McCoy says nothing for the affection -- Jim's always been touchy and he's drunk. It makes it easy to ignore the confusing flood of warmth that prickles through his body like he's embarrassed and pleased all at once. "So I'll commute," he grunts as they walk, taking a moment so McCoy can stop and look at the street signs to figure out where they need to go. "I'll buy a car," he says with a shrug. "With the salary they're giving me, I can pick up something used."

"You feeling any better?" he asks, stopping when Jim does and taking stock of him.