leftwithmybones | (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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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."