leftwithmybones | [For Jim]

It's nearing the end of yet another day and McCoy's honest to god lost track of them. Instead of sitting around with his father and staring at the machine like it'll just vanish, he's gone out to the bar that's just down the street. Jocelyn's favorite place, considering McCoy had spent so much of his time here in the last days. He's got a heavy drink in front of him and has been rubbing his hands over his face, trying to make sense of any of this.

He can't finish a cure in a day. Killing his father does nothing. Not killing him doesn't do a damn thing. He's ready to put on a goddamn tutu and dance the ballet around the hospital in a day's time just to see if that does anything. The only consolations to any of this is that he's got friends and that every day at the same time, Joce brings by Jo and he sees his baby girl.

He's going to miss that if ever they solve the stupid problem.

He finishes the fifth of whiskey and slides it back over the counter. "Another, Jack," he requests quietly, laying down the credits he needs. He's got the same number in his wallet every day, he just varies the spending habits. Now, all he wants to do is use every last one of them for drinks while he tries to figure out why they can't get back.

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McCoy glances up long enough to acknowledge that yes, he will be to the bartender, watching as another glass is slid to Jim. He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose before turning to look at his friend. "So?" he asks, slouching a little more. "Dad let off any interesting stories?"

"If you call your childhood interesting," says Jim, glancing back at Bones, hand still resting on his shoulder. "I mean, only one of us was wrecking vintage cars." He squeezes before he lets his hand drop. "He's okay, Bones. He's quiet. Uhura's with him."

And I'm with you.
It should be laughable, if it wasn't also true, bone-deep.

McCoy snorts at that. "My childhood? No, normal, at best," he dismisses, glad that no family secrets are spilling out. Not that he actually had any. He cups the glass with both hands, taking a long and heavy breath as he stares forward and suddenly feels guilty.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole story," he says, after a moment. "You deserved to know."

"Don't do that," says Jim, gently, his attention fixed on his own glass. "Don't apologise for that, Bones. Jesus. It's not like we're married. And, let's face it. If anyone's oversharing here on a day-to-day basis, it's totally me."

"Yeah, well. You know pretty much everything else about me, I figured that you'd hate me if you knew how my father actually died," he says roughly, sipping on his drink and setting it on the bar so he can study it, feeling pressure in his head. "Some days, I think of my life if I'd figured it out or he'd just contracted the disease later. I think about my life and then I guess it all stops. Because there's a goddamn singularity eating up Vulcan and I remember that's my life."

"I'm never going to hate you, Bones," says Jim, without a flicker of hesitation, because he knows it's true. "You know how my Dad died." He rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "We're what our lives make us, Bones. We were meant to end up on that shuttle together. The rest? Stuff of legend and bannerheadline."

He shakes his head.

"Your Dad dying. It's a part of your history, Bones."

McCoy sighs heavily at that, knowing that it's a part of his life and it's also something of his history that he'd prefer to forget if he had a choice on the matter. "Jim," he says hoarsely, looking over the bar at him, something in his chest thumping hard as something like an epiphany strikes him. "You think. You think maybe my Dad has to die if all the things in our lives are supposed to happen? You and me on the shuttle. Me sneaking you aboard the Enterprise..."

"Saving the world?" Jim rolls one shoulder and shrugs, letting his head drop a little. "Your dad. My dad. I think you are what happens to you, Bones. Even the bad shit. Even the stuff that nearly kills you."

McCoy feels sick. He feels relieved and sick and like he suddenly understands what he has to do when he wakes up the next morning and why. "I have to kill my father," he says, his voice hoarse and filled with regret and fury and pain.

"I think you do," says Jim, and he very carefully sets his drink down on the bar and then he leans in and drops his arm around his friend's shoulders and, for a moment, they just sit like that.

"But I'll be right there with you."

McCoy lets out a heavy and tight exhalation of breath, like he can barely breathe as it is and now he's expected to be capable of killing his father, act like a mature adult, and pull this off. "I don't know if I can do this, Jim. Accept this."

[For Jim]

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