
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/760852.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek
  Relationship:
      Pavel_Chekov/Leonard_McCoy
  Character:
      Leonard_McCoy, Pavel_Chekov
  Additional Tags:
      AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-14 Chapters: 2/? Words: 3513
****** Warm Bodies ******
by beetle
Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt gblvr chose, "too darn hot."
Notes
     Notes/Warnings: Takes place a few months into The Voyage. Pre-slash.
***** Warm Bodies *****

“Are you avake?”


Leonard glares grimly at the backs of his tired eyelids, and doesn't say a
thing. Hopes the kid takes that lack of reply, coupled with determinedly even
breathing, as an answer--


“Doctor McCoy?”


--no such luck, apparently. Not that this particular away mission's been
replete with luck. Well. Maybe the bad kind. “That's my name. Now shut up and
go to sleep.”


“Can't. Are you . . . cold, too?”


“No, I'm not,” Leonard lies, as forbiddingly as possible, crossing his arms
over his chest. Technically it's only half a lie. The side that's got the
Ensign bracketed to the rough, curving wall of their shelter isn't cold at all.
The side that's exposed to this planetoid's thin, dry, cold atmosphere is
another story.


Note to self, he thinks, with serene conviction, tucking in on himself as much
as he can while still laying flat on his back, so . . . not at all. When
rescued by Enterprise, murder Jim Kirk. Murder him a lot.


It's not the first time he's made that mental note, but this'll damn sure be
the time he follows through, if the kid doesn't just take a hint and let him be
half-frozen in peace. . . .


“Do you think Mr. Scott vill be able to get through the theta fluctuations to
pin-point us, then beam us out? Or maybe send a shuttle-craft?”


“Before or after we've kicked off from exposure?”


Silence at last, but for the scouring, idiot-yammer of the wind. It's what
Leonard wanted, but . . . not quite this way. Not when, in the close quarters
of their dubious shelter, he can feel the kid shaking hard enough to make the
air between them vibrate.


No . . . not this way.


It's just so goddamned easy to forget the kid's only seventeen. Though even if
he were twice that, if any situation calls for a little a bit of panic--and the
reassurance of a superior--then being stranded on this barren, rocky graveyard
certainly does.


Hell, Leonard almost wishes Spock were here. That Vulcan brand of dry
condescension would be comforting, about now. Or at least distracting.


“Look, Ensign, I . . . apologize. I know we haven't been crew-mates long, but
there's one thing you should know about me, and it's that I
can unintentionally be an asshole, sometimes--”


“Only sometimes, then?” The kid huffs, and Leonard can hear him scooting away,
closer to the wall. Not that there's far to scoot. The overhang they're
sheltering under surrounds them on three, uneven sides, and Leonard--moved by
some vague, unconscious notion of chivalry--had all but shoved the kid under
first, leaving himself the worst of the wind and the cold.


And the occasional faceful of wind-tossed dust and grit.


“Okay. Maybe I deserved that one.” Ain't no maybe about it, but still. “Twice
is insubordination, though, Ensign Chekov. We clear?”


“As crystal. Sir.”


And here Leonard'd been hoping the temperature wouldn't drop anymore.


He sighs. It's not at all difficult to imagine those big blue eyes gazing at
him reprovingly. “You still cold?”


The ensign takes so long to answer, Leonard realizes just how stupid the
question is--realizes the kid realizes, too, and is struggling not to say
something . . . insubordinate. “Yes, sir. Still cold.”


Leonard snorts. “I thought you were Russian.”


“I--” that silence is the sound of perfect white teeth being ground together,
and Leonard finds himself suddenly liking this kid more. “I am Russian. Sir.
But that does not mean I am polar bear who loves to freeze! I hate being so
cold!”


“Duly noted.” The kid really does sound miserable. Leonard doesn't like being
cold either, but knows he'd hate it a lot worse were they stranded in heat of
equal intensity, and if humidity replaced this ceaseless, cutting wind. “Just
try and think warm thoughts. Cocoa. Brandy. Hot toddies . . . five alarm blue
bonnet chili. And cheese-fries for dippin'--”


“Thank you, sir--now I am hungry, too!” the kid snarks, sounding pissy and
slightly hysterical.


Must be the cold. And the stress. Maybe I should-- “Now, hey!” Leonard
exclaims, eyes flying open when the kid rolls over and half on top of him like
he's a body pillow. There's little enough light to see by. This planetoid has
no satellites, and the solar system itself few neighboring stars. Stars the
kid's curly head blocks out for a few moments before dropping to Leonard's
chest. He shifts around some more, until his cool breaths tickle Leonard's
neck.


His hair smells nice, if a bit dusty.


“Not varm thoughts, Doctor. Varm bodies,” he whispers, pulling Leonard's arm
around his shoulders. “There. Much more effective to keep from freezing to
death, yes?”


Oh, why me? Why jailbait? “It's not that cold, Ensign! The sun'll be up in five
hours!”


“Yes, it vill,” the kid puffs against his neck, and Leonard nearly jumps when
surprisingly warm lips brush his skin once. Then again. “Good-night, sir.”


“I--I--” he shoves the kid's shoulder. Tries to pry him off without touching
him more than necessary. No dice. “Goddamnit, get offme, Ensign.”


“Nyet.”


“I mean it!”


No answer, but for the kid snuggling against him and sighing almost
contentedly. The little bastard.


Knowing he's all sizzle and no steak, Leonard grumbles. “Remember that
insubordination I warned you about, Ensign?”


The kid yawns, and Leonard suppresses a shiver. “Do not be illogical, Doctor.”
Then, before Leonard stops spluttering, the kid groans low in his throat, as
innocently sybaritic and sensual a sound as Leonard's ever heard. Suddenly,
he's not nearly as chilly as he was. “Oh, you are so varm!”


“Yeah, and you're not.” The ensign is, in fact, like a chunk of living ice.
Leonard scowls up at the distant stars and lets himself be shifted and squirmed
against. Steadfastly thinks of nothing, and more nothing, and nothing but
nothing. Even when the kid's hand settles low on his stomach, sweeping up and
down like Leonard's a big cat . . . but never quite dipping low enough. Not
that that's a bad thing, what with the ensign being both a minor and a
subordinate. What with Leonard sporting the most inconveniently-timed erection
in the entire universe.


He reminds himself that just as there's a thin line between conservation of
energy and hypothermia, there's a thinner line between opportunist and
manipulative sleazebag. “Goddamnit, quit squirmin' around! As soon as the sun
comes up, you're on your own, heat-wise, y'hear?”


“Aye, sir. I hear.” The kid shakes again--but like he might be laughing instead
of freezing. The tip of his nose is a cold-but-slowly-warming little point on
Leonard's neck. The chill is quickly leaching away from the rest of him, too,
and soon. . . .


“Great. Now I'm too goddamn hot!” Leonard mutters quietly into the ensign's
nice-smelling hair. The only reply he gets is deep, slow breathing.


The kid's fast asleep.

***** Warm Bodies II *****
Chapter Summary
     See first chapter for summary.
A sulfur-yellow dawn is tickling the sky before he finally, finally starts to
drift off from sheer exhaustion.


In his arms, the very thing that'd kept him awake throughout this planetoid's
admittedly short night sleeps on innocently. Is completely unaware that his
sole purpose in this universe is to make Leonard McCoy feel like a dirty old
man, and that so far? It's mission accomplished.


Yeah, yeah, filthy, scheming pervert, blah-blah, Leonard thinks tiredly, but
after a whole night of berating himself while willing away the most will-
resistant erection ever sported by man or beast, he's reached a comfortable
plateau of self-loathing. One that'll allow him at least a modicum of sleep, if
not self-respect.


As expected, his dreams aren't filled with starshine and cotton-candy, either.
(In one of them, he's in Sickbay, trying to instruct his staff, who suddenly
consist of Jim, Scotty, and Spock, on proper Sickbay procedure during a medical
emergency. The whole thing is a shambles from the start, with Jim shoving any
piece of equipment not bolted down into his pants, and waggling his eyebrows at
all and sundry, asking: is this a cortical scanner in my pants, or am I just
happy to see you guys? Is this a dermal regenerator in my pants, or am I just
happy to see you guys. . . .?


And Scotty and Spock keep cackling at and trying to pull rank on Jim,
respectively. At some point, Dream-Leonard sits on a bio-bed and starts to
weep, while one grown man shoves tricorders down his pants, another starts
breaking down medical equipment and trying to build a warp drive for the
Sickbay . . . and the third calls them all illogical and relieves them of duty.


Really, just about the worst dream ever. But he'll thankfully never remember
it.)


But when he wakes up--what feels like minutes after closing his eyes, but is
likely hours, judging by how much brighter that baleful sulfur-glow atmosphere
is--it's to a warm body pressed against his side (a warmer-still erection
rocking against his thigh) and a handjob. The first of either he's gotten since
before the mission started, and it's . . . probably not been going on that
long, but he's already on the verge of coming.


Something the hand--surely the best goddamn hand ever, bestower of unexpected
handjobs--knows, from the way it picks up speed without losing any of that
glorious forcefulness.


Blue eyes appear over his own, wide and round in a pale-dusty face, and
everything comes crashing back: the away mission, the theta-fluctuations, being
stranded, the ensign . . . God, the jailbait ensign who may possibly be giving
him the best handjob he's ever had, if only because it's the first in . . .
nearly a year.


There ain't nothing like space enough to be arching up into that touch, but he
does, making the most embarrassingly needy noise he's ever heard, and the kid
smiles. Smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth. It's a rather sweet kiss,
but also kinda like a dash of cold water to the face, and Leonard puts his hand
on the ensign's wrist, but can't quite grab it or remove it.


“Ensign, this is--” wrong? Awful? Hah! ”Christ, we can't do this. You gotta
stop.”


If anything, that surprisingly firm hand tightens and quickens, and the
ensign's thumb comes into play, temporarily turning the overhang and atmosphere
into a firework-filled sky. Leonard gasps and shakes. Nearly comes, but somehow
manages not to.


“No.”


“No?!” he demands hoarsely, torn almost evenly between amusement and anger (and
relief, but there's no way Leonard's going to be admitting that to anyone, even
himself), Leonard tries to shove the ensign away (pretty half-heartedly), but
the kid shifts and maneuvers till he's half-pinning Leonard, still stroking him
off, still humping his thigh--harder, if anything. He nuzzles Leonard's cheek
and kisses it.


“That's right. No.” If Leonard wasn't busy biting his lip and squeezing his
eyes shut, trying to back away from the brink, he'd wonder where the scared,
uncertain kid of the previous night had gone, and who the hell this is taking
his place. “I have had a rewelation: Ivant you. Clearly, you vant me, too. So
I'm not going to vait forever for you to make the first move, even assuming you
ever vould, giwen the difference in our respective ranks and ages.”


Leonard blinks. He wasn't this articulate when he was seventeen and feeling
someone up. Hell, even now, he's barely able to string coherent thoughts
together. Life really isn't fair, not at all. “Yeah, why--oh, Christ--wait for
somethin' that'd never happen, when you could just wait for me to fall asleep,
then perform a sexual act on me without my consent? That's some interesting
logic, kid.”


“Is that vhat I'm doing?” the ensign asks softly, his hand slowing. Stopping.
Leaving. He even stops grinding and thrusting against Leonard's thigh. And
Leonard wishes he could take back his own disappointed little sigh when it
does. But the cold air doesn't feel nearly as good as the ensign's hand, and
there ain't no hiding that. “Dr. McCoy? You v-vill please look me in the eye
vhen you call me a rapist.”


“Hey--now, I'm not calling you a rapist!” Leonard opens his eyes just in time
to catch a flicker of triumph in those blue eyes. Not smug, exactly. But
definitely relieved. Then the eyes get closer, and the ensign's uneven breath
puffs against Leonard's lips and he has to repress (and repress, and repress)
an intense urge to kiss the kid.


“That, at least, is something.” And so much for repressing that urge, because
the kid isn't living under any such strictures, and kisses Leonard. Not as
chastely as before, but not deeply either. Just enough to make Leonard follow
him when he pulls away.


There's that triumphant look again. Leonard sighs and lets his head thunk back
down to the ground. “Listen, Ensign--”


“I prefer Pavel. Please call me Pavel?”


“No, I'm not gonna call you--fine, fine. Pavel,” he says ungraciously when the
kid pouts at him. He gets that big, big smile in return, and the ensign kisses
him again. Not like before, no. This kiss is sloppy, enthusiastic, and damned
good. There's plenty of tongue (which Leonard likes) and the kid seems to be
one of those people who holds whole conversations with his kisses, and this
conversation? Wicked as all get-out, since he tends to punctuate his kisses by
squeezing and tugging on Leonard's balls not at allgently.


I'm supposed to say no to this? Really? How? I ain't a saint--ain't made of
stone, either. And he's . . . Christ, I dunno what he is. . . .


“I really like it vhen you call me Pavel,” the ensign murmurs huskily when the
kiss ends due to lack of oxygen. He leans his forehead against Leonard's. “That
vas such a nice kiss.”


“Wasn't a damned thing nice about it . . . but it was pretty amazin',” Leonard
admits with another sigh. He hasn't yet figured out how this is all Jim's
fault, but then he hasn't had his morning coffee yet, either. “Hot, wrong,
illegal, immoral, and amazin'.”


“Not illegal. Sewenteen is the age of consent in the Federation. Plus, I am
legally an adult, and have been since graduation. Vhat happens betveen two
consenting adults isn't immoral or wrong. Vhich is assuming that
I'm not forcing you into non-consensual sex vith me?”


“Look, I'm sorry about the . . . implying you might be a rapist, okay? I
apologize, so don't keep bringing it up,” Leonard grumbles, but it turns into
another gasp as the ensign's fingers slip behind his balls, stroking pretty
insistently. It doesn't help that Leonard's left leg--the un-pinned leg--is
inching up, and further away from his right because clearly, his own body has
it in for him. “Jesus, Pavel, whaddaya want from me?”


“I vant to make you come.” Interspersed with quick, teasing kisses, but he lets
Leonard drag his hand up, up, and away. For about five seconds.


“Yeah, I picked up on that part, but . . . say we do this--and this is only a
hypothetical--what then?”


The ensign hmms, his brow furrowing for just a moment before it clears, and he
smiles like a damned sunrise. “Then, you make mecome.”


Leonard rolls his eyes, remembering that there's a reason why thirty-four year
olds don't have sex with seventeen year olds, ethical and legal issues aside.
“Uh-huh, we're obviously having two different conversations, here, and getting
goddamnednowhere--get off me, Ensign Chekov.” He shoves the kid's hand away
again, but the hand takes evasive maneuvers and wraps around his cock like it'd
never been anywhere else. Picks up right where it left off, taking names, but
no prisoners.


(What the hell do they teach in those genius-mill academies? Just mathematics
and handjobs, apparently. Which is a truly disturbing thought, but not
disturbing enough to detract from his body's very urgent SOSes.)


“Vhen ve get back to Enterprise, I vant you to suck my cock,” the ensign
whispers, his lips tickling Leonard's. “And I vant to suck yours. I vant to
spend however long they give us to recover from our harrowing adwenture, having
sex vith you in your qvarters. Vhen ve return to duty, I vould like to have sex
in your office vhenever our lunch hours coincide. I vould like to be your
lover.” The ensign looks into his eyes again, his own somber. “And I vould like
for you to touch me, now. Please touch me, Dr. McCoy.”


What saint could stand up against that? Could resist . . . this?


Leonard, as has been driven home to him many times in the past twelve hours, is
certainly not a saint. He's just a man, and so, by the standards of their
respective cultures and Federation law, is Pavel Chekov. 


“God, you fight dirty--lift up a little. And it's Leonard,” Leonard says
angrily, though the incandescent smile he gets when the ensign shifts around
and lifts up is the kind of thing even his anger can't stand against for long.


He undoes the ensign's fly with one hand (a trick he's been doing since before
the ensign was born), burrowing impatiently past underwear for a surprising
handful of hot, damp cock (also something he's been doing since before the
ensign was born--and rather than being a deterrent, this thought is a bit of a
turn on).


The ensign groans, low and long, his entire body shaking as he pushes into
Leonard's fist. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, breathing quick and light.
The forceful, wonderful rhythm of his hand stutters, falters, but keeps on. Not
that Leonard needs much at this point. Neither of them do, it seems. They
haven't any coordination at this point. Leonard's body is twitching and
hitching spasmodically under the ensign's unpredictable, break-neck pace. And
the ensign is kissing him like a drowning man searching for oxygen, his tongue
thrusting intently, frequently, but completely out of time with his cock.
Pretty soon, the kisses are just panting . . . and the occasional lick. 


“I am going to come,” he announces calmly, for all that his voice is shaking.
His hips are a quart short of any rhythm, and he's just driving into Leonard's
fist faster and harder till he closes his eyes and comes, howling like some
kind of animal. His face is contorted into something that's pained, ecstatic,
and fierce, and it's just . . . it's--


“--holy God, that's--” possibly the hottest thing I've ever seen he means to
say, but the ensign's hand tightens around him almost to the point of agony,
and damned if that doesn't do it. There's just no articulating when one's
cognitive processes are being eclipsed by a freight train of an orgasm. All
Leonard can do is come and come . . . and come some more, because it really has
been a long time since he tangoed with anyone other than Rosy Palm and her five
sisters.


If he could articulate, or even just think, he'd reassure himself and the
ensign that this orgasm only feels like it's the best because it's the most
recent. That in the moment, every orgasm feels like the firstbestlastonly, not
just the ones given by bossy Russian teenagers or surly, lonely doctors.


And he'd also make it clear that the chance, however slight, that this damned
place might become their graveyard is part of what's making this whole business
seem much more intense than it normally would. Once they're back on Enterprise,
once everything's back in its perspective, they'll surely go back to not having
two words to say to each other in the turbo-lift. Forget about attempting to
turn this incredible, intense, ungodly-amazing-yet-surely-a-fluke one night
stand into something more. . . .


Surely, that's how it'll go.


Afterward, both limp and wrung out like old dishtowels, they just lay there
quietly, Leonard staring up at the ceiling of the overhang. Then at the sky,
when his eyes tire of that. In his arms--face tucked into the curve of neck and
shoulder and snuggled against him in a much more intimate version of of last
night's exercise in conservation-of-heat-slash-sheer-fucking-torture--the
ensign's breathing evenly, deeply, his hand still on Leonard's cock.


For that matter, Leonard's own hand is still on the ensign's cock.


We're gonna wind up glued together like this, and this's exactly how
Enterprise'll beam us aboard, he thinks, but doesn't say. There ain't much he
holds sacred, but afterglow is definitely near the top of a very short list.
Whatever worries the future brings, such as whether or not the theta
fluctuations will clear up before they really do die of exposure . . . these
are no match for seratonin and endorphins. For the boneless, trusting,
possessive way (Leonard isn't exactly certain how he feels about this) the
ensign is sprawled on him.


Though we oughta at least look for a better shelter, while the sun's still up.
A shelter where we could oh, say, sit up without concussing ourselves. . . .


“Hey, Ensign?” Leonard turns his head till he's got a faceful of curls. They're
damp, but still fluffy, still nice-smelling. Still . . . Leonard shakes the
ensign's shoulder. “Uh, Pavel?”


“Da, Leonard, that is my name. Now shut up, and go to sleep,” is the familiar,
yawning reply.
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