leftwithmybones | (no subject)

(no subject)

When he wakes up, he hears two things that make him distinctly terrified for both his life and his sanity. See, thing is, on the island, he wakes up with Jim clinging to him like a lamprey and that's about normal, that's fine. He gets used to the cat in his face yelping for food. What he's not used to is his Mama's voice shouting from downstairs that breakfast is on and if he doesn't move his ass, then Jo's gonna eat all of it.

So, you know, what in hell has he been drinking? He starts awake, hair a righteous and holy mess and he stares around him -- no grogginess left, not today. There's a dozen recognizable things around him and his eyes flit between them -- his Vitruvian man poster, the skeletal poster, his favorite sports teams and the merchandise, and the assorted antiques that litter the room. He breathes out and flops back on the bed, but it's not mattress he hits.

It's Jim.

"Fuck, ow," he hisses, then stares at the door in the event his mother (or Jo, how is Jo here, it must be break, the one time he ever got her and his grandparents left no mystery as to where she'd be spending it). He bolts for the door, clad in nothing but his tight black boxer-briefs and locks it firmly, reaching over to flick Jim in the leg. "Get up," he orders. "Now."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jim takes Bones' hands, Bones himself thus far the only thing in the room that makes sense. "Did I get amnesia again?" he asks, feeling at the back of his head once he's upright, one handed fisted in the shirt he knows Bones went to bed in last night. "What the hell is - where are we?"

"How would you know who I am if you had amnesia again?" he demands, taking hold of the shirt in Jim's hands to put it away, rummaging through his drawers and hoping he's got something a tad too small for Jim to wear, otherwise this morning is only about to get more awkward.

"Len!"

And, speaking of.

"Get your ass down here if you don't want your breakfast completely eaten. That's your first warning!"

McCoy grimaces as he pulls on his Ole Miss shirt and an old pair of denims (so worn that there's several holes in them), tossing something similar over to Jim. "Get dressed while you're feeling up the back of your head, would you?" he grunts.

Jim gapes at him, catching the shirt he's tossed more with his face than with his hands, and pulls it off still open-mouthed. "Who is that?" It sounds like Bones, but older. Female. "Is that your Mom?"

He pulls the shirt over his head, staring down after at the bright blue M. It's one of Bones' college shirts, and he has to fight the urge to find that adorable. There are more pressing matters at hand, after all. "Bones! Stop and tell me what the hell is going on!"

"No, it's the twin sister I never told you I had," he says, as bewildered as Jim -- maybe more so, because apparently Jim thinks that he's going to have some kind of answers here. So, you know, he's damn well lost in his own world about this whole thing. "I don't know, Jim, I have no idea, because this is my room in Georgia and if it's my room, then you have no right being here because you've never seen this house."

"I wanted to see it," Jim murmurs, but his thoughts aren't on all the holidays he insisted he was fine, that he should stay at the Academy for the holidays and maybe Bones should, too. His thoughts are on Georgia, on home.

"Is this it?" he asks. He should feel excited, but mostly Jim feels unsteady, confused - if this is home, why are they here and not the Enterprise? "Is it over, are we home?"

McCoy wishes that he could say yes, but there's one problem with all of that. The walls of this house were never that thick to begin with and while he can't hear every word, he can hear a familiar seven year old's voice chattering away at the kitchen table with his mother, which means one thing. "We're in my home, the way I want it to be," he says, fumbling his way to the bed so he can sit down.

It's like a punch in the gut. Yeah, it's everything he'd want and it's not even close to real.

Jim steadies him with a hand on his back, fingers curled protectively against Bones' shoulder when he sits. He, too, can hear a child in the house, and his heart constricts. "With Jo," he says, disturbed by the implication that this situation could only exist in Bones' perfect scenario. "You don't think it's real?"

"The custody arrangement says it has to be on neutral ground or in Jocelyn's home," he says, given that Joce's home is their marriage house and this is just his childhood one. "There's no way that Jo would be here without Jocelyn and there's no way my mother would let Jocelyn through the front door after the divorce."

He gives a numb laugh, pained as his posture slumps forward. "This isn't real. This is just some fantasy my mind's cooked up for me. Suppose it's a gift."

"Well, if it's a fantasy that explains my presence," says Jim with a soft smile. "But it doesn't explain my actual presence, Bones, we can't both be having the same hallucination or whatever this is. Also." Jim's fingers tighten briefly. "Jocelyn's a bitch."

"We got married young," he says, staring forward at the posters on the wall and tracing out his childhood through the progression of photos in the holograms on his dresser. "We were in love, we had a baby, then things turned to crap. After my Dad, she couldn't cope with it anymore."

He inhales shakily. "This isn't exactly a foreign thing, Jim. This happens on the island. People in a coma back on the island and in a shared consciousness somewhere else. Guess you came into my fantasy." He tips his gaze over to Jim, arching a subdued brow. "Though, if this were my fantasy, my mother wouldn't be downstairs, I'd be picking Jo up later, and you'd be naked and spread-eagle on my childhood bed, knotted up with my college sweatshirts."

"We, uh," says Jim, throat suddenly dry, "I mean, there'll probably be time for that later, right? I mean they have to leave sometime." With a blink and a shake of his shoulders, Jim manages to pull his gameface back on. This is important. There will be time for filthy acts in Bones' childhood bed later.

He dearly hopes.

"So in our heads, we're here. On the island, we're in a coma? That's...about par for the course, actually."

"That's what I've heard," McCoy says, still stunned and staring at the door to the bedroom, knowing that he has to go outside at some point, but god knows he's not sure how. He hasn't seen his daughter in over three years and he doesn't know how to restrain himself. "My baby girl is downstairs," he says, blinking through the shock.

"Hey," says Jim, turning on the bed. "Hey, it's going to be great." Great, and then possibly terrible when Bones has to leave her again, but Jim will take one alternate reality's crisis at a time today.

"You get this time with her, and we'll make every second count, huh? Are you nervous?"

"I'm actually more nervous about the fact that I have to explain you," McCoy admits, turning to look at Jim and giving him a pointed look. "I never exactly brought home any of the men I screwed in dark bedrooms," he drawls. "At least, not to this home and certainly not to my Mama and Daddy."

"Are you serious?" Jim asks, incredulous. "Parents love me!" Standing, he pulls on the old jeans Bones has tossed him, noting the threadbare fabric around the pockets with interest. "Well, these have potential for later. C'mon. Let's go charm the crap out of your mom and angelic offspring."

He doesn't move, not yet, but that's mainly to do with the fact that he's not sure he wants to do this, especially not with Jim's ego in the mix. "I have half a mind to push you out the window so you can come in the front door," he mutters, pushing his fingers through his hair, but that only musses it up more.

"Okay, test time. Let's have a run-through. Pretend I'm my mother and tell me how we met."

"Good morning, Mrs. Bones," begins Jim at once, showing Bones his best smile. "It's so lovely to meet you, and what a gorgeous home you have, is that painting on the mantle there an original? I was just telling your son that it reminds me of the day we met - could you believe, it was him who had to talk me down from a severe aviophobic panic attack? But he was amazing. A healer through and through, this one."

Rocking back on his heels, Jim gazes at Bones expectantly.

He screws up his face in disbelief, smacking Jim lightly at the back of his head. "What the hell are you trying to do, get her to think you're some kind of sycophantic idiot?" he complains sharply. "My mother appreciates the truth, so just give it to her straight and avoid too much about the sex-life or the part where you break enough rules to fill up your own autobiography. And no inappropriate words in front of my seven-year-old child," he warns, poking a finger into Jim's face as he opens the door.

Deep breath. "I'm coming down now, Ma," he calls. "Do you have any extra on the table?" he asks, taking the steps quickly and grabbing hold of the Scarlett O'Hara staircase in order to spin around it quickly, coming into sight of his mother and his little girl. He's trying to keep it together, but the minute he's within a stone's throw of the kitchen, he's striding as quickly as he can to swipe Jo into his arms in a tight hug.

"Daddy," she complains, wiggling. "I'm trying to eat Gramma's grits."

He turns to see how worried his mother is and yeah, it's pretty concerned. "You're acting like you haven't seen her in ages and while I know that woman's doing her best to make that happen, we still get her sometimes."

"I can't miss my little girl?" McCoy mock-complains, settling into a seat at the breakfast bar and forcing himself to take long breaths. "Ma, listen, there's someone here with me, I want you to meet him, okay?"

Jim yelps and then blinks at the space that held Bones only a second ago, following on his heels and pausing only when he realizes Bones is making a beeline for the kitchen. Jim can't help but poke his head around the corner, watching Bones heft his daughter with a rising lump in his own throat. He can't even see her properly yet, but just seeing Bones see her is enough to make Jim fall a little bit in love with her already.

"Morning all," he calls, pushing off the staircase to enter the kitchen at a slower pace. "It's great to finally meet you, I'm Jim."

McCoy inhales sharply and lets his heart rabbit onwards because he's still panicking about this. "Mom, Jo," he says with a deep breath. "This is Captain James T. Kirk. He pilots the Enterprise," he says. "He's the one who's let me be his CMO for as long as I have."

"So, you're the one who's been keeping him from coming home," his mother says sharply, stirring her spoon into her oatmeal slowly, her eyes critical as they peer right through Jim. "You look prettier in the holos."

"Actually that's Fleet regulation, ma'am," says Jim, smile untarnished. "Five year tours are standard, but I try to get my crew as much shoreleave as I can. Helps to keep the fussier ones' blood pressure down. And it's the pixel diffusing," he adds, waving a hand over his face. "Forgives all manner of sins."

McCoy winces when Jim starts going for the whole charm-and-conquer routine seeing as he's not entirely sure that's bound to go over real well. "Fleet regulation," McCoy harrumphs. "And the crew's preference of places like Risa. Goddamn beach-happy sun-worshippes," he mutters, but it's not quiet enough. His mother reaches out to give his earlobe a sharp tug, enough to make him yelp. "What!"

"You were one of those up until a long time ago," she replies (which earns Joanna's delighted laugh). "I've got pictures to prove it, you and your father at Myrtle."

McCoy goes quiet at the mention of his father. "Yeah, well, I grew up."

"You didn't have to do it so quickly," his mother replies quietly. "Eat up. Jim, you sit down too, can't have you starving while you're in my house. And then you can tell me what finally got you off your ass and convinced you to come visit us."

"Work let up long enough," says Jim, figuring one lie will have to do while he sits, as he can't exactly admit to being trapped in his boyfriend's head on a magical desert island.

"And the prospect of meeting this one," he adds, turning to Jo, "Was too good to pass up. Congrats, kiddo, you got your daddy's handsome features." He cups a hand to his mouth. "But none of the funny looking ones. Have you seen these pictures they're talking about, by the way? Because I don't think I can leave without seeing them."

Jo's been slightly wary of Jim, but it's shyness preventing her from speaking up. For some damned reason, she's got some kind of hero crush on Jim, no matter what stories McCoy tells her to try and get that to go away. She studies him curiously as she inches her chair closer, flushing slightly at the compliment. "Gramma's got a whole set of albums upstairs, but they're ancient."

"Antique," McCoy corrects her absently, murmuring a thanks as his mother hands him a fork and knife. He tries to ignore how that critical gaze has slid his way.

"Antique," Jo repeats. "All on paper and stuff. Daddy likes antiques, too, he always sends me presents of things from a hundred years ago or more. And Daddy doesn't have funny looking things," she retorts heatedly, stubbornly.

"You know what?" Jim asks, "They probably only come out when he's mad. And you could never make him mad. I, on the other hand? I have a unique talent for it." Grinning across the table, Jim picks up his fork. "Don't I, Bones?"