Title: Seen and Unseen
Characters: McCoy, Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,780 words
Warnings: Masturbation.
Disclaimer: The only part of Trek I own is a Starfleet badge out of a cereal box. Also, the description "walking streak of sex" is borrowed from John Berendt's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Very sorry, but it was too Jim to pass up. No infringement intended.
A/N: Thanks to mattie4 for the beta and lielabell for the prompt forever ago.

Summary: McCoy attempts to grab some sleep in the academy's on-call room.



McCoy had already been through med school once, and this was the part he remembered hating the most—the no time to sleep part. The back-to-back eighteen-hour shifts part. He groaned as he planted his butt on a cot at the front corner of the empty on-call room and shucked his shoes and lab coat.

Starfleet's truncated version of residency was not as rigorous as his previous stints at the Southern county ER he'd built a solid career in before he'd been exiled from the whole damn state in the divorce. It was more like clinic duty—not exactly the kind of work that got you pumped enough to skate through the hours on an adrenaline high, but with a greater variety of ailments in a greater variety of species, which was the basic point. But McCoy was almost ten years older than he had been his first time out, and today he felt every added year.

He had the room of four unoccupied beds to himself, but he flicked the curtain around his cot closed anyway, if only to block the late-afternoon San Francisco sunlight from the window. He glanced at his watch, setting a mental alarm for two hours of sleep or so, and lay back with a yawn and a stretch.

Ten minutes later, just as his muscles had gone slack and his grip on consciousness was slipping, the door opened. Light from the hall cracked along the ceiling at the foot of McCoy's bed and he gritted his teeth, expecting to hear a nurse whisper his name and call him back to duty.

Instead he heard a kind of smacking sound a heavy scrape accompanied by a whispered ow and a suppressed snicker as someone whacked into one of the beds on the other side of the aisle. The slurp of deep kisses involving a lot of tongue resumed immediately.

McCoy was working up the energy to tell the horny med students, or whoever they were, to take their tryst elsewhere, when he heard the distinct rip of a zipper followed by a throaty oh yeah.

And damn if McCoy didn't recognize that voice.

That was Jim Kirk, first person McCoy met in Starfleet and now regular drinking partner, and that was the same sound he made when he sucked down his first shot of whiskey at the bar every Friday night—only needier, less controlled.

Across the room, articles of clothing hit the floor with repeated plops, a mattress creaked, and breath rates increased in speed and volume.

McCoy rolled his eyes in annoyance. Like everybody else at the academy, he knew of Jim's reputation as a walking streak of sex. Jim didn't fuck and tell, but girls gossiped and McCoy had seen the looks Jim got and gave. So he wasn't surprised that it was Jim sneaking into the on-call room for a midday quickie with one of the pretty med-track cadets or nurses, but he was rightfully more than a little irritated.

He'd slept through worse, but McCoy was all too conscious that he was unwillingly about to be privy to one of Jim's conquests to rest easy.

He stretched out an arm, ready to part the curtain and bellow for Jim to get a different goddamn room, but when he caught sight of Jim propped on his elbows, legs spread and knees bent, watching as he got his dick sucked by a dark mop of curls attached to the smooth tan skin of male medical cadet Dev Banjara, McCoy's voice stuck in his throat.

His grip on the curtain tightened, fingernails digging into his palm even through the fabric, and he wrung his conscience just as hard, trying to convince himself to close it or call out. But he didn't do either.

Letting go of the curtain, McCoy pulled his arm back real slow. He wasn't sure in which split second the desire to scold a couple of horny kids out of the room had turned into mortification at the prospect that they should find he was there, and he was even less sure about what Jim Kirk's presence had to do with it, but he was entirely sure he should not, at all, be witness to this.

Except, he couldn't look away. He told himself it was because if he moved, if he rolled over or sat up, they'd hear him. Though the back of his brain was whispering that it had more to do with curious and Christ and . . . could I?

The gap in the curtain was only a few inches wide, but that was wide enough for McCoy to see Jim's head drop back, square jaw jut up, chest rise and sink. To see Banjara give Jim's cock one last swirl and crawl kisses up his torso and push him flat with full-mouthed force. See Jim's blunt fingers clutch and stroke.

Dammit, he was a doctor, not some chickenshit Peeping Tom. McCoy shut his eyes.

There was no way he could leave without their hearing or seeing him. There was no way he could lay here without hearing them, even if he couldn't see them. But, shit, just hearing them . . . .

Indignation overtook that thought. Of course Jim would have sex someplace anybody with the right access code could waltz in any time. And of course he wouldn't think once about what a damn nuisance it might be for anybody else to hear him get sucked off. He was exactly that kind of guy, the little shit.

Bodies shifted. Breathing turned to panting. Slick silence meant more kissing. Then Jim moaned.

McCoy clenched his teeth and rolled his head, but there was no preventing his body's reaction to that sound. His heart beat picked up. His sluggish blood churned in his veins, redirecting its course.

He raked a hand over his scalp and tugged at his hair. Instead of distracting him, though, it made him acutely aware that his other hand rested on his lower abdomen, just above his hip. Above the waist of his loose scrub pants.

His palm felt suddenly hot through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the muscles of his forearm tensed, ticked. He lifted a lip in a silent snarl.

This was downright foolishness. Half an hour ago he was just a man who wanted to get some sleep, and now what he wanted to do was on every Should Not Do list man and God had ever made.

From behind the curtain there were low voices, indistinct words. Sheets rustled.

McCoy's fingers twitched over the drawstring bow of his scrubs.

He heard the unmistakable scrape of stubble. Teeth clashed in a hard kiss. Nails raked skin.

Squeezing his eyes shut tighter at the images each sound suggested, McCoy pulled the fabric tie loose, slowly. Something trembled low in his belly. Not fear—at least not fear of Almighty judgment or even fear of getting caught with his dick in his hand. More like a fear that he'd enjoy this more than he wanted to admit.

A deep chuckle. A scuffle, a light smack, slap of skin on skin. And then Jim, in a growl, demanding to be fucked.

McCoy sunk a hand into his scrubs and bucked against his own touch.

He was an old hand at jerking off, but he'd never done it while the live action was happening right there next to him. Never on shift at a hospital. Never to the thought of going down on Jim. To the thought of pinning Jim's hands above his head and rutting against his golden-boy skin and hot cock until Jim growled for McCoy to fuck him.

None of which had happened—was happening—would happen. But goddamn. He spun a thumb around his crown and scowled that it felt so good.

A packet of lube or a condom or both were ripped open and put to use. There was a grunt and gasp and string of filth from Jim's mouth that only made McCoy harder. His skin flushed with heat, a fire of unfilled desire and danger of being discovered.

McCoy clenched his bottom lip in his teeth. What was actually happening couldn't be any more graphic than what he was imagining. His brain rambled through it's litany of can't and curious and shouldn't and shit, but at another yeah, oh fuck, yes from Jim, McCoy opened his eyes.

He couldn't see much of Banjara, but that was for the best. Jim, however—Jim he had full view of. Jim looked like a cat on the prowl, knees parted and the heels of his hands mashed into the mattress up by the pillow. He rocked back to meet Banjara's thrusts forward, and Banjara's hand clamped to Jim's hip to keep that piece of tail in place. McCoy could see Jim was still hard, could see him grit his teeth, could see his muscles tremble with force.

McCoy dug a heel into the bed. He fought to keep his hips still and panting breath quiet. Sharp and wordless, Jim shouted, striking out an arm to brace against the wall as Banjara fucked him harder, faster. Jim urged him on and McCoy jacked himself at speed to the sound of his rough voice.

It wasn't okay to watch this, to watch Jim get fucked. It wasn't okay to have himself in hand as he watched and imagined it was him pounding Jim's tight, perfect ass. It wasn't okay, but McCoy was doing it and wanting it and looking away now would be harder to reconcile than looking Jim in the eye later.

The hospital bed protested under the weight and force. Banjara's breaths were ragged with effort. Jim's dirty mouth begged and bossed. They wouldn't—couldn't—hear him now. Still, McCoy bit his hand to stop his own moans short.

Banjara came first, hips stuttering into Jim's willing body, and Jim's back curved deep as he yanked his outstretched arm from the wall to grab his own cock. McCoy watched Jim stroke himself with full, fast pulls, watched Jim tilt his head and cry out as orgasm overtook him, watched him come into his hand, through his fingers. And if it were McCoy fucking him, it would be McCoy's hand, McCoy's fingers, and with a surge and kick and stifled scream that ripped at his lungs, McCoy came, eyes closed.

He tried to open them, tried to keep track of their movements, of their hoarse exchange, of how it ended and if they knew he was there—but he couldn't. Exhaustion and satisfaction drew him down and McCoy crashed to sleep before they had their clothes on.

-end-

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