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R. Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura. Taco toppings, Gossip Girl, taxi rides in the rain, overpriced broccoli and lots of kisses.

Notes: So I've decided that the Fashion Mag!AU is now the City series, because I such at coming up with titles. So it's going to be madlib titles from here on out.


Things that Spock believes are acceptable taco toppings and ingredients:

Cheese, salsa, sour cream, sautéed vegetables, lettuce and sriracha sauce. Hard shells make much more sense than soft ones. Meat is irrelevant, Spock was raised a vegetarian and has remained one his whole life.

Things that Uhura believes are acceptable taco toppings and ingredients:

Cheese, guacamole, sour cream, grilled chicken and hot sauce. Chopped peppers are also logical, especially of the green and yellow variety. Soft shell is a must.


When Spock sits down on the couch next to Nyota he has every intent of reading over some work he needs to get done, but instead he finds himself frowning at the screen.

“I still don’t know how you find pleasure in watching such an illogical show. If you wanted to watch the lives of teenagers in Manhattan with too much money and time you could simply look out the front door. Also, the outfit that boy is wearing is hideous.” He squints at the screen, tilting his head a tad. No, still hideous. Who wears yellow pants with a bright purple cardigan?

“Nothing Chuck Bass wears is hideous, it’s all amazing,” Nyota says happily, not even looking away from the screen.

“As this show is out of production, isn’t this a rerun? I fail to see why you’re watching it again.”

“Because it’s quality TV, Spock,” Nyota says.

Spock just sighs though his nose and starts working his way through the document in his lap. He’s just gotten through the second page when something on the TV catches his eye and he looks up, frowning.

McQueen,” he mutters, frowning. He would know a McQueen design anywhere, especially these new Sarah Burton ones.

“Oh.” Nyota says, looking worriedly over at Spock. “I don’t suppose that you could –“

“I do not know how anyone could like, let alone adore the designs Burton churns out. They’re illogical, the lines are all wrong, the make-up and hair designs from the runway shows are absolutely preposterous, and nothing she does is even close to the genius that was captured before. It’s nothing but knockoffs of what was once a brilliant brand!”

“- skip your McQueen rant for once. Although that went differently than usual. I’m glad you’ve expanded your hate to new designers.”

Spock instantly schools his features into a look of apathy, taking a deep breath.

“I regret my sudden outburst, I’m sorry.” He looks over at Nyota, in a rather sheepish manner. She just laughs and rolls her eyes, scooting over on the couch to lean against Spock’s shoulder. He sighs, wrapping an arm around her and dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

“It’s ok, every hero needs an evil to crusade against,” she says, her eyes mischievous.

“Are you suggesting I’m a superhero? That would be a most unsound conjecture, you know I think Spandex should be outlawed.” Nyota just laughs, a small smile hovering on Spock’s lips.

“That we certainly agree on. Speaking of, why don’t we put The OC on instead?”

“An excellent idea. I can never say no to Seth Cohen.”


Kirk, Jim:
Bones – I’m at my place, not yours. I’ll make dinner if you find your way up here.

You are aware of what the Subway is going to be like at this time, right? I think it’d be faster to walk.

Kirk, Jim:
This is why God invented the taxi.


It turns out to be pouring rain when McCoy leaves the office. He’d been digging through the Enterprise archives all afternoon, and as the basement had no windows he had no clue that there were cats and dogs falling out of the sky until he actually walked outside. To make matters worse, the morning weather (of course) had reported nothing but sun, so he was umbrellaless.

He scowls up at the sky, not caring that he’s getting wet, and then rather unceremoniously plows through people hurrying past on the sidewalk, coming to a stop on the curb and throwing out a hand at a passing cab. He’d figured out a long time ago that if you wanted to get a cab in Manhattan you had better be pretty much in the street.

A cab rolls to a stop and he scrambles inside, now caring that he’s gotten wet because the AC is chilling his damp skin. The driver looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. McCoy knows
that he probably looks like an extremely pissed off drowned rat, but he can’t be bothered to care.

“Where’re you headin’?” The Jamaican accent could be real, could be fake to get a few more bucks out of tourists, McCoy doesn’t care.

“126 East 78th,” McCoy mutters just loud enough for the man to hear and then slumps in his seat, rubbing at his temples as the driving rain drums on the roof of the cab.

He’s got a headache from staring at small print in the dim light all afternoon, and it’s just been a long day in general. The shoot he’d finished up this morning was somehow connected to a reporter who didn’t want to leave him alone, and at lunch, when all he’d wanted was to run to the café on the corner with Jim, he’d instead found a message on his Blackberry from Jim that was essentially “I fucking hate the Board and their need to make my life hell”. He hadn’t actually seen Jim since this morning, which was kind of a bummer.

The worst part of the day, however, was certainly the email he’d gotten from a certain Detective Rosen – they’d worked together back when McCoy was still on the force. Evidently a rash of murders over the last year had the same MO as ones that had showed up 12 years ago when McCoy had still been working for the NYPD, and Rosen had found that a bunch of files on the cases had been mislabeled and he wanted McCoy’s take on what exactly happened originally.

He’d made an offer to have McCoy come in and review everything, which got Rosen a point blank ‘absolutely fucking not’ in return. That part of his life was irrelevant at this point, and he didn’t need to go back.

“It’s gonna be 9.15, sir.”

McCoy hadn’t realized just how far he’d slipped off into his own thoughts until the cabby’s looking back at him and pointing at the meter.

“Right, got it.” He digs out his wallet and gives the guy a ten before sliding back out into the rain and making a mad dash for Jim’s stoop, even though the steps are slippery and the overhang above the door offers no coverage from the driving rain whatsoever.

He’s fiddling with his keys when he hears someone running up behind him, and turns to see a very wet person hopping up the steps. Jim flattens his back against the door when he gets to it, letting out a long breath and then heaving in another one – he sounds like he’s been running.

“Wanna open the door?” Jim asks happily, never mind the fact that he’s soaked and carrying two grocery bags that look on the heavy side.

“Working on it, hold your horses – and did you just walk to Dean and Deulca in this weather? Without an umbrella?” Bones grouses, unlocking the door and shoving it open with his foot.

Jim goes dashing in ahead of him, dripping on the wood floors. He’s wearing flip-flops and a baseball cap, which is standard Jim Rain Gear, not that Bones has ever been able to figure out why, exactly.

“I took the Subway, I’m not totally stupid.” Jim rolls his eyes and disappears down the hall to the kitchen as Bones shuts the door and peels off his rather wet boots, which make squelching noises in protest.

“Oh, and by the way, I need your laptop. I got a call from Scotty – some of the
pages for the June issue got corrupted in transit and he needs them again,” Jim calls from the kitchen. Bones frowns and follows Jim, dropping his bag on the island and pulling out his computer.

“I trust you’ll be suitably angry at the tech department on Monday?” He asks, handing it over.

Jim takes it, holding a bag of broccoli in the other hand before setting it down next to the stove and popping it open.

“Oh, I will be, trust me,” He says as he digs around in one of the bags.

“You’re still dripping, by the way. Also, I’m gonna go take a shower, unless you need my help.”

Bones jerks a finger over his shoulder, and Jim shakes his head, using a foot to open the fridge and his free hand that isn’t occupied by veggies to start tapping things on the computer screen.


Programming on channel 231 (The Soap Network) for 5/11

19:00 – The OC (1x12) “The Secret”
20:00 – The OC (1x13) “The Best Chrismukkah Ever”
21:00 – The OC (1x14) “The Countdown”


Nyota eventually falls asleep against Spock’s shoulder, curled up against him, and he turns down the television as to not wake her. He’s still reading the ‘memo’ from earlier (the Board had called it a memo, Kirk had called it a ‘doorstop of a paper trail’, which Spock was much more inclined to agree with) and making various things in his precise handwriting with a green pen.

Nyota stirs against him and heaves a little sigh, clutching at the front of his shirt where her hand had come to rest earlier. Spock just has to smile down at her. She looks so young like this, and he’s reminded of when they met, when Nyota was just an undergrad who had insisted she be allowed to take his linguistics seminars. She is incredibly gifted with languages; anyone with ears could hear that. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face from where it’s fallen loose from her high ponytail.

“Mmmm, Spock?” Her voice is rough with sleep, and Spock shifts a bit so that she can get her arms free of his embrace.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He asks softly, setting his reading material to the side, his pen neatly on top of the stack of paper.

“No, the crick in my neck did,” she says as she rolls her neck, cracking it.

“Here, let me.”

He spreads his legs and pats the spot between them and Nyota scoots over so that her back is to him. He starts working at her neck, then down into her shoulders, earning little sighs of pleasure from under his long fingers. She leans back into him, her eyes closed.

“You have magic fingers, have I mentioned that today?” She says softly.

“No, I don’t believe you have.” Spock digs at a particular knot in Nyota’s back and she arches into his hands.

“Well, you do,” she moans when Spock places a kiss at the back of her neck, pulling her long hair to the side.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs, tucking her hair over her shoulder and leaving another kiss above the first one.

“How’s the reading going?” Her voice is rough again, although not from sleep.

“It’s rather dry,” Spock admits with some distaste, adding a third kiss.

“Well, it is from the Board. They specialize in dry and boring.” The end of boring gets dragged out in a rather breathy fashion when Spock trails a few fingers across Nyota’s collarbone and then down, following the plunging v-neck of her shirt.

“Unfortunately. They would save us so much stress if they simply realized that we don’t deal with anything willingly that isn’t fashion related in some form,” he says.

He moves his lips down across Nyota’s skin, stopping only long enough to let her turn around in his lap.

“Which is so much more interesting than quarterly finance reports,” Nyota agrees before she returns the little lingering kisses, one on Spock’s jaw, mirrored on the other side, his chin, his neck. She holds one of his hands by the wrist and places a kiss on each fingertip before finishing with his palm and then sucking two of his fingers into her mouth.

“Much more,” Spock says softly, and then replaces his fingers with his lips.



Subject: Travel plans

Leonard –

I wanted to make sure that Jo coming your way on the 24th of June was ok. Just give me a ring and I’ll make the flight reservations.



Bones is standing under the showerhead, hands braced on the tile wall, water beating on his back and running little rivulets down his chest, and trying to relax. The water feels good, especially on the sore muscles of his back after to a long afternoon stooped over going through negatives. He generally tries not to think about the fact that he’s turning 40 rather soon, but his back clearly has other ideas. Plus there’s the fact that he’s got a teenage daughter, which doesn’t help his blatant denial. He sighs and lets his shoulders slump a bit.

The door opens at the same time that his phone beeps, telling him that he’s got a text or an email.

“Want me to grab that?” Jim asks, and Bones can hear him take off his shirt when it makes a soggy smack against the tile floor.

“Yeah, go ahead,” He says, rolling out his shoulders a bit.

“It’s an email from Jocelyn, should I open it?”

“What’s the subject line?”

“Something about travel plans.”

“Oh yeah, go ahead. It’s about Jo.”

There’s a moment of silence while Jim scans the email.

“You’re supposed to call her to tell her if it’s ok if Jo comes in on the 24th.”

“I’ll get to that eventually. In the meantime, get your scrawny ass in here, because I know that’s where you were headed anyway.”

There’s a clink as Jim sets the phone down on the sink, followed by a pair of very wet jeans joining his equally as soaked shirt on the floor. A second later the shower door is opened and Jim’s wrapped around him, resting his head on Bones’ shoulder.

“If your back gets any more tense you’re going to pop your spine in half,” Jim mutters, placing an open mouthed kiss against the skin where his forehead was a second before.

“Physically impossible,” Bones says.

“You’re still stupidly tense. Feel like talking about it?” Jim moves down Bones’ spine, depositing little kisses every few inches, his hands lightly running up and down Bones’ sides.

“Not really, it’s not worth it. By the way, for the month that Jo’s visiting we’re staying here, not at my place.”

“That’s fine. Any particular reason?” Jim’s hands are straying dangerously low.

“You live in a safer neighborhood than I do.”

“Ah, that’s a better reason that I had. Mine was going to be ‘Jo’s 14 and will want her own bedroom, not some loft couch bed’, and I happen to have 3 conveniently unused ones.”

“Your insight into the mind of a teenage girl is disturbing,” Bones mutters, but turns around, letting his back hit the wall and pulling Jim towards him, cupping Jim’s face in his hands and just staring at him for a second. It’s something Jim’s gotten used to – half the time Bones is sizing up everything in his life in terms of photographic potential, and it’s kind of like being under a microscope.

“I’m good like that,” Jim says, smiling slightly.

“Yeah. Did you get the corrupted pages to Scotty?”

“Oh my god, work later, sex now.”

Jim surges forward, kissing Bones rather thoroughly before he slips a leg between Bones’ to get the message across. This seems to work fantastically, because Bones rocks against him with a gasp that might have been a clever comeback at one point.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jim whispers against Bones’ ear before kissing him again, the hot water running down and over their skin.






PG. Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, Sulu/Chekov. Sulu escapes a party, Uhura is an overachiever and Kirk shares a muffin. The 'how they met' story for each of the pairings.


- You’ve reached Hikaru Sulu, leave a message after the tone.
- Sulu! It’s Colt. Listen, Kirk’s throwing a party or something tonight, it’s in Williamsburg. I’ve got to get the address from Riley but I totally will, call me back like now! Also, you’re going if you want to or not, just so you know.


Williamsburg, a while back.

Sulu’s pretty sure that this isn’t a party so much as it’s an onslaught of noise, if the pounding bass and hollering people are any indication. It’s not that he minds loud music, in fact, he enjoys it, but right now it’s just not what he wants. There’s a moment of silence where it’s just dark and laughing voices and then whoever’s working the current playlist puts on another song and it’s back to harsh techno slamming into the walls.

He leans in close to the girl he came with – Aria Colt – and yells in her ear that he’s getting some air before passing his drink off to her. He winds his way through the crowd, skirting the back wall to make it to the door when he notices that one of the open windows has a fire escape running past it. He smiles and shimmies out the window with a practiced ease – he’s been climbing fire escapes since he was a little kid – and takes in a deep breath of fresh night air.

He’s content to just stay here, but when he leans on the railing and looks up at the glowing sky he notices that there are stairs all the way too the roof. If that’s not an open invitation to explore, he doesn’t know what is.

It’s an easy climb, and at the top he hops over the edge of the roof, just taking a moment to look around. The view of the skyline is gorgeous, and he’s picking out buildings he knows by name when he notices that there’s another person on the roof, a silhouette of black against the bright lights of Manhattan after dark.

“Hello?” He calls, taking a step forward. The person spins, stumbling a bit, and throws an arm out to catch themselves on a vent.

“Who is there?” It’s a guy, and he’s got a Russian accent thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m from the party. Downstairs. I, er, needed some air.” It sounds stupid, he knows, but he makes his way over to the figure, and offers a smile when he gets close enough to see him.

When he does, he recognizes him as a model he had spotted at the party earlier. Aria and her friends had pointed him out, giggling about his rather impressive curls. What was his name? Chankov? Chirpov?

“I’m Hikaru Sulu.” He hopes he looks like he’s actually friendly and not a psycho, although randomly appearing on the roof probably didn’t help that.

“I am Pavel Chekov.” The boy offers up a simple smile of his own. “Did you also find the party overwhelming?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” He says, turning to face the skyline with Chekov. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is. This city has no stars, but the lights are very pretty.” Chekov steals a quick glance upwards, and Sulu follows suit, frowning. They sky is glowing with the light pollution from the city.

“I’ve never really thought of the stars,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I moved right to New York from another big city.”

Chekov gives him a look, as if not seeing stars for your whole life is some sort of sin.

“How can you grow up without stars?” Chekov waves an arm skyward. “Every child loves to look at them and connect them, no?”

It takes Sulu a moment to reason out that Chekov must mean trying to pick out the constellations.

“I saw them on vacation once when I was like 10. And I mean I’ve seen them since, but I’ve always had the lights.” He shrugs. “It’s not really a big deal.”

Chekov seems to think so though; he makes a little ‘humph’ noise in protest. They stand, not talking, for a few minutes. Sulu can’t really ever think of it as silence – he can still hear sirens and horns and the screech of breaks. This city is never silent.

“You wanna go grab something to eat? There wasn’t much in the way of real food at the party,” Sulu says finally, turning to Chekov. He’s got his eyes closed, but he opens them and smiles at Sulu.

“Yeah, I would very much like that,” He says with a grin, the lights casting a soft glow over his pale skin and hair.


V61.0102 - RESEARCH CURRENT TPCS: PHONOLAB 001 74612 R 11:00am - 12:15pm WS 194M 202 SEM 4.0 S’CHN T’GAI, SPOCK


Greenwich Village, an even longer while back.

The quick, efficient knock on Spock’s office door gets him to look up immediately, frowning slightly. He’s just finishing up grading a report and then he was going to go home, as his office hours ended some time ago. As to why there’s now a student at his partially open door, he has no idea.

There’s a girl – she looks like she’s probably an undergrad – peeking into his office, a determined look on her face. She’s got a class sheet in one hand, which means that this is probably going to be some long discussion about transferring classes or something else that the registrar could deal with.

“Can I help you?” He asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and holding back the desire to heave a sigh.

“Yes, you can.” She slips into the room, straightening out her skirt, and walking up to his desk, slipping the piece of paper on to it. “I need you permission to take your Phonolab seminar, Professor S’chn T’gai. I have the required credits and prerequisites.”

“Spock is fine,” he murmurs as he picks up the sheet she’s passed him, hiding his surprise at her correct pronunciation of his surname. He’s yet to hear a student say it correctly, which is why he always goes by his first name. The header on the paper identifies her as one Uhura, Nyota, sophomore, College of Arts and Sciences.

“Miss Uhura, you are aware that this is usually a junior and senior level class, correct? How did you accomplish all the required prerequisites?” He trails a finger down her class list, finding all the required classes. Some of them seem to have been taken before she even graduated from high school.

“I am aware of that fact. And I finished some of the classes in summer school, Professor. I didn’t feel the need to waste time.” She fidgets a bit with the end of her long ponytail, looking hopeful. “I’d really love to take the class.”

Spock takes another moment to look everything over before signing off on the class and handing the sheet back.

“I’m trusting you to do well in this class,” he says simply. “Please don’t prove my trust misplaced.”

“That is one thing that will never happen, I promise,” she assures him, a smile creeping over her features. “Thank you so much, I know this is going to be an amazing class.”

She turns and makes to leave, before she spins again.

“Yes?” He asks, finally giving into the desire to sigh.

“You said that I could call you Spock. Is it because Spock is actually your last name or because I mispronounced S’chn T’gai?” She looks genuinely interested.

“Spock is indeed my first name. It is also much easier to pronounce that S’chn T’gai, which is why I prefer it to my last name. You are, however, the first to say it correctly on the first try.” He offers her a very small smile, which makes her eyes light up.

“It’s really quite simple, although I did have to draw from my knowledge of Sanskrit to figure it out. Thanks again, Spock!” And then she’s gone, scurrying out of his office and leaving Spock to wonder just how many other languages she knows if she’s mastered Sanskrit by the age of 20.


- 2 Victor 37, what’s your 10-20?
- West Broadway and Franklin.
- We have a double 187 at Chambers and Elk.


Chelsea, sometime between a while back and even more of a while back.

There are only three things in life Leonard McCoy wants right now – coffee, a shower, and at least 12 hours of sleep. The last one probably isn’t going to happen, but he’s hoping that maybe the first two can. He needs something to keep him running long enough to take that shower and scrub the smell of burnt flesh out of his skin and hair. Decay’s never a good smell, but when you throw in burning bodies it just adds a whole new dimension of ‘oh god, why did I ever want this job?’

His hands are freezing by the time he shoulders his way into his favorite coffee shop, never mind that he’s had his hands jammed in his pockets the whole time and it’s only been two blocks since he got out of his car. Letting out a long breath and hoping that he’s at least semi presentable (fat chance of that) he makes his way to the register, giving the barista girl – Julie? Jenny? - a weak smile.

“The usual, Detective?” She’s way too chipper for his current mood, and he just nods when a plate of muffins catches his eye – or rather, the last muffin in what was no doubt a whole batch. He’s reaching for it at exactly the same time that another hand darts in and snatches it, and he looks up, scowling. That was totally his muffin, dammit. He saw it first.

“Don’t you guys usually go for doughnuts?” McCoy looks up into the face of some pretty boy, a shit-eating grin on his face, and McCoy wishes for about the tenth time tonight that he was in plainclothes and didn’t have NYPD CSU across his back in giantass letters.

“Well, unfortunately they don’t sell them here,” he snipes back. “And you really want to give me my muffin back.”

“Yours? I think I saw it first.” Pretty Boy is really, really getting on his nerves. “I don’t think I want to give my muffin to you, but we can split the difference and share it.”

McCoy opens his mouth to say something snide but snaps it shut at the last minute, knowing that it’s not worth it to argue over a muffin with some kid who’s probably a model or something equally as airheaded. He just turns back to Julie/Jenny and offers a tight smile.

“I guess it’s just the coffee.” He digs out his wallet and hands over a five, trying not to glare at the kid, who’s hovering in his peripheral vision. He must have some sense though, because he doesn’t have a clever aside, just raises an eyebrow at McCoy and lets it go.

He’s waiting for his coffee at a table in the back when half a muffin on a plate is shoved under his nose, and the kid drops into the chair opposite him.

“Jamie told me you’re a detective. That’s kinda cool.” McCoy looks ups, glaring daggers at him, while reasoning out that Jamie must be Julie/Jenny’s correct name. “Hey, turn down the glare, I just gave you half of my muffin.”

“It should be my muffin,” he grouses, rising to the bait despite his better judgment.

“Well, I paid for it, so it’s mine now. At least, half of it is. I’m generous like that.” Pretty Boy shoves the plate a bit closer to McCoy, grinning again, but it’s not as pompous as the one he had plastered across his face earlier.

“Don’t pander to me, kid.” He looks down at the muffin. He’s about three seconds from admitting defeat and eating the damn thing, it’s just sitting there looking enticing.

“Too late. I know you hardcore want that muffin.” He takes a bite out of his half for emphasis. “I’m Jim Kirk, by the way.”

McCoy sighs and gives in. The muffin is really rather good, if he wants to admit it.

“McCoy. Leonard McCoy,” he says finally, offering a hand. Jim shakes it and then just sits back in his chair, looking pleased. It’ll occur to him about the time that Jamie brings over their coffee that the kid should be running very fast in the opposite direction – after all, he’s a cop with perma-glare who looks and smells like he’s just spent the last 4 hours at a crime scene pertaining to a double homicide – but it’ll take him years to realize that the reason he let Jim stick around is because he didn’t go running.






R. Kirk/McCoy. Bones drives Jim nuts with an ice cube, parties are attended, sheets are tangled and Joanna finally shows up. The 'how they got from the muffin to the suite in Paris' story.

I meant for this to go back to being ploty, but instead Jim and Bones demanded that I write out more of their crazyass back story.


Kirk, Jim:
Hey Bones, can you grab beer while you’re out?

Can’t you do that yourself?

Kirk, Jim:
Well, I’m at your place and you’re beerless, and I figured since you were already out you could fix


Still a while ago.

Jim’s been worming his way into McCoy’s life for years now – little things, like crappy beer that McCoy would never touch but he knows Jim loves showing up in his fridge and Jim remembering his birthday. He’s become a fixture at monthly poker nights (never mind that they started between McCoy and a couple of his buddies from the PD) and he’s even started showing up on McCoy’s contact sheets.

That’s when he’s really started noticing it - the photos. Before Jim, it was only Gaila who showed up in his photos. Now, Jim’s there too.

He’s got a makeshift darkroom set up in what used to be an elevator shaft at the back of his loft, nothing elaborate, just enough to develop film and print photos. He’s currently leaning his chin on his crossed arms, watching a contact sheet slowly appear out of plain white paper, grays gradually giving way to dark blacks and bright whites. He gives the tray a little shake, agitating the developer. The roll is from last week when Joanna had visited with Jocelyn for a few days. She’d been in the city for business and had actually been the one to suggest that Joanna come up with her and see him. Time was certainly helping heal whatever destroyed their relationship in the first place. At least, enough that he was getting to see Jo more and more.

He smiles as he sees the images appear – he had shot most of the week with an old medium format camera that he’d bought a few years back, but these are from when he and Jim had taken Jo up to Central Park and he’d just had his small Nikon. Jim jokes that it’s permanently attached to his face, teasing him for still using film. 36 images stare back up at him; all of Jim and Joanna except for one near the end of the roll that Jim had taken of him. He tosses the contact sheet into the stop bath and then the fixer and leaves it to sit, leaving the darkroom and blinking when he’s assaulted by the bright sunlight in his apartment. He’s not surprised to see Jim sitting on his couch, flipping through proofs and mock-ups, a pen clamped between his teeth. He’s got more paper spread out across the coffee table and a few have managed to end up on the floor.

Neither of them say anything, they got used to just existing in the same space a while ago, and Bones moves to the kitchen, digging through the cabinets for something to eat.

“What time do you have to go into work tonight?” Jim’s voice floats over from the couch and Bones sneaks a look at this watch – it’s almost 5:30.

“Eight,” he answers back, abandoning his search of the cabinets and just grabbing an apple from the bowl on the counter instead. Jim makes some odd noise that could be a hum, and Bones knows he’s probably nodding his head. He thinks about getting something to drink, skips that, and goes over to sit in the armchair across form the couch, watching Jim work.

“You’re going to kill yourself one of these days,” Jim murmurs, not looking up from what he’s writing. Bones watches as Jim’s messy handwriting spirals out and up the side of the paper from a photo of a dress.

“How so?” Bones asks, leaning back in the chair and munching on the apple.

“Eating things that require your hands instead of utensils when they’re covered in lethal chemicals.”

“They’re not lethal, or I would have died ages ago. At least, not unless you drink them.”

“You could be a zombie, you never know.”

“Actually, I think I would know if I was a zombie.”

They lapse back into comfortable silence before Bones goes and retrieves the contact sheet, skipping drying it in favor of simply bringing it back over in a small tray. He looks over the photos in the light while Jim hums some random song that McCoy thinks he knows but can’t quite figure out what it is.

Most of the photos are simply snap shots, Jim with Jo on his shoulders, both of them grinning like small children (which Jo has ever right to grin like at her current age, Jim, not so much) with popsicles from one of the ice cream vendors, Jo chasing Jim with a frog she had found down by the water. He smiles, running a thumb over that particular image. Evidently the great James T. Kirk was afraid of slimy amphibians.

One photo in particular stands out, halfway through the roll. It’s of Jim and Jo, their faces squished together. They’ve got matching huge grins, and Jo’s got her little arms wrapped around Jim as far as they’ll go. The background is the long dirt avenue of trees that leads to the Terrace by the lake that the paddle boats are in, although it’s out of focus, forming globes of light and dark behind the two figures. It’s just Jim and Jo, smiling the same smile (although Jo’s missing a tooth) with the same sparking eyes. Even though it’s a black and white photo it’s easy to imagine the blue of their eyes - they’ve both got the same color eyes.

Bones looks up at Jim, although his eyes are glued to his work, and Bones can’t see them. He just watches him for a moment before he gets up and goes to hang up the contact sheet to dry.
When he gets back Jim is now watching him, instead of the other way around, in a hungry, bored sort of way that Bones is intimately familiar with at this point in his life.

“I’m going to go crazy if I stare at this any longer and you don’t have to be at work for a few hours,” Jim says rather pointedly, clearing the paper off his lap.

“Pretty much,” Bones says and shrugs before stepping over the coffee table and landing on the couch, straddling Jim’s legs. Any further conversation is swallowed up in harsh kisses, both of them fighting the other just because it’s what they like. It’s just what they do. Fuck, hard and fast, because it seems like the thing to do, and then go back to their lives. It’s been going on for months now, no questions asked. It’s become a habit as much as Jim’s beer appearing in his fridge has. Neither of them is quite sure who started it.

Bones shoves Jim back with one hand flat against his chest, the other hand pulling and tugging on the hem of Jim’s shirt. He gets the message and strips it off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Bones takes a minute to just stare at Jim, tracing the line of his collarbone down to his sternum, before he reaches over to where Jim’s drink is sitting on the side table and sneaks an ice cube, popping it into his mouth with a little grin. Jim looks like he’s going to say something, but instead when he opens his mouth he sucks in a fast breath when Bones licks a long, flat line up the path that his fingers had just traced.

“Jesus – “ his voice jumps and then Bones has a nipple in his mouth, assaulting it with the ice while tweaking the other one with his fingers. Jim thrusts up against Bones, breathing heavily. He tries to grab Bones’ hips, but instead ends up with his wrists pined to the couch by Bones’ hands, long fingers and wide palms splayed over the hot skin.

“Cold enough?” Bones breathes against Jim’s neck, making his skin tingle with the cold.

“Yeah, quite possibly,” Jim says, a hitch in his voice. “Also, in case you wanted to see if you could drive me completely insane with just your mouth and a goddamn ice cube let it be known that you’ve suc-“ The rest of this sentence becomes a moan when Bones latches onto Jim’s collarbone, sucking and licking, leaving an angry red mark that he soothes with the last of the ice cube.

He pulls back, licking his lips where some of the melted water had escaped form his mouth, and just stares at Jim. It’s slightly unnerving, but Jim figured out a while ago that it just means Bones is trying to figure out if something (or someone) will make a good photograph.

“You look good like this,” Bones says after a few moments, and Jim wants to ask him how good, but he doesn’t, because he knows how he looks – flushed and impossibly turned on, hair messy from pulling a shirt over his head, and sporting what’s probably a rather magnificent hickey.

When Bones leans in closer again, pressing against his chest, Jim whines, whishing Bones was also sans shirt so that he could feel the heat from his skin.

“You know how you’d look even better?”

“Uh?” Jim’s really not in the mood for being coherent, let alone eloquent, right now.

“Fucking me,” Bones whispers against Jim’s ear in one long breath. Jim takes a moment to suck in a deep breath before he shoves Bones forward and to the side, and they end up on the floor, narrowly missing the coffee table and sending Jim’s work flying in various directions. Jim would care that everything’s getting out of order, but really, he’s more worried about just how fast he can get Bones’ and his clothes off, and then how fast he can get his mouth on every part of Bones that he can reach.


-Kirk, it’s Pike. I was wondering if you could possibly free up some time at noon – I want you sitting in on this week’s staff meeting. Call me back with a yes or no.


Jim’s learned over the years that, for the most part, Bones wants nothing to do with the parties Jim frequents. However, he’ll ask him every once and a while and Bones will give in every so often and he’ll end up at some chic party where everyone has something to do with the fashion or publishing industry. It’s not all bad, and after going to a few of these things Bones has finally started to put names to faces, helped no doubt by the fact that half of these people work with Jim.

He’s currently talking with one of the other page editors, a leggy redhead named Marie, and actually enjoying himself for once. He got off of work at noon, had time to take a long shower and kick around doing nothing for a few hours, which he pretty much never has time to do these days, and even print a few photos before Jim had showed up at his door and brushed past him with an invitation for the party, heading straight towards Bones’ closet. Bones finds it secretly amusing how much work Jim puts into outfits that aren’t even for him, and he likes watching Jim stew about matching colors and fling clothes across the room in an attempt to put together a pair of pants and a shirt that he can give his stamp of approval to. The shoes are irrelevant at this point, Jim admitted earlier on in their friendship that Bones was never allowed to wear anything but his boots, for reasons that he has only just found out (namely that Jim finds them inexplicably hot, something that Bones finds hilarious).

He’s just about to answer the question Marie’s asked him when he feels a tug at one of his belt loops, and he turns his head to see Jim standing there, invading his personal space like it’s where he’s meant to be.

“Marie, can I borrow McCoy for a second?” He asks, shooting a smile her way that he usually uses when he’s trying to get people into bed. Or get something from them. Or any time he wants anything, really.

“As long as you return him in one piece,” She says, grinning, and then drops a kiss on Bones’ cheek before moving off into the crowd. Jim moves his hand from where it’s resting on Bones’ shoulder down to his wrist, and pulls him in the direction of the back of the loft they’re in, practically dragging him around a corner and down a long hallway, not stopping until he’s shut the door to the small bedroom they’re now in behind him. The noise of the party dies away, and he turns to face Jim, raising an eyebrow.

“What happened now?” Bones drawls, leaning against the footboard of the bed and watching Jim, fully expecting a rant about someone turning him down that will no doubt end in them making out in the back of a cab heading to one of their places. He probably could have slept with Marie without much work, but Jim’s familiar and, in all senses of the word, easy.

“Nothing happened. Well, not yet. I’m leaving tomorrow.” Jim isn’t moving, but Bones get the idea that if he were one to pace he’d be doing so now. There’s a serious edge to his voice that Bones isn’t used to hearing.

“I know. Two weeks in Milan, we’ve been over this. I know you’re not afraid of flying, that’s my job, so why the freak out?”

“I’m not freaking out, why would you say that?”

“Because I’ve known you for long enough to tell when you’re radiating so much tension it looks like you’re about to snap.”

“How long are you planning on staying with the police department?”

The rapid change of topic throws Bones for a second, and he takes a minute to try to reason out an answer to a question he’s never really thought about.

“Until I’m done, I guess. People don’t just leave, they retire or they’re killed in the line of duty. That’s kind of the way life works.” He shrugs. It’s not really an answer, but he doesn’t really have one either. There’s no warning before Jim’s suddenly back in his personal space, hands resting on Bones’ hips. Bones is suddenly struck with a desire to reach out and try to smooth some of Jim’s tension away, hands on that warm skin. He settle for resting a hand at the base of Jim’s neck, rubbing little circle into his jaw with his thumb. Jim leans into it, taking a deep breath before he plunges onward.

“I want you to think about other options.” His voice is quieter than it was, but it’s still way more serious than Bones has heard him be in a long time.


“Like being a photographer. Like, for real, getting paid for what you love.”

“Why the sudden interest in my career?”

Jim looks up from where he’s been studying Bones’ shoes very intently and stares him down, shoving his hands into Bones’ back pockets. He’s expecting Jim to pull their bodies together, but instead he leaves the few inches between them.

“This does not leave the room,” Jim says.

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Something is very right, actually. Pike’s retiring and they want me to take his job. Nothing official yet.”

Bones opens his mouth to say something, but nothing manages to make it out because his brain stalls somewhere between James T. Kirk and editor in chief. He tries again, licking his lips without thinking.

“They want you to be editor in chief of the biggest book in the business,” he says, moving his other hand up to mirror the other one, and then ends up cupping Jim’s face in a gesture that he’d find oddly intimate if he weren’t so hung up on the conversation. “You. Editor in chief. At 26.”

“Something like that. Crazy huh?” And for the first time since Jim dragged him down the hallway he smiles. Not his ‘come hither’ smile, but this little private one that makes him look like a little kid. He tips his head forward so that he can press their foreheads together, dragging in a deep breath. “Seriously, think about becoming a photographer, you’d have all the connections in the world.”

“Jim, I-“

“Don’t do anything now. No decisions yet. You’ve got two weeks while I’m in Milan for Fashion Week.”

Bones closes his eyes and sighs, trying to make sense of everything that’s suddenly running through his head on overdrive. In the chaos there’s one thought though, and it’s simple and basic and he decides to act on it, pushing his fingers into Jim’s hair and tugging him forward, kissing him. Jim makes a tiny noise at the back of his throat that could possibly be a whimper, finally pressing their bodies together. It’s not like usual, it’s not like how they always interact on this level. There’s none of their usual hunger and want, just simplicity. It’s not a resignation, it’s an affirmation, and Bones chooses not to think about what that means, instead just concentrating on how Jim feels pressed against him, lined up perfectly with the contours of his body.


Dad Dad Dad! It’s me, Joooooo! I’m just textin you to tell you that I got straight A’s this quarter at school! And i’ve got to go now, but yeah, u should call me so we can talk about how awesome I am. Bye!


“Was that an alarm or a call?” Jim asks drowsily after Bones has reached over him to beat the ringing phone into submission. He’s now currently draped across Jim’s chest, because moving is really not high on his list of priorities at the moment. “And is that my phone?”

“No, it’s mine.” Bones yawns, burrowing against Jim’s sternum. “And I think it was actually a text. We probably need to get up anyway.”

“I don’t want to get up.” Jim slings an arm across Bones’ back, rubbing small circles into his spine.

“Finally, we agree on something. Of course, I actually don’t have to be at work until 10.”

“How did you swing that one? I thought you had a shoot.”

“Move to this afternoon. I can sleep in.”

“Not fair,” Jim whines, flopping sideways and taking Bones with him so that they’re hopelessly tangled in each other and the sheets. “We are at your place, right?”

“Yep, so you can take the subway.”

“Are you kicking me out of bed?”

“I could be.” Bones grins and kisses Jim, trying to free his one arm from where the sheets and Jim’s side have it held hostage.

“You don’t seem very dedicated to the ‘kicking me out’ part of this equation,” Jim murmurs between kisses, and Bones just hums in agreement.

They’ve been slowly sinking into a routine – if they happen to be in the same place at night chances are they’ll be in the same place come morning. Which is usually a bed. Although it’s been a couch a few times and it was even the floor of Bones’ kitchen once.

Jim has just flipped their positions so that he’s holding Bones down when someone’s phone decides to ring. They both look around, trying to figure out where the ringing is coming from.

“Who’s ringtone is the Batman theme song?” Bones asks curiously.

“Spock.” Jim clambers out of bed and finds his jeans tossed over the back of a nearby armchair before fishing his phone out of one of the back pockets. The conversation is short and Jim’s end of it seems to be a lot of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘that is so awesome’ before culminating in an enthusiastic ‘I love when meetings get canceled’.

Bones take this time to just stare at Jim, something he’s always done a lot of. The fact is that Jim’s just one of those people who are ridiculously photogenic, no matter what they’re doing, and half the time they’re together all Bones wants to do is take photos of him. Although right now, considering he’s got a rather awesome view of the expanse of Jim’s bare back (and other bare things that are slightly lower) he’s got other ideas.

“What’s my ringtone?” He asks as Jim makes his way back to the bed, clearly playing up the fact that he knows Bones has been watching him. Jim takes the time to crawl over to Bones before answering, kissing up from his shoulder to his jaw.

“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” Jim whispers. Bones takes a few moments to process this before he’s grabbed a pillow and hit Jim squarely with it, laughing the whole time. Jim looks rather startled, but he recovers in record time and before long any ideas of early morning sex have dissolved into a truly spectacular pillow fight.

They’re lying on the floor sometime later, still naked (although Jim’s managed to get one sheet caught around him, and it’s now forming some sort of haphazard half-toga) when Bones’ phone rings again.

“Wow, we’re popular this morning,” Jim says, still slightly out of breath. Bones gets up with a groan, padding over to his phone. The screen says it’s Christine, and he lets it go through to voicemail. If it was an absolute emergency she would have texted him. He scrolls though his messages, seeing that the one from earlier was from Joanna. He’s still unclear on why an eight-year-old needs a phone, but Jocelyn claims that it’s the only way she can keep track of her at this point.

“So now that we’ve decided to start the day with a pillow fight and my meeting is canceled, can we have slow, sweaty early morning sex of the incredibly hot and mind blowing variety? Because I like sex like that,” Jim says as Bones makes his way back over, dropping back down on the ground next to him.

“I suppose that can be arranged,” Bones says, shrugging. Jim’s already started tracing out patterns on Bones’ skin with his long fingers, across his ribs and up his sides, swirling over the crest of his shoulder. It makes Bones’ skin tingle in their wake and he leans into it, letting his eyes slide close. The concrete at his back is cold but Jim’s radiating heat against him. Jim eventually ends up with a leg hooked over Bones’ hips, and one of Bones’ hands finds its way into Jim’s short hair.

“We sort of suck at fucking this morning,” Jim murmurs into Bones’ skin, where he’s slowly working a mark into Bones’ shoulder.

“Yeah,” Bones agrees, snuggling a big tighter against Jim. The toga-sheet Jim was sporting earlier is now wrapped around their legs, pooled against the grey of the floor. “We should get up. Work and all that.”

Jim makes some noncommittal noise, breathing slowly, and just pulls the sheet a bit tighter.

“Eventually,” Jim says, and Bones just has to agree, because he’s kind of really ok with life the way it is, tangled in his sheets on the floor with Jim draped halfway over him, listening to his heartbeat.


- been thinking about this for a while, it doesn’t make sense to stay down here, not with my job, not with how often I’m in the city for business anyway. And if and when I do move up there, I want to see about changing our original custody agreement. There’s no reason we can’t have joint custody, and I know Joanna loves spending time with you and Jim, so -


some point in the future.

Jim’s house is alive again. Joanna runs ahead of them, carrying an armful of linens and nothing else, taking the steps two at a time and babbling on about some hot barista boy she saw at the Starbucks on the corner.

Jim bumps Bones’ hip with his own as he smiles at him, offering another box from the back of Bones’ old Jeep. He didn’t bother labeling any of the boxes, most of them are either clothes or photo supplies, and he can sort it all out later.

Joanna dashes past them, back out the door, as they reach the top of the steps, slipping into the house. She’s still talking, and Bones doesn’t need a ‘How to Communicate With Your Teenager’ self help book to know she’s ecstatic. Not that he’s ever had an issue talking to Joanna.

Empty bedrooms are being used again – Joanna’s going to get one, eventually, after Jocelyn finally moves to New York, and the disused office on the top floor of the townhouse is being hijacked by Bones for use as a lighting studio. It all fits.

He deposits a box on the kitchen island and turns to face Jim, grinning at him. Jim closes the distance between them, resting his hands on Bones’ hips, darting in to give him a kiss before Joanna appears in the doorway again, now talking about school and cute Manhattan boys and new shoes. She’s been running her mouth non stop since this morning, and Bones has to wonder if Jim’s been too much of an influence in her life if she can talk this fast for this long.
“It’s like a real family.” Joanna quips giddily, getting a soda out of the fridge and propping her chin up on her hands, elbows on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?”

“We’re not getting married.” Bones rolls his eyes.

“Sorry Jo.” Jim shrugs with a smile.

“Jim!” She whines. “But I want to be your maid of honor!”

“Hey now, who says I was going to be the one wearing the dress?”

“You’ve got the hips for it,” Bones counters, and then ducks out of Jim’s reach to get more boxes out of the car. Outside he takes a moment to take in a deep breath, staring skyward. The house is indeed alive again – it was always too big for just Jim. He rubs at the back of his neck with a small smile, pulling a partially open box towards him. It’s full of old binders, he remembers packing it, and on the very top he spots a contact sheet. He knows what it is instantly – just from a few images he can see matching grins and matching eyes and popsicles and a certain frog, and he closes the top fully, hefting the box to bring in.

Jim and Joanna have started some music up, and there’s techno pop bubbling through the hallways. He winds up the stairs, listening to the beat that’s reverberating around the house. Even when he’s slipping the box into his new studio he can still hear the music. He can also hear laughter though; Jim’s barking laugh overlaying Joanna’s high pitched one. They change the song and now it’s some epic rock ballad, and Bones just has to shake his head and smile.






PG-13. Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, Sulu/Chekov (and introducing Joanna/Josh the Barista Boy!). Further adventures of James T. Kirk, editor in Chief of Enterprise, and his lovely entourage of fabulosity.



Subject: You have an interview today, suck it up

Len –

Luncheon (11 AM) at Convivio with Gaila Nichols from Vanity Fair. The restaurant is at 45 Tudor City Place. Be late and I will be unhappy. (Ms Nichols has done work for us before, you’ll like her, I promise.)

- Nyota


“Humor me.”

“This is ridiculous. We’ve known each other for how many years?”

“Uh, like, a lot. 14? More? But I need quotes.”

Bones sighs, slumping a bit in his seat. He isn’t sure how he got roped into doing this interview, he doesn’t even work directly for Enterprise. And yet here he is, sitting in some restaurant that is so far from his usual haunt, it’s pretty much in the East River. He’s so out of his element that if he didn’t know the city back to front he’d probably get lost on the way back to work. (Of course, it’s his personal belief that if someone can get lost in Manhattan they deserve to be lost in the first place. Especially tourists.)

On top of it, it’s Gaila. They could have done this in Bones’ kitchen. They’ve been friends for years, and even lived across the hall from each other until recently.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” He sighs.

“You’re part of Kirk’s entourage. I’m putting together a piece on said entourage. Deal with it.”

“I hate my life.”

“I know. Just pretend like I don’t though, and give me quotes.”


Gaila clears her throat and shuffles around papers while Bones pokes at the bread the waiter had brought to the table. Eventually, after she’s gotten organized, she launches into what Bones realizes is her Reporter Mode.

“You’re notoriously quiet about your private life, no one’s quite sure where you came from, you made half the supermodels in this business-“

“If you make a crack about Steven Meisel I’m dumping you into the Hudson.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I’m sure.” God, he hates interviews, even when Gaila is doing the interviewing.

(So maybe the Steven Meisel comparison isn’t too far out of left field, but that’s not information he’s ever going to volunteer.)

There’s silence again before Gaila is the one to sigh this time.

“Alright, who roped you into this? Jim or Uhura?” she asks

“Jim. Hey, wait, you are not going to put the whole Jim thing in this –“

“No, no, oh my god, Len, of course no. It’s fine.” Gaila is starting to look exasperated. “Let’s start over?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“You were with the NYPD before you started doing photography.”

“I was, which you know,” he sighs. Gaila glares. He continues. “I was a detective with the Manhattan South CSU from the spring of 2001 to the fall of 2006. Specialized in crime scene photography, although we were all trained to be multidisciplinary techs. The NYPD doesn’t use civilians, so we were it.”

“Excellent, now we’re getting somewhere!”

Gaila is grinning now, scribbling in her notebook, and Bones can’t help but grin back. Her smile has always been infectious.


Dad/Bones –

Gone out to get coffee and oogle hot Barista boys, be back eventually. If you want anything just holler.

<3 J +J


“What do we say about him-“ Jim points (discretely) to one of the servers. “- like a 6?”

“Mmm, 6 or 7.” Joanna tilts her head slightly, wobbling her hand in a ‘sorta kinda’ gesture. “The other one’s cuter. What did his nametag say? Josh?”

“Josh.” Jim nods his head. “Josh was the 8.”

“At least. If not a 9. I should order something else so that he can come back to the table.”

Jim grins at her over the top of his coffee.

“Do I detect a crush?”

“Oh, please! He’s like way too old for me.” Jo rolls her eyes.

“Really? I’d say he’s only 2 years older than you. 3 tops.” Jim turns around, sneaking a glance. Josh is serving up a few drinks to the table in the corner.

“Seriously?” Jo leans around him. “3 years could work. That’s not illegal.” Jim laughs, shaking his head in amusement.

“I like that you’re worried about that. You realize how much your dad is going to flip when you get your first boyfriend?”

“I’ve sort of had a boyfriend before. This kid Troy and I had a thing. For like a week. When we were 12.” Jo pulls on a lock of her hair with a guilty smile. “Let me guess, he’s going to say I’m not allowed to date anyone until I’m 35?”

“Jo, I hate to break it to you, but I’d prepare yourself for an arranged marriage,” Jim says very dramatically, and punctuates it with a sip of coffee.

“Ugh.” Jo slumps in her chair, her arms hanging over the edges. “He is going to be so frustrating. He won’t let me date anyone, mom won’t let me go out in short skirts –“

“I wouldn’t have let you out of the house in what you were wearing the other day,” Jim says.

“That’s because my shoes didn’t match my belt.” Jo narrows her eyes. “I was late for school. Don’t I get a free fashion emergency pass like at least once a year?”

“You can have two. I guess you’ve already used one.”

“Great, so I’ve essentially got 3 parents and you all insist on making my life suck.”

“I think it’s like a requirement for parents to make teenager’s lives horrible.” Jim shrugs. “Although I’m sure that your dad was a total nerd who was always home for dinner and did his homework before his parents made him. I bet he didn’t even ask to go to parties either.”

“God, he must have been soooo boring at my age. I’ve seen pictures,” Jo says.

“Joanna Rose, you haven’t shared these treasures with me?” Jim places a hand over his heart in mock anger. “I thought we were partners in crime!”

“He had a bowl cut,” Jo giggles, leaning across the table to whisper this. “It was hilarious.”

“God, I am so glad he grew out of that phase. Now he’s like a 9. Or a 10.”

“Ew, this is my dad we’re talking about.”

“Your dad is smoking,” Jim says. Jo sticks out her tongue.

“TMI, Jim.”

“Oh please, he’s a regulation hottie.”

“Then how’d someone with your ugly mug bag him?” Jo is not above fighting dirty.

“Oh god, right in the chest! You are an evil little thing, you know that?” Jim reaches across the table to ruffle her hair, but she bats his hand out the way. “And it was all charm and money.”

“I figured.” Jo smiles, looking down into her tea, silent for a few moments. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jim studies her. He can’t see her face, so he’s got no way to gauge her reaction. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” Jo looks up at him, an honest and open smile on her face. “I’m going to get Josh’s number.” She gets up from the table, accepting a high five from Jim on her way by.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” He hollers after her, and Jo just rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over one shoulder.


Uhura, Nyota:
Hey, Chekov’s here. Can I send him up?

Go ahead. Also, are you free for lunch?

Uhura, Nyota:
For you? Of course.


“I always feel like this is a church.” Chekov fiddles with his fingers, offering Spock a shy smile. “I visited the Winter Palace as a child on school trips, and it was like a temple to royalty – this reminds me of it.”

“We are very lucky to have The Wardrobe,” Spock says, leading Chekov down the rows and rows of clothes, shoes, bags, everything in between and every accessory one could hope to own. “This shoot is for the October issue, and, Jim being Jim, he has decided that we should do winter colors.”

“Not fall?” Chekov asks, nearly bumping into Spock when he stops short and turns a corner, flipping through shirts.

“No, evidently not. If everyone didn’t already think him borderline insane, he’d never get away with half of this.” Spock pulls out two shirts, holds one up to Chekov, and then the other. “Of course, he’s redefined fashion for the consumer as we know it, so the insane may verge on genius.”

Chekov opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it, not sure if saying anything at all would be speaking out of turn.

“I am unclear as to why every designer has decided that pants that are 2 inches too short are in – what am I going to do with all this Moschino? It looks like a bad case of the 50’s ran into a Midwestern flood.”

“At least it is not all that leather, yes?” Chekov pipes up as Spock slings a shirt over his arm and moves on.

“The leather is also most illogical. Have we put you in Versace yet?”


“Alright. Pants, pants, pants... You are skinny enough that baggy can work.” A pair of gray pants joins the shirt. After a bit more poking around a belt joins the mix. “Go put these on, I have to find shoes.”

Chekov accepts the clothes, changing and trying desperately not to wrinkle the pants. He’s pretty sure they’re going to crease if he just looks at them wrong. He’s walked for Versace before, he knows how temperamental their pants tend to be.

He’s trying not to mess with them too much when Spock comes back and hands him a pair of shoes, circling him as he puts them on.

“This is good.” Spock comes to stand in front of him, repositioning his scarf. It’s green and blue today. “I think this will work. Alright, I need 2 more looks.”

And then he’s off again, digging through things.

“Bottega Veneta?” He calls around a corner.

“I do not believe I’ve ever worn it for you, no,” Chekov calls back, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and grinning at the squeaking of the leather of the shoes. It’s a sound that always reminds him of a runway show – models walking in shoes that haven’t had a chance to be broken in yet.

They’re finishing up the third outfit when Uhura strolls in, her bag tossed over one shoulder and a pair of sunglasses perched on her head.

“Cute outfit. Dunhill?” She drops her bag on a chair and reaches up to tweak his tie.

He nods and smiles at her as Spock comes back with two belts, holding them up against the color of his pants.

“Go for the one on the left,” Uhura says, pointing to it.

“Excellent suggestion.” Spock steps back to appraise his work. “This will work very well.”

“Are we shooting in such dark colors because Kirk hates natural and neutral tones with a fiery burning passion?” Uhura asks him, grinning.

“Of course. One day I’ll convince him that there are other colors besides khaki that are neutrals,” Spock says.

“You’ll have more of a chance of convincing Len that there are other shoes in the world besides moccasins and combat boots.” Uhura grins, and Chekov, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment, clears his throat.

“May I go change? I do not wish to be in your hair any longer,” he says, offering back the belt.

“I am sorry, yes, go ahead,” Spock says, shooing him off, although being shooed off by Spock is never very threatening. When he comes back with the clothes he offers them up to Spock, who careful takes them.

“These pants are so easily creased,” Chekov sighs.

“I know,” Spock agrees, shaking his head. “It is quite irrational. You’re free to go.”

Chekov chirps out a quick goodbye, and Uhura gives him a little wave on the way out.

“I like him,” Uhura says happily after he leaves. “Let’s adopt him.”

Spock simply raises an eyebrow.


H –

I finished reading 1984, so here is your next equation: 2 + 2 = ?

- P

(I hope you get the joke.)


Sulu just has to laugh at the sticky note on top of the paperback, flipping through the pages with a grin on his face. Chekov had left the book on the counter, but apparently left after that, because it’s the only sign of him in the apartment. How, exactly, Chekov went from crashing on his couch to being his roommate, he’s not sure, but it’s not something he really cares about. It’s nice having another person around, especially one who’s as energetic as Chekov.

He takes the sticky note off the book, scribbles “2 + 2 = 5” at the bottom of it, and sticks it to the fridge, finishing up his tea before checking his email. As usual, his inbox is crammed full of stuff he doesn’t really want to read right now, although he does spot an email from one ‘McCoy, Leonard’. He had no clue that McCoy even had his email address, although he’d bet money on it that he got it off of Kirk.

He leaves all the emails (even the ones that have to do with his fledging little clothing label, they can wait another half an hour) and goes to take a shower. Half the time he expects to get into the shower and have to deal with no warm water, a knee jerk reaction from too much time spent as a starving model living in Queens with Colt and two of her friends. He’s slowly getting over it, though. Warm showers alone are totally worth being a model.

When he gets out of the shower he hears what sounds like a ringtone and the opening and closing of cabinets, which means that Chekov’s back. Sulu decides that it’s not worth it to put on a shirt, then decides it is worth it, and ends up nearly walking into a wall while wrestling a t-shirt over his head. It’s ends up being too tight, which means it’s Chekov’s, but he’s already halfway to the kitchen when he figures this out.

Chekov’s leaning against the counter in the kitchen, a cookie wedged in his mouth, his fingers flying over the screen of his phone. Sulu’s never seen anyone text as fast as Chekov can – it’s almost disturbing.

“You solved my problem,” Chekov says, taking the cookie out of his mouth. Sulu mirrors Chekov’s posture, back to the counter.

“It was an easy one.” He smiles, stealing the half of the cookie left.

“It was a joke.” Chekov makes a valiant attempt to get the cookie back, but it all ends up in Sulu’s mouth. “And that was my cookie.”

“You stole my coffee the other day,” Sulu points out, giving Chekov a good-natured poke in the ribs, which gets Chekov to scoot to the side, laughing.

“Don’t poke me!” He swats at Sulu’s hand, eventually ending up in a minor wrestling match that ends with Sulu pinned to the counter, although he’s got one hand under Chekov’s shirt and is making a valiant effort to tickle him into submission.

“I – stop!” Chekov is giggling, although he’ll never admit to it later. He tries to get away from Sulu’s hand but keep him against the counter, which isn’t working too well. Plan B it is, then.

“You’re not going – mmph.” Whatever Sulu was going to say gets lost in the kiss that Chekov plants on him, and Sulu’s hand stills, resting against Chekov’s skin.

“That was an unfair distraction technique,” Chekov admits sheepishly when he pulls back, just far enough that their noses are touching.

“Unfair? Probably,” Sulu says. “But not unwelcome.”

Chekov smiles before giving Sulu one last kiss and snaking out of his embrace, an impish grin on his face.

“Movie?” He asks innocently, and Sulu’s pretty sure that’s not all he’s planning. “You can pick.”

“Yeah, but then we’ll end up watching some horror movie that ends with you clinging to me.”

Sulu follows Chekov towards the couch, watching him avoid various things like chairs and a pair of shoes as he walks backwards.

“Horror movies do not actually scare me anymore.” Chekov bumps into the arm of the couch and lets himself fall down onto it, grinning up at Sulu. “But you don’t seem to mind it when I end up in your lap, no?”

“You know me well,” Sulu laughs, and then kisses Chekov quickly before going to pick out a movie.

When Jim slides his eyes closed Bones shakes his head.

"Open your eyes."

"It's just black and white," Jim responds, but lets his eyes flutter open anyway.

"Actually, no," Bones says, and there goes the shutter again, catching Jim wide-eyed and surprised, looking up at Bones. The sunlight skates across his skin, bleaching it out.

"You never shoot in color." Jim frowns, and when Bones drops down in front of him on his knees he takes one more photo and then sets the camera gently on the bed, tracing some random pattern on Jim's knee.

"Black and white doesn't really do your eyes justice," Bones just replies softly.


It’s an older photo – Bones’ style doesn’t ever really change, just the people he takes pictures of, so the only way to gauge when a photo of his is from is by the ages of the people in it.

And god, is he ever young in this one. It’s got to be from around the time he was made EiC. His hair is slightly longer, his skin smooth (for the most part, although the corners of his eyes are starting to crinkle) and his eyes wide. He doesn’t look happy in the photo, but not necessarily upset, either. Just slightly unsettled.

He’s been digging through a box of files, looking for records on an old issue of Enterprise, and instead he finds an ancient photograph. Which is why he’s now sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the box pulled out next to him, his fingers running along the edges of the photograph. It’s not big, just a little 4x4 print, and he knows Bones well enough at this point to know that it was nothing but a test – the color balance is off, making it slightly cyan. Not something Bones would ever consider a finished product. It does make his eyes look wickedly blue, though.

It’s still interesting to look at. He’s naked, save for the sheets of what must be Bones’ old bed (it’s hard to see, the background is blurry) and he looks so open. Just by that he can tell not only his age, but where they were at the time – he considering it a juncture, when Bones quit the PD, a turning point in their relationship when they were both still trying to get used to new jobs and new people and the new direction they were headed in. It’s written all over his face, his body, in the hard lines of his shoulders and the unabashed honesty on his face.

He’s not sure how long he stares at it, flicking one of the corners, and eventually he hears noise downstairs, which means that either Jo’s home from school or Bones is back from running errands, maybe both.

The bedroom door opens after a while, and he looks up to find Bones staring down at him, his head quirked slightly to one side. He comes over and crouches down next to Jim, staring at the photo.

“Now there’s an image I haven’t seen in a very long time,” Bones murmurs. “There was half a roll of those photos.”

He sits all the way down on the floor, one leg bent and tucked behind Jim, the other spread out to mirror Jim’s leg, so that he can sit with his chin on Jim’s shoulder.

“I look like I’m about 20 here,” Jim says.

“You do look freakishly young. I think you were like what, 24? 25?”

“I had to be 26. You took this right after I got back from Milan.”

They sit in silence for a beat before Bones pulls back a few inches, turning Jim’s head with long fingers, so that they’re eye to eye. Jim knows he’s being studied, and he doesn’t mind anymore. Hasn’t in years.

“I like your laugh lines.” Bones reaches up and runs his thumb across Jim’s brow, down passed the corner of his eye.

“Not frown lines?” One corner of Jim’s mouth quirks up.

“You don’t frown enough for that to happen.” Bones gives him one last look before getting up, and Jim doesn’t have to hear Bones say the words to know he wants him to stay still and not move. He stares at the ceiling through, listening to sounds floating through the partially open door. Jo’s downstairs, he can hear her talking on the phone, and he can hear Bones across the hall. Familiar sounds – shuffling, then the click of metal on metal. One test frame, the clack of a shutter. It’s the Hasselblad – Jim’s heard that shutter go off a million and one times, knows the sound of it as well as Bones’ voice.

Sure enough, Bones comes back with the camera in his hands a moment later, catching Jim staring skyward before he can move. The second frame is Jim grinning up at the ceiling, then the third becomes him staring at the camera. Bones moves and so does he, until by the sixth frame they’re face to face. Or rather, Jim is staring right into the lens.

Bones lowers the camera after that, crouching between Jim’s splayed legs. He reaches out, running a hand through Jim’s hair, down his face, resting his palm against his jaw.

“Color?” Jim asks finally, his voice quiet. Bones just nods. “What’d you tell me the first time?”

“I think it was something about black and white not really doing your eyes any justice,” Bones says, closing the distance between them. The camera gets set down, and Bones ends up on his knees, sitting back on his ankles and just holding Jim’s face as they kiss. It’s such an easy moment to slip into, they’ve been here a million times, and Jim can never quite get enough of it.


Hey, it’s me. We, well I, have an emergency. Meet me at Bergdorf in like half an hour? It’s 4:15 now.

“You know, I believe that usually when one has an emergency they meet at the hospital.” Spock smiles as he draws even with Nyota, slipping into the revolving door behind her.

“Fashion emergency, Spock,” Nyota laughs when they’re both inside the air-conditioned store. “I don’t have shoes to go with that new dress I’m wearing tonight.”

“The red Chanel one?” Spock takes the lead towards the shoe department.

“No, my boat-toe leather Louboutins go with that one. The Giambattista Valli one. The print is making it impossible to find shoes,” Nyota sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“I would go with black,” Spock says, playing with one end of his scarf. “The green of the print will be too hard to match.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Nyota twists her way through display tables, cutting across the display floor instead of following the aisles. Her dress has a scoop back, and the warm color of her skin sits gorgeously against the grey of the material. Spock loves the curve of her back – the way her spine arches, down through her hips and up into her shoulders, and when she finally stops walking, triumphantly standing with her hands on her hips in front of the shoe department, he places one hand, fingers spread, against her skin, right in the valley between her shoulder blades. She sneaks a glance at him, a little private smile.

They move off, suggesting shoes back and forth, and every once and a while they’ll come across something especially hideous that will get Nyota to stick out her tongue in disgust, and one of Spock’s eyebrows will make a bid for freedom towards his hairline. In the end they end up with a pile of shoes and a very harried salesman who looks like he’s going to fall over.

“I’m thinking these will work.” Nyota’s stalking back and forth in front of the mirror in a pair of Valentino t-strap heels, stopping every once and a while to stare in the mirror. “Any opinions?”

“I think they will work quite well,” Spock says, and the salesman lets out a sigh of happiness. “They’ll look lovely with the dress.”

“Just lovely?” Nyota teases as she slips them off, handing the box back to the salesman.

“You know nothing about you is ever ‘just lovely’,” Spock assures her, coming to stand next to her, putting his hand back between her shoulder blades. Her skin is warm, and Spock runs his thumb down her spine before they walk to the register. Spock pulls out his wallet before Uhura can, getting a raised eyebrow in return.

“Hey, my shoes,” she says.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, handing over his credit card. Nyota laughs, leaning against the counter. The clerk is looking back and forth between the two still, as if he’s trying to figure them out. Many people have tried. Most have failed. They’re ok with that.

“Congratulations?” The clerk offers up, slightly unsure. “How long have you two been, uh, married?”

“Not married.” Nyota smiles at him. “And 11 years.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised as he hand over the bag. “Well, enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too,” Nyota responds before Spock offers her an arm.

When they’re back outside Nyota looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“This is a horrible heat wave we’re in,” she sighs as they set off, moving between people on the sidewalk and heading for the Subway. “Do you have to go back to work?”

“I am free for the rest of the day.” Spock neatly avoids a gaggle of girls who are clamoring on their cellphones. “What would you like to do?”

Nyota brushes her hair over her shoulder, letting it trail down her back.

“Well, it’s cooler at home.” She says, grinning. “But I know you like the heat.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to warm up if the air conditioning proves too cold,” Spock says this totally deadpan, but Nyota knows exactly what he’s implying. She looks over at him, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Our reservation isn’t until 8:30.”

“We’ll just have to make good use of that time, won’t we?”

“It would be illogical not to.” She thinks she does a rather fantastic impression of him.

This earns a quick smile out of Spock. Nyota stops, not minding that they’re in the middle of the busy sidewalk, and pulls Spock towards her, standing on her toes to reach his mouth, leaving a lingering kiss on his lips.

“Happy anniversary to you too,” she whispers, and this close, she can see Spock’s eyes light up.



The lower level of the Bethesda Terrace is temporarily closed to the public (4:00 to 7:00 PM, Monday 08/24). We apologize for the inconvenience.

- Central Park Conservancy (212-310-6600)


“Where did my models go?” Bones is standing, coffee in one hand, and staring at the very empty set in front of him. He had left for literally like two minutes to go get more coffee and had come back to find that all 3 of the models he was working with had vanished.

“They also went to get coffee,” Christine sighs from where she’s perched on the edge of the fountain, fiddling with her phone. They’re shooting at the Terrace, overlooking the lake, and they’re now totally burning daylight. It’s almost diner time, and Bones is not losing the golden hour just because the models need to go smoke and drink their body weight in espressos.

“Figures.” He drops down next to her, motioning an assistant over to where they’re sitting and sending her off to go get the wayward models. “We’re going to have use the spare lights, it’s getting too close to sunset to do this mostly with natural light.”

He stands back up, popping his back with a stretch, and flags down one of the grips, giving him quick directions on where to set up lights, and hops back up the stairs to where his Jeep is parked on an access road, digging around in the back to find the gels he knows he’s got in the mess back here. Half of the mess is, predictably, shit that belongs to Jim. For all the time Jim spends bitching about it being ‘the single most unpractical car for Manhattan ever’ (it’s not, that would be Jim’s gas guzzling road hog of a Range Rover that he spends a small fortune to park but never drives) he sure spends a lot of time driving or riding in it.

He should probably just own up to the fact that it’s not really smart having a Jeep in the city and get something nice and eco friendly like a Volvo, but then he’ll start looking like a soccer mom, which he’s totally not about to do.

He manages to extract several amber colored gels from the mess in the back, keys in one hand and his sunglasses clamped between his teeth, and makes his way back down the wide steps, passing the gels off to a grip who goes scurrying off with them. The models have thankfully returned.

“We ready to get this show back on the road, Chapel?” He asks breezily as he passes her. She gives a mock salute and a cheery ‘yes sir’ in response.

He corrals the models back to where they were, and then there’s Christine with a light meter and he doesn’t really have to worry about what exactly is going on. He may not be the biggest fan of these elaborately set up shoots, but photography is still photography, and he’s pretty sure taking photos is about as easy as breathing is at this point in his life.

The models are draped over the edge of the fountain and some crates they had brought in, looking like wilting flowers in overdone make-up and Cavalli. Although, for once, the wilting flower look is ok, as far as Bones is concerned – after all, it is a god-awful degree of hot out right now. Any time this heat wave wants to break, he’s all for it. It’s been going on for two weeks now, days in the 80’s and 90’s that are just that much hotter when you’re surrounded by 8 million other people and miles of nothing but concrete, asphalt and glass.

Ann Mulhall, one of Spock’s people from the creative department, is there, hovering around from time to time, a pair of shoes in one hand a belt in the other in case something needed to be changed, offering up suggestions to the models every once and a while when Bones isn’t telling them to do something different.

“Jana, your arm looks broken,” he calls over his camera, and the blonde in the shoot looks startled for a second before adjusting her elbow. He’s aware that his directions aren’t what most of the models are used to, but they work, so he sticks to them. “And Chapel?”

“Yep?” She’s suddenly at his shoulder.

“Can you tweak the light by DiFalco’s head?” He’s hoping she gets what he means, because he sure doesn’t trust any of the grips to know. She nods and hops up on the rim of the fountain, somehow staying out of the frame and moving the light to where it needed to go.

He kicks back a few more shots before sitting down next to Christine again, where she’s got her laptop open and is looking at all the photos. He scrolls through them, frowning from time to time. He’s really not fond of how artificial the later shots look.

“Ann?” He beckons her over, and she sits down on Christine’s other side. “What do you think?”
She looks through them, having Christine pull one up from time to time and making little humming noises.

“I’m glad we changed the shoes midway through,” she says finally.
“Well, yeah, but what’s your opinion on if we’re done or not?” Bones sighs. Trust someone from the creative department to be more worried about shoes that the actual photos.

“I think we’re good.” She hops up, clapping her hands and walking in the direction of the models. “Alright girls, great job! We’re done for the day!”

“Thank god,” Bones mutters, thinking about just flopping backwards. Of course, that’d end up with his head in the fountain. Not that cold water would be too terrible right now.

“Editors,” Christine sighs, watching Ann.

“If you ignore them, they go away eventually,” Bones offers with a smirk, and Christine just laughs. “C’mon, help me pack up.”


drjmccoy (14:33:20): so is that a yes?

baristaboy42 (14:33:49): it is. ☺

drjmccoy (14:34:12): <3!


“Dad, we need to chat.”

Bones looks up from the light table to find Joanna hovering in the door to his studio.

“What’s up Jojo?” He asks, flopping down onto the floor and patting the spot next to him.

“Why do we always have important conversations on the floor?” Jo asks, clambering down next to him.

“It’s McCoy tradition. You should hear some of the things that Jim and I have discussed while on the floor.” He smiles at her, brushing a lock of her hair out of her face.

“Let me guess, mom told you about the divorce while on the floor?”

“No, actually, that was at the kitchen table. Although I did ask her to marry me while we were sitting on the ground.” Jo raises an eyebrow at him. “I assure you it was very romantic.”

“Yeah, I’m not sensing a ton of romance from proposing to someone on the floor.”

“It happens.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Now what do we need to chat about?”

Jo takes a deep breath, smoothing her skirt out over her legs.

“You’re aware I’m 15 in two and a half months,” she says very seriously.

“I am.”

“And you’re aware that I am in fact a girl, and therefore find some people, like say, one of the barista boys at that coffee place that Jim and I go to, cute?”

“Ah.” Bones nods. “I’m also aware of that.”

“So, say I was to have a date with this barista boy tonight - theoretically, of course – would you allow me to go?”

“How old is he?”

“Uh. Well. 17.”



“Jo, you’re only 14.” Bones frowns at her. “You just started high school last week.”

“There’s a big age gap between you and Jim!”

“There’s a big difference between 34 and 39, and 14 and 17, sweetie.”

Jo crosses her arms, sticking out her bottom lip.

“But you’d like him! He’s nice, and he’s even kind of shy. He’s an artist!”

“Oh really?”

“He paints! And plays the guitar!” Jo twirls the end of some of her hair on her fingers, frowning. “And I’m almost 15.”

“Jo, look,” he sighs, reaching out to her and she scoots closer, resting her head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around her. “I know you’re very mature, and I know you’re almost 15, but you’re my little girl and I have to worry about you. I trust you, I really do, but I can’t trust everyone else.”

“I swear you can trust Josh,” she whispers.

“Josh? Another J?” He grins down at her.

“His last name is Jameson.” She sticks out her tongue. Bones has to laugh. “And just so you know, mom already said yes.”

“Of course she did,” he sighs, looking at the ceiling. “He’s a barista?”

“Yeah, at Joe, this place on-“

“West 23rd, I know.”

“You do?” She pulls back to look at him, and he’s shaking his head in amusement. “What’s so funny?”

“Jim and I met there,” he sighs, rolling his eyes.

“No. Way.” Jo’s suddenly grinning again. “See, it’s fate! You have got to let me go. Please?”

“What were you guys going to do?”

“Get pizza,” Jo says, sounding like it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

“Ugh, fine.” He flops back on the floor. “I expect you home by 9. At the very latest. A second later and Barista Boy gets it.”

“Ohmygod, thank you so much dad!” She manages to haul him up long enough to nearly strangle him with a hug and then she’s off, squealing and yelling for Jim. He just scrubs at his face with his hands and heaves a sigh.

As if on cue, Jim appears a few seconds later.

“So you’re letting her go?” he asks innocently from the door.

“You little bitch, you totally knew all she had to say was that he worked at Joe and I would have said yes.”

“Fate owned your ass this time around, Bones,” Jim says, moving to stand over Bones, a foot on each side of his hips. When Bones moves his hands away from his face he can see that Jim is smiling.

“You and Jo are so not allowed to team up on me anymore,” he mutters as Jim drops down to his knees, then leans forward and braces his weight on his arms, still grinning that megawatt smile of his.

“But we make such an awesome team,” Jim says, darting in to kiss Bones.

“Which is exactly why I always lose.”

“We’re like Batman and Robin, only cooler. And better dressed.”

Bones just has to laugh, and he reaches up, pulling Jim down towards him so that he can shut him up with a kiss.


Kirk, Jim:
Janice, don’t let anyone in my office for a while. I’m trying to appreciate some peace and tranquilly.

Rand, Janice:
Easier said than done.

Kirk, Jim:
Ugh, no kidding.


Jim’s sitting in one of the armchairs in his office, spread out and taking up more space than strictly necessary with his arms and legs, and holding a coffee mug loosely in one hand. He lets his head fall back, smiling. The day after they get an issue out is always the most relaxed day they get all month, and he plans to take at least 5 minutes to himself. Assuming nothing goes wrong at the printer’s (which he’s hoping won’t happen, because something’s gone wrong the last 6 issues, and Scotty’s pretty much incomprehensible when he gets worried or angry) they’re home free for the rest of the day. It’s nice.

He takes a sip of the coffee, breathing in and out through his nose and savoring the caffeine as much as the quiet in his office. He’s got no problems with hustle and bustle and a million people running around – after all, he does live in Manhattan – but it’s quite enjoyable to just have some time at the office when he’s not being bombarded by every problem known to man.

He’s just thinking about what to do with his weekend when someone knocks on his door. Of course. He’d told Janice not to let anyone in, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to work. At least whoever this was had knocked first.

“Come in,” he calls, and the door opens, allowing Sulu to pop his head into the office. “Sulu?” He’s sure he looks confused.

“Uh, I have a very odd question for you. Spock sent me up here to get a yes or no from you. You know the boots Pavel wore in that shoot for last month?” He looks slightly sheepish.

“The Balmain boots? What about them?” He leans forward in the chair, resting his arms on his knees, holding his mug in both hands.

“Well, can we, uh, keep them? Possibly?” Sulu rubs the back of his neck, and Jim’s pretty sure he’s blushing, his face halfway hidden by the door.

“Yeah, knock yourselves out.” Jim grins, and Sulu darts back out of his office with a hurried ‘thank you!’ He’s actually got to agree with Sulu here – Chekov looked pretty hot in the boots.
Speaking of.

The door opens again, and this time it’s Bones, evidently back from shooting downtown, which Jim is not about to complain about.

“You look hot,” he murmurs happily.

“Did you bump your head?” Bones asks incredulously. “I’m wearing what I always wear.”

“Yeah, but you’re hot, and you look hot in a t-shirt and jeans, ergo, you look hot at the moment.” Jim looks up at him, sitting back in the chair. “What are you up to?”

“Dropping off proofs. Thought I’d come bother you before you had the change to come bother me.” Bones shrugs, perching on the arm of the chair.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t bothering.” Jim smiles softly, running his fingers along Bones’ hand.

“I figured.” Bones returns the smile, which is exactly when the door decides to open again, ruining the moment. Bones’ is getting prepared to bristle at someone, but before he can Spock and Uhura walk in.

“Party in my office, evidently,” Jim says, raising his eyebrows as Uhura sits down in the other chair, crossing her ankles.

“Indeed,” Spock answers dryly.

“What’s the occasion?” Bones mutters.

“We’re not busy for once, we have no clue what to do with ourselves.” Uhura shrugs. “I want chairs this comfy for my office, by the way.”

“Hey, you’ve got to take that one up with HR, not me. Besides, these are my personal chairs. They didn’t come with the office.” Jim pats the arm Bones’ isn’t sitting on affectionately.

“We should do something interesting,” Uhura suggests.


“Lunch sounds good.” Jim says and looks up at Bones, who just shrugs.

“I could go for food,” he agrees.

“I believe pizza would be most advisable.” Spock is standing by Uhura, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Pizza it is then,” Jim says, nodding. “Let’s go have an adventure.”