leftwithmybones | (no subject)

(no subject)

He's been wandering the city ever since Susan told him, trying to get everything out of his mind. He'd taken about a good few bags' worth of blood and stored it in the cooler to bring home with him, not sure what test he should even start with. He's exhausted from the blood drawing, but he's starting to understand that he's been exhausted for a long time, not really noticing. Now he is noticing and he's tired.

God damn, he's tired.

He just doesn't know what the hell is doing it, because he did a few physicals when he got the job and he'd been cleared, so it's nothing currently-modern medicine can fix. That leaves the future and not only the future, but the whole damn universe, too. He slumps on the couch when he gets in, flexing his arm and pressing at the bandage over his vein, eyes falling shut as he tells himself he just needs a minute.

Probably more than that, because at some point, he has to broach the fact that he's sick with Jim and he's not looking forward to that conversation.

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When Jim returns home, Bones is asleep on the couch, his limp fingers pressed over a bandage on his arm. Jim frowns and abandons his groceries to the kitchen counter, staying quiet as he perches on the coffee table in front of Bones. A hypo wouldn't call for a bandage, but the wound is so small when Jim lifts Bones' hand that he can hardly see it.

Why would he need an old-fashioned blood draw? Frown deepening, Jim presses the back of his hand to Bones' forehead to check his temperature.

Groggy, but feeling a little better than before, he opens his eyes at the touch of a hand to his skin, shifting a little so that he's slanting vertically, eyeing Jim with a small smile. "Hey, darling," he gets out, voice still rough with sleep. "What time is it?" he asks, rubbing his hand over his face, like he's trying to feel for stubble.

"A little after six," Jim answers. "Which means your shift was done a few hours ago." Releasing Bones' forehead, Jim pushes his fingers through his dark hair, trying to push down the pit of something cold in his stomach. "You been sleeping all this time?"

"Yeah," he replies, his words sticking together as he sits up just a little more, getting himself a little vertical headway. He leans forward to pat the other side of the couch. "C'mon and sit with me, huh?" he invites. "I got something I want to talk about."

Southern politeness aside, it's not like Bones to calmly ask Jim for anything, and the pit in his stomach grows as he shifts and takes the offered seat. "Something's wrong," he says, more statement than question as he fights with himself to just let things stay good a little longer. But Jim's never been any good at not meeting things head on. Even the truly terrible ones.

"Tell me what it is."

"Yeah, something is wrong," he exhales, trying not to lie about this one. He wishes he could. Hell, if he knew what was wrong, he could lie and try and pretend it's all better, but he can't even do that, can he? "You know how I've been exhausted lately? The weird sluggishness, the bruising? Well, you ever met Susan? White haired girl," he says. "It'll make sense in a second, I promise."

"At Mardi Gras," Jim says, biting back all the things he wants to say, that of course he's noticed Bones being tired, that he's half begged him to cut back on his hours, that sluggishness isn't weird when you work yourself to death. "Pretty literal, but I liked her. Why?"

"Well, she's got some special abilities or something and one of them is being able to see inside a person, see what makes 'em tick," he says. "I think she confirmed what I've been suspecting for a long time. There's a wrench in my second hands," he admits, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking to try and clear his double-vision.

"None of the scans turn anything up. Not the ones at the hospital, not the tricorder, but the readings aren't exactly normal. Not abnormal," he says quickly. "Just not perfect." His white blood cell count isn't doing what it's supposed to, but it's not dangerous yet.

The coldness in the pit of Jim's stomach spreads, and he holds Bones' gaze, waiting out an explanation that only seems to get worse the longer it goes on. "You did them today?" he asks. "Are there tests that take longer?" Jim makes himself take a breath. "You're the doctor, Bones. You must have some idea what it might be."

He lifts up the arm that he'd used to give blood, as if to confirm. "Yeah, I got samples running tests at the hospital now and plenty on hold," he assures, giving Jim a light nudge with his foot. "Look, it's a complete mystery to me. Apart from the exhaustion and a slightly below normal white blood cell count, I'm fine," he says. "And I'd know if it's what Dad had," he says, frowning.

"That would've been bad," he confirms. "Jim, don't panic yet, okay? Do I look panicked? And you know I like to rant and complain at the first opportunity."

"Yeah, I do." Which is precisely why Bones' relative calm right now is so terrifying. If he's not comfortable raving, then he's scared himself, and if this is something beyond even Bones' experience...Jim feels something inside himself begin to crumble.

He gives no outer sign of it. Ranting might be Bones' speciality, but putting on a brave face is Jim's, and he inclines his head. "How long until the samples return anything back?"

"I pulled some favors and got 'em in for tomorrow. They're gonna send them to me here at home," he says, rubbing his arm. "I'm taking a sick day," he admits, a little sheepish because he probably should've taken more time off earlier, but now he's going to. "And reduce my hours so I can work on figuring this out."

"Jim, I swear to god, I'm gonna figure this out," he insists, as stubborn as ever.

"Take a sabbatical," says Jim, pushing down on a sudden rush of anger. He puts up with Bones being a ridiculous workaholic because he seems to need it, but they're talking about Bones' health now. "You wanna work, fine, but work on finding out what's wrong with you. If some mystical woman can see it just by looking at you, then that should be your focus."

He knows that Jim loves him, knows he cares, but there's times like these that he starts to understand how much. "Hey," he murmurs, a worried look in his eyes. "Jim, okay. Okay. I'll call the hospital and tell them I'm cashing in my overtime and vacation. I'll rest," he promises, squeezing Jim's shoulder.

"I didn't think you'd want me around that much. Back home, I was always working, it seemed like the way the balance worked," he admits, and maybe he's fallen victim to that again here, thinking that they should just go to old ways instead of working out new ones.

"Well, I do," says Jim, meeting Bones' eyes. "I want you around." Between the thought of Bones taking a turn and dying and the comforting hand on his shoulder, Jim's eyes feel traitorously hot, and he stands.

"It's past dinner and you need to eat. I'm going to make us some sandwiches."

McCoy lifts his gaze upwards to Jim, still feeling pretty awful between feeling like he has no answers and feeling like he can barely look at Jim without feeling an ache in his gut. "Yeah, dinner would be good," he agrees, reaching out for Jim's hand.

"And would you leave the worrying to me? That's supposed to be my gig."

There's no way that's going to happen, and Jim squeezes Bones' hand, lifting it to his mouth for a quick kiss before he extracts himself and hurries towards the fridge. The cool air feels good on his face, and he waits until he's certain he's not going to cry before he pulls out various fixings.

After a moment, Jim puts the cheese slices back in the fridge. Dairy takes more energy to digest, and right now he'd rather have Bones' energy on his immune response. "You want tea?"

"Yeah, with some honey, if we've got it," he agrees. He'd rather it be spiked, but given the amount of blood he's given, he's not sure that's a very good idea. He keeps a wary eye on Jim this whole time, trying not to get too worried about him, even if that's pretty much the case. "For all we know, it could be something minor, Jim. Allergies," he points out. "I doubt some girl who thinks she's Death's grandkid can pick out allergies, since it's not exactly life-threatening."

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