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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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.

McCoy blinks from where he's gently swabbing the wound, not sure what Jim means until he reconciles the action and gives him a curious look. Being the scientist that he is, he knows he has to test his hypothesis. He reaches out and slides his fingers through Jim's hair again, this time just a touch slower than before.

The second touch is just as unexpected as the first, and somehow twice as good. Pleasure trails in the wake of Bones' fingers, tingles over his scalp and down his neck, suffusing his entire body when it hits his spine. Jim closes his eyes and moans faintly, pushing his head against Bones' fingers like a cat. "See?" he asks. "Yours are so much better than mine."

It's just as confusing as the first, but maybe there's just a hint of light at the end of the tunnel that lets McCoy get the slightest hint as to what's going on. Swallowing back the awareness that this might be real, he's starting to get the feeling he might not have such one-sided feelings. Finally finishing up the swabbing, he reaches for the regen, setting it to work.

"Magic fingers," he echoes. "Wonder what else they do."

Jim grins despite the loss of those fingers in his hair. "Well I know what I'd do with them," he says, watching Bones calibrate the regen with slightly unfocused eyes. "But you'd call me one of your funny Southern names." Jim laughs, cheeks crinkling to think of it. "Like horndog."

McCoy gives Jim's hair just the slightest of tugs, eyeing him very cautiously and curiously. "Jim, I know I just drugged you up," he admits, "but I got something I want to ask you and I'd appreciate an honest answer," he says, breathing out slowly. "Is there any small, tiny chance that I shouldn't be going out on blind dates?"

Jim scowls for the reminder, but the tug has him very nearly blissed out, touch starved and curling towards Bones as if a dying plant to the sun. His stomach flutters, anger and guilt warring with the pleasure, but Jim is entirely earnest when he says, "I just want you to be happy. You deserve that after everything."

Jim's eyes slot open, wide and dark. "You went so you could be happy, didn't you?"

McCoy works steadily on Jim, not giving him an answer as he operates. Finally, when he's wrapped the last of the bandages around his wrist and secured with a bit of tape, he answers the question with a shake of his head. "No," he admits. His voice is subdued, like he's ashamed to be admitting this. "I went so I could try and get those damn visions out of my head."