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urbancateTitle: The Trouble With Leonard, Actually
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2100 words
Summary: Gaila and the girls posit to Chapel that it's time to do something about this whole being in love with McCoy business.
Notes: Ideas (and dialogue) shamelessly stolen from Love, Actually. Finished (in a shameful hurry) this afternoon because it's supposed to be a Christmas fic, dammit.
The Trouble With Leonard, Actually
Gaila brings the drinks this time, their third round, sliding into the tall booth at the back of the only bar on Deep Space Four.
"So, Chris, exactly how long have you been stationed on the Enterprise?" Gaila slides a neon pink cocktail in a very large martini glass across the table.
"What?"
"Just answer the question. How long have been on the Enterprise?"
Christine has the sudden feeling she's being interrogated, as Gaila and Janice and Nyota all lean forward, waiting for her response. She does the math quickly in her head, figures the Battle of Vulcan counts. "Two years, seven months, three days, and, I guess two hours."
"And how long have you been in love with Dr. McCoy, our engimatic Chief Medical Officer?"
"Um, two years, seven months, three days, and, what, an hour and a half?" The truth rolls out of her mouth with alarming ease. What is in these alien non-syntheholic cocktails, anyway?
"I thought as much." Gaila smiles, Nyota nods, Janice gives her a look of commiseration.
"Do you think everybody knows?"
"Yes." They all nod.
"Do you think McCoy knows?"
"Oh, definitely yes." Gaila sort of bounces.
"Oh, that is bad. That is bad news."
"Well, we just thought the time had come to do something about it," Nyota offers, as if this is all a rather logical discussion.
"Like what?" Christine is horrified. Mortified. Embarrassed. Oh, god, there are not enough adjectives for this feeling, whatever this is, of being exposed and she doesn't even know. She downs half of the pink martini in one quick gulp.
"Invite him out for a drink and then after about twenty minutes casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies." Gaila bounces again, green and sparkly as only Gaila is, and at this moment Christine really wants to hypospray that right out of her friend. Instead she orders another drink.
-
Forget all the drunken galpal strategizing, Christine will do no such thing. Christine does no such thing. Forget that Gaila won't let it go, even to the point of coming to medical on a pretense just so she can sit on a bed while Christine examines the burn that is not a burn at all and Gaila prods her about McCoy.
"Any progress with our matchmaking plans?"
"Get your pronouns right; it's your plan, not mine."
"Any progress?" Gaila is focused and relentless; it's a general problem with engineers. And galpals.
"No. And fuck all because there never will. He's too good for me."
"How true."
"Shut up."
"Really, Chris, all this unresolved sexual and romantic tension is starting to get to me. For my sake, for all our sakes, just do it. It's almost Christmas!"
"What does Christmas have to do with anything?"
"Christmas is a very romantic time of the year. Or this is what your old Earth movies have taught me. Am I wrong?"
Christine sighs. "No, not exactly. But that doesn't mean I'm going to do anything."
"There's going to be a party! A big one! It'll be the perfect time!" Gaila bounces back to Engineering from whence she came.
-
Her shift has technically been over for twenty minutes, but the Head Nurse of the Enterprise does not leave tasks unfinished. Even in medical, lighting is dimmed for the faux-night of a starship's orbitless clock. Simple inventory and restock is taking her longer than it should because she is actually contemplating Gaila's improbable - no, downright impossible - plan. Just casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies. Well, yes, on the sex part. Christine isn't sure about babies. At least not at this point in her life.
She tries to imagine it - skipping over the parts where she asks McCoy out for a drink and gets dressed up, the set up that is truly unimagineable - imagines the part where she says to him, while her finger runs circles around the rim of a martini glass. "By the way, Dr. McCoy, I'd like to marry you and have lots of sex and babies." His eyebrows do that devil-of-a-surprise-and-probably-not-a-pleasant-one thing she has seen them do.
So, scratch that. She puts down the martini glass, leans forward a little as if about to share a confidence. "By the way, McCoy, I think we should go back to my quarters and fuck like bunnies."
His eyebrows do that thing again, except worse, and there is a touch of horror there, too. So, scratch that, too. Damn.
"G'night, Chapel." It's McCoy, the real McCoy (oh, god, she did not just think that), coming out of his office, leaving, because his shift is over, too.
"Good night, Doctor." She watches him leave out of the corner of her eye and when he's out of sight she throws a roll of bandages - hyposprays or vials would break - and swears. Unsatisfying does not even begin to cover the entire situation - throwing things that don't break while she breaks her heart over a man she won't allow herself to even try to throw herself at. There is something twisted and true and just in all of that, she thinks.
-
She can't really say that her friends have dragged her here, because Christine likes a party as much as anyone. And this is a party. She wonders what inspired Kirk to authorize all this, this transformation of an all-purpose space into a slice of nostalgia, complete with evergreen boughs and eggnog and mistletoe. It's a little rowdy, because this how the crew of the Enterprise unwinds, but there is a wisp of romance at the edges.
Gaila is rubbing off, she thinks. Romance, she scoffs at herself. Forget it, Christine. Forget the floaty pink dress you've never worn before, forget the extra time you took with your makeup, forget McCoy out of uniform and in a gray button-up shirt, just forget. Take another drink, lose yourself in the music and the fun.
And she does. Twists her hips and moves her body to an amped-up Risa disco with Nyota and Gaila, a slow dance with an ensign from Engineering, a latin dance she can't name with Sulu. She twists and laughs and ends up against a wall, almost falling over, her legs burning from the exertion and the high high heels.
She ends up in conversation with Spock, a tall and sober Vulcan wallflower who is only here because Nyota is here and he's First Officer, so he's obligated.
Kirk is dancing with Gaila, and they are sort of wrapped around each other tighter than Gaila's gold dress, which shouldn't be possible. It's a more than a little inappropriate, except that everyone knows they are just friends. Whether there are benefits is something Gaila doesn't tell.
"I suppose it's his job to dance with everyone," Christine laughs.
"Some more than others," is the the wry and lifted-eyebrow-accompanied response. Never mind the sobert part, Spock actually has a wicked sense of humor. If she's going to end the evening as a tired wallflower, at least it's with Spock, who is something of a friend. And she can say she was keeping him company.
"Hey, you two." Nyota appears out of the crowd, which is exactly what Christine gets for thinking that thing about company and being a not-alone wallflower.
"Lieutenant," Spock inclines his head, and anyone who didn't know them would think he was being impersonal.
"There's a slow dance next." Nyota takes Spock's hand gently, and Christine knows exactly what Nyota is doing; Vulcan hand sensitivity and kissing fingers have been the topic of more than one Enterprise Girl's Night In.
"Indeed."
Christine watches them move onto the dance floor. It's sweet and romantic in that way they have, steady still waters and deep currents. She spends a moment in envy and barely sees Nyota moving her head and talking with her eyes in the general direction of somewhere to Christine's right. She notices just in time to turn into McCoy's personal space. It's a party, it's a dance, and personal space is not something she's thought much of the past few hours, but it's McCoy for hell's sake and she's hyper aware of how close he is. She could count the buttons on his shirt, she could trace the x-pattern of the threads through the buttons in his shirt. She could say something. Saying something would be good, she thinks.
"How 'bout a dance, Chapel?" His voice is low and full of drawl and his eyes are dark.
She swallows hard against something in her throat. Fear, maybe, and a dash of hope. "Me?"
"You, Christine."
"Okay." She bites her lip and takes his proffered hand, lets him lead her away from the wall.
On any given day, at any given time, Christine could recite a list of a hundred reasons why a thing, why anything, with McCoy would be a very bad idea. Starting with He is my boss, and all the way down to I am a gutless wonder. The thing is, at this particular instant, she cannot think of a single thing on that list of a hundred reasons why not. Not when his heat and his scent and his fingers in her hair and his muscular shoulder underneath her hand are all telling her the reasons why yes.
It's a simple slow dance. It's a revelation. She suddenly understands all the seductive implications and possibilities of two fully-clothed bodies moving in time to music. Not even moving all that much, really. More of a sway to plaintive dreams of a white Christmas and merry and bright days for the loved one.
The music changes and their dance is over. The party continues, but he says he'll walk her back to her quarters and she assents; with their eyes and her smile and his fingers on the inside of her wrist, they have a whole conversation.
-
The hallways are empty and the walk to her quarters is both too long and not long enough. They pause at her door and she doesn't open it; opening the door is opening the door and, well, is she ready for that? Is he ready for that? And there's that list, the one in her head, the one that includes Roger and McCoy's apparently bitter divorce and the question of how much time is enough time. She knows she's being a chicken, but someone has to be sensible here. And Christine is an ultimately sensible woman.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea, McCoy," she starts, looking down at her hands and then back up at his face. "We work to -"
He cuts her off with a single finger to her lips. "It's Leonard, Christine. Call me Leonard. Cuz I'm gonna kiss you now. Okay?"
He will break down every wall I've got, she thinks with a thrill that isn't fear, a heady realization of the possible rewards of taking this risk. "Okay," she agrees with a smile.
"Good."
He takes his damn sweet time about it, too. Frames her face with his big hands, traces her lower lip with a thumb, slight pressure to make her part her lips, achingly slow movements that leave her nearly breathless before his mouth even touches hers. She expects the kiss to be more of the same - sweet, exploratory. And for a moment it is. Until his tongue sweeps against hers and sweet and slow becomes hungry and hard and she's reaching up to wrap her arms around him, standing as tall as she can in her already tall shoes so she can feel him against her just so and he's groaning into her mouth and there's an answering noise from somewhere deep inside her.
He pulls away and she realizes they're still in the hallway. "You gonna open the door now, Christine?"
She does it without looking away from him, without moving out of his arms, and he moves them inside. The door closes behind them and his mouth is on her neck and his hands are moving down to her hips.
"This could be complicated," she breathes out, one last protest from the carefully constructed list.
"Life is full of complications," he says, looking her directly in the eyes. "That's what makes it life. So no more excuses."
"Yes, Leonard," she agrees, before pulling him down for another kiss.
-
Maybe it's complicated, maybe love is complicated, and maybe they are a couple of complicated people, but, as it turns out, when they are together, it's remarkably simple.
Gaila gloats a little, of course, but that is what meddlesome friends are for.
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2100 words
Summary: Gaila and the girls posit to Chapel that it's time to do something about this whole being in love with McCoy business.
Notes: Ideas (and dialogue) shamelessly stolen from Love, Actually. Finished (in a shameful hurry) this afternoon because it's supposed to be a Christmas fic, dammit.
The Trouble With Leonard, Actually
Gaila brings the drinks this time, their third round, sliding into the tall booth at the back of the only bar on Deep Space Four.
"So, Chris, exactly how long have you been stationed on the Enterprise?" Gaila slides a neon pink cocktail in a very large martini glass across the table.
"What?"
"Just answer the question. How long have been on the Enterprise?"
Christine has the sudden feeling she's being interrogated, as Gaila and Janice and Nyota all lean forward, waiting for her response. She does the math quickly in her head, figures the Battle of Vulcan counts. "Two years, seven months, three days, and, I guess two hours."
"And how long have you been in love with Dr. McCoy, our engimatic Chief Medical Officer?"
"Um, two years, seven months, three days, and, what, an hour and a half?" The truth rolls out of her mouth with alarming ease. What is in these alien non-syntheholic cocktails, anyway?
"I thought as much." Gaila smiles, Nyota nods, Janice gives her a look of commiseration.
"Do you think everybody knows?"
"Yes." They all nod.
"Do you think McCoy knows?"
"Oh, definitely yes." Gaila sort of bounces.
"Oh, that is bad. That is bad news."
"Well, we just thought the time had come to do something about it," Nyota offers, as if this is all a rather logical discussion.
"Like what?" Christine is horrified. Mortified. Embarrassed. Oh, god, there are not enough adjectives for this feeling, whatever this is, of being exposed and she doesn't even know. She downs half of the pink martini in one quick gulp.
"Invite him out for a drink and then after about twenty minutes casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies." Gaila bounces again, green and sparkly as only Gaila is, and at this moment Christine really wants to hypospray that right out of her friend. Instead she orders another drink.
-
Forget all the drunken galpal strategizing, Christine will do no such thing. Christine does no such thing. Forget that Gaila won't let it go, even to the point of coming to medical on a pretense just so she can sit on a bed while Christine examines the burn that is not a burn at all and Gaila prods her about McCoy.
"Any progress with our matchmaking plans?"
"Get your pronouns right; it's your plan, not mine."
"Any progress?" Gaila is focused and relentless; it's a general problem with engineers. And galpals.
"No. And fuck all because there never will. He's too good for me."
"How true."
"Shut up."
"Really, Chris, all this unresolved sexual and romantic tension is starting to get to me. For my sake, for all our sakes, just do it. It's almost Christmas!"
"What does Christmas have to do with anything?"
"Christmas is a very romantic time of the year. Or this is what your old Earth movies have taught me. Am I wrong?"
Christine sighs. "No, not exactly. But that doesn't mean I'm going to do anything."
"There's going to be a party! A big one! It'll be the perfect time!" Gaila bounces back to Engineering from whence she came.
-
Her shift has technically been over for twenty minutes, but the Head Nurse of the Enterprise does not leave tasks unfinished. Even in medical, lighting is dimmed for the faux-night of a starship's orbitless clock. Simple inventory and restock is taking her longer than it should because she is actually contemplating Gaila's improbable - no, downright impossible - plan. Just casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies. Well, yes, on the sex part. Christine isn't sure about babies. At least not at this point in her life.
She tries to imagine it - skipping over the parts where she asks McCoy out for a drink and gets dressed up, the set up that is truly unimagineable - imagines the part where she says to him, while her finger runs circles around the rim of a martini glass. "By the way, Dr. McCoy, I'd like to marry you and have lots of sex and babies." His eyebrows do that devil-of-a-surprise-and-probably-not-a-pleasant-one thing she has seen them do.
So, scratch that. She puts down the martini glass, leans forward a little as if about to share a confidence. "By the way, McCoy, I think we should go back to my quarters and fuck like bunnies."
His eyebrows do that thing again, except worse, and there is a touch of horror there, too. So, scratch that, too. Damn.
"G'night, Chapel." It's McCoy, the real McCoy (oh, god, she did not just think that), coming out of his office, leaving, because his shift is over, too.
"Good night, Doctor." She watches him leave out of the corner of her eye and when he's out of sight she throws a roll of bandages - hyposprays or vials would break - and swears. Unsatisfying does not even begin to cover the entire situation - throwing things that don't break while she breaks her heart over a man she won't allow herself to even try to throw herself at. There is something twisted and true and just in all of that, she thinks.
-
She can't really say that her friends have dragged her here, because Christine likes a party as much as anyone. And this is a party. She wonders what inspired Kirk to authorize all this, this transformation of an all-purpose space into a slice of nostalgia, complete with evergreen boughs and eggnog and mistletoe. It's a little rowdy, because this how the crew of the Enterprise unwinds, but there is a wisp of romance at the edges.
Gaila is rubbing off, she thinks. Romance, she scoffs at herself. Forget it, Christine. Forget the floaty pink dress you've never worn before, forget the extra time you took with your makeup, forget McCoy out of uniform and in a gray button-up shirt, just forget. Take another drink, lose yourself in the music and the fun.
And she does. Twists her hips and moves her body to an amped-up Risa disco with Nyota and Gaila, a slow dance with an ensign from Engineering, a latin dance she can't name with Sulu. She twists and laughs and ends up against a wall, almost falling over, her legs burning from the exertion and the high high heels.
She ends up in conversation with Spock, a tall and sober Vulcan wallflower who is only here because Nyota is here and he's First Officer, so he's obligated.
Kirk is dancing with Gaila, and they are sort of wrapped around each other tighter than Gaila's gold dress, which shouldn't be possible. It's a more than a little inappropriate, except that everyone knows they are just friends. Whether there are benefits is something Gaila doesn't tell.
"I suppose it's his job to dance with everyone," Christine laughs.
"Some more than others," is the the wry and lifted-eyebrow-accompanied response. Never mind the sobert part, Spock actually has a wicked sense of humor. If she's going to end the evening as a tired wallflower, at least it's with Spock, who is something of a friend. And she can say she was keeping him company.
"Hey, you two." Nyota appears out of the crowd, which is exactly what Christine gets for thinking that thing about company and being a not-alone wallflower.
"Lieutenant," Spock inclines his head, and anyone who didn't know them would think he was being impersonal.
"There's a slow dance next." Nyota takes Spock's hand gently, and Christine knows exactly what Nyota is doing; Vulcan hand sensitivity and kissing fingers have been the topic of more than one Enterprise Girl's Night In.
"Indeed."
Christine watches them move onto the dance floor. It's sweet and romantic in that way they have, steady still waters and deep currents. She spends a moment in envy and barely sees Nyota moving her head and talking with her eyes in the general direction of somewhere to Christine's right. She notices just in time to turn into McCoy's personal space. It's a party, it's a dance, and personal space is not something she's thought much of the past few hours, but it's McCoy for hell's sake and she's hyper aware of how close he is. She could count the buttons on his shirt, she could trace the x-pattern of the threads through the buttons in his shirt. She could say something. Saying something would be good, she thinks.
"How 'bout a dance, Chapel?" His voice is low and full of drawl and his eyes are dark.
She swallows hard against something in her throat. Fear, maybe, and a dash of hope. "Me?"
"You, Christine."
"Okay." She bites her lip and takes his proffered hand, lets him lead her away from the wall.
On any given day, at any given time, Christine could recite a list of a hundred reasons why a thing, why anything, with McCoy would be a very bad idea. Starting with He is my boss, and all the way down to I am a gutless wonder. The thing is, at this particular instant, she cannot think of a single thing on that list of a hundred reasons why not. Not when his heat and his scent and his fingers in her hair and his muscular shoulder underneath her hand are all telling her the reasons why yes.
It's a simple slow dance. It's a revelation. She suddenly understands all the seductive implications and possibilities of two fully-clothed bodies moving in time to music. Not even moving all that much, really. More of a sway to plaintive dreams of a white Christmas and merry and bright days for the loved one.
The music changes and their dance is over. The party continues, but he says he'll walk her back to her quarters and she assents; with their eyes and her smile and his fingers on the inside of her wrist, they have a whole conversation.
-
The hallways are empty and the walk to her quarters is both too long and not long enough. They pause at her door and she doesn't open it; opening the door is opening the door and, well, is she ready for that? Is he ready for that? And there's that list, the one in her head, the one that includes Roger and McCoy's apparently bitter divorce and the question of how much time is enough time. She knows she's being a chicken, but someone has to be sensible here. And Christine is an ultimately sensible woman.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea, McCoy," she starts, looking down at her hands and then back up at his face. "We work to -"
He cuts her off with a single finger to her lips. "It's Leonard, Christine. Call me Leonard. Cuz I'm gonna kiss you now. Okay?"
He will break down every wall I've got, she thinks with a thrill that isn't fear, a heady realization of the possible rewards of taking this risk. "Okay," she agrees with a smile.
"Good."
He takes his damn sweet time about it, too. Frames her face with his big hands, traces her lower lip with a thumb, slight pressure to make her part her lips, achingly slow movements that leave her nearly breathless before his mouth even touches hers. She expects the kiss to be more of the same - sweet, exploratory. And for a moment it is. Until his tongue sweeps against hers and sweet and slow becomes hungry and hard and she's reaching up to wrap her arms around him, standing as tall as she can in her already tall shoes so she can feel him against her just so and he's groaning into her mouth and there's an answering noise from somewhere deep inside her.
He pulls away and she realizes they're still in the hallway. "You gonna open the door now, Christine?"
She does it without looking away from him, without moving out of his arms, and he moves them inside. The door closes behind them and his mouth is on her neck and his hands are moving down to her hips.
"This could be complicated," she breathes out, one last protest from the carefully constructed list.
"Life is full of complications," he says, looking her directly in the eyes. "That's what makes it life. So no more excuses."
"Yes, Leonard," she agrees, before pulling him down for another kiss.
-
Maybe it's complicated, maybe love is complicated, and maybe they are a couple of complicated people, but, as it turns out, when they are together, it's remarkably simple.
Gaila gloats a little, of course, but that is what meddlesome friends are for.
