits like that because he’s an overblown, ego tripping man-child.” She responds, shrugging one shoulder in a noncommittal gesture. The motion draws Spock’s eye to her neck and where it meets her shoulders – she’s wearing a gorgeous strapless Valentino shift dress that Spock had pulled out of the wardrobe for her. She’d gotten rid of her cardigan at some point, and it’s revealing miles of skin that Spock has had to restrain himself from reaching out and running a hand over at least 3 times today.

“According to Mr. McCoy, he has actually gained some maturity in the past few years.” Spock responds, marking a jacket/skirt ensemble with a red China pencil. Evidently he had only admitted this view of Kirk while playing cards (rather drunkenly) with Montgomery Scott, the printer. And of course Scott saw no reason why he should keep his mouth shut about this. After all, as far as McCoy went, that was fairly close to a declaration of love for Kirk. “I believe this would look better in red, do you agree?”

He holds up the page he’s on, pointing to the dress in the bottom corner, and Nyota purses her lips, staring at it for a few moments.

“Or possibly switch the shoes out for the black ankle boots.” She suggests, referring to another pair of shoes in the collection.

“Also an excellent suggestion.” Spock muses. They’ll have to try both of them out when they shoot these looks – that’s on the agenda for tomorrow.

They lapse back into comfortable silence, which is only broken when Spock’s Blackberry tries to vibrate itself off the table, the screen claiming that he’s received a text message from Kirk. He reads it out loud when he realizes it’s just as much for Nyota as it is for him.

“Just got word from Janice, T’Pring canceled AGAIN. Don’t care how hot she is, girlfriend cannot pull this shit with us/Uhura. Don’t worry about picking outfits for her, etc, and see if Uhura can schedule someone else. Possibly Colt? Or we can just adopt Chekov. Txt me back.”

Nyota laughs at hearing something so clearly written by Kirk said by Spock, and just shakes her head in amusement.

“I’ll call Colt and see if we can schedule something. If not, I’m going to start calling in actors, and there is no way I ever want to deal with them again after that whole Chris Pine nonsense.”

“It was not nonsense – he looked good in blue,” Spock says simply.

“Yeah, but watching you and McCoy bicker like teenage girls over who could make him look prettier is not something I ever need to see again.”

“Still, I stand by my opinion. It brought out his eyes.” He finds it completely illogical when Nyota rolls her eyes after this statement.


Wednesday 02/19

9:00 AM – T’Pring shoot (CANCLLED)
9:00 AM – Sulu and Chekov shoot
11:30 AM – Interview with Pepper Potts for ‘Behind the Men – Positions of Power’ feature (conducted by staff writer R. Gonzales)
1:00 PM – Interview with Janice Rand for ‘Behind the Men – Positions of Power’ feature (conducted by staff writer R. Gonzales)
3:30 PM – Meeting with Kirk
4:00 PM – I will need coffee some time around now (this message is for you Spock, because I know you’re totally reading my planner.)


Saying there’s a lot to do before everyone vacates the office for Paris fashion week is like saying that all-out warfare is a bad thing: true, but totally and utterly understated.

Uhura’s been on the phone constantly, Spock has been rushing between his workroom and the wardrobe draped in various articles of overpriced and one of a kind clothing, and Kirk looks like he’s on the warpath. Life would be easier if they didn’t have an issue to send to the printer the day before they’re all scheduled to leave, but that’s fine with McCoy, who got all of his work done yesterday and is currently scowling in the lounge with a cup of espresso and the latest Patricia Cornwell book. (Why he’s always here, he has no idea. Or rather, he decides not to think about why he’s always here.) Not that he’d admit to reading cheesy crime novels so that he can point out how very wrong they are about how the police system works. His favorite target is “CSI”. (“Bones” works too, but he can only watch that when Jim isn’t around because he spends the whole time threatening to sue the writers, as if he had trademarked McCoy’s nickname sometime in the last decade. Although he wouldn’t put it past him.)

The ridiculously expensive couch dips next to him, and he’s preparing a “dammit, Jim” quip in his head when the person speaks.

“I never pegged you for a cheesy paperback kind of guy.” Christine is smiling at him when he looks up, one eyebrow raised. “And yes, before you ask, everything is packed, tied down, done up, finished, sent off and signed in triplicate. I even made a checklist to make sure. The warehouse is locked down and done.”

(Why is his staff also always here? He should just move his whole goddamn studio to the Conde Nast building, at this rate.)

“Never doubted that you’d get it all done. And I’m not a ‘cheesy paperback kind of guy’ – I only read them so that I can laugh at how inaccurate they are.” He takes another sip of his espresso, eyeing her over the top of it.

“Oh, you know how all that crime stuff works?” She laughs and McCoy’s pretty sure that his eyebrow is making a bid for freedom into his hairline.

“You have no idea what I did in college, do you?” He knows it’s an open invitation to ask, and he certainly wouldn’t let anyone in normally (well, except for Jim, but he more forced the invitation in the first place) but he likes Christine, and they’ve been working together for a few years and as far as he knows she doesn’t even know when his birthday is. And maybe there’s this part of her that reminds him of Joanna – intense and intelligent but still young – that kind of softens him up.

“I assumed you did photography or design.” She shrugs.

“My diploma says forensic sciences.”

Christine just kind of boggles at him for a moment, blinking before she collects herself to say something intelligent.

“Seriously? Is that why Mr. Kirk calls you Bones? And I’m guessing you don’t call him Booth.”

“The nickname predates the show by seven or eight years, so no. And before you ask, yes that rumor about me being divorced is true, and my birthday’s June 7th.” He smirks, watching Christine trying to process the information.

“Wow – uh. Thank you. For, you know. Not always being grumpy. Or – something.”

“I’m always grumpy, there are just breaks where I’m less of a deprecating asshole and more of an amused asshole.”

“Ah, right.” Christine smiles, shaking her head. “Of course.”

“In return though, you better be hot shit this week in Paris,” he says, and she nods seriously, holding her hand up in what McCoy recognizes as the Girl Scout salute.

“Mr. McCoy? Christine?” Janice has stuck her head through the door. “Mr. Kirk wants you in his office, and I quote, “like now”.”

“How did he even know we were here?” McCoy grouses, but he gets up, tucking the book in his back pocket and offering an arm to Christine.

“So, I think it’s only fair, what with you doing the whole soul bearing thing, that I tell you that my favorite color’s been purple since I was about 5.”

“Oh good, for a second there I thought you were going to say pink and I was going to have to ship you off to Spock for re-education on ‘colors that suck vs. colors that rock’.”


Spock –

We’re spending a day with my mother when we get to Paris. I’m letting you know because we’ll be leaving a day early. And because I know you’ll want to pack that new Hermes scarf I just got you. Even though I insist on reminding you that you don’t need to impress her, you already have. Because you’re so fabulous.

Love (from your equally fabulous girlfriend), Nyota


“It’s not that your mother frightens me, she’s just a very... strong person. And as I am involved with her only child, I do have some lingering doubts that she is absolutely happy with me, based on the irrational thoughts of parents in regard to who their children enter into relationships with,” Spock says simply as he watches the baggage claim –they were still waiting for Nyota’s shoe bag.

They’d landed at Charles de Gaulle before, as Kirk had said, the ‘cavalry arrived’ (here referring to Kirk, McCoy and Chapel), due to the fact that they were to spend the day with Nyota’s mother, who’d been living in Paris for years now as an Ambassador. Her father was evidently off in Hong Kong on a business trip.

“Well yeah, that’s just the way parents are. I’m sure your dad thinks I’m too emotional and don’t use enough 5-point vocabulary words, and therefore I’m not good enough for his boy.” She slips in besides Spock to grab the remaining bag, hefting it onto the luggage cart.

“My father thinks very highly of you, he’s told me so. You’re intelligent, well spoken, highly educated and very successful. I’m sure he finds you more interesting that I.” Spock commandeers the cart and steers it towards the sliding doors, scanning around for their driver. “What name did you give the driver?”

“Mine – I hate having to explain how to spell S’chn T’gai over the phone, which I am never taking if we get married, by the way – and please, he adores you. So what if you broke that whole ‘the whole family goes to Eton and Oxford’ thing? You can’t be the first one to do that.”

“I’d never expected you to take it, your name is lovely as it is now – and I was. Everyone else had always gone to Eton and Oxford and studied various sciences. No one in my family was exactly pleased when I decided to go to Yale and study linguistics instead. Well, except for my mother.” He leaves the unspoken ‘thank god’ off the end, but Nyota hears it anyway as they draw even with a short, portly man with a bad bleach job holding a sigh with ‘Uhura’ written on it.

“Bonjour,” Nyota says happily, extending a hand. “Je m'appelle Nyota Uhura, et-“

“Honey, I’m Canadian.” He interrupts her, shaking her hand with a lazy smile. “Now, where are you two love birds off to?”


Jojo: Dad, we need to discuss something of utmost importance.
Dad: Yes?
Jojo: You’re going to Paris. You will be surrounded by more fabulous and amazing fashion that usual. I need a pair of Louboutin pumps. Those new turquoise sling back ones, to be exact.
Dad: I don’t suppose me saying ‘no’ or ‘talk to your mother’ would mean anything?
Jojo: She already said no. I’ve learned over the years that if one parent says no, ask the other.
Dad: I’m going to have to agree with her on this one.
Jojo: Oh my god, you are SO unfair.
Dad: It’s my job, I’m the parent of a teenager.


Leonard McCoy does not panic. He does not freak out, or have anxiety attacks; he is always a stubborn ass who’s apathetic to life. Always.

Except for when he’s curled up in a chair at the Admiral’s Club at JFK in a private room trying not to hyperventilate, because, oh god, he’s 45 minutes away from a 7 hour flight. 7 and a half hours, if you want to get technical. He is thankful for the private room, however. Freaking out is less stressful when you’re not doing it in front of a bunch of stuffy suits and stupidly wealthy families.

The door opens and he looks up sharply, ready to deny the fact that he’s panicking, but it turns out to be Jim, carrying coffee and an armful of magazines.

“Hey, I grabbed your phone by accident, Joanna’s been texting you.” Jim tosses him the phone, and Bones catches it deftly, not even remotely surprised anymore that they had grabbed each other’s phones this morning – they do have the same one, after all. “I think I need to Bedazzle mine or something, because we’ve got to find a way to tell them apart.”

“Yeah, because you just love rhinestones.” Bones grumbles, scrolling through his messages. Evidently Joanna wants him to bring her back clothes, clothes, some shoes, oh, and, more clothes. And here he was thinking he and Jocelyn had raised her right.

“Oh, I do. I’m fabulous like that.” Jim’s flopped down in the chair opposite of Bones, and cracked open what appears to be a copy of TeenEnterprise, which is all sorts of weird and wrong and disturbing.

“My daughter wants clothes from Paris. Why would she need that?” He grumbles, knowing he’s probably being more obtuse than usual. It’s the fear doing crazy things to his poor brain.

“Because she’s a teenage girl? These things happen,” Jim says simply, not looking up from the magazine.

“You would know, considering your choice of reading material.”

“Hey now, I’m just making sure that our sister magazines are at the top of their game.” He picks up and waves a copy of Enterprise Men.

“Still, that’s disturbing. Like, if you ever actually put bling on your Crackberry disturbing.”

“Harhar. You know I’m going to have to get my hands on some rhinestones now, right? It’s going to be gorgeous – I’ll plaster photos of it all over the September issue and start a new trend.”

“Your favorite photographer begs to differ.”

“Well, my favorite photographer clearly knows nothing of the power of Blingee.”

“Clearly,” Bones says dryly before going back to texting Joanna that no, she cannot have a pair of Louboutin pumps, and what was this about mom saying it was ok to have a Cavalli gown?


Subject: Reservation confirmed

Mr. Kirk –

Thank you very much for opting to stay us with again, as one of our most distinguished guests we welcome you back to Paris. Your reservation for the Terrace Eiffel Signature Suite has been confirmed for the 25th of February through the 6th of March. We look forward to your visit.

- Plaza Athénée reservations


This time last year Bones had his own hotel room and his own bed during Fashion Week. This year he’s currently stepping out the elevator to one of the most exclusive suites in Paris with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and Jim’s arm around his waist. (Not that they didn’t end up in each other’s rooms last year anyway.) It’s late, the sun’s on its way down, and all he wants is sleep and food. The flight was exhausting – mentally – and he could go for some creature comforts right about now.

The suite turns out to look like something out of Versailles on Art Deco crack, which he’s not totally stoked about, but it doesn’t surprise him either. Most hotels of this caliber in the city run on a fairly predictable décor scheme.

“Want me to take that?” Jim motions to the duffle and Bones shakes his head, carefully setting it down on a couch. The bellhop brought up all of the other bags, but this one’s got his personal camera equipment in it, and the only way someone’s going to get it away from him is by prying it from his hands with a substantial amount of force.

“I’ve got it,” he says, shrugging. Jim just rolls his eyes.

“Heaven forbid something happen to your cameras. It’s not like your studio owns an army of them.” He laughs, and Bones just fixes him with a glare.

“You know some of these are irreplaceable.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jim gives him a look, one that Bones can’t place, and he just quirks an eyebrow in response. “I’m going to find a pair of comfy pants. Go check out the view.” He points in the direction of one of the sets of French doors, and Bones doesn’t point out that he’s already wearing a pair of jeans so worn in that they look like they’re just part of him.

He wanders over to the doors, flipping the latch and pushing them open. There’s a small wrought iron balcony with matching table and chairs, and it’s covered in creeping ivy that is sneaking from the flower boxes hanging on the edge. He’s getting the sense that the whole place is overblown, over decorated and overly floral. He doesn’t do nature or flora or fauna. He may be from Georgia, but at this point he’s a New Yorker. His idea of nature is Central Park and his views of fauna fall somewhere between ‘squirrels stealing fries’ and ‘the rats in the Subway’. There’s no room for ivy draped balconies and posh hotels in his head. The pigeons cooing at him from the balcony one over, however, do remind him of home, and he can’t help but smile and then shake his head at himself.

When he finishes mentally belittling the balcony he finally looks up, and oh, that’s what Jim was talking about. Over the rooftops and across the river, which is sparkling a million different colors in the dying light of the day, is the Eiffel Tower jutting skyward. He has to admit, it’s a gorgeous view. They haven’t turned the lights on the Tower on yet, so it’s just this silhouette against blues and purples that are tinged with oranges and red, and he thinks briefly about getting his camera, but he knows the picture’s been taken a million times. He files it away in his head though, leaning on the railing of the balcony and just watching the sun sink into the horizon and the Tower finally come alive in warm yellow light.

It occurs to him that Jim’s probably planning something – after all, he’s got Bones for a week in a luxury suite in Paris, and he’s delegated a decent amount of what’s normally Bones’ work to Christine. Of course, he did sign off on that, which is a good thing. Good for him because he does need to let go every once and a while, and good for Christine because she’s been serving under him for a few years now. She’s more than ready for some of her own fame, and he’s going to make sure of that. She’s an amazing photographer, she deserves it. She shouldn’t be working as an assistant when there are so many things she can be taking her own photos of.

Basically, all he has to do this week is take a few photos and sit with Jim (and Nyota and Spock) and look fashionable. It’s not going to be much of a hardship, but he’ll probably grumble about it anyway. It’s just what he does.

He plays with an ivy leaf as he tries to come up with things Jim could possibly spring on him over the coming days, but comes up with not a whole lot (besides a whole lot of sex). He’s already staying in the same suite as Jim, that’s pretty obvious. Or maybe it’s just a natural progression. The only reason Jim ever goes up to his brownstone at 71st these days is to grab clothes or a book or something that he needs, and his shoes are mixed in with Bones’ at the bottom of his wardrobe, and his coats are hanging by the rolling door of Bones’ loft. His sheets smell like Jim, he’s got Jim’s magazines on his coffee table, and the last time he slept alone was so long ago he can’t even remember when it was – months, probably a year. The spare key to Bones’ place has gone from “it was an emergency” to “I’m home, honey”. He decides not to dwell on it; it’s not worth loosing sleep over. It’s just Jim.

The door opens behind him and in a second he’s got a cuddly Jim plastered to his back, arms around his waist and chin resting on his shoulder. His arms are bare – he traded his button up for a t-shirt – and Bones can see out of the corner of his eye that he’s ditched his shoes and socks.

“So, you like the view?” He asks simply, tilting his head slightly.

“I do.” Bones smiles, leaning back a bit into Jim. “It’s romantic in a totally cliché way.”

“Well yeah, that’s how I roll.” He lets Bones turn around in his arms, so that he can lean against the railing and twine their legs together. The colors in the sky play havoc with Jim’s eyes, making them look almost black. Bones reaches up and traces the line of Jim’s jaw and up to his lips.

“Stay here.” He’s surprised at how rough his voice sounds, but Jim just nods, letting Bones pass. He returns a moment later with what’s the smallest and cheapest of his cameras, just a plain old film 35mm. It may not look like much, but it was one of his first cameras, and it’s still clicking 20 years later (and he’s the second owner, at least).

There’s a half finished roll of color in it, and as he takes up his position against the railing he leans a few inches back, focusing on Jim’s face. To his credit, Jim stays completely still, impassive except for his eyes, which almost seem to glow.

The click of the shutter seems extremely loud, as does the crackling of the film when Bones advances it. He lowers the camera and then slings the strap across his chest from shoulder to hip, pushing the camera out of the way so that he can pull Jim back towards him. The pads of his fingers feel cool against the warmth of Jim’s skin, and he smiles, quirking one side of his mouth up.

This time last year someone, either one of them, would have said something to break the silence. Instead Bones just continues running his fingers over the lines and contours of Jim’s face, neck, partially exposed shoulders. When he stalls his thumb over Jim’s lips Jim places a simple kiss there and then raises one of his hands from where he’s holding Bones by the hips to capture his wrist, placing warm kisses down his fingers and across the back of his hand before placing a longer one on his palm, and then licking his way to Bones’ thumb, sucking it into his mouth and just watching Bones’ face.

He eventually tips forward and kisses Jim as the lights of the city blossom around them like bursts of starlight against the black of the night sky.


This is how Bones and Jim are:

Woven together in all their stitched up and healed parts, by the click of a shutter and days in the darkroom when Bones’ hands smells like developer and fixer and Jim, all scars and frown lines and laugh lines.