leftwithmybones | (no subject)

It's like he's traveled back in goddamn time.

Slinging Jim away from a hulk of a guy intent on whaling on his face a little more, too many drinks consumed between the both of them, it's like they're back in their first year at the Academy when Jim had been so damn eager to seek out trouble and McCoy didn't have anything better to do, seeing as Starfleet had forced him into bullshit easy courses and he had too much time on his hands while he worked on getting himself able to practice in San Francisco. So now they're back to it, except McCoy had snapped at the men Jim had picked a fight with to back off (seeing as they've done enough damage).

It's partially because McCoy knows if he has one more drink, he won't be able to patch Jim up and the way the night's going, he needs to be able to do that. Hauling Jim outside, he shoves him down to the curb and throws his jacket over his shoulders, not bothering to help him into it before he collapses down beside him, digging through his pockets to find the slim version of the hypospray he'd been working on -- something compact and simple.

"This'll sting a touch," he warns, before injecting it right next to the worst of the gashes on Jim's face, but hopefully the painkiller will kick in soon enough.

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"You can crash at mine on the couch," McCoy offers, because he's pretty close to where they're at (he thinks, at least, his sense of direction gets fucked when he's had a few to drink). All he knows is that it'll definitely be faster to get to his place than Jim's in the country. "I mean, it's a bit of a mess given how little I've been there lately, but it beats the long drive."

He rubs his hand over Jim's back, letting it slip up to his head to surreptitiously check fo bumps or bruises, wary about a long night spent awake to prevent swelling.

Jim makes a small, grateful sound, both for the closer sleep and the fingers creeping through his hair. "I know I'm soft, but stop petting me," he says, opening his eyes to test the world's spin. It's still faster than usual, but he's probably drunk, rather than drunk and concussed, so it could be worse.

"You should just move to my house," he says, not for the first time. "Or I should move to the city. What the hell is out in the country for me anyway?"

"I'm checking to see if you've got a concussion," he replies, but he doesn't take his hand out of Jim's hair yet, still searching and dismissing any small bumps as things that he'll ice when they get back to the apartment. When he stands, he sways a little, bending down to haul Jim to his feet so he can sling an arm around his shoulders. "Why would you wanna give up that beautiful house?" he wonders. "If anyone's moving, it's me. My apartment's just a place I sleep and sometimes I barely even do that, with all that I'm staying with you lately."

He does give Jim a curious look. "You'd be okay with me moving in, then?"

"I built it for Spock," Jim mumbles. "To make him happy. You'd think that'd be hard to do, but it wasn't. I loved making him happy." Sighing, Jim pushes his nose into Bones' throat, but it doesn't make him any steadier on his feet. "Maybe I'm not supposed to live there now. But it'd be a lot better if you were there, too."

Jim pauses with a sudden thought, accidentally halting their movement. "Won't it be far for your shifts?"

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.

"I can't feel my face," says Jim with a shrug that pulls at his ribs, but he does his best not to let it show, lest Bones feel bad or worse, stab him with any more hypos. "Ugh, don't buy a car. Combustion engines are ridiculous." He draws a breath, waiting with patience reserved only for Bones for the right street to be selected. "Let me make you one."

"Then the drugs are doing their job," McCoy says matter-of-factly, happy because he's going to have to start patching some of the abrasions up later when he's got his kit, but he's too drunk to do that now -- he'll probably muck up the settings and end up making it worse. He notes the way Jim makes a face, just slightly, and sighs. "Whatever the hell you hurt, too, you better be letting me work at you."

He gives Jim a curious look. "How long will that take and how much will it cost?"

Jim shrugs, this time with perfect smoothness to combat the stab happy look on Bones' face. "Month, maybe. And it won't cost anything. Twenty-first century people literally put their cars in the dump where they belong, but they've got decent parts in them. They're just put together wrong."

He's still a little suspicious of this idea of Jim's, not wanting to end up with a broken down car, but his grandfather used to poke at cars way back in the day, and his father before that had managed his own. "Okay," he accepts, with a nod. "That means I'm moving into the house," he goes on, barrelling forward. "Which means you better tell me now if you've got issues being roommates again."

Not that McCoy thinks this'll be anything like the Academy.