Archive of Our Own

Leonard hates eggnog.

Well, no. He doesn’t really. Up until about thirty seconds ago, he would’ve said he loved it. His granny used to make a mean eggnog every year for Christmas Eve dinner, a thick, sweet-spiced, perfectly balanced concoction Leonard would look forward to almost as much as the vast array of gigantic prize-worthy cakes lining the sideboard. Sometimes his granddaddy would even sneak him a taste of the real stuff, patting his shoulder when he made a face at the burn and shooing him off with a wink before anyone’s wife or mama could catch them in the act.

No, eggnog itself isn’t the problem here. Better to say that the problem is Jim – more specifically, how ardently Jim seems to be enjoying this particular tumbler of eggnog – or maybe, if Leonard’s being fully honest, the problem’s with his own damn self and how hopelessly in thrall he is to the low hum of pleasure Jim let out after his first taste, the way his eyes slipped shut for a moment with the sort of bewitching eyelash flutter Leonard’s more accustomed to seeing in…other settings.

Still, if circumstances were different, Leonard wouldn’t mind any of that in the least. Mind, hell – he’d be thanking the Good Lord above for the blessings He’s seen fit to bestow, the ever-refilling cup of joy that is this beautiful, captivating, effortlessly seductive man who’s somehow decided the only bed he ever wants to warm is Leonard’s. Being hot for his husband ain’t exactly some undue burden Leonard’s been saddled with. Normally he’d be more than happy to sit back and watch the show, sip his own drink and let his mind wander to all manner of intriguing possibilities, or maybe take a more active role, reach out and turn Jim’s face toward him, stroke over the lush pink curves of Jim’s mouth and watch those lashes flutter again as Jim’s lips part around the gentle press of his thumb.

But Leonard absolutely, positively cannot do any of the above – because when it comes down to it, the real problem is that this nutmeg-flavored foreplay is unfolding not in the privacy of their quarters, but in front of what feels like half the damn crew, all of them loud and tipsy and too close for comfort, packed cheek to jowl into the string light-spangled crewmen’s mess for the annual Christmas party.

So maybe it is Jim’s fault after all. Him and his damn holiday parties. Him and his damn mouth.

The architect of Leonard’s despair takes another sip of eggnog and holds it appreciatively on his tongue, rolling it a bit in a way that instantly doubles Leonard’s suffering. He doesn’t even seem to realize the effect he’s having, which is just adding insult to injury. At least when he’s making a conscious effort to tease, Leonard can divert some of his embarrassment toward annoyance.

Jim swallows, absently wets his lips, and Leonard is forced to tear his eyes away, staring down fixedly into his own tumbler before he loses his fool mind and jumps Jim right here and now, seizes a handful of his uniform shirt to yank him in close and explore for himself the sweet taste of brandy and cream in that wicked mouth –

Christ. He doesn’t need to be having these sorts of thoughts within a country mile of any of these people.

“You know, I think this may be Scotty’s best batch yet,” Jim says, oblivious to Leonard’s torment. “He really outdid himself this year.” He looks around, pushing up on his toes to scan over the crowd. “Where’d he go, anyway? He went to get another drink like twenty minutes ago.”

“Lieutenant Romaine has also been absent for some time,” Spock observes. “Perhaps they tired of the festivities.”

“Maybe they ducked out to exchange gifts,” Uhura says, rather more suggestively than she’d normally allow herself in semi-polite company. She must have tipped back a good amount of Scotty’s eggnog herself.

Jim’s face lights up. “You think he’s finally going to propose?” He looks so genuinely excited by the prospect that the unjust grievance Leonard’s been nursing against him sputters and dies, done in by his honest delight in their friend’s romantic fortunes. Kid’s been trying to nudge Scotty toward making things official for ages.

“You’re kidding yourself if you think that’s how it’s going down,” Sulu says. “If anyone’s popping the question, it’ll be Mira.”

Uhura nods her agreement, then cocks her head to one side and turns to size up Jim and Leonard, gesturing between them with an elegant wave of her glass. “So which one of you did the asking? Or did you not even bother with that? I’ve always been curious.”

Leonard jabs a thumb toward Jim, who beams proudly, as if this were some triumphant feather in his cap and not one of the most terrifying experiences of Leonard’s whole goddamn life.

“I’ll have you know it was very romantic,” Jim brags, winking at Uhura.

Leonard scoffs into his drink. Romantic, his ass. Traumatic, more like. But then, he suspects he and Jim are each looking back on different memories, Jim focusing as he usually does on the pretty ending and Leonard still haunted by the hurts and near-misses that led them there.

“Yeah, so romantic you didn’t even get the guy a ring,” Sulu says. He’s made an admirable recovery from the shellshock of Leonard and Jim’s revelation on the bridge and is back to busting Jim’s balls like normal. “That’s like Proposal 101, dude. You couldn’t have even scrounged up a cable tie or bolt washer from Engineering?”

Leonard frowns. Are these people deaf or something? “I – ”

“He already has a ring,” Jim interrupts, stealing Leonard’s objection out from under him. “Why do you care so much, anyway? Jealous? Because seriously, there’s no reason to feel inadequate. Just because you had to bribe your man with something shiny to get him to say yes – ”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Leonard says loudly as Sulu’s picking his jaw up off the floor. “You two can keep on leaving me out of your dick-measuring contests, thanks.”

“Man, this is bullshit,” Sulu complains, while Jim smirks down into his eggnog, wisely restraining himself from making the joke so clearly teetering at the very tip of his tongue. “Now I know why you always take his side. How is that fair?”

“Life ain’t fair.”

Leonard is momentarily startled by the stereo effect until he realizes he and Jim spoke at the same time, Jim mimicking him right down to that piss-poor rendering of his accent. Leonard scowls at him, and Jim beams in response, typically unrepentant.

“God, enough already,” says Christine, who’s been sulking beside Uhura for a while now with a face like sour milk. “Can we please have one conversation that doesn’t turn into the Kirk and McCoy relationship hour? Some of us stopped caring like two weeks ago.”

“Your assertion is implausible, as only eight days have elapsed since the captain and Dr. McCoy publicly disclosed their relationship status,” Spock points out, the words tart with a touch of that infernal smugness that still grinds Leonard’s gears even when it’s not directed at him.

“Yeah, and speak for yourself,” Sulu says. “Their whole thing is weird as hell. It’s like the what the fuck gift that just keeps giving.”

Leonard shoots him a dark look, but Jim is unbothered, ignoring Sulu’s dig in favor of turning his attention to his other favorite verbal sparring partner.

“Nurse Chapel, you surprise me,” he says mildly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I hear some strong words from you recently concerning the audacity of me and Bones having kept things to ourselves for as long as we did?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were going to be like this,” Christine retorts, gesturing toward them with an expression of immense distaste, as though pointing out a mess for the orderlies to clean up.

Leonard shares a glance with Jim, who quirks an eyebrow as he casts a critical eye over the unseemly position they’ve found themselves in: close but not touching, Jim’s body angled in very slightly toward Leonard’s, a good ten centimeters of empty air between their nearest points of potential contact.

“She’s right, Bones,” Jim says gravely. “Pull yourself together. You’re making a scene.”

Torn as he so often is between laughing and rolling his eyes, Leonard opts for the latter, which feels safer as he’s privately redoubling his efforts to tamp down on the risqué thoughts he was entertaining only a minute ago. What Jim and the rest of these fools don’t know about his wandering mind won’t hurt them.

“You could take a page from their book, you know,” Christine continues, indicating Uhura and Spock. “At least those two have the common courtesy to be repressed and uptight. You don’t see them forcing their gross lovey-dovey crap on innocent bystanders all day and night.”

True to form, Spock hikes an eyebrow but remains silent, while Uhura simply smiles, that small private smile that suggests she’s laughing at a joke the rest of them aren’t smart enough to figure out. She’s holding Spock’s arm, her thumb stroking softly above the bend of his elbow.

Leonard shudders and averts his gaze. That’s just indecent.

“Uh oh,” Sulu says suddenly, his line of sight fixed somewhere over Christine’s shoulder. “Wasted rookie, ten o’clock.”

Leonard cuts his eyes in that direction and spots the crewman in question, a lanky beanpole of a kid who looks to have blown straight through pleasantly inebriated a few light-years back and is now somewhere in the vicinity of shitfaced. He’s headed right for them with the kind of dogged single-minded intent Leonard remembers only too well from years of manhandling Jim’s drunk ass away from bar fights and inceptive misdemeanors.

“Oh, brother,” Leonard says under his breath. “Here comes trouble.”

Jim twitches an admonishing brow at him, belied by the sideways slant of his lips. Play nice.

Leonard shakes his head and raises his glass for a pointed draught of eggnog. He’s your problem, kid.

And so it would seem. Maybe Jim’s comeuppance for all those years of drunken mayhem is finally about to arrive, because young Crewman Blotto has eyes for none but his captain.

“Captain Kirk!” he exclaims as he stumbles up within spitting distance – loud enough that a good dozen heads swivel toward them, eyes instantly lighting with interest when they spot the players involved. Leonard glares at the gawkers, but of course no one pays him any mind, all those curious faces much too eager to see whether this exchange will turn out to be the year’s most-discussed Christmas pantomime.

It’s always something. Last year the big story was Ensign Peters sucking face with half the security crew after learning that his on-again-off-again romance was now decisively off again, his erstwhile ladylove having gotten hitched to her childhood sweetheart in the downtime between tours. Unusually, Jim stepped in to handle that mess himself, collaring Peters between dalliances and seeing him safely back to his quarters, alone – which unfortunately wasn’t the best PR move, as the gossip mill ran with a gleefully embellished story about Peters getting marched back to his bunk by the captain himself, dressed down along the way like a wayward teenager out past curfew. Never mind that Jim was actually giving the sad bastard a pep talk, urging him to make his peace with a relationship that was never meant to work out and to focus on himself for a while before jumping back into the fast-moving romantic waters of the Enterprise and her hundreds of young, fit, unmarried crew members with ample downtime and not nearly enough discretion.

Jim meant well, Leonard knows, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and he wound up feeling terrible about the whole thing – especially since he’d intervened primarily out of guilt, being a secretly but nonetheless ecstatically happy newlywed himself like Lieutenant Khansari (née Mirza).

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Leonard distinctly remembers telling him, tipping up Jim’s sorry hangdog face and looking him square in the eye to really drive the point home. “You mind your own business where the crew’s extracurriculars are concerned, and hope to God they mind theirs in return.”

So much for that. A year later, and Jim’s gone ahead and made their business everybody’s business – which is why folks are already starting to creep closer to their little group, eager to witness the collision of a sloppy-drunk bit player with the stars of the chart-topping drama du jour. Goddamn vultures, the bunch of them.

“Crewman Robinson,” Jim greets the interloper. “Having a good time?”

Robinson must be even deeper in his cups than he appears, because he ignores Jim’s pleasantries entirely, launching instead into his own garbled oration. “Captain, I just wanted to say that I am so – so happy for you. For both of you, I mean, you two. You and this guy right here.” He gestures expansively between Jim and Leonard, nearly knocking the drink out of Leonard’s hand in the process.

A chorus of titters rises from the crowd, which Jim graciously pretends not to notice. “Well, thank you, Mr. Robinson,” he says, snagging Leonard’s sleeve to guide his glass in nearer to his belly. Having safeguarded the drink, he lays a hand on Leonard’s back and glances over at him with a small smile. “We’re pretty happy ourselves.”

The vultures’ sniggering softens abruptly into a muddled collective aww, cooing and obnoxious. It’s the sort of reaction that would normally grate on Leonard’s nerves like sandpaper soaked in rubbing alcohol, but he finds to his own surprise that it doesn’t bother him as much as he might’ve expected. Maybe he’s building up a tolerance for all the unwanted attention, or maybe it’s outweighed in this moment by Jim’s comfortably possessive touch, the faint pressure of his fingertips flexing at the small of Leonard’s back. Hell, maybe Leonard’s just had one too many swigs of eggnog himself, but whatever the reason, he finds himself smiling back, a glow of brandy-warm fondness flaring through him as the crinkles deepen at the corners of Jim’s eyes.

To hell with the vultures. As long as Jim keeps looking at him like that, Leonard’s doing just fine.

Jim’s smile widens. His fingers flex again, and his gaze drops down thoughtfully to Leonard’s lips, setting Leonard’s belly aflutter with anticipation as he –

“Good,” Robinson says with startling vehemence, unceremoniously popping the enticing little bubble of intimacy Leonard was enjoying. “That’s, like…that’s great, Captain. That’s so great. You deserve to be happy.”

Leonard sure can’t argue with that. Before he can consider forgiving the kid for his well-meaning transgressions, however, Robinson tramples all over the small bit of goodwill he’s earned like a deer cavorting through his mama’s flowerbeds:

“I’m gonna be honest with you – we were worried, man. We were getting real worried. You haven’t been, uh…with anyone in, like, a while.”

Sulu chokes on his drink, spluttering into the bend of his arm as Uhura whacks him vigorously on the back. Leonard should probably make sure he’s okay, but frankly he hasn’t fully forgiven him for his antics on Hearth, and anyway he’s too busy contemplating whether it would be worth the extra attention he’d draw if he were to toss back the rest of his own eggnog in one go, or maybe drop his glass altogether and make a run for it.

Jesus H. The vultures must be loving this.

Robinson seems to dimly recognize that he’s gone awry, quickly backtracking: “Not that we were – I mean, it’s your business, right? It’s just, you know. You deserve that. If you…if you want it. It was kinda sad, thinking about you being alone, and…old…”

Christine lets out a deeply unflattering bray of laughter, while Uhura abandons Sulu to his fate and swiftly raises her glass to disguise her own laugh. Even Spock breaks from his usual impassivity to allow the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, which by Vulcan standards may as well be a gut-busting giggle fit.

It’s to Jim’s credit that he doesn’t laugh right in Robinson’s face. Instead, he gives the crewman a light clap on the back, his smile gone wry and lopsided. “Let’s stop while you’re ahead,” he advises kindly. “Dr. McCoy and I appreciate the well wishes.” He glances over Robinson’s shoulder and catches the eye of another young buck in a red shirt who’s been hanging a few steps back, watching this trainwreck play out with an expression of mingled fascination and horror. “Mr. Gutierrez, why don’t you and Mr. Robinson see if you can’t find some water to wash down this very strong eggnog we’ve all been indulging in. Maybe help yourselves to a few more cookies, or a hot cup of coffee.” He raises his eyebrows, and Gutierrez nods hastily, hustling forward to collect his friend.

“Aye, sir. Right away, sir.”

“Merry Christmas!” Robinson blurts out, listing sideways into Gutierrez as though buffeted by a strong wind. Gutierrez hisses something in his ear, and he clumsily appends, “Captain! Sir!”

Jim smiles again, lifting his glass in a toast. “Merry Christmas, Lamar.”

Robinson breaks out in a big dopey grin, which doesn’t falter even as Gutierrez yanks him away with a none-too-gentle grip on his arm, steering him off toward the refreshments table.

“He knows my name!” Leonard hears him crow, clearly audible even over the hubbub of excited chatter that’s picked up as the vultures turn to debriefing the incident amongst themselves.

“He knows everybody’s name, man,” Gutierrez replies wearily. “You’re not special.”

Jim lets out a low whistle, watching the crewmen’s somewhat meandering progress through the crowd. “Yikes. He’s gonna be feeling this one tomorrow.”

“Nah,” Sulu says dismissively. “Kid’s, what – twenty, twenty-one? He’ll be good as new, I guarantee it.”

“Rookies are practically indestructible,” Uhura agrees. “He’ll probably feel better than any of us.”

“Yeah, true.” Jim shakes his head, looking a touch nostalgic for the days when he too could make a drunken ass of himself and bound happily out of bed the next morning without a single lingering reminder of the previous night’s excesses. “Hope he appreciates it while it lasts.”

“What do you mean, Captain?” asks Chekov, who’s appeared next to Sulu, no doubt attracted by the earlier commotion. “What will not last?”

The group exchanges meaningful glances.

“Should we tell him?” Uhura says in a stage whisper.

Jim makes a show of considering it. “Nah,” he decides. “Let him enjoy his blissful ignorance. He’ll find out in his own time, same as the rest of us.”

“Find out?” Chekov echoes, his voice pitching a tad higher than normal. “What will I find out? Captain? Captain?”

“Would you look at the time,” Sulu says, patently not doing any such thing. “I gotta run – Demora and Ben will be calling soon. Later.” He offers Jim a smirking salute and turns on his heel, making for the door.

No sooner has he disappeared from sight than Uhura chirps, “Oh, look, Spock, there’s Aquino and Rees. We should go say hello.”

Spock dips his head in agreement. “It would be both socially and professionally inappropriate not to acknowledge them.”

And with that, the two of them step back from the group and vanish, melting away into the crowd. Leonard really has to hand it to that woman – she’s queen of the graceful tactical retreat.

Jim, being Jim, opts for a less subtle approach. “Nurse Chapel, this one’s all yours,” he says, clapping her briskly on the shoulder. “And yes, before you ask, that is absolutely an order. Consider it part of your health outreach duties.”

Christine glowers, her eyes promising Jim unholy vengeance the next time she gets her nanogloved hands on him.

Never able to resist poking the bear, Jim responds with a wide shit-eating grin before turning to Leonard. “Come on, Bones. Gotta go work the room, make sure everyone’s feeling the Christmas spirit.” He pauses, likely remembering last year’s one-man spit-swapping spree. “But not too much of it. Or each other.”

Leonard tosses Christine a sympathetic glance as Jim tugs him away, their escape accompanied by a flurry of anxious questioning from Chekov.

“Oh yeah,” Jim says in Leonard’s ear. “Thirty’s gonna hit him hard.”

“Like a photon torpedo.” Leonard knocks his elbow against Jim’s side. “You know it’s cruel to tease him like that. Especially seeing as how I seem to recall you getting hit by your own torpedo a few years back. A whole salvo of them, in fact.”

Jim shrugs and clinks his glass against Leonard’s. “Yeah, but at least I had the good sense to start shacking up with my doctor.” He throws back the last dregs of eggnog, licks his lips in that confoundingly distracting way and neatly deposits his tumbler on the empties tray of a passing Besnafian. “Vrinekash, Oori,” he says warmly, pairing the thanks with a smile that makes the poor server’s antennae darken to a flustered purplish blue.

“So that’s what that was about,” Leonard muses as he drops his own glass on the tray. “I did think the timing was mighty suspicious.”

Jim grins at him, the bright untroubled grin of a man who has his personal physician at his beck and call around the clock, perpetually on hand to administer hangover relief and generally save him from himself. “And you say I have no survival instinct.”

Another server swoops in with fresh glasses of eggnog for both of them, which Leonard accepts despite his misgivings about its effect on his self-restraint. Scotty really did do a damn good job this year.

“Ah, Lieutenant Antoniou, good to see you,” Jim says, abruptly veering over toward a cluster of women Leonard thinks he vaguely recognizes from one of the labs. Toxicology, maybe? Leonard trails after as Jim starts shaking hands all around, effortlessly pulling out each of their names in turn from wherever it is he stores all these details. “Ensign Park, Ensign Graves. The gang’s all here, huh? Except – where’s poor Torres? He draw the short straw tonight and get stuck babysitting the specimens?”

The trio laughs, as easily ensnared by Jim’s full-thruster charm as any of the Kindred. “Oh, no, sir,” says Antoniou. “The matter is a bit more complicated than that. You see, shortly before shift change, there was a minor incident with one of the Klunix plants.”

Jim’s eyebrows go up. “Oh? Have you informed Lieutenant Sulu?”

“No, no, it was nothing so serious as to warrant troubling him,” Antoniou says. “In fact, none of us realized anything was amiss until Torres noticed that the plant had dropped its blooms…”

Antoniou continues with her story, confident in her captain’s attention, and Leonard helps himself to a long draught of eggnog and adjusts his stance, settling in for the duration. Jim will move them along when he’s good and ready; until then, Leonard may as well make himself comfortable.

On the surface, none of this is too terribly different from any other crew party they’ve had in the years since Jim took command of the Enterprise. Leonard’s been in the habit of sticking close to Jim at these things since long before anything happened between them. He’s never been much for crowds or big noisy to-dos, whereas Jim is in his element surrounded by people, energized by the attention, glad for the chance to check in with folks he rarely sees on the bridge. And of course his crew are thrilled by the rare opportunity to chat with him off the clock, tripping over themselves to snare a few precious minutes of face time with their beloved captain.

For years, all Leonard had to do to get through these affairs with his sanity intact was to stay by Jim’s side, which is where he’d generally prefer to be anyway, party or no party. They’d make the rounds together, Jim working his magic on a series of delighted crew members, Leonard nursing a drink and basking in the reflected light of Jim’s social skills, until Jim judged that it was time to bow out and they could go get drunk in private like civilized people. Leonard rarely got a first glance from Jim’s admirers, much less a second, and that was exactly the way he liked it.

But things are different now. Every last soul in this room knows he’s not just with Jim – he’s with Jim, and has been for years, right under all their noses. People don’t look past him like they used to, blinded by the glare of Jim’s overpowering charisma. There’s no shelter to be found in Jim’s shadow, because everyone’s gawking at him all of a sudden. Even worse, they’re gawking at them, at him and Jim together. They want to know all the dirty details, to pry open their relationship and root around inside for any morsel of interest that might liven up a dull shift or dominate conversation in the mess.

In some ways it’s easier than it was on Hearth, since at least he and Jim aren’t pretending to be anyone but themselves. Leonard doesn’t have to blunder along trying to stick to a script Jim’s making up on the fly or drive himself crazy searching for hidden meaning in Jim’s actions. On the other hand, that means there’s no character to hide behind, no elaborate fake backstory for the vultures to tear apart in their quest for intrigue. This is their real life everyone’s sticking their noses into, the precious thing they’ve kept safe and secret between them for so long suddenly exposed to the merciless scrutiny of a thousand eyes. And while they’ll most likely never see any of the Kindred again, they’ll have no such luck when it comes to their current audience. They’re stuck in this glorified fishbowl with all these people for at least another four years, an eternity when the prospect of even four more weeks of this nonsense makes Leonard want to haul Jim into a shuttle and take their chances on whichever untamed jungle planet happens to be closest.

Jim has assured him repeatedly that they just have to wait it out. Sure, the captain’s secret romance is big news now, but eventually even the most tenacious gossips will grow tired of it. Some new scandal will hit, the rumor mill will sink its teeth into fresher meat, and the spotlight will move on.

Leonard knows Jim’s right. That’s the nature of the beast, which Jim understands better than anyone. It’s only been a week since they went public; the feeding frenzy will have to die down at some point.

But Jesus, it’s hard. Leonard doesn’t have Jim’s experience in shrugging these things off. He’s exhausted by the weight of so many eyes on him, the background hum of whispers and titters that follows him around the ship and kicks into overdrive whenever he gets within hollering distance of Jim. He can’t seem to keep it all from getting under his skin, and that’s what rankles him the most: the way he finds himself second-guessing whether he really needs to go up to the bridge after all, the split-second of hesitation that paralyzes him when he steps out of the lift and every head and eyestalk turns in his direction, the frisson of annoyance he feels when he can sense near-strangers’ gazes tracking him down the corridor to see which quarters he ducks into.

Even the lab team can’t help themselves. Entranced as they are by Jim’s easy laugh and animated hands, still Leonard’s already caught each one of them sneaking the occasional peek his way, eyeing him up in the hopes of spying…something. What exactly it is they think they’re going to see him do out here in front of half the damn crew, Leonard has no idea.

Then again, Sulu’s vids from Hearth must have set some pretty lofty expectations.

Blessedly, Jim has decided it’s time to move on. “We’ll let you get back to enjoying the party,” he says to the toxicology officers. “Have a good night. And hey – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” This last part he says with a self-aware smile, inviting them in on the joke, and everyone laughs right on cue – including more than a few people who aren’t technically part of the conversation.

Antoniou and her team wave Jim and Leonard off with smiles, probably eager to get down to the important business of trading gossip with the rest of the crew, and Jim lays a guiding hand on Leonard’s elbow as they turn to wade back into the crowd. That’s new, too: the once-private touches that have begun to leak out into their public interactions. Jim’s always been a handsy bastard, but after they got together he was religious about maintaining the status quo in front of the crew, careful to stick to the same boisterous slaps and smacks he’d been pummeling Leonard with for years. It was only when the two of them were alone that his roughhousing would gentle into the idle petting and suffocating cuddles that Leonard craves like a goddamn drug when they’re apart.

For four years, Leonard got to keep Jim’s sweetness all to himself, his most treasured and fiercely protected secret – a miracle to him, still, after all this time. That was a big part of what made him so uneasy their first couple days on Hearth. He and Jim had always taken such meticulous care to maintain a strict boundary between their professional roles and their private life. It scared the hell out of Leonard to think that the blurring of that line might steal away even a fraction of the soft, tender, wide-open affection he’d only ever seen Jim allow himself behind closed doors.

Damned foolish of him. He forgets, sometimes, just how far Jim has come – how wholly he’s given himself over to this thing of theirs, and how boldly he’s always been the one to move them forward. How fierce and vast and unwavering his love is; how brave.

Jim is still Jim, out in the light, and at the end of each day he still comes home to Leonard’s arms as the same warm, sincere man Leonard’s adored since he first grabbed him by his shirtfront and kissed him senseless in a Yorktown officer’s suite.

Jim catches his gaze and arches a questioning eyebrow, his hand sliding up from Leonard’s elbow to curve loosely around his arm. Leonard reassures him with a slight dip of his head, too subtle for even the sharpest-eyed vultures to make out, and feels a pang of shame at his mental grousing when he sees Jim’s face brighten with relief.

Of course he’s all right. He’s with Jim, isn’t he? He may have had it about up to here with all the scrutiny they’ve been under, but he’ll be damned if he lets a bunch of nosy-ass busybodies scare him away from spending time with his own goddamn husband.

After all, Leonard didn’t agree to go public for the sake of any of these gossip-mongering idiots. He did it for his idiot – and what’s the whole mess even for if not to give them the freedom to be together like this? As far as Leonard’s concerned, this right here is the entire point of it all: the comfort of Jim’s closeness amidst the claustrophobic press of the crowd, the smile that tilts his pretty mouth and arcs out from his eyes, the thankful curl of his fingers around Leonard’s bicep.

Someone nearby lets out an ear-piercing shriek of excitement – maybe to do with them, maybe not. Leonard doesn’t much care one way or the other, not with Jim looping their arms together properly now and raising his glass for another sip of eggnog, smile still lingering in his eyes as he scans the room for their next stop on this gladhanding tour.

So Leonard can’t hide in Jim’s shadow anymore. Big fuckin’ deal. He’s just got to do what he always does when his nerves get the best of him: hold on tight, follow Jim’s lead, and trust that they’ll eventually come out the other side together.

Still and all, Leonard’s relieved when the crowd starts thinning out and Jim makes their excuses, cordially bidding a good night and happy holiday to the remaining crew members before ducking out. (Half of them are likely too drunk to remember a word he says, but it’s a nice thought, in any case.)

Jim takes Leonard’s hand as they emerge into the corridor, twining their fingers together in a comfortable grip that will never feel anything but just right, no matter how many overly interested bystanders are pretending not to be staring at them. “See? I told you it wouldn’t be as bad as the Hanukkah party.”

Leonard grimaces at the reminder. That ordeal was the very next day after he and Jim let the cat out of the bag, and it was nearly enough to put him off the prospect of public outings for life. “You’re lucky you even dragged me out here tonight after that shitshow. Please tell me this is the last of these shindigs for a while.”

Jim does at least have the grace to assume a vaguely apologetic expression. “Not quite. There’s New Year’s, obviously, and then M’paako a couple weeks after that, and I think Lunar New Year is pretty early this year – ”

Leonard wracks his brain, trying to sift through the eighty-three thousand holidays Jim insists on holding individual celebrations for every year. “M’paako. That’s not the one with the – ”

“Steeped lizard wine, yeah, ’fraid so,” Jim says. “Imrin showed me this year’s batch a few days ago. It is, uh…really something.” He squeezes Leonard’s hand, swinging it over to tap gently against his thigh. “Hey, don’t worry about the lizard wine tonight, okay? That’s a problem for future us. We are gonna go back to my quarters, get comfortable, pour ourselves some of that Namuraan whiskey – ”

Leonard’s not fooled by the low voice and bedroom eyes. “And then waste who knows how many hours playing that dumbass holoprogram instead of actually relaxing and enjoying this peaceful holy night.”

“Bones, it’s a tradition,” Jim says, sounding offended, as he always does when Leonard dares to question their distinctly unorthodox practice for celebrating the birth of Christ.

“A stupid tradition,” Leonard says, as he always does. They have this debate every year, not that either of them ever gets anywhere with it. It’s at the point where arguing about the holo is as much of a tradition as playing the damn thing. “Fighting Klingons, hunting down ship invaders, sneaking around on rescue missions – for God’s sake, kid, don’t you get enough of that shit at work? It was one thing when we were at the Academy, but it’s gotten downright ridiculous. You do realize there are programs now where folks can play as you.”

“Exactly,” Jim says, as if that makes a lick of sense. “There’s no pressure in the holo. I can do all the crazy irresponsible shit I’m not allowed to do for real – ”

“Oh, so we’re characterizing your typical M.O. as anything but crazy and irresponsible now?”

“ – and without Command crawling up my ass about it,” Jim continues, determinedly ignoring Leonard’s interruption. “No reports to file, no repairs to worry about, no getting yelled at for dislocating my knee again – it’s real life on easy mode. And it’s fun to make Archer do that dance after they repair the impulse engine.”

Leonard levels him with a sharp warning look. “If you even think about busting that knee again, I’m putting you in one of those reinforced exoskeletons they had on Kish’hal.”

“I’m not seeing the downside here. Those things were awesome.”

Leonard’s clearly going to have to up the ante. “And you’re going back on limited activity until I decide you’re fully healed. Which I expect could be a whole lot longer than six weeks this time. Wouldn’t want to risk aggravating the injury, you know.”

Bingo. Jim’s eyes go wide, his forehead creasing in honest alarm. “You wouldn’t.”

No, probably not. But Jim doesn’t need to know that. Leonard steels his heart and his face against Jim’s pleading expression. “Try me.”

“Bones, come on,” Jim says, a distinct whine in his voice. “Don’t be mean to me. It’s Christmas.”

“And you can do your part to keep it a jolly one by promising me that you won’t be flinging yourself off any more ten meter high mesas.”

“There was no other way to get down!”

“Jim.”

Jim concedes defeat with a petulant groan. “Fine. You win, okay? I’ll be careful.”

Leonard knows better than to believe that, but he does like to hear Jim say it. “Thank you. Now let’s go play your damn holo. Sooner we start, sooner we can get it over with.”

The truth is, Leonard doesn’t really care about the holo. It’s a tradition, like Jim says, and Leonard would never take that away from him, no matter how tiresome and unnecessarily violent he finds the whole thing.

Besides, Leonard’s got his own game to play – one he personally finds a good deal more enjoyable than shooting imaginary Klingons in the face.

Jim, for all his many talents and virtues, is still only a man: a young, fit, red-blooded man with a healthy libido and little natural resistance to Leonard’s…husbandly attentions. And oh, Leonard can be very attentive when the mood strikes him. He knows exactly what Jim likes, the glancing absentminded touches that’ll get him shifting in his seat, restless and distracted, stealing glances Leonard’s way as that telltale pink starts to creep down his neck. Mercy, but he’s pretty like that, glowing with the first flush of arousal, tense and relaxed all at once, caught up in anticipation of Leonard’s next move.

Poor thing. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Leonard smiles to himself at the thought, runs his thumb lightly along Jim’s as an innocent preview of what the night has in store. Another drink or two, and Jim will be perfectly primed for a nice leisurely seduction. If Leonard plays his cards right – and he always does – Archer and crew will be left to their own devices long before the big climactic bridge showdown, abandoned without a backward glance while he and Jim pursue their own adventures in the bedroom.

It certainly doesn’t hurt that Jim has a real thing for Christmas. Relentless as he is in his pursuit of the new, the unexplored and the undiscovered, there’s no denying he gets especially frisky around holidays, their anniversary, Leonard’s birthday – really most any annual occurrence where they’ve settled into a certain pattern over the years, no matter how mundane.

Leonard’s hardly one to judge. It meant a lot to him, too, that first Christmas when Jim turned up at his dorm room with a bag of takeout in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, strolling inside like he owned the damn place and hunting around for the holodevice to plug in his drive. Leonard had expected to spend the day alone, drowning in cheap booze and self-pity like he had the year before, like he assumed he probably would every year after – but then there was Jim, Jim with his back slaps and his chatter and his wide empty smiles that didn’t reach his eyes, barging his way into Leonard’s room like he’d barged into his life, abrupt and uninvited, making himself at home.

The takeout was lukewarm by the time they got to it, the whiskey was mediocre at best, and Leonard had never been much for action holos even when he was a child. And still, somehow, it was the best damn day he’d had in a long, long while.

He wasn’t surprised when Jim repeated the same trick the next year, or the next. Admittedly, he was impressed when Jim still managed to pull it off their first Christmas on the Enterprise, following Leonard back to his quarters after the inaugural crew party and producing a bottle of genuine single-barrel bourbon with a flourish and an equally genuine grin – but he wasn’t surprised, per se. Even then, he’d started to understand how critically important these little rituals were to a man who’d never had much of anything he could count on from one year to the next.

Oh, Jim does actually enjoy the stupid holo, but that’s not really what this is about. The life the two of them have built together was one of Jim’s first tastes of stability, something he could finally sink roots into and build out from. His insistence on keeping to the routines they’ve established over the years is a way of reaffirming the solidness of what they have, what they’ve made. He delights in that sense of permanence, revels in it, blossoms with it – and, yes, that particular voltage of emotional energy does have a tendency to spill over into the physical.

Christ alive, does it ever.

It’s almost poetic, how it all played out. Leonard swore he’d never marry again after Jocelyn left him, just about gave up on love entirely, and here he’s landed himself a man who gets off on the very notion of fidelity. Funny old world.

Of course it’s all tied in with Jim’s shitty childhood, his hunger for constancy after so many years of volatility and loss, which should probably make Leonard feel at least a tiny bit bad about using it to get him in bed – but, hell, it’s not his fault Jim comes so damn hard when Leonard kisses the breath from his lungs and swears to love him just like this to the very end of their days.

At the end of the day, all he’s doing is providing Jim with one more tradition to take comfort in. If Jim likes getting his rocks off to the thought of a lifetime together, isn’t it Leonard’s responsibility as his loving partner to indulge that as consistently as he can? And if honoring that marital duty means they have to trade out a few hours of mind-numbing pseudo-reality in exchange for the hot, sweaty, thrillingly corporeal pleasures of the flesh – well, so be it. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.

They reach the lift, and Leonard keys in their deck, ready to get back to Jim’s rooms and claim his reward for enduring another interminable crew party. He’s had more than enough of the circus for one day; all he wants now is Jim.

Well. Jim and the good liquor. But mostly Jim.

Jim must be thinking along the same lines, because he slants Leonard a warm-eyed little smile as the lift door hisses shut. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says, the words pitched low enough that Leonard has a feeling they’re not talking about the holoprogram anymore.

That’s all it takes for the burn of frustrated desire Leonard’s been battling all evening to flare up inside him again, provoked by the dark inviting note in Jim’s voice. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth of Jim’s palm against his, how close Jim’s standing, the section of hair that’s given up the ghost after a long day and wilted down over his forehead. He looks good enough to eat. A whole Christmas dinner and dessert besides.

Leonard shifts his weight toward Jim, drawn in by the heat of him, the magnetic lure of those eyes. “Is that right?”

“Mmm hmm.” Jim glances deliberately down at Leonard’s mouth, lets his gaze linger for a moment before meeting Leonard’s eyes again.

Leonard’s skin prickles in time with the ping of the lift. Goddamn. They just might skip the holo entirely this year.

“In that case,” he says, allowing a hint of gravel to seep into his voice as they step out into the corridor that’ll take them to Jim’s quarters, “seems to me we’d better – ”

“Captain!”

Jim’s smile freezes, hardening with the same dread that’s iced over Leonard’s heart. The selfish, greedy part of Leonard – the part that’s Jim’s husband before he’s CMO or any other damn thing – urges him to run, to throw Jim over his shoulder if he has to and make a break for it before Jim can be wrested away from him, as he’s surely about to be. They both know a hail like that isn’t bringing anything good with it.

Jim plasters over his dismay with a masterful expression of calm, stoic professionalism and turns to the Morafian who’s skidding up alongside them in the corridor. “How can I help you, Ensign?”

“Captain, it’s – it’s the gravity generator,” the ensign manages, visibly winded from the run, auxiliary gills flaring uselessly at their neck. “Output has dropped by a third – we’re getting reports that the uppermost decks are experiencing varying levels of dysfunction with their plating – ”

“Where’s Mr. Scott?” Jim demands.

“In the generator chamber, sir. He’s the one who sent for you. He says it’s a problem with the secondary plasma coils, similar to an incident you dealt with on – ”

“Burboli,” Jim finishes, grimacing. “Dammit. I’ll be right down. Page Orx and Jur – we’ll need them to maintain the calibrator if the circuit goes.”

“Aye, sir,” the ensign says, and promptly bolts back the way they came, impressively quick for someone of a species better adapted for underwater mobility.

Jim turns to Leonard with a woeful expression. “I’m sorry, Bones,” he says, and truly sounds it. As disappointed as Leonard is, Jim’s probably feeling it even worse, attached as he is to the nitty-gritty of their Christmas routine. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. This shouldn’t take too long, I don’t think.”

“Jim, it’s fine,” Leonard says firmly. “That whiskey’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.” He squeezes Jim’s hand. “Now go help Scotty before the generator fails and we all end up bouncing around in here like pinballs.”

Jim gamely tries for a smile, much dimmer than his last one. “Yes, sir.” He leans in and pecks a chaste kiss to Leonard’s cheek, peculiarly contrite as he gets sometimes on the rare occasions he’s not at fault.

Dammit.

Leonard hesitates for a second, Jim’s upset weighing heavy on his heart, his skin already missing the brief warmth of Jim’s lips. He ought to let Jim go, make it up to him later when he can take his time with it and not worry about who might be watching, but – ah, hell. It’s Christmas, ain’t it?

Jim lets out a tiny squeak of surprise as Leonard catches his mouth in a real kiss. He still tastes like the damn eggnog, spiced cream and the sharp edge of brandy, and it doesn’t take but half a second before he gets with the program, pressing into the kiss with a fervor that makes Leonard think longingly of how it’s going to feel to tumble him into bed later tonight, all loose-limbed and pliant like he gets when he’s just the right amount of liquored-up.

God damn that lousy gravity generator.

“Jim,” Leonard prods with a sigh, reluctantly breaking away from the temptation of Jim’s lips. He’d better leave now before Leonard decides not to let him.

Jim groans. “I know, I know. I’m going.” He spins on his heel and takes off down the corridor, rapidly gaining on the ensign who was sent to fetch him.

Leonard watches him go, admiring the rhythm of those long legs in motion. Nobody runs quite like Jim. Leonard would probably appreciate it more if he weren’t so frequently compelled to chase after the idiot, choking on his dust and damn near killing himself trying to keep pace.

“Keep it moving, ladies,” he says after a few seconds, his eyes still fixed on Jim’s shrinking rear view. “Show’s over.”

It’s with some mild satisfaction that he listens to the sudden clatter of boot heels as the cluster of looky-loos behind him scurries off around the next corner, the sound of their retreat accompanied by a badly stifled explosion of tipsy giggles.

“Aww, man,” Jim mumbles, his face scrunching with some indeterminate emotion against Leonard’s neck.

Leonard runs a hand up Jim’s back and thrums with a heady afterwave of satisfaction as Jim arches into it, heat-damp muscle flexing beautifully under his fingertips. He splays his fingers wide to cover more ground, massages the heel of his hand between Jim’s shoulder blades where he so often finds great big knots of tension to work out. Not that Jim’s got a microgram of tension in him now, of course – not after what Leonard just did to him. “Mmm?”

Jim mouths at Leonard’s neck, lazy sucking kisses that whisper over the tender aches where he set his teeth earlier. “That’s the really bad ending theme. Archer and crew must’ve gotten eaten.” He sighs, a hot gust of breath over Leonard’s collarbone. “Again.”

Now that Jim’s pointed it out, Leonard can hear the dire strains of organ music filtering in from the lounge. “No surprise there,” he says, too sated and pleased with himself to pretend he gives half a damn about the unfortunate casualties of his machinations. “You leave a bunch of mindless holo drones surrounded by enemy fighters without any direction – yeah, they’re gonna bite it.”

“You’re heartless,” Jim complains, face scrunching again with what Leonard would guess is something in the sulky family.

“Heartless, huh?” Leonard skims his hand down Jim’s spine, scritches gently at the downy skin above his tailbone and enjoys the subtle shiver of pleasure that quakes Jim against him. “That what you’re callin’ me these days?”

“Yes,” Jim says stubbornly, though as usual his body puts the lie to his words, his thigh sliding higher up Leonard’s, his toes sneaking beneath the ticklish underside of Leonard’s other knee. “You’re terrible.” He nuzzles against Leonard’s throat, mouths another lingering kiss to the join of neck and shoulder. “Next year I’m not letting you distract me. We’re gonna play the whole way through and nobody’s gonna die.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious, Bones. I mean it this time.”

“Sure.”

“Bones.”

Leonard flattens his hand over Jim’s lower back, right where Jim likes it best, the tips of his fingers curling tenderly over Jim’s hip. “Yeah, darlin’?” he asks innocently, leaning into the drawl that tends to come out when he’s tired or fucked out like this.

He can almost hear the indignant wind go out of Jim’s sails. It’s delicious.

Jim tucks into Leonard’s neck with a halfhearted grumble. “I’m on to you,” he mutters, not sounding especially put out about it.

Leonard rubs his cheek against Jim’s tousled hair, thumbs delicately across the divot of Jim’s spine and savors his little victory as Jim lets out a breathy noise of contentment.

“Honestly,” Jim says after a minute, “I’m just glad Klingons don’t really practice ritualistic battlefield cannibalism to consume their vanquished foes’ powers or whatever. I’d probably be missing a few fingers by now if they did.”

Leonard huffs a laugh into Jim’s hair. “Please. After that last trick you pulled? You’d be down a whole arm, at least.”

“Fair enough.” Jim nips painlessly at Leonard’s throat. “Would you still love me after the Klingons ate my arms off?”

“Both your arms?” Leonard blows out an exaggerated breath, playing it up to really get Jim going. “Geez, kid, I don’t know…”

“Bones!” Jim squawks, outraged. He raises his head to fix Leonard with a scowl, only he ain’t real formidable in his current state, pink-flushed and sleepy, blinking against the strand of sweaty hair caught in his eyelashes. Not exactly the iron-willed commander who outmaneuvered General K’Mak in the Almari system a few months back.

“Oh, relax, would you?” Leonard carefully frees the errant hair from Jim’s lashes and smooths it back with the rest. “That pit monster on wherever-the-fuck – ”

“Blinta.”

“ – took a good few pieces outta you, and I stuck around then, didn’t I?”

Jim’s pout twitches, his accusatory glare softening toward the promise of a crinkle at the outside corners of his eyes. “You did.”

“Well, then,” Leonard says, and leaves it at that.

Jim’s eyes surrender to the smile first, and his mouth follows soon after, his whole lovely pink-cheeked face brightening with affection. He worms up a smidge, draping himself still more cozily along Leonard’s side – even managing not to knee Leonard in the balls in the process, which is a true Christmas miracle if Leonard’s ever seen one – and kisses him, as Leonard’s been kinda hoping he might.

“Love you,” he murmurs against Leonard’s lips. “Love you, Bones.”

Leonard holds Jim close with the hand on his back, cups his jaw and angles him in to kiss him the way he needs to, deep and hot and grateful. Jim melts against him, moans prettily into his mouth, and Leonard kisses him harder, so filled with the immensity of everything he feels that he might die if he doesn’t share it any way he can.

His sweet man. His own beating heart. Jim.

Jim’s lips are red and lush when Leonard releases him, curved into a blissed out smile. It’s hard to believe there was a time Leonard had never seen that smile, wasn’t even sure Jim was capable of it. Any part he had in helping Jim find it again must surely rate as one of his life’s great works.

“I’d still love you if the Klingons ate your arms off, too,” Jim says loyally, nudging his nose into Leonard’s cheek.

Leonard chuckles. “I’m not too worried about that. Don’t think they’d have much appetite for a lowly pacifist. And a coward, at that.”

“You’re not a coward.”

Leonard lets his face give the only response that deserves.

“You’re not,” Jim says, with a good solid flick to Leonard’s forehead to signal his displeasure. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Bones, but you’re kind of a hero.”

“Oh, please – ”

But as usual, Jim won’t be deterred. “You roam around the galaxy saving lives and helping people. You’ve found cures for diseases that have caused as much suffering and death as the worst tyrannical overlord. You’ve run into at least two burning buildings that I know of.”

“The hell you think I’m gettin' up to when you’re not around?”

“I mean, look at Hearth. You saved an entire colony from generations of suffering and death. Don’t – ” Jim slaps a hand over Leonard’s mouth, cutting off his protest. “ – don’t you dare say you were just doing your job. I don’t know too many doctors who could have done what you did. You figured out how to get through to the kids. You went on a stealth mission to the purging house. You took on the Mother and fought to save those people.” He removes his hand from Leonard’s mouth and pats him rather patronizingly on the cheek. “Sorry, Bones. I don’t make the rules. That’s hero shit, through and through.”

Leonard could argue, but Jim has that determined look to him, the one Leonard’s learned the hard way has zero room for concession. He’d be wasting his breath.

And anyway, to the extent there’s any merit at all to Jim’s overblown claims, it would have to come back to Jim himself. Leonard only went down to Hearth in the first place because Jim suckered him into it, is only out here on this floating metal circus because Jim suckered him into that, too, once upon a time. The planets he’s explored, the lives he’s saved, the goddamn burning buildings he’s run into – he couldn’t have done any of it without Jim counting on him, pushing him, demanding the impossible of him. Jim seems to believe Leonard can work miracles, and the damnedest thing is that with Jim in his corner, Leonard sometimes finds that he can. He’s beginning to think he could cure a rainy day, so long as Jim asked it of him.

Jim Kirk looks at him – at him – and sees a hero. It’d take a real jackass to try to undermine that.

Leonard drops a kiss into Jim’s palm. “Yeah, well,” he says gruffly. “Been hangin’ around a bad element. Guess he might’ve rubbed off on me some."

Jim grins, predictably pleased by Leonard’s capitulation. “You married the bad element, buddy. And we’ve done way more than – ”

Leonard decides to nip the joke in the bud with another kiss. If the past four years have taught him anything, it’s that it’s usually in his best interest to keep that mouth occupied one way or another.

“Bones?” Jim mumbles a minute later, muffled against Leonard’s jaw.

Leonard cards through Jim’s mussed hair, carefully tugs apart a tangle. “Mmm?”

“Do you regret it?”

Leonard’s fingers still in Jim’s hair. “Gettin’ married?” he asks cautiously, unsure where Jim might be headed with this.

“No.” Jim pulls away, looking altogether more aggravated than Leonard thinks is entirely fair. “Don’t be an asshole. Obviously not that.” His mouth contorts in a peculiar way that Leonard would guess is an aborted attempt at lip-chewing. “I mean…telling people.”

Ah.

Jim forges ahead before Leonard can respond. “It’s just – I kind of forced your hand on it, and it’s been…you know how it’s been. And you’ve been so – I mean, you’ve been great, but I know it’s, like…it’s a lot. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to pretend, or anything, if you hate this, or if – ”

“Jim,” Leonard interrupts before Jim can babble himself into any more knots. “Do you regret it?”

Jim frowns at him. “I asked first.”

“For God’s sake. All right, we’ll play it your way.” Leonard resumes combing through Jim’s hair, hoping it’ll help settle him down. “I’m not blind, kid. You’ve been on cloud nine since the minute we decided to tell the crew. I haven’t seen you this happy since we started the tour.” He scratches behind Jim’s ear, strokes up the sensitive outer shell to watch his lashes flutter. “You don’t regret it. Which means I don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

“You’re sure?” Jim persists, though he’s already less fretful, the anxious energy bleeding out of him as he leans into Leonard’s petting.

“Pretty sure.” Leonard curves his hand around the back of Jim’s head and tugs him in closer. “C’mere and let me check.”

Leonard has no idea how long he loses himself in Jim’s mouth this go-round, but they’re both smiling when it’s over, so he’d say he timed it about right.

“Yep,” he says, tracing over Jim’s comet trails with the pad of his thumb. “Just as I suspected. I’m sure. Sure sure.”

“You should probably check again,” says Jim, ever the opportunist. “Replication is vital to the scientific – mmm – ”

Well, the kid’s got a point, doesn’t he? It’s a question of scientific integrity.

One exceptionally thorough investigation later, Jim seems mollified, slumped bonelessly down at Leonard’s side with his head pillowed on Leonard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s been so nuts,” he says, trailing his fingers along Leonard’s chest. “Everyone will get bored soon, I promise.”

“Ah, fuck ’em.” Leonard tightens his arm around Jim’s back. “They can gibber all they want as long as that door keeps them all out at the end of the day.”

“I’ll get Scotty to upgrade the security mechanism. He owes me.”

“That he does.” Leonard’s gaze naturally travels from the bedroom door to the dresser beside it. Damn – he’d almost forgotten. But is this really the right time? Their night’s already taken a few unexpected turns; maybe he shouldn’t complicate things any further.

Jim’s toes wriggle where they’re jammed between Leonard’s calves. He kisses Leonard’s clavicle, idly at first, then with a familiar kind of intent Leonard recognizes all too well. “Wanna go again?” he suggests hopefully.

Leonard snorts. “Even you ain’t that good, kid.” He eyes the dresser and weighs his next words on his tongue, debating with himself over whether he’s actually going to spit them out. He doesn’t have to do this tonight. It might be better if he waited.

He turns his attention back to Jim, who’s gazing up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, a soft smile playing over his lips, lines etching out from his twilight-dark eyes.

So be it, then. Tonight it is.

“Actually, I, uh.” Leonard stumbles out of the gate, clears his throat to try again. “I’ve got something for you.”

Jim makes an intrigued noise, which slipslides into a whine as Leonard begins the arduous process of extracting himself from their tangle of sheets and limbs. “Can’t it wait?” he wheedles, defying Leonard’s attempts to pry his arms away so he can slip free. “Bones, c’mon. I thought we weren’t even doing presents.”

“We’re not.” Having gotten nowhere by fighting fair, Leonard resorts to treachery and delivers a firm twisting pinch to the unprotected flesh of Jim’s inner elbow. That does work, finally, startling Jim into loosening his grip just long enough for Leonard to make good his escape – but the victory is short-lived, as the yelp Jim lets out in response twinges uneasily in Leonard’s chest, catches there with a guilty little tug even as he’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He hesitates for a second (go on, he’s fine, you know damn well he’s fine) before inevitably the tug wins out and he steals a quick glance back over his shoulder.

It’s a mistake, a goddamn bush-league mistake, he knows that even as he’s doing it, but Jim looks so pitiful alone there in the rumpled sheets, tousled and rosy-cheeked, blinking plaintively at him with such big mournful eyes –

Son of a bitch, Leonard thinks, and twists at the hips, leans back over and lowers himself down for the kiss he’s been so blatantly manipulated into. He can’t bring himself to regret it, though, not when he can feel the pout melting away from that devilish mouth, Jim’s breath leaving him in a satisfied purr.

It’s not so bad, being a hopeless case. Pride is overrated anyhow.

Leonard’s almost forgotten what he was getting out of bed for in the first place when he suddenly registers the curl of Jim’s warm, strong, conniving fingers around the wrist of the arm he’s using to hold himself up.

“Ah ah ah,” he says warningly, sitting up and shaking off Jim’s hold. “None of your tricks, now, darlin’.”

Jim smirks shamelessly at him, tempting as the apple and twice as sinful. “You like my tricks.”

God help him, Leonard really does.

Still.

“Ain’t going far,” he insists, clinging to this moment of lucidity. If he lets Jim drag him back into bed, that’ll be it for the night, and he truly does want to do this now. “You can have your wicked way with me after.”

Jim considers this proposition for a moment, eyes roving over Leonard’s body with a speculative interest that threatens to put the lie to Leonard’s claims of sexual exhaustion. “I accept your terms,” he says at last. “Make it quick. Bed’s cold without you.”

Seizing his chance, Leonard quickly pushes up to his feet and – thwack! – startles at the hearty slap to his ass he really ought to have seen coming.

“On second thought,” Jim says cheerfully, “not too quick.”

Leonard refuses to be baited. He crosses the room, keenly aware of Jim’s eyes on him the whole way, and reaches behind the dresser to retrieve the medkit he keeps there, stuffed full to bursting with all the supplies he might possibly need for any of the ridiculous scrapes Jim’s so good at finding his way into: three different types of regens, a hypo and an array of trusted medicines, a pre-loaded dose of polyadrenaline, enough temporary wound sealant to put Humpty Dumpty back together.

Judging by his scoff as Leonard hoists the kit up onto the dresser, Jim is less than impressed by this development. “Just so you know, if your big surprise is a hypo to the ass, I’m cancelling all my plans for crazy birthday sex. You can spend your fortieth with your right hand and the crappy booze.”

“Calm down, you infant. I’m not giving you a damn shot.” Leonard pauses in the middle of unlatching the kit and shoots a curious glance back to the bed, where Jim has rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand, one bare thigh slanted over the other in a thin pretense of decency. “Exactly what kind of plans are we talking?”

Jim offers him a slow-blossoming smile, filthy with promise. “Depends how good this present is.”

Leonard rolls his eyes and turns back to the medkit, laying it open on top of the dresser so he can shift a few items around and dig out the small hinged box he stashed inside yesterday.

“Now, technically this is a regift,” he says, and turns around with the box in his hands, his heart thumping with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

Jim’s reaction is instantaneous. He bolts upright in bed, straight-backed and tense, long pale legs drawing up like he’s prepared to launch himself off the mattress at any moment. That flirtatious smile has slipped away, and his face has drained of color, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the box Leonard’s holding.

Guess that answers the question of whether he noticed it was missing.

For half a second Leonard thinks about kneeling, but on the tail end of that thought he realizes it would feel all wrong. They’ve never gone in for that sort of formal crap, and anyway this isn’t about that – making a whole song and dance of it, putting on some big elaborate show.

This is about making things right between them, that’s all. Fixing the creaky stair he’s only recently realized Jim’s been avoiding for who knows how long in the home they’ve built together.

Leonard thought he’d enjoy it, being the one to catch Jim off guard for once, but there’s something so raw and defenseless in Jim’s expression that his chest tightens with sympathetic anxiety. He can’t leave Jim alone with his shock a moment longer, so he half-jogs across the room and crawls back into bed beside him, where he belongs.

“Like I said, it’s a regift,” he says with determined composure. He wasn’t expecting how much effort it would take to keep his voice and hands from quivering, though Jim looks so thunderstruck that he doesn’t feel too bad about his own inexplicable nervousness. He presses the box into Jim’s hand and curls his limp fingers around it, adjusting his grip for him so he doesn’t drop the damn thing. “But I thought you might want it all the same.”

Jim looks from the box to Leonard, his wide artless eyes searching Leonard’s face – what for, Leonard couldn’t say, but he wants to give it to him. He wants to give Jim everything he needs, everything that might bring a smile to those beautiful eyes or let him rest a bit easier in Leonard’s arms each night.

Jim loves the little rituals. All Leonard’s doing is giving him one more to take comfort in.

He runs his knuckles down Jim’s cheek and forces out a smile, squashing the jitter of nerves in his belly as best he can. One of them‘s got to keep their shit together right now, and by the look of things it ain’t gonna be Jim. “Don’t leave me hanging here, kid. Go on and open it.”

Jim nods, uncharacteristically docile. He looks back down at the box in his hands – warily, like he’s afraid it might bite him or something – and slowly cracks it open to reveal the twin gold bands nestled inside.

It can’t possibly be a surprise to see them there, but Jim draws in a sharp, shaky inhale, his fingers tightening around the hinged halves of the box.

“Turns out Quartermaster Dinh’s pretty handy with a soldering torch,” Leonard says. “I had him clean ’em up some, resize yours so it’d fit better. Can’t have you losing it in any poison swamps, right?”

The joke falls flat, Jim’s attention entirely on the rings. He shakes his head, the motion shaking free the swoop of hair that persists in falling into his eyes. “How…” he whispers, gingerly touching one band – his own, Leonard thinks – with a fingertip.

Leonard brushes the hair away from Jim’s eyes, strokes the dark arch of his eyebrow. “Found them in the drawer,” he says, which should be answer enough.

They share most of the space in Jim’s quarters, Leonard’s medical blues hanging from the closet rail alongside Jim’s triple-striped captain’s shirts, two sizes of sweats and undershirts and sleep clothes piled together in the dresser, socks and shorts so jumbled up that Leonard’s long since lost track of whose is whose. The same goes in Leonard’s room, of course. It’s been that way for years, ever since the early days on Yorktown when Leonard got sick of having to sneak back to his own quarters in the wee hours before the snowglobe’s artificial dawn to find a goddamn pair of pants that fit.

But there’s one drawer in Jim’s dresser that’s just Jim’s, the same way the overhead shelf in Leonard’s closet is just Leonard’s. They’re not off-limits to each other; it’s simply understood that the belongings stashed in those spots aren’t to be meddled with without good reason.

Leonard had pretty good reason this time, he reckons. He’d thought they’d sorted out everything from their time on Hearth the night they got back, but in the days that followed, the thought of those damn rings kept nagging at him, tickling uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Where had Jim gotten them? If he really felt they needed rings for the mission he could have had the fabrication team whip something up, but he clearly hadn’t: they were too imperfect for that, worn and scuffed-up, Jim’s a good half-size too big for him. No, those were real rings Jim had gotten his hands on somehow – but where the hell does a man find a pair of secondhand wedding bands out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? The only realistic explanation was that he had them even before the Hearth mission, and that made even less sense. Jim’s not much of a packrat; he doesn’t tend to keep things around for the sake of having them, especially given their cramped quarters on the ship.

It was that line of thinking that gave Leonard the idea to check the drawer. It took some poking around in there, sifting through the chaotic assortment of what would probably look like random cast-offs to the untrained eye – a round-bottomed bottle long since emptied of Lludrian whiskey, a threadbare Ole Miss shirt, a specially displayed photograph of a lanky man in a silvery half-mask smiling alongside his dark-haired bride – but in the end he found what he was looking for, nudging aside a pile of clumsily knit socks to reveal a worn old velvet box holding a pair of equally worn gold bands.

That pretty much settled that. Nothing wound up in that drawer by accident, so wherever the rings came from, they meant a lot more to Jim than he’d let on. And if they meant something to Jim, well, then, Leonard supposed they meant something to him too.

Leonard rubs Jim’s back, trying to soothe away the tension that’s tightened him up all over. “How long have you been holding onto these?”

Jim’s eyes dart back to Leonard’s before dropping guiltily to the rings again. His mouth twitches tellingly, and Leonard feels his eyebrows hike up.

“That long?”

Jim toys with one of the rings, staring at it like he’s never seen something so interesting in his life. “I got them a while back. At…at Eddie’s.”

Maybe it’s a good thing Jim’s avoiding his gaze, because it means he doesn’t see whatever Leonard’s face is doing right now. Holy shit – the rings are from Eddie’s?

Leonard knows the place, of course. It’s Jim’s favorite haunt in San Francisco, a crowded dimly lit rabbit warren of baubles and oddities. As far as Leonard can tell, the place is basically the junk drawer of the Alpha Quadrant, its grimy shelves and cabinets overflowing with trash and treasure from across the galaxy.

Jim’s been known to spend the better part of a day in there, hunting for antique computer components and electronic devices he can restore or cannibalize for parts. It’s where he got the record player that sits in a place of pride in their bedroom back home, the ancient telescope he’s convinced once belonged to Zefram Cochrane himself, the straight razor he sharpened up and gave Leonard for his birthday one year while they were still at the Academy.

Eddie deals in all kinds of shit, and Leonard’s noticed the odd display case dedicated to jewelry on past visits. It’s not hard to imagine that Jim could’ve found a couple of beat-up wedding bands there, tucked in among the gem-encrusted Moldaran brooches and colorful Tankeggi nose plates.

What surprises Leonard is the timing. If Jim picked the rings up at Eddie’s, that means he’s had them since before they left Earth – over a year ago now.

It means that at some point during the blissful, giddy months after their wedding, Jim came home with these rings in his pocket and deliberately hid them away somewhere Leonard wouldn’t find them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Leonard asks, unable to keep his utter bafflement out of his voice. He’s not hurt, exactly, but he doesn’t get it, and that rattles him. He can’t fathom what would drive Jim to keep this a secret from him.

Jim folds in on himself, shrinking away from Leonard’s words or his tone, or maybe from whatever it was that compelled him to get his new husband a wedding ring and never give it to him. “What for? It’s not like we were ever gonna wear them.”

Leonard bites back his immediate retort, something incredulous and likely counterproductive about how mighty difficult it is to wear something if you don’t know it exists. He brings his hand to rest on Jim’s lower back, hoping to comfort him, to ease him out of his miserable huddle. He doesn’t want Jim to feel like he has to hide from him. He just wants to understand. “So why’d you get them?”

Jim shrugs, one pale shoulder lifting listlessly under Leonard’s chin. Leonard kisses him there, on the milk-white curve of muscle.

“You don’t know, or you don’t know how to say it?”

Jim shrugs again. His answer isn’t much more than a whisper. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How about you let me be the judge of that.” Leonard touches Jim’s tense jaw with his free hand, turns Jim’s face toward him and waits patiently until Jim is able to meet his eyes. “I’m trying here, kid. Work with me. You want to wear it? Want me to?”

One side of Jim’s mouth skews up in a faint smile Leonard’s not sure he likes the look of. “You have a ring. The hell do you need another one for?”

Oh.

Leonard’s heart sinks.

Shit.

He could slap himself silly. What’s the matter with him, anyway? Almost forty years old, and here he is still running off at the mouth like a hotheaded teenager, just the way his parents always warned him about.

When you feel that temper of yours flaring up, his daddy used to say to him, in that weary disappointed voice that made him feel about a micrometer tall, I want you to stop and ask yourself: is what you want to say more important than what you need them to hear?

He’d have done well to ask himself that before snapping back at Chekov on the bridge the other day. He was so busy defending himself against some perceived slight on his relationship that it didn’t occur to him to wonder how the only other person with a say in the matter might feel about it.

And that wasn’t the worst of it, he realizes, his stomach turning over as it dawns on him. He took off the ring Jim had given him the minute they got back from Hearth, threw it at Jim like a piece of garbage. Won’t be needing that again – weren’t those his exact words? It didn’t even have anything to do with Jim, not really. He was pissed at Sulu and Karimova, on edge from the transport crew’s teasing. He wanted to put the whole mess behind them and go back to the way things were before – which, he knows now, was exactly what Jim didn’t want.

“I’m an idiot,” he says aloud.

“What? No,” Jim says, his reserve vanishing in the space of an instant, which should make Leonard feel better but only serves to twist the knife of his guilt as Jim jumps instinctively to his defense. He unfurls out of his slump, turning into Leonard with an unselfconscious intimacy that closes more than the physical distance between them. “Come on, how were you supposed to know?”

“Gee, I wonder,” Leonard says sardonically. “Maybe I could’ve guessed something was up when my husband handed me a wedding ring.”

“Technically I think Ensign Taskul handed it to you,” Jim offers, sliding his hand along Leonard’s shoulder. “Seriously, Bones, this is on me. I should have told you a long time ago. I’m sorry.”

“But – ”

“Quiet. This is my thing to feel bad about. Don’t get greedy.”

Leonard doesn’t push it. He wraps both arms around Jim, tucks his cheek against Jim’s shoulder and finds his own absolution in the easy way Jim cuddles into him.

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you,” Jim says quietly. “It wasn’t a big deal, when I got them. I saw them at Eddie’s and kind of thought, hey, maybe we should have rings. Not like, we should have rings, but, you know, to have. For…whatever.” He touches the rings again, tracing the exposed curve of each one in turn. “Eddie said they came in separately. Years apart. Crazy, right? It’s like…I don’t know, like they were meant for each other. Or something.” He trails off, sounding unsure – embarrassed, even.

Leonard’s chest aches, overfull. He lifts his head from Jim’s shoulder and kisses his jaw, his faintly pink-warm ear. “Or something,” he agrees.

“I was going to tell you. But then I started thinking – ”

“There’s your first mistake.”

Jim whaps him lightly with the back of his hand. “I guess I just worried you might think I was asking for something different. And I wasn’t. I’m not.”

“Jim,” Leonard interjects, because this is important. He shifts so that he can meet Jim’s eyes again. “It’s okay if you are.”

Jim studies him for a long moment, bright eyes searching his face, keener than before. This time, Leonard thinks he might have an idea what he’s looking for.

“You know,” he says, slowly, taking the time to choose his words real carefully, “after my divorce, I was dead set on never marrying again.”

Jim nods. “You might have mentioned that a couple…”

“Hrm.”

“…hundred…”

“Okay, Jim.”

“…thousand times.”

Leonard pokes him in the ribs, making him yelp. “Well, I meant it. And then you came along.” He strokes down Jim’s flank, buying himself some thinking time, finding his way along the familiar lines of Jim’s body. “You know why I married Jocelyn?”

Jim smiles, small and a little sad. “You loved her.”

“I did,” Leonard allows. “And we’d been together for six years, and she’d moved to Oxford and back with me, and getting married was what people did when they’d been together for six years and hadn’t killed each other yet.” He palms Jim’s waist, anchors himself to the feel of him while his mind drifts back to that time of his life, as it so rarely has cause to these days. “It was okay for the first couple years. Until it wasn’t. But to start with, we were happy enough. We did everything you were supposed to – big white wedding, new house, switching off holidays between my family and hers. All the standard crap, same as everyone else we knew. And sure, we bickered some, no more than anybody else, and sometimes we’d go over to so-and-so’s house and put on a show all night pretending we were this picture-perfect couple before coming home to fight some more, but it was okay because the folks we were having dinner with were doing the same thing. Seemed to me that was just what marriage was: whose turn it was to do the dishes, who forgot to pick up milk at the store, what’s that tone supposed to mean, why can’t you ever be happy for me.” He shakes his head. “In the end, I think we were both just…tired. Tired of being pissed at each other. Tired of working so damn hard trying to patch over all the cracks. And when it was over, I thought – fuck this. This shit ain’t worth it. Why would anyone with a gram of sense put themselves through that mess? What the hell is the point?”

Jim keeps quiet, respectful as he’s always been on the subject of Leonard’s first marriage, but Leonard can see the question in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brows.

He gives Jim’s waist an encouraging squeeze. “Go ahead.”

Even with the all-clear, Jim still hesitates to spit it out. “So…why’d you marry me?” It’s an honest question, fragile with doubt. Jim’s really not sure he knows the answer, and that breaks Leonard’s heart.

Leonard kisses the corner of Jim’s uncertain mouth. “Because you asked,” he says simply.

Jim’s face clouds over, and Leonard hastens to explain himself, recognizing a beat too late how much room he’s left for misunderstanding.

“Not like that. Dammit, I mean – because you asking made me realize how damn stupid I’d been, thinking one failed marriage made me some kind of expert on the subject. What we have, compared with me and Jocelyn – it’s apples and zilm’kach. It ain’t just that you’re a different person than her. I’m a different person, with you. And all that shit that felt like so much work doesn’t feel that way with you. It feels like…like it’s supposed to feel this way. Like finding the right puzzle piece after mashing another one around trying to make it fit where it never could.” Leonard lifts a hand to Jim’s face, fitting it to the strong line of his jaw. “I married you because I’ve never slept better than with your elbow in my ribs and your drool in my ear. Because you’re so pathetic when you’re hungover that I can’t imagine not being there to fix it for you. Because you drive me fucking crazy, and you scare the shit out of me sometimes, and even when I could just strangle you it still feels like all the lights are going out when you leave a room.”

Jim is staring at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, the exaggerated prettiness of his features even bigger and rounder in his surprise. Leonard would very much like to kiss him right about now, but the more he talks the more he realizes he has to say, so he contents himself with touching those parted lips with his thumb as he goes on:

“I married you because when I’m having a great day all I want is to tell you about it, and when I’m having a shitty day all I want is to tell you about it, and whatever kind of day it is I’d rather end it breaking my back with you on a flea-infested pallet on the floor than in God’s own bed with anyone else.”

Jim’s mouth wobbles under Leonard’s thumb. He’s perilously close to tears, a dangerous sheen to his eyes that could shatter any minute now. It’s okay if it does. Leonard’s been with him long enough to know that tears aren’t always a bad sign. He just feels things so big sometimes.

Leonard strokes Jim’s cheek, his jaw, his vulnerable throat. “I married you because I love you, Jim. And loving you made me realize marriage wasn’t some trap waiting to be sprung. It’s whatever the fuck we want it to be.” Jim’s hands are a mite shaky where they’re resting against his belly, so he folds his own around them, cradling the angles of Jim’s bones, the warmth of his skin, the open velvet box at the center of it all. “Every day I wake up with you is the best goddamn day of my life. Telling the crew hasn’t changed that. Wearing a ring won’t either.”

Jim does drop the rings in the end, despite Leonard’s best efforts, abruptly yanking his hands free from Leonard’s and sending the box and its contents flying – but Leonard doesn’t have either the time or brainpower to care, because the next thing he knows those hands are on his face and Jim’s kissing him so hard his mind short-circuits, fierce and hot and so much more than he ever used to imagine a kiss could be.

He barely notices Jim manhandling him, wrangling him back against the headboard and twisting himself around to get a leg over, but then Jim’s whole warm body is poured into his lap and oh, yes, that’s good, that’s just right. His hands find skin, the bunched muscle of Jim’s hip, the smooth stretch between his scapulae, and Jim hiccups out a funny little sound when Leonard hauls him in closer, breathless and salt-damp against Leonard’s lips.

“All right?” Leonard whispers, raising a hand to caress Jim’s wet cheek.

Jim hiccups again, nods, tries to keep kissing Leonard while turning into his touch and doesn’t quite manage either. “All right, I just, I – ”

Leonard hushes him. He knows.

He gently guides Jim’s face down and bundles him into a hug, and Jim burrows obligingly into him, shuddery and clinging, arms locked tight around his shoulders.

“God, what is wrong with me,” he croaks into Leonard’s neck. “This is so stupid. We’ve been married for like a year and a half – ”

“Closer to two,” Leonard says, and laughs out loud when Jim briefly releases his stranglehold to sock him in the arm.

“It is not. You still suck at rounding.” Jim clumsily scrubs his eyes against Leonard’s shoulder. “Dammit.”

“Hmm?”

“That was way nicer than my proposal. Maybe you should have been the one to do it the first time.”

Leonard smiles, plants a kiss in the wild mess of Jim’s hair. “Seemed like we were about due for a do-over.”

Jim sighs, thighs flexing against Leonard’s as he wriggles deeper into the embrace. “And here I am naked and crying. Again.”

“Well, I reckon some things will never change.” Leonard consoles him with a good heartening pat on the rump. “Least you ain’t covered in blood this time.”

Jim makes a noise of agreement and draws back slightly, craning his neck to scan the bed beside them. “Shit, where’d they even go?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who tossed them away from you like a damn grenade.”

Thankfully, a quick search through the sheets soon turns up the missing rings, and when Jim’s done pulling himself together he sits back on his haunches, examining them where they rest in his cupped palm.

“Man, Dinh did a great job. They look good as new.” He shoots Leonard a sly smile. “Now it’s like I robbed a fancy grave.”

Leonard winces. “Something tells me I’m gonna be living that one down for a while.”

“Nah, I’m done. Probably. Maybe. Almost definitely not.” Jim kisses him sweetly on the cheekbone to soften the threat. “But I’ve got to know: how’d you get Dinh to keep quiet? If he’d breathed a word to anyone, the whole ship would be talking about it by now.”

Leonard thinks fleetingly of a clandestine visit the quartermaster paid to the medbay several months back, the specifics of which remain a closely guarded secret between himself, Dinh, and a particular biohazards container known among his staff as the souvenir department.

“He and I have an understanding,” he says vaguely.

Jim whistles. “Wow, you’ve got some serious dirt on him, huh.”

“You know damn well I can’t answer that.”

Jim cackles with delight. “Well, thank you Mr. Dinh and your blackmail-worthy medical mystery. I’ll have to remember to do something nice for him.” He looks back at the rings. “You know, we…we don’t have to wear them all the time.”

Unease stirs in Leonard’s belly. He thought he’d made himself pretty clear, but maybe Jim still doesn’t trust that he’s all in on this. “Jim…”

“No, I mean, you weren’t wrong about what you said before. They’d get in the way. Like, forget degloving – with my luck, I’d probably get it caught on a shuttle door or something and lose the whole fucking finger. And the jewelry policy in the OR’s so stringent you’d barely end up wearing yours anyway.” He pulls a face at Leonard’s raised eyebrows. “I do read everything you submit to me, you know. Sometimes I just choose to ignore it.”

“Boy, that sure makes me feel better,” Leonard says dryly.

“Look, I’m trying to say that you made some good points. It’d be a pain, wearing these every single day.” Jim tilts his palm, moving the rings around to watch them catch the light. “But maybe…we could wear them on special occasions? Like for receptions and formal dinners or whatever. Starfleet shit. Bonding ceremonies. Stuff like that.”

Leonard hazards a guess. “Crew parties?”

Jim’s smile is lopsided, sheepish and hopeful. Irresistible. “Maybe?”

Leonard would wear a ring on each finger for that smile. He’d slap them all on and suffer through a miserable overcrowded crew party every night of the year, if that’s what Jim really wanted.

“Sure, kid,” he says, and drinks in the brilliance of Jim’s full-on beaming grin. “We could do that.”

Jim leans in to claim a kiss, and Leonard meets him halfway, cautiously, mindful of the rings still clutched in Jim’s hand between them. He doesn’t want to have to go scrabbling through the sheets for them again.

“Now then,” he says, sliding his own hand under Jim’s, tapping against his closed fingers. “We’d better try ’em on to make sure they fit, don’t you think?”

Jim opens his hand and fishes out one of the rings. From the expectant look he turns on Leonard, it must be his, so Leonard switches his granddaddy’s ring onto his right hand, then holds out his left for Jim to do the honors. Jim slides the band on slowly, easing it over Leonard’s knuckle, and once it’s settled in place he presses his lips to it and looks up at Leonard with a dazzling smile.

Leonard returns the favor, carefully slipping Jim’s ring onto his finger. Dinh did good work; it’s a nice snug fit. Hopefully that’ll keep him from fiddling with the damn thing.

“In case you’re wondering,” he says, squeezing Jim’s newly adorned hand between both of his, “I’m not gonna regret this either.”

Jim squeezes back, grins ear to ear – and pounces, tackling Leonard down to the mattress with such exuberant force that his teeth clack.

“I love Christmas,” he says happily, plastering himself to Leonard’s side as he begins to revisit the still-tender marks he left on his throat earlier.

Leonard snorts, wraps his arm around Jim’s waist and tips his head back to allow him better access. “Yeah, me too.”

Jim tucks his hand under Leonard’s side, a well-practiced move made remarkable by the unfamiliar pressure of the wedding band. “Sulu’s gonna be such a dick about this.”

It takes Leonard a minute to catch up, the minor irritants of the holiday party long since cast aside in favor of memories actually worth keeping. “Oh, most definitely.” He taps his own ring against the rise of Jim’s hip, curious to see his reaction, and smiles to himself when Jim squirms restlessly against him. Won’t this be fun. “But that’s what you get for lowering yourself to his level. You’ve earned what’s coming to you.”

“He started it,” Jim grumbles. He slips his hand out from under Leonard’s ribs and ventures up his chest, teases his nipple with a fingertip and then – Jesus – with the ring, hard and smooth and the slightest bit cooler than Jim’s skin, jolting through him with an unexpected frisson of sensation.

“Fuck.”

“Wow.” Jim props himself up on an elbow, the lazy interest in his expression quickly sharpening to something more ambitious. “Really?”

“No,” Leonard says, only for his own traitorous body to promptly make a liar out of him when Jim repeats his trick on the other nipple.

“Huh.” Jim wets his lips, eyes bright with the spark of a scheme in the making. “So…are you sure sure you can’t go again? Or just pretty sure?” His hand drifts south, skimming over Leonard’s belly. “Because I can work with pretty sure.”

Leonard takes a moment to consider: the hot press of Jim’s body against him, the promise of those dark-flushed lips, the startling newness of warm metal as Jim ghosts his fingers over sensitive flesh.

“Barely sure and losing confidence by the minute,” he admits, and throws in the towel entirely when Jim flashes him that filthy smile of his, wicked and beautiful and ridiculous and all Leonard’s – tonight, and tomorrow, and for all the days still to come.