Title: The Mile High Club

Author: L.Hamner (tprillahfiction)

Pairing and characters: Spock/McCoy, Kirk

Fandom: Star Trek XI

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Definition: "Mile High Club": Sex on an airplane (or high flying craft) at least a mile of the ground, in the bathroom, preferably with a stranger.

Warnings: Anonymous sexual activity, swearing.

Disclaimer: Star Trek is not owned by me.

THE MILE HIGH CLUB

He must be insane. Certifiably unfit for Starfleet academy service, get out the butterfly net, throw him in a rubber room, insane. Why, in all that God has considered holy, would Leonard H. McCoy allow himself to be strapped in like a bitch on this barely fit to fly deathtrap?

From liftoff, he could feel every force, every tiny acceleration in this rickety 'Ryanair' of a personnel mover. However, none of these other forty or so other idiots also strapped in here (like bitches) seem to be worried about their own personal safety. They actually appear excited to be here. Oh, good for them, in their red, spiffy cadet uniforms, all neat, sparkly and tidy and happy. Good for them.

Did these toddlers even realize that only a ridiculously thin hull separates their confident, cocky hides from the silent black ink of nothingness? A never-ending black widow spider of doom that will leap on them, surround them, suck the life-force outta 'em given half the chance? One tiny crack in this hull and their blood will boil in thirteen seconds (as he was just telling this kid, here). That airless quilt of darkness out there swallowing up any horrific screams their terrified little mouths might desperately try to make but when they attempt to draw good old oxygen though their abused, tattered pipes to make those screams, they'll be nothing to fill 'em.  Lungs collapsing, insides cooking, eyeballs bulging out, won't feel very nice for three point seven seconds. Isn't anybody concerned about that?

Anyway…sharing a flask with this kid he's just met is maybe not the brightest idea since signing his life away over an hour ago, but hell, kid looked like he needed it, too. The booze--good ol' Kentucky Bourbon-- will drain much faster. In fact, it's all empty now, was supposed to last the whole journey, thank you very much.

The shuttlecraft vibrates violently and Len clutches an armrest, holding his breath. The pitch is off in here. Is that the craft, or him? Now it's rolling. Goes back. Now the other way. Oh Jesus…

Yeah, to hell with this. He'll tell those bastards he made a mistake, protest that he didn't know what kind of drugs he was on to even think that this would be a viable career option if it involved travel in unstable shuttlecrafts and, by the way, they can all kiss his sweet ass. Then he'll make run for it. Drive a ground car home, Goodyeah tires planted on terra firma.

They'll understand won't they?

Knowing his rotten luck, they'll catch him, throw him in Starfleet prison (he didn't know where in the fuc--was it on the ground?) or wherever they threw uh…sensible people like him who changed their minds. Maybe he'd be imprisoned on a shuttlecraft just like this one, circling around Earth, pitching and rolling constantly in a bizarre amalgamation of every nightmare he's ever had (knowing his rotten luck).

Talk about nightmares, he left one. Even though he caught her in bed with his (ex) best friend, well, she got busy getting her daddy, the best lawyer in the whole state of Georgia to take him to the cleaners. Kiss goodbye that beautiful house he'd build himself-- himself for God's sake--kiss goodbye that baby they were going to make in that bed. All he had left was his bones (as he was just telling this kid, here).  Oh, and how everybody knew, they always do, don't they. Part and parcel of small town livin'. Probably heard lots of bullshit. Those pathetic stares in Walmart and Trader Joes, avoiding him in the Rite Aid, that awkwardness at the hospital. Then, of course, he got fired, they washed their hands of him, too much scandal, his own father, they had to blame it on somebody. He'd found that goddamned cure, just not soon enough. So, if he's being honest here, Starfleet really is his last chance, for a life, career prospects, anything. Just why does it have to be torture from the get go?

Another sudden, very rough acceleration or was that a banked turn (who the hell's at the controls anyways a suicidal Klingon 'D'amete' pilot?) and Len finds himself reaching out and gripping the kid, Jim Kirk's arm. At the shocked smile, he pulls his hand away. "Sorry."

"Take it easy, we still have a ways to go."

"Don't remind me, kid."

"Just don't throw up on me."

If looks could kill, Jim Kirk would be a pile of charred, smoking flesh, sitting there all smug. Another wave of nausea suddenly hits and he should barf on this smart-ass next to him, just because this infant mentioned it, reminding him he wants to puke again and Jesus Christ it's freezing in here.

If he gets up, makes a move, they're all surely toast, the impulse drive or internal dampeners or whatever stabilizes and propels this piece of shit, will sense his movement and perform a sudden, epic fail and blow them all to kingdom come. They'll go into a roll they can't get out if-- if he gets up. Or even better, a speck of micro-debris will hit one of these goddamn windows, (why do they need to see out?) at this very instant. But, if he continues sitting pretty, he's puking all over himself and won't he smell good when he shows up to be fitted for his uniform. Which is worse, death or being covered in barf?

He has to go…now.

He grits his teeth and unbuckles his harness. So far, nothing. Okay, here goes.

"Where'you going?" Jim asks, out of the corner of his mouth, like he's in some goddamned western vid.

"Guess," Len flings back with a scowl. "Be right back."

Len looks questioningly at the 'row/shuttle/watch commander'--whatever the hell they call her. She in turn bestows upon him a very weary look. He delivers a small apologetic wordless apology/shrug/plead in response, pointing in the direction of the cubicle (at the very rear of the aircraft) that serves as the toilet or restroom or head or watercloset whatever the hell they call that tiny room of blessed privacy in the service…and Jesus H. Christ it's just hit him… he's in the service…is he out of his gourd?

She nods, rolls her eyes. Yes, he's nuts.  Yes, he did inform her of his 'aviaphobia'.  Obviously she doesn't care.  Doesn't want to deal with his shit anymore. If he insists on moving around in flight, he's on his own.

He gets up, gets his sea legs going, or Starfleet legs-- probably gonna be like this in the service from now on-- makes his way very delicately down the row. The other recruits or ones who seem like they're just hitchin' a ride back to San Francisco, they all appear asleep now, zoned out, or bored. Well, good for them too.

Then of course the shuttle dips again and he's landed in somebody's lap. He's now being cradled slightly, embarrassingly so, with warm hands and an arm holding him steady, till the maneuver ceases. The hands then swiftly push him back up to standing position.

"Sorry…" he mutters for what seems like the umpteenth time and noting the black uniform. Another spiffy, uppity commander. Great. Len doesn't look up at the face, just down at the officer's slim lap.

"No apology necessary," the commander's saying, equally softly. "Although I must insist, Cadet, that you remain securely fastened in your seat for the duration of this flight, as we are experiencing a high amount of turbulence."

"Can't…gonna…" He doesn't bother to finish as he darts away from the commander's grasp, jets it over to the cubicle door and palms it open before the officer has a chance to call him back.

It's occurred to him that he'd disobeyed a direct order from another superior officer as he's puking his guts out in the toilet steadily for the next few minutes.

He's so busy as his task (barfing), ensconced into this tiny cubicle, that he hadn't heard the door slide open and shut. Somebody's touching him, it's gotta be that same commander again and he suddenly feels those same warm arms rubbing his back, a body kneeling behind him, a firm chest up against him. He stiffens slightly, but relaxes as the voice remarks, not unkindly: "You are quite ill."

"Thanks, genius," Len rasps out, retches some more (oh that's attractive) and his mind's eye is replaying the vague memory of his former wife doing this to him/for him in the morning a few times when he'd come home stumbling drunk and he'd had to deal with those hangovers from the devil, (when she still cared) but this guy, this touch… it's frankly damned comforting to be held by this virtual stranger like this, doesn't know why the officer is, but he finds himself leaning back into the warm chest, even as he's continuing to nod his head forward into the toilet bowl.

What seems like ages, probably five or ten more minutes pass before he feels able enough to even reach over blindly for something to wipe his mouth with and it's handed over to him, he can feel the other shifting as he does so--God are they squashed in here--there's the sound of water running and then he's handed a full cup. He rinses his mouth out, spits it out into the metal sink, then he downs the rest of the cool liquid in one gulp.

The cup is taken from him, refilled, and he's drinking more water and scrambling to his feet with the warm hands assisting. "Thanks," he says, hoping his breath doesn't reek of booze and puke (which it probably does).

"May I assume you have never traveled in a shuttlecraft before?" the commander asks politely, meeting his eyes, smirking slightly and suddenly it's apparent that this guy isn't human, with the prominent pointy ears, the black upswept eyebrows. Vulcan.  Never met one before but this guy seems alright, not a…bad looking dude either… not that he's in any condition mentally or physically to even consider anything…what the hell is he on about…but he's struck by this guy, the eyes, the nose, the bow shaped lips, it's attractive… in a dorky way somehow, and the way this commander seems to be returning the intense, soul searching gaze studying his own features and seems amused at his now flustered countenance and Len damns the blush, his own warmth, redness that's now entirely too visible across his cheeks in these very close, cramped quarters they find themselves.

"Nope," Len says, looking sideways as his voice cracks ever so slightly. "I'll be okay in a few minutes. Just…afflicted with uh… a little vertigo and nausea… that's all."

"Ah…I may be able to assist you." The Vulcan raises a hand towards his face but Len jerks back slightly.

"How?"

"Do not fear.  I can temporarily alleviate the symptoms.  Allow me."

Before he can demand: 'How, exactly?' or 'Are you a doctor?' This stranger, this commander, this Vulcan, who's name he doesn't even know, has his warm fingers attached to his face and suddenly he feels something, tendrils (for lack of a better word), reaching into his brain.  Maybe the guy should have bought him a drink first because this feels definitely intimate.  It's the oddest, most unique sensation, this liquid warmth, this quicksilver seeping into his mind. It almost itches at first then it feels really good and he thinks he's just groaned audibly, maybe too loudly, hopefully nobody outside this cubicle heard it, and in an instant the sensation is gone, the fingers are removed and now he's just struck dumb. However there's no more vertigo. No more nausea. His head's clear, he's completely sober too and he feels a hundred, a thousand times better. "What did you just do to me?" he manages.

"I alleviated your symptoms."

"I know that, but how--"

"Do not worry, I have not harmed you in any way."

"You didn't answer my question," Len says, then adds a cautious: "Sir."

"If you are well, you should return to your seat."

"Fine." But before the Vulcan can turn to go, Len suddenly blurts out--Blame it on the motion sickness or whatever fantastic cockamamie cure this alien has just done to him-- chuckling slightly in all awkwardness: "You know what, we've been in here a long time together. Somebody's bound to think we've joined the 'Mile High Club'."

The commander raises an eyebrow. "The Mile High Club?"

"Yeah…uh…" He notices the commander's puzzled eyes. "You don't know what that is?"

"Please elucidate."

Now Len's blushing madly and the commander is standing there, expectantly, waiting for him to elucidate and he's now stumbling over an explanation: "Yeah…it's uh…in a…in a…shuttlecraft if you, uh…and somebody…uh…" He holds up his hands in a very vague, helpless gesture. "You know."

"I am afraid I do not. You must endeavor to be more precise, Cadet."

"Dammit, it's engaging in sex with another, in a toilet cubicle, while the shuttlecraft is in flight. Has to be at least a mile off the ground. Hence the name."

"Fascinating. And engaging in an act of copulation enters you into some type of club?"

Len's rolling his eyes at the phrasing: 'an act of copulation'. "No…not a real club…you don't get, like, a…membership card in the mail or anything like that…"

"I see." The commander actually seems disappointed. "And why would one be so inclined to engage in this type of activity in a shuttlecraft refresher cubicle?"

"Uh…" He thinks about that one. "Bragging rights, I guess." He shrugs. "People have been doing it for hundreds of years. Thrill seeking. Having illicit sex with a stranger."

"Must this particular activity be performed with a stranger?"

"Uh…yeah…it's supposed to be… somebody you've just met in-flight."

"We appear to fit that description," the commander states.

Len shifts awkwardly, as well as he can in these cramped conditions. "Yes, uh…" He clears his throat. "I suppose we do."

"And physical activity would serve to keep your mind occupied."

His eyes widen. "Dammit, man," he hisses. "Are you suggesting…?" He can't finish. This commander is deliberately goading him. That must be it. Surely he wouldn't--

The commander displays that maddening smirk once again. Vulcans aren't ones to smile, are they? This is a tiny smile, undoubtedly, and it does appear pretty damned suggestive and Len's mouth twitches in response, hopes this Vulcan can't somehow see his mind going squalid at the sudden vision of this commander roughly spinning him around, yanking his pants down and the two of them suddenly fucking against this cold metal wall, as hard and as fast as they can, right here, right now. At least it's reasonably sterile enough in here for that and sure he's been with a man, but he's never bottomed before, wonders how it would feel. Ooh, it being his first time, hit from behind so fast, it would hurt, he'd feel it for days after--

"Carry on, Cadet." The door opens for the commander obediently and he exits, leaving Len and his suddenly blooming, awkward, noticeable tumescence alone, his dry throat gulping.

"Ass," Len mumbles as soon as the door slides back shut and he's staring down at his crotch.

Finally willing his dick to go down--a feat not too difficult with this constant distracting movement of the craft-- he punches the door control much too hard and steps out. As dignified as he can muster, he makes his way back down the row, passing the commander. He cannot help but flick a glance over and that dammed Vulcan is watching him, of course, eyebrow raised, in that same suggestive, infuriating, way.

Fucking tease. Len shakes his head to clear it, makes it back to his own seat, plops himself down. Yanks his harness on.

Jim reaches over, punches him lightly. "You okay?"

"Yup." He sets his jaw. From the corner of his eye, he notices the Vulcan is visible from his seat. Don't look over at the Vulcan. Don't look.

Jim nods and drops back into his mid-flight nap and Len is left to his own devices, his own thoughts, which of course is not helping, because it's been a damned long time since he's been with anyone in that way and he really, really, really needs to get laid, but in getting laid there's just too much bullshit involved and he's not exactly a one night stand kinda guy, but his mind and body are both betraying him (that Vulcan must of done something to him, that goddamned siren) with these filthy thoughts, filthy reactions, filthy hard-on. (Cut it out)  Showing him exactly what he could do-- what he could have done--in that tiny little coffin they call a shuttlecraft bathroom and it did seem like that commander was blatantly up for it and suddenly it's getting too hot in here.

He tugs on his collar. Why the fuck did he have to wear a sweater underneath this jacket, that was a brilliant move, Doc (well it was only 5am when he got to Riverside Shipyard and it was freezing out). He shrugs the jacket off as best he can and drapes it over his lap.

Taking another deep breath, he's once again willing his dick down, shifting in his seat as much as the harness allows. He itches the scruff on his face, smoothes down his hair. Need some more water. He glances over (it's probably safe to do so now) and dammit that pointy eared bastard is still staring at him.

He finds himself helplessly meeting those brown eyes (hopefully not hungrily) and if that Vulcan doesn't knock that shit off he's gonna get pulled back into that bathroom and loved if he's not careful.

Len could picture the scene: 'You know…' Giggle. 'I don't normally… do stuff like this.'

'Neither do I.'

'Sure you don't, Commander. Now, darlin', hurry up and fuck me…' and so he'd be spun around and taken…wonder if there's any kind of medical lube available in that toilet. Hand cream, soap might work, he'd be carrying any one of those items but he doesn't have a medkit on him… and why is he even fantasizing about this…well the Vulcan is right, this is definitely keeping his mind occupied.

And wow, that'd be a way to die, crash and burn while he's being pounded into in the shuttlecraft toilet. He snorts at the idea.

Jim stirs. "What's that?"

"Nothin'."

"Hey," Jim grunts. "If you're getting' up again, could you bring me back some water?"

He wasn't planning on getting up again…Although… he could slide back in there, jack off…like, really quick (yeah that'd be classy). Get some more water for himself to boot. "Oh…Alright." He unfastens his harness.

Just don't look over at the Vulcan. Don't look. Don't look.

Dammit.

Leaving the jacket behind he can't help but stagger with the movement of the shuttle heading back towards the water-closet/bathroom/head/fresher, whatever. Another cadet briefly glances up at him passing by yet again, but it's assumed he's still ill and the cadet glances away, bored of/disgusted with him.

Just to test the water as he brushes back past the Vulcan, Len broadcasts his most inviting, come-hither, fuck me stare that he can muster without being too blatant (but yes it's blatant as hell), you know, just to see what reaction he'll get and he must be insane to have just done that, but no more than two seconds after he's back inside this micro-fresher, gripping the sides of the sink, trying not to tremble, the door slides open, admitting the commander, locking behind him.

The commander stands there. Like an idiot. Just like Len, for three more seconds. As if they're both wondering if this is worth it.

Len moves to whisper something meaningful (he guesses) but the commander holds a finger to his lips.

Things move swiftly from there. The don't ask each other's names. This is to be totally anonymous and it honestly is just what Len needs right now. The only sounds are his heavy breaths as the commander unfastens Len's trousers, slides them smartly down, just enough to expose his cock, he's been hard forever and without any preamble the other is kneeling down, sliding down Len's body in this tight confines of this shuttlecraft bathroom. The hot mouth's on him, taking him deep, tonguing the right spot (rather an expert at this, ain't he). It's difficult for Len keep to keep as quiet as they have to, it feels so good, but, there's people sitting right outside this door… If they were discovered…

It doesn't take long for Len to come hard down the other's throat, grasping the soft, smooth black hair, fingers caressing a pointy ear, his head falling back as he's chuckling breathily or breathlessly, trying to keep the damn noise down. Sighing softly with the release, that's about all he can do.

Then Len attempts to kneel down to reciprocate, it's only polite, but the commander stays him with a firm hand, shakes his head, looks at him like THAT and Len gets it, immediately.

He's spun around and gently pushed against the cold metal wall and one warm dry hand rests on his hip, the other slides down the crack of his ass.

And...Why yes, there is a tube of medical lube in this here bathroom.

*Three years later…*

"Who was that pointy eared bastard, Bones?"

"I don't know…but I like him."

__________

fin