leftwithmybones | (no subject)

(no subject)

God damn, he's exhausted by the time he gets home. He'd let Jim know he was going out for dinner and coffee, probably wouldn't be back until later. He doesn't tell Jim it's a blind date, but the email confirming that is on his phone and though McCoy had been careful to bring it with him, he knows Jim is far too clever not to be able to hack into it. Hell, he's not even sure why he did this, except maybe those damn stones scared him

The date? Hadn't gone very well. She'd been sweet and all, but they had nothing in common and he'd been checking his emails from the hospital all night. Despite the fact that she'd been beautiful, McCoy can't really justify seeing her again. He steps into the front hall of the house, prying off his shoes as he drops his keys into a bowl he's put on the front table. "Jim? I'm back," he calls, just to let him know he's home.

"You record anything decent that aired tonight?" he asks absently, scrubbing his hand through his hair as he walks inside, already trying to forget the date.

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"Record?"

Standing in the kitchen, Jim's outfit is completely ordinary, but for the fact that the jeans, shirt, and shoes are completely different from what he'd been wearing when Bones left. Inexplicably, his hair is also washed and even styled, and he turns from the refrigerator with perfect, pleasant innocence on his face.

"No," he says, "But I can download something." His voice grows louder. "How was your date?"

McCoy takes off his sweater, hanging it off one of the kitchen chairs, giving Jim a curious look when he sees him in different clothes (and his hair looks different too), but he dismisses it as paranoia. People are allowed to change their clothes and wash their hair, after all. "Don't remember mentioning it as a date," he says, because 'dinner and coffee' could mean anything. "Fine, I guess," he says, ambivalent for the mediocrity of it.

He puts on a fresh pot of coffee, knowing he'll be up for a while and might as well look at some paperwork while he is.

"So it was a date," says Jim, adding quickly, "I know what dinner and coffee means. Coffee." He snorts, eyeing Bones suspiciously in the next moment, but he doesn't seem particularly rumpled. He's just going for the coffee maker, which Jim is grateful for.

He may just stay away from the machine Jim destroyed in Bones absence. "Didn't get to that part, huh?"

McCoy gives Jim a warning look with a single raise of his brow when Jim starts to get a bit testy, unsure why it matters so damn much. McCoy's the one who had weird visions of a relationship and who's got unresolved feelings manifested from that sex tape Jim recorded on the island. He jams his thumb against the start button on the machine, dragging a cup from the cupboard.

"It was a blind date and I don't put out so easily," he says, a touch huffy even if he's not seeing her again.

"Too old-fashioned for that," says Jim with a smirk, this one a little more heartfelt, for he does love that about Bones. "There's nothing wrong with putting out," he continues, less a suggestion for Bones to follow and more a defense of his own past behavior. He raises a brow.

"A man's got needs."

"Yeah, well, a man's also been divorced and celibate for years enough to know it's a nice thing to have, not a necessary one," he says and it hasn't been that long since he and Jean were together, so at least there's that to tide him through the day. He wanders to the fridge to get some milk, stopping short when he smells something strange coming from one of the other rooms.

"Is that...singed material?" he wonders, furrowing his brow.

"Popcorn," says Jim from his sudden place at Bones' side, and pulls the tattered bag he'd planted from the trashcan. "I tried making some earlier, forgot about the modifications I made to the oven, and boom."

He shakes his head. "I should've told you to buy more on your way home."

McCoy glances at it, giving a quiet sound of acknowledgement. He pours himself some of the milk and the coffee after, extending the pot to Jim. "You want any of this?" he offers, still thinking about the woman with her curls of dark blonde hair and the way she'd smiled and stared at her hands when he'd made a joke.

Something's still not right about the air in the house, but McCoy can't put his finger on it just yet.

"N'aw," says Jim, "I'm pretty wired." He's definitely not going to sleep until he figures out what to do about the hole in his bedroom, and neither is he keen to hold a hot coffee cup right now.

"I'm just gonna get a snack," he says, going to the freezer for ice cream. "You could put a scoop in your coffee," Jim suggests as he extracts it. "You could use a little something sweet if you're staying celibate."

"Or I could go out and get fucked," McCoy says, because he's not sure ice cream can fix a problem that a quick one night stand could do. He doesn't look at Jim, sips his coffee as he reaches for his tablet to boot it up, ready for the paperwork. "Just because I had one bad date doesn't mean I can't find someone at a bar," he notes, feeling like that's the last resort if he can't shake this teenager-worthy crush he's nursing right now.

"Oh," says Jim, eyes cast downward at the scoop of ice cream he's not sure he has much stomach for anymore. The fact that the idea shouldn't bother him doesn't seem to be helping the fact that it does, and Jim scowls a little, as much for himself as for that niggle of jealousy. What kind of best friend is he, anyway, if he doesn't want Bones to find some joy?

"I could wingman, if you want," he offers, resolving to actually do a decent job of it. "Like old times."

"What, and lose anyone I meet to your blue eyes?" he notes, giving Jim a dubious look. "Whenever you wingmanned for me, it wound up with them noticing how beautiful you are and forgetting all about me," McCoy says, frowning as he takes sight of Jim's hand with the scoop. He reaches out without asking and grabs him by the wrist.

Once he's got him, he shoves it up, fury beginning to blossom on his face. "What the fuck, Jim?"

"Well, I was a dickhead back then," Jim begins, jerking in surprise when Bones shouts, and then again in discomfort when Bones grabs at his tender skin. He tries and fails to pull his arm back again. "The popcorn was really hot," he tries. "I was gonna wait for you to tell me which burn cream doesn't make my throat swell up like a parade balloon."

"Nice try, this isn't a burn caused by food," McCoy says, wondering what the hell could have happened between him leaving for dinner and getting back. "What the hell did you do, Jim?" he questions, not willing to take a lie for an answer, especially not when he feels partially guilty for leaving him on his own for so long, when things are still feeling so awkward.

"It was an electrical fire," Jim concedes. "A little one." Which is true, following the explosion the resulting fire had definitely been little by comparison. "It turns out I suck at freehanding twenty-third century technology." He tries again to pull his arm away, wincing when his skin protests.

"On the scale of Jim Kirk disasters, this is barely a one."

McCoy sighs as he starts to dig through the drawers to get out his equipment, coaxing Jim to sit down at one of the chairs so he can repair it. He's been stocking up on supplies and tweaking them to work better, glancing at the clock to see how long he'd been gone for this to happen. "And what exactly were you freehandling at this hour, while I was gone?"

"Replicator," says Jim, a little startled by his reaction as soon as his ass hits the chair. The adrenaline that's been carrying him since the explosion is melting away, leaving him pale, and in its wake the pain is rushing in as if Bones' presence has given him permission to feel it at last. The burn on his right forearm hurts the worst, and all at once Jim can't wait to get the sleeve away from it.

But the air hitting it makes it worse, and Jim curses outloud, fighting a sudden urge to throw up.

McCoy keeps steady and focused, staring as he reaches for the scissors and begins to cut away the fabric to ease it away for good, glancing up worriedly at the small space between him and Jim, not sure what's happened to make him so obsessive over this project suddenly. "This couldn't have waited?" he asks quietly. "Until a medical representative was watching over your fool shoulder?"

"I just," starts Jim, gathering his nerves against the fire screaming down his arms. He takes a breath and shakes his head. "I just wanted to do it. I need to be doing something since Spock left."

Keeping his arms stretched across the table, Jim lays his head down on his shoulder. "It was actually supposed to keep me out of trouble."

McCoy gives him a wary look, digging through his things to pull out some pain relief, shaking his head as he prepares it, ready to give Jim a good dose to get his mind off any pain. "Sit still," he instructs. "I'm gonna give you something for the pain. Okay?"

Jim nods, and it's a measure of how bad he feels that he tilts his head even further, offering his neck for the hypo freely. "Sorry," he says, braced for the sting. "You're probably sick of this."

"What, of you giving me something to do?" he suggests, giving Jim a pointed look that says he's definitely not sick of it the way Jim might be expecting. "Sorry to tell you, kid, but this is pretty much keeping me going," he says, reaching his hand up to stroke Jim's hair just the once before he plunges the hypospray in. "That'll relax you," he promises.

The fingers in his hair are so unexpected and so comforting that Jim actually makes a sound, covering the bald longing in his voice as best he can with a squirm for the hypo. He doesn't have long to feel anxious about it at least, for Bones is right. Already he can feel the drug working its way through his veins, bringing with it a pleasant warmth that makes him sigh.

"Thanks," he breaths, smiling at Bones. "Feels better."

McCoy hesitates for just that slightest bit of a second, giving Jim a wary look when he makes that sound. It's hardly something he's used to, but it makes him swallow so hard that his Adam's apple bobs with the sudden need. "Yeah," he gets out, a touch hoarse. "Well, we're not done yet. I got to clean it up before I can knit it shut."

"That's okay," says Jim, still smiling at him, "I trust you." He shifts one of the arms Bones is meant to be tending, dragging his own hand through his hair, but even with the drug it doesn't feel nearly as good as when Bones did it.

Jim lets it drops with disappointment. "Just don't have the magic hands," he tells himself.