leftwithmybones | (no subject)

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When he'd agreed to this, it had seemed like a good idea. Some drinks, maybe some relaxing, and he'd end the night a little sore, a little sore-eared, but probably for the better. Now, though, he's rethinking how much of a good idea this all is. The music is loud and McCoy has the suspicion that they've stumbled into a gay bar for their second stop of the night. Not that he's upset with that, but he's a lot worse at navigating one-night-stands with men (especially when he doesn't have love spells to help him).

He's coping with alcohol -- probably not the best idea, but hell, it's working. He's managed to nab a slightly quieter section away from the crowd, adjusting his green henley as he peers out over the dancing crowd for a girl that's lurking here for Jim. He's honestly not sure he could stand watching Jim go home with another guy, especially not if he'll be a room away.

"What are you thinking?" he asks above the music. "You wanna move on?"

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McCoy opens his mouth to protest, wanting to remind Jim that they're here to find him a date, a dance, a fuck, not for them to go right back to this, but the argument isn't a very persuasive one and not one he spends a lot of time on, anyhow. Instead, he just gives Jim a wry, fond smile and slides his hand to the small of his back again.

"What's this prove?" he asks, shouting the words.

"Nothin'!" Jim shouts back, closing his eyes as Bones' clever hand guides him back into rhythm with only a touch. For once, he's not out to prove anything, except maybe that his lungs can still hold a full breath of air, that his heart can still race with something more than grief, that there's still light in the world, even if that world is only a fishbowl.

Jim slings an arm around Bones' neck and keeps him close, laughing a little as the music picks up. "Blank check, Bones. Just dance."

He twists up his lips wryly, feeling a lot more sober for the cool air that they'd gotten outside. He shifts a little into Jim's touch, now, raising his other hand to distractedly stroke his cheek, needing the warmth and the contact and the touch.

And maybe, just maybe, to remind himself that he hasn't lost Jim.

Jim leans into the touch, stubble scraping at the callouses of Bones' palm, and his smile softens. He's allowed himself so little contact for so long, not even the fists he sometimes needs for Bones' sake, and this small reminder that he's not alone feels so good. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim knows that before the night is through, he's going to kiss Bones again.

And if it feels like the last time, the rest of their time here is going to be a lot different.

When he closes his eyes, when he drifts, he feels like he's losing himself. The lights and the sound and the feel of Jim right there with him are overwhelming. Instead of fighting it, this time, he gives in and slouches into the touch, right into Jim's space so they're flush together. He's dry-mouthed and breathless, unable to do anything but lean in.

And finally, enjoy.

Jim laughs again as Bones lets go, soft and happy, curling his fingers through the short hairs at Bones' nape. They move together, this time as easy as breathing, and when the song changes, Jim lets instinct drive him. He turns Bones, slipping an arm around his waist as he tugs Bones back against his chest, nose dragging against Bones' shoulder as Jim bends and breathes him in, sweat and bourbon and the laundry detergent they bought together.

He resists a little, shifting and twitching given that he's not used to the one being so prone. He gives in, though, because he knows Jim's too stubborn to do anything but keep pushing. So he leans back into the touch, turns his head just enough to let his breath push at the small hairs of Jim's forehead, huffing out a soft laugh that the music swallows up.

He reaches a hand back to squeeze his hip once, just a reassurance at this point.

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