Work Text:
On Monday, Jim saunters into the front lobby at 10:17. He's juggling his keys, coffee, and briefcase, and has three files tucked haphazardly under his arm. "Morning!" he says cheerfully, over the tinkling of the bell hung above the door.
McCoy gives him a baleful glare over the top of his computer monitor and makes an emphatic "close your mouth NOW" gesture with his hand. "No, Mrs. Fitzsimmons," he says into the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder, his tone as patient as he's capable of making it. "Mr. Kirk is absolutely not avoiding you, he's just been tied up in court. I'll ask him to call you just as soon as he comes in and I have a chance to relay your message.... Yes, ma'am, I'll be sure to, thank you. You have wonderful holidays yourself."
Jim has the good grace to look mildly sheepish as McCoy hangs up and sits back with a sigh, folding his hands over his stomach. "That was Danica Fitzsimmons," he drawls pointedly.
"Yeah?" Jim's voice comes out a little too high. He dumps the files under his arm on McCoy's desk; the top one slips to the floor, papers spilling out all over the place. McCoy sighs and flips open the next file only to see it in a similar -- if mercifully contained -- state of disarray, documents pulled off the prong fasteners and crammed back in loosely. "Oh, yeah, would you mind putting these back together? I was working on them yesterday and -- there's notes in...one of them...somewhere. And, uh, I penciled in answers to the Frank interrogatories, could you draft that up for me to review? I think that's them there, under your, uh, foot."
McCoy just nods and mentally revises his afternoon. So much for catching a little time to study for his biochem final. "Yeah, no problem. End of the day all right?"
"Yeah, no rush. Bill me for an hour each on Frank and Richardson, and two hours on Weiss. Hold my calls, would you, I need to answer some emails before lunch."
"There is actually a rush, they're due in three days and Mr. Frank is still gonna need to review and verify them. And you need to call Mrs. Fitzsimmons!" McCoy calls as Jim disappears into his office. He just barely hears Jim mumble something that damn well better be ‘I will!' and rolls his eyes, knowing full well it's far more likely to be ‘right, totally, I'll get right on that -- ooh, Solitaire!'
Fuck it all. At least he can tell the old bat he tried.
On Tuesday Jim is in court all day, two motions in the morning and however long it takes to get a judge to review his emergency requests in the afternoon. Other than the emails that pop up in McCoy's inbox every so often -- new hearing dates to calendar; a request to call Bob Thorp's escrow officer now and let her know the sale's approved, he'll get her a formal order asap; musings on whether Judge Pike's clerk does her own hair or just like, lives at the salon and for the love of God, would someone please take the smartphone away from the blustering fool -- it's a blissfully quiet day.
McCoy checks the voicemail. He returns calls. He cleans up the file room. He opens the mail, makes about a million photocopies, drafts proofs of service and packages two dozen pieces of outgoing mail, boxes up the Jenkins disclosures for the courier to pick up and serve on opposing counsel, enters the changes Mr. Frank emailed to him for the interrogatories and sends them back out with a stern, "I NEED THE SIGNED AND DATED ORIGINAL DROPPED OFF TOMORROW, PLEASE. JIM IS VERY COMMITTED TO MEETING ALL DEADLINES FOR YOU." Then he spends about an hour sifting through Jim's inbox and attaching color-coded Post-Its -- green meaning DO THIS NOW, GODDAMN IT -- with notes that seriously push the bounds of anything even remotely resembling professionalism and deference to Jim's authority.
But hell, his green Post-Its are getting using up fast.
He finishes all of that, plus fielding a handful of incoming calls, by noon. Another half hour gets all of the filing done, and he finally, finally sinks into his desk chair with his peanut butter sandwich and thick sheaf of chemistry notes, thrilled by the prospect of at least another two or three hours of peace and quiet, phones willing.
With the exception of the barrage of emails from Jim when he gets bored waiting for Judge Barnett to finish his regular afternoon calendar and take up the emergency motions, it's maybe the best afternoon McCoy has had since he first walked into Jim Kirk's office with the cockamamie idea that being a legal assistant would be a great way to work his way through school.
Between the work load, the antics, and the fact that his boss is possibly the hottest man he's ever laid eyes on, it's been one hell of a year.
He's about due a damn break, he thinks.
On Wednesday Jim actually shows up on time. Nine on the button he bustles in the door with a bounce in his step and a whistle warbling out his lips. McCoy glances up from logging phone messages into the client records. Jim may not show up until nine, but he's been there for the better part of an hour. "I take it yesterday went well?"
"Yesterday went great," Jim enthuses. "Didn't you get my email? I sent it last night."
"I don't read work email after hours," McCoy says flatly. "And I haven't gotten to it yet today. Barnett listen to reason for once?"
"Barnett was eating out of the palm of my hand by the time I was done." Jim grins. "Read your email, it's all in there. I need to draft up all the orders from yesterday, so hold my calls, would you? Oh, would you mind dropping them off this afternoon? Faster than mail, and Sanders and Floyd both have their offices near campus. Cut out whenever you want and clock the time, get me a mileage form. Cool?"
"Neither one of those yahoos is anywhere near campus, Jim. I'm leaving at three. And if I come in to twenty voicemails tomorrow because you refuse to answer your own phone, I will end you. I will end you with my bare hands."
Jim just laughs and wanders into his office. McCoy waits for it.
"Boooones!" comes the sharp whine he's expecting. "God, it's like the Grinch sneezed in here, what's with all the green?"
McCoy heaves himself out of his chair and strolls in, plunks himself down in one of the chairs in front of Jim's desk. "The green is what you get when you ignore all the alarms I painstakingly set on your to do list," he says bluntly. "All of that needs to get done today. Some of it needed to get done yesterday, in fact. Get drafts on my desk by the time you leave and I'll take care of the rest."
"Fine, fine," Jim says with a sigh, pulling out his keyboard tray. "Hump day. Ugh. Oh, could you -- hey. What the hell, it won't log in."
"That's because I changed your password," McCoy says. He examines his fingernails. "You're grounded. No Solitaire for you."
He's not quite sure if he'd classify narrow-eyed look Jim gives him as a pout or a glare. "You're an insubordinating insubordinator, Bones. What's the password?"
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Those aren't even words. And I'll tell you -- just as soon as you call Mrs. Fitzsimmons."
Jim hesitates, then brightens. "I need to log in to get her number."
"Nice try." McCoy hands a Post-It across the desk. "Home, work, and cell."
"You suck and I should fire you."
"You'd crash and burn without me and you know it. Tell you what, quit your moaning and call and I'll go pick up Rocket burgers for lunch today."
"Can I have a fried egg on mine?" Jim asks hopefully.
"Jim," McCoy says with all sincerity, "I swear to God, you get that woman off my back and you can have any damn thing you want."
He tries not to think about how Jim's beaming smile crinkles the skin around his eyes as he goes back to work.
On Thursday, at 11:43 in the morning, Jim says, "uh-oh."
He says it quietly. If he'd said anything else, McCoy might not have been able to make out the words.
He is, however, unfortunately familiar with that precise phrase, in that precise tone, coming out of that office. "What'd you do?" he calls wearily, trying to refocus his eyes from their glazed stare at his chemistry text.
Jim appears in his doorway, looking genuinely contrite for once. "Uh. I think I just deleted everything."
Do not panic, McCoy tells himself firmly. A good ninety percent of the time, Jim is completely wrong when he tries to act like he knows anything at all about his computer. Eighty-nine percent of the time, McCoy manages to convince himself it's all part of Jim's charm.
That leaves an all-important eleven percent of potential for all manner of disasters. "Define everything," he says with forced calm.
"....Windows?" Jim says. "Everything. Everything means everything, Bones."
"For the love of -- what did you do?" McCoy snaps, pushing past Jim and moving behind the desk to see that -- yes, in fact, that right there is a computer missing a goddamn operating system. "Good God. Go get me the software box."
Miraculously, Jim obeys without protest, and quickly fetches the cardboard box with the glut of installation discs for everything under the sun. "Well," he says, as McCoy starts sifting through in search of the system discs, "yesterday after you left I was changing my password back, and decided to clean the registry and defrag and everything. I was trying to be good! But things were being wonky today. So I, uh. Futzed with it some more." McCoy groans. "What? I've fixed my computer before, I'm not a complete idiot."
"Debatable," McCoy grumbles. "Whatever, I can fix this. I hope you didn't have anything important saved locally."
Jim mumbles under his breath. McCoy glares at him. Jim sighs. "Trial prep for tomorrow. Exhibit lists and all that. I was working on it all morning and hadn't copied the file to the server yet."
"You're supposed to save the file to the server in the first place!" For the first time, Jim's expression tightens warningly. McCoy reins in another smart comment by gritting his teeth. He stalks back out to his own desk. "Here. Use my computer and get started recreating the colossal waste of time you just zapped into the black hole where ones and zeroes go to die."
Not so reined in after all, apparently. He ignores Jim's icy glare and the sense that he just learned how Jim earned his reputation as the lawyer least likely to need to open his mouth to win. "I'll get everything reinstalled as fast as I can," he mutters, clearing away his chemistry book and the assorted documents he still needs to mail out.
He's barely sat down again behind Jim's desk when Jim pops his head in, a more relaxed expression on his face. "When's your exam?"
"Tonight," McCoy says moodily. "Five-thirty."
Jim nods briefly. "I want you out of here by four, then. I'll pay you for the end of the day if you swear to eat something before your test."
McCoy scowls at the screen. Damn Jim anyway for always cutting into his well-earned snits with some random display of truly giving a damn.
Inconsiderate bastard.
At 5:24 that night, McCoy pulls his phone out of his pocket to turn it off just as it buzzes with an incoming call. The caller ID reads 'Seventh Circle' and makes him groan. "Talk fast," he barks, glancing into his classroom to make sure people are still milling about.
"I can't find any of the tax returns," Jim says without prelude. "Did you put them somewhere?"
"I put them in the file. Where they belong. Try looking there!"
"I did, and they're not there." Jim's voice carries a thin edge of panic. "Which means I'm having an awfully hard time getting them into the freaking exhibit binders where they need to be, Bones, where are they?"
McCoy scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. "The file, damn it, I'm telling you!"
"And I'm telling you they aren't there! Bones -"
"Jim," he snaps. "I have to go. Keep looking and text me if you find them. Otherwise I'll be done here by seven and I'll come straight there, okay? We'll sort this out."
Halfway through his exam, McCoy abruptly flashes back two days, to his flurry of organization in the file room -- and then the heavy box of documents he sent out on an entirely different case.
He feels sick at the mere possibility of having screwed up so monumentally.
At seven, he tosses his exam onto the professor's desk - with a sinking feeling as to how he did - and stomps out into the hall, already turning his phone back on. There's a single text message waiting, sent at 6:45.
OMG I AM SO SCREWED THIS IS AWFUL HELP SOS GET HERE FAST FUUUUUUUUCK.
It's a twenty minute drive. He makes it in thirteen.
When he walks into the office, McCoy stops short. His desk, and most of the floor around it, are covered in heaps of documents. Jim is sitting in his chair, spinning in circles, staring at the ceiling. "What the ever-loving hell?" McCoy breathes.
Jim stills and looks at him with bleary eyes. His shirt is untucked, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, tie abandoned somewhere. McCoy swallows hard and tries not to even notice how good the infernal fool looks. "My computer started being weird again," Jim says tightly. "I left a message for the service tech instead of messing with it."
"Oh, so you can learn," Bones mutters. "Thank heaven for small mercies."
Jim frowns, but lets it go. He waves a hand around at the mess. "They're not here, Bones."
McCoy scowls and shrugs out of his coat before walking further in to look more closely at the scattered piles of papers. The pattern that starts to emerge rapidly shifts his sick worry at having made a mistake into a fast-growing annoyance. There are pleadings. There are heaps of correspondence. There is nothing even resembling a tax return - or any other financial discovery - in sight. "Where's the other box?" he demands.
Jim's brow furrows in confusion. "What other box?"
"For the love of --" McCoy spies an emptied out storage box discarded in the corner and stalks over to grab the lid and shove it in Jim's face. In thick black marker, it's clearly labeled RODRIGUEZ -- 1 OF 2. "The other box," he growls.
"Um," Jim says.
McCoy glares at him silently for a full ten seconds, fury building beneath the surface. Without a word, he spins on his heel and storms into the file room, grabs the second box from exactly where it's supposed to be, and brings it back to drop at Jim's feet. Jim at least looks embarrassed. "I didn't know," he says in a sheepish voice.
"That's interesting. I could have sworn knowing how to read was a prerequisite to getting into law school, much less through it." McCoy staunchly ignores how Jim's embarrassment is hardening into mulish irritation. "You know what, never mind. They're all in there and flagged. Blue is individual, yellow are the business returns. The schedules are tabbed and labeled, you shouldn't have any problem finding the pages you need. Good night."
"You're leaving?" Jim blurts, his voice hitting a high note. "But -- I need help!"
"And isn't that the goddamn truth," McCoy snarls. "But you're not getting it from me. I can't do this anymore, Jim. Consider this my two weeks' notice. I quit."
Jim's face goes pale. "You can't quit."
McCoy yanks his jacket back on and turns away before the panic in Jim's eyes can make him relent. "Like hell I can't." He stops, briefly, at the door. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. Good luck tomorrow."
"Motherfucker," Jim spits out as he stomps into the office on Friday.
It's not even eleven yet; McCoy stares at him in surprise. "Shouldn't you be in trial?"
"Yes," Jim snaps. "I should. I should absolutely be smack dab in the middle of trial. Calendar February 12, that's the new date. Fucking fuck."
McCoy lifts one eyebrow and swivels in his chair to track Jim's path into his office, where a loud thump announces the impact of his rolling briefcase against the side of the desk. "Bones!" McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to three, waits for it. "Get in here!"
He goes. There's no real point in avoiding it. Jim has flung himself down behind the desk and is punching madly at his keyboard. "Did they come fix this stupid thing yet?"
"Yeah," McCoy says, leaning against the door jamb. "Just left awhile ago. So what happened?"
"My guess? Tee time conflicted with the five times I've told the court, verbally and in writing, that this was going to take all damn day. So it was either present the case in four hours or pick another day." Jim glances up, eyes icy and blazing. "Sit."
McCoy sighs but relents, and Jim just scowls and gets up to close the door. "You're not quitting," Jim says flatly. He doesn't sit again, merely paces the length of the office.
"Pretty sure if you think back, you'll recall I already did," McCoy drawls. "I told you, Jim, I can't do this anymore."
"Can't do what? Your job?" Jim sneers. "Is that what you're planning to tell your patients someday? ‘Sorry about the cancer, maaaaay-um, but it's just a little too much trouble for me to bother trying to cure. Enjoy your last month to live.' Real nice, Bones. Your bedside manner'll just slay ‘em, you catch my drift."
Damn it, but McCoy'd thought he'd managed to quash down his anger to a manageable, ignorable level. Instead it comes flaring back. "My job," he snarls, lurching to his feet, "has unfortunately gotten to be the kind of clusterfuck that could keep me from ever having patients at all. ‘Phones, my schedule, light filing. Full time but school comes first, kid, I don't want you letting this job get in the way of that.' Well, it's gotten in the way, Jim. I spent my entire goddamn test last night thinking about your stupid problems -- because you can't help but be a moron and I can't help trying to keep your ass out of the fire."
Jim blinks at him. He opens his mouth to say something, but McCoy flings a hand up to stop him. "There is," he says firmly, "a file full of resumes from students down at the law school. I'll get it and you can start looking through it. I'm sure you'll find someone who'll actually give a damn about what you do here."
"Who..." Jim's eyes narrow into thoughtful slits. "Help a guy out, Bones. Is the problem here that you care too much or you don't care at all?"
McCoy scrubs his hands through his hair, frustrated beyond belief. "The problem," he says, his voice going almost shrill, "is that I can't seem to leave you here at the end of the day. The problem is that you give out the damn office number to women you want to be able to dodge, and the sound of their voices makes my skin crawl. The problem is that I'd rather suck your cock than do your filing, you blind son of a bitch, and I could ignore that when this wasn't interfering with the one part of my life that was going right but I can't anymore."
A heavy silence falls in the wake of him saying everything he swore he'd never let slip. Jim stares at him, unblinking, until he folds his arms defensively and starts for the door. "I'm going to lunch," he mutters. "Text me if you'd rather I not come back."
He's barely gotten the knob turned when Jim's hand flashes around him and shoves the door back into place, Jim's body crowding him from behind. "It's not noon," Jim hisses, "and I don't remember saying you could go early."
A shiver creeps across the back of McCoy's neck under the gust of Jim's breath. "I -- "
"Turn around." In the tight space between Jim and the door, McCoy turns slowly, heat flaring in his face. Jim's gaze is a pale, electric blue that he can't look away from once he's met it. "You should be more careful," Jim says quietly. "Calling your boss a son of a bitch tends to have serious consequences."
McCoy swallows hard. "You can't fire me. I already quit."
"I already told you you didn't." Jim's eyes flick, briefly, down to McCoy's mouth. "I was already thinking of hiring someone else to help out around here, lighten the work load. But you're not going anywhere. I won't let you."
"I'm not your fucking indentured servant, Jim, I can --"
"No," Jim says vehemently. His body presses even closer. "I'll take you down to thirty hours a week with a four dollar raise. You'll work less and make the same. Will that do it?"
"Are you crazy?" McCoy gasps.
"In a sense," Jim admits, and kisses him full on the mouth.
In the time he's worked for Jim Kirk, McCoy has entertained a fairly diverse range of fantasies in which their relationship takes a turn and heads somewhere south of professional. He thought, in fact, that he'd covered it all in one way or another, anything he could come up with between the sickeningly sweet in which he made some move and Jim happened to return his feelings, and the blatantly obscene in which Jim just took everything McCoy would gladly have given.
Somehow he never pictured it quite like this, an angry slip on his part and Jim pressing the point. Jim's lips are winter-chapped and firm against his, slightly sticky until his tongue flicks out and wets both his and McCoy's at once. "I'm not the blind son of a bitch in the room," Jim mumbles. "Tell me you'll stay."
McCoy's head thunks against the door. He tries to think, finds it essentially impossible. "You'll get someone new," he says roughly. It's not a question, but Jim nods before tipping his head in and latching his mouth onto McCoy's neck, just below his ear. "They do all the phones and filing. And they keep their grubby little mitts off your calendar! And I draft all your pleadings, I finally got them looking right and I'm not gonna have some whelp making you look bad."
Jim chuckles, his tongue tracing the shell of McCoy's ear, and presses closer. McCoy makes a small noise at the feel of Jim's cock, pressing against his leg. Jim sucks quickly over his pulse point. "Done," he says quietly, licking over the same spot. "Any other terms, or do we have a deal?"
McCoy closes his eyes and tries to figure out if Jim is doing this because he wants to, or because he thinks it's what McCoy wants. He tries to figure out if he cares.
Apparently not. "One more," he groans, and brings his hands up at last to palm Jim's hips and pull them in. "You fuck me. Over your desk. Now."
Jim makes a harsh noise and rubs against him before drawing away. "That," he snaps, and fists McCoy's tie to haul him away from the door, "was going to happen whether you agreed to stay or not." He drags McCoy, stumbling, over to his desk, only to push him against it and step in to kiss him hard, hungrily. "I told you, Bones. Serious consequences." His hands yank at McCoy's belt, slipping the end out of the buckle and tugging hard to uncinch it. He makes short work of opening McCoy's pants, fishes inside to curl his fingers around McCoy's cock and stroke in a loose grip. "Do you even know how hard I get, every time you come in here and gripe at me? Can't tell you how many times I've thought about fucking you back into line, you mouthy, unprofessional, pigheaded -- "
McCoy plants his hands on the blotter and thrusts into Jim's grip. "Weren't you just begging me to stick around and keep being mouthy and unprofessional, you pompous windbag?" he says between gritted teeth.
"Did you miss the part where I'm gonna fuck the attitude out of you?" Jim flashes a grin. "Try, anyway. S'okay if it doesn't work; it's hot and business is better than it ever was before you showed up. Turn around."
Biting his lip at the rush of heat beneath his cheeks, McCoy pushes off the desk and turns, kicking his pants and boxers to bunch at his ankles. He finds his chest is tight, making it hard to breathe as Jim yanks open his top drawer and fumbles inside. "Where the hell is -- ah." A tube of hand lotion hits the desk next to McCoy's splayed palm -- and then he hears the unmistakable sound of Jim's zipper dragging down. "Open that," Jim snaps.
McCoy fumbles with the tube, twisting the cap with shaky fingers. He squeezes a healthy amount into Jim's hand and sets it aside, and at the first brush of Jim's fingers against his ass, drops onto his forearms and groans as Jim slips one in. "Hurry," he gasps.
Jim's soft laugh grates over his skin. "So you want it fast. That mean you also want it rough?"
The whine that erupts from McCoy's throat would be humiliating, if he were capable of anything but blind desire. "Yes," he manages. Jim works a second finger in, too fast and utterly perfect. "I want -- want to feel it -- ah, fuck."
Jim twists and crooks his fingers relentlessly. "You'll feel it," he promises in a low voice. He pushes the stretch, and the third finger makes McCoy's breath catch. It's uncomfortable but he pushes back into it, desperate, his skin crawling and itching under his shirt. "Good enough?"
"Yes." Jim hums and withdraws, and while he's fumbling with the lotion again, the phone rings. "Damn it."
"Answer it," Jim says. McCoy twists back and glares at him, and he grins. "Could be important."
"Goddamn, stinking... Law Office of James T. Kirk," McCoy barks into the phone. "Yes, this is -- oh, hi, Gina." As he listens to one of the court clerks ramble on, he tries desperately to stifle any audible reaction to Jim pressing the blunt, slick head of his cock in place and starting to push slowly in. "What? Yeah, he mentioned it -- February 12, I think he said?...Oh, the fourteenth? Okay, got it, I -- oh, hell. Sorry, Gina, just banged my knee on the desk, I -- I gotta go, call on the other line. I'll let Jim know, thank you!"
He slams the phone back into the cradle and finally lets out the long, pained groan his body is demanding. "Bastard," he hisses.
Jim just grips his hips and thrusts sharply, burying himself deep inside McCoy. "Quiet," he snaps. He pulls most of the way out and shoves in again, the stretch and burn forcing a choked noise from McCoy. "Yeah, that's about all I want to hear from you right now."
McCoy presses his cheek to the cool, wood surface of the desk. His chest, damp with sweat, sticks to the paper of the blotter's calendar insert, and every hard snap of Jim's hip makes it slip slightly beneath McCoy. "Fuck you," he gasps. "I gave you your chance to be rid of me and my mouth."
Leaning over him, Jim slips one arm under McCoy's chest and grips his shoulder tight, locking him in place for an onslaught of steady, rolling thrusts. "Giving me lip is hardly the only use I can think to put your mouth to," he says breathlessly. He reaches under McCoy and catches his cock in a tight, slightly greasy grip, strips it efficiently. "We're gonna close early today, and you're going to come home with me and suck me off, aren't you? Just like you want, Bones, I'll feed you my cock and see if you can bitch so much when I'm fucking those pretty lips -- "
McCoy slaps a hand against the desk, knocks Jim's inbox to the floor, and comes with a roar. "Yes," he says, a rasping moan. Jim pounds into him, every stroke hammering his prostate and making his nerves blaze. "Fuck, Jim, please -- too much, fuck, I'll do anything, anything you want."
Jim bites his shoulder and jerks unevenly into him, a short series of grunts announcing every pulse of his release. "Bones," he mumbles when he goes still. "Jesus. Okay. How -- how about you set the weekend voicemail, I'll clean up in here, and...I'll buy you lunch. And dinner. And breakfast. Sound good?"
It sounds, to McCoy, like invitation and promise and everything he's ever wanted to hear from Jim. "No," he grumbles. "Buy some groceries and let me make you edible food, and then we're talking."
A soft laugh, and then Jim's weight lifts off his back. "And you thought I'd just let you quit. As if."