leftwithmybones | (no subject)

(no subject)

When McCoy wakes up, it's to that early-morning loathing that always comes when it's been too late of a night. Between stumbling home too late and rousing Jim for a late night quickie, it doesn't leave much time for rest. She wakes, dislodging the covers while trying as best as she can not to wake Jim up -- and hell, it's not that she's avoiding him completely, not totally, it's just that she's had a lot on her mind now that their marriage hasn't completely imploded and she ain't getting any younger. The thoughts had started occurring to her a while back, but now they're coming out in full force like they won't hide any longer.

Those thoughts can be put aside.

She stumbles, naked, for the shower and puts a lot of time towards feeling human again. The cascade of warm water over McCoy's face is desperately needed and she leans into the spray, using Jim's soap, since it looks like she's out and needs a trip to the Compound. She towels off and heads for the bedroom, creeping on tiptoes and peering inside the drawers. She fiddles with her ring as she looks, absently hooking it back onto the chain she's taken to wearing it on so she can still do clinic hours and wear her ring.

Right about the third drawer she's looking in, things get weird.

"Damn it, Jim," she growls, yanking drawer after drawer open. Back in the Academy days, a prank like this might've been appreciated or laughed at, but it's too damn early in the morning and Jim's dumped all her clothes. She yanks men's shirt after men's shirt out of the drawers, littering the floor with the damn things. Eventually, she grabs hold of Jim's Starfleet U t-shirt they'd found buried and one of his pairs of boxer-briefs, yanking them on with the furious efficiency that always turns up when Lena's mad at Jim.

Clothes all over the floor, temporary clothes stolen, she leans over and flicks him hard at the arch of his foot. "Damn it, Jim," she snaps. "Wake the hell up and tell me where you put my clothes."

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"If you're willing to wear a revealing speedo, I'm all over the two-piece, James T," McCoy promises with a snort, sighing as the panic begins to recede and she starts getting a little better. Jim's okay, they're okay, she's okay. They'll figure out where her clothes are and that's it.

She just wishes that niggling sense of suspicion at the base of her brain stem would go away. She taps Jim's thighs with her palms to get him to move, stripping his shirt off, kicking off his underwear to wander around looking for something to wear -- and being damn grateful she made blinds for the house when she did. "You want to have dinner tonight? I mean, real dinner, date dinner," she qualifies. "There's ah, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

Jim has a split second to try dealing with breasts before there's even more on display, his ears red and mouth hanging open in uncharacteristic silence. He looks at Bones and away again, not sure if checking her out is some kind of betrayal when it's still his Bones, at least mostly, and is slow to realize she's asked him a question.

Dinner, he could do dinner, he thinks, but when he manages to speak, what Jim says is, "You're my wife. My Bones, right? I'll do anything for you."

She digs up one of Jim's dress-shirts (she thinks it is, at least, a long green henley) and pulls on the sleeves until they're over her palms, wiggling her hips into a pair of Jim's nicer boxer-briefs and cinching it at the waist with a belt. "Are we doing obvious theatre?" she wonders. "Yes, I, Lena Hermione McCoy-Kirk, am your wife," she dutifully remarks. "You want the vows again?"

Lena Hermione. Jim grins down at his feet, because that's perfect in a way he'd never have expected. "Maybe I like hearing them," he says, stepping up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist.

She smells like Bones, but lighter, softer, and Jim buries his nose in her hair. It's been ages since he held a woman - and while Jim can't say he's missed it, exactly, it's nice to have again. "You smell good."

She raises a brow, not entirely sure where that one came from, but it's too easy to sink back into his arms and take solace in these little touches. She grins and ducks back to press a hard kiss to his cheek. "That your way of saying there's times I don't smell so good?" She pivots on her toes and leans that stretch of inches up, spanning the five inches between them to purse her lips at him defiantly. "Clothes," she whispers.

"Course it's not," says Jim, and it's strange how this female version of his husband can make him bashful in a way that his Bones rarely does. "Clothes," he agrees, but all at once, Jim isn't so sure she should be going out. It was enough of a shock to his system to wake up with Bones as a woman - god knows what she'll think when she realizes it's not the norm.

"Why don't we stay in?" he says, carding his fingers through her hair. It's so long, even longer than when Bones let his grow out. "Maybe the clothes are a sign that I'm supposed to make you breakfast in bed."

She gives him a displeased look, her lips going flat as she eases back onto her heels and puts a little distance between the two of them. "Jim, I'm going to get some clothes," she says, and it's firm and without budging. "Whether you're coming with me is up to you, but I'm not spending the whole goddamn day in your underwear chafing me like a bitch," she growls.

Jim recognizes that determined expression, even if he's still getting used to the face wearing it, and sighs and steps back. "I'm coming with," he says, because no way is he letting her out of his sight.

Stepping into a pair of jeans, Jim finds one of his many shirts she's thrown and shrugs it on, waiting until she's not looking before he tucks his phaser into a pocket. He's probably being overprotective, but god help anyone who looks sideways at his hus- his wife today.

"Where the hell are my shoes?"

She's busy putting together the medkit in case she wants to stay at the lab and do some work, peering up when Jim asks about his shoes. "Right," she drawls, her brow arching high and with a slight bit of guilt. "I think they might be in that pile under your pants. I got a little...angry," she admits, grabbing one of the hairties on the bench to knot her hair in a messy and high bun atop her head.

"Where do you want to go tonight?" McCoy asks over her shoulder. "I'll need to pick up something to wear for it." And shit, she realizes she doesn't have shoes. "Damn it," she mutters. "How the hell am I getting to the Compound without shoes?"

Edited 2013-06-23 19:00 (UTC)

"It's a long way, Bones," says Jim, locating a suitable pair beneath a pile of his shirts. The boardwalk will be hot in the sun, and no way are they adding injury to insult today.

Jim steps up next to her. "Only one thing to do," he says, and drops down a little, "Your chariot."

She sighs and stares down at Jim. "Well, what the hell, it's not like you're good for anything else," she jokes wryly, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as she climbs onto his back. "You tell one person I did this willingly and I chop little Jim off in your sleep," she warns, a growl right into his ear. "Got it, peaches?"

"Is it wise to spook your horse?" Jim asks mildly, bending over to grab her medkit.

"All right," he says, thankful that he's in such good shape. It's not that she's heavy, but it's a long way to the Compound. "As for dinner," he says, striding into the sunshine, "We're not exactly lousy with choices, Bones. But I like the Winchester best."

She licks her lips and wraps her lips around Jim's earlobe to suck and scrape, whispering, "Not really unwise when my horse does whatever I want him to do when I sit on his dick, is it?" she reminds him, tightening her hold on him. "I could cook, too. It's up to you."

Jim gasps, stumbling a little on the path, but manages not to send any of his cargo sprawling. "Hard to walk with a boner, Bones," he says, laughing. "I do love your cooking, you know that. What's the occasion, anyway?"

She can't help the grin she presses against Jim's shoulder, remembering to be a grumpy bitch almost immediately after. "So maybe I'll cook us some dinner," she says, picking at his shirt to avoid talking right now about the subject at hand. "It's...you know, it's a conversation. I just think it's a conversation better had with wine and food," she grunts. "Maybe something nice to wear."

Because if she plays her cards right, Jim ought to be ripping said clothes off her by the end of dinner. So maybe indoors and private is the best option.

"That makes me nervous," says Jim, "But I'm a big enough fan of your food that I don't care. So you're going to get a dress?" He pictures that as he walks them down the path, Bones' much smaller feet crisscrossed over his middle. Maybe Bones will hate him for it when he's back to normal, but Jim can't help saying, "I'd love to see you in a dress tonight."

She keeps her cheek to his shoulder, getting comfortable now that he's decided hauling her around is his new job description. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea," she hums softly, already thinking of something. "I used to have this little blue number back at the Academy I used to wear when some poor sucker asked me out on a date. Slinky, shiny, and showed off all the leg," she snorts. "If I play my cards right, I ain't wearing it long."

"Sounds like a true weapon of mass destruction," says Jim, caught being trying not to picture that and dreaming of it in three dimensional surround sound for the rest of his life. Hitching her a little higher around his waist, Jim sighs. "I do love these legs."

McCoy goes with the hitch, bouncing slightly in order to keep tightly pressed to Jim, flush against his back. "Well, I'm real glad you do, but remember you can't have 'em. They're mine," she drawls, glad to see the Compound. It's not that she thinks she's heavy, but it's not fair to Jim to make him carry her the whole time. "Might even make you a fatty dessert tonight to thank you for being a gentleman, carrying me all this way, darlin'."

Despite his many doubts, Jim grins for the darlin'. It's just so Bones, and he studies the last of the boardwalk with a lighter heart. "Not so sunny here, you could walk without burning your feet," he says, swinging her suddenly around from his back and into his arms. "Or do you want me to princess carry you over the threshold?"

She lets out a cry of indignation at the twist, glaring at Jim with the fury of a dozen suns when suddenly she's in his arms like she's a goddamn rag doll. "I can walk, you cretin," she seethes, kicking his thigh lightly enough as she dismantles and walks the rest of the distance, though she does wait at the door with a hand out for Jim to take.

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