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Bones is laughing.
Jim’s so tired he can barely keep his knees under him, his gut is still clenching and heaving and writhing like a Grollesean parasite trying to claw its way out of him, he can’t breathe and everything hurts and Bones is laughing at him.
He doesn’t bother moving away from the toilet, just stays hunched face-down over it, braced on the joist of his arm across the bowl because he doesn’t have the energy to hold his head up anymore and what’s even the point? This is never going to be over. He’s going to keep puking and puking forever until his heart gives out, right here on the cold tile floor of his own bathroom with snot in his mouth and sick in his nose, the first Starfleet captain in history to barf himself to death.
And Bones doesn’t even care.
“Don’t – ” He interrupts himself with a stuttering sob that scrapes up his throat like broken glass and tricks him into inhaling and god it fucking burns – “Don’t – laugh at – me.” If he had any pride left, he’d probably feel humiliated by the way his voice cracks at the end, me-e-e, like a whiny little kid – but his pride’s long gone, coughed up and flushed away along with everything he’s even thought about eating in the past decade, so he just cries some more, gagging out a high-pitched moan as his stomach wrenches up again and sends him lurching deeper into the toilet bowl, his forehead slipping dangerously against his arm.
“Christ alive,” he hears over the sound of his disgrace, “okay, just – just hang in there for a second, champ,” which means he’s probably hallucinating on top of everything else, because Bones has never called him that before, not once in all the time they’ve known each other. It’s always Jim or kid, or more recently the occasional darlin’ when they’re alone together and Bones’s eyes are especially glowy, dark and shining and full of the whole universe, and god Bones is never going to look at him like that again and that hurts worse than anything, worse than the glass in his throat and the parasite in his gut and the fire in his nose and the hot pulsing pain behind his eyes.
Maybe he already died and this is hell, an eternity of full-body torment and Bones not helping him, Bones laughing at his pain – and he is, he still is, he’s trying to hide it but Jim could hear the tremble of it in his voice when he called him champ like a fucking stranger. It’s probably what he calls his worst-off cases, the ones he feels sorry for but is trying not to get too attached to since he knows they’re circling the drain – the lost causes with a foot in the grave and stomach acid in their nasal cavities, bawling their eyes out into a barf-filled toilet.
There’s a point of pressure at the base of Jim’s neck, the shrill hiss of a hypo. It might be wishful thinking, or another hallucination maybe, some kind of euphoric fantasy his brain’s come up with to ease his final moments, but he imagines he can feel his stomach unclench just the tiniest bit, that gut-twisting fist of tension finally relaxing its death grip.
“Should take effect in a couple minutes,” Bones says behind him, and Jim hears the click of another vial slotting into the injector. “I’m gonna give you a little somethin’ for the pain. Not too much. You’re about drugged outta your gourd as it is.”
Another push against his neck, another hiss from the hypo. Jim accepts it all without a struggle, resigned to his fate. Maybe if he cooperates, Bones will take pity on him and put him out of his fucking misery already.
“Just the hydro left now. One – ah, hang on.” The faint hum of Bones’s scanner zooms slowly around Jim’s head, then away down his back. “Two more. Almost done.”
Jim snivels his way through the two final injections – click, hiss; click, hiss – and then Bones’s hand is on his shoulder, urging him to sit up. This he does resist, weakly. His whole face feels slimy and horrible and he doesn’t want Bones to see, even though he’s seen it all a million times before, because those million times he wasn’t laughing at him.
The thought triggers a vigorous new onslaught of anguish. Bones doesn’t love him anymore. He stuck around for a long time, longer than anyone else, long enough that Jim dared to imagine he might get to keep him forever, but the spell’s broken now. Bones finally saw through to what a hopeless fucked-up disaster Jim really is, and he’s given up on him.
What he’s not giving up on is his attempt to pry Jim away from the toilet bowl. “C’mon, kid,” he mutters, tugging at both of Jim’s shoulders now. “Work with me here, would you?”
“Go ’way,” Jim moans. “You’re just gonna – gonna – gonna – ”
He can’t get the words out, his chest hitching up on a heartbroken sob every time he tries, but Bones must figure it out on his own, because he lets out a big whoosh of air and releases Jim’s shoulders. “Shit,” he says under his breath, and then, louder: “Jim, hey. Look, I’m sorry for laughin’, okay?” He lays a hand on Jim’s neck, warm and dry against his clammy skin. “Wasn’t at you, I promise. Just this…lord, this whole goddamn mess. I’m a little loopy, that’s all.” He squeezes lightly, and Jim’s resolve wavers, shuddering along with the pathetic throat-grating mewl that rips out of him. “I am sorry, though. Sure ain’t mean to make you feel even worse.” Another squeeze, stronger this time, firm and coaxing. “How about it, kid? Think you can see your way to forgivin’ me?”
Jim nods into his arm. He doesn’t want to be mad. He wants to believe what Bones is saying – that he was laughing at the situation and not at him, that Jim’s maybe not the best judge of tone and intent right now and this is just the latest in their long and storied history of misunderstandings. That Bones still loves him.
“Good.” Bones’s hand slides down from Jim’s neck, rubs over the big aching knot of tension between his shoulders. “Sit up for me?”
Jim lets himself be pulled away from the toilet, too tired to keep fighting. He doesn’t even care how revolting he must look. He’s going to die here anyway, so it doesn’t matter if Bones never finds him attractive again.
“Lordy,” Bones sighs once he’s got Jim turned around. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Something moves soft and damp across Jim’s mouth, under his nose, over his chin, down his throat. He opens his eyes to watch after a while, curious to know if Bones is really wiping away liquefied brain matter or if it just felt like that’s what was coming out of him, but he can’t see anything, his vision all blurred and wobbly with tears. He wants to see Bones, though – needs to see him, suddenly, to check whether his expression is disgusted like it should be or if there’s even the slightest chance it’s as gentle and sympathetic as his touch – so he lifts a sweat-smeary hand to scrub the tears away, and a second later Bones pulls it down and takes over the job himself, dabbing at Jim’s sore, burning eyes with a dry tissue.
“There,” Bones says as he moves the tissue away and Jim can finally make out his face, which is drawn and gray and exhausted and about a hundred times more tender than Jim would have guessed, his squinty-tired eyes warm with concern. “How’re you – aww, kid, c’mon now,” because Jim has dissolved into tears again, this time in a muddled-up frenzy of despair at how superhumanly good Bones is to him, so much better than he could ever hope to deserve.
What is wrong with him? Bones has been a living angel from the very beginning of this. He’s stayed with Jim through this whole thing, brought him back to the ship and let him camp out here in his own quarters instead of checking into medbay, even though it probably would’ve been a lot easier to treat him there. He’s cleaned Jim up a hundred times, rubbed his back and massaged his cramping stomach and cuddled him to sleep and barely left his side for a minute, and how has Jim repaid him? Throwing up on him. Whining at him. Demanding to be waited on and coddled. And then, to top it all off – Jim’s heart shrivels with shame at the thought – to top it all off, he actually had the brass balls to accuse Bones of giving up on him, if only in his own overheated delusional mind.
He’s an asshole. A selfish, awful, ungrateful asshole who will never be worthy of this fucking saint of a man he’s somehow suckered into loving him. He’s a shitty person and a horrible partner and Bones should have left him to drown in the toilet.
“You keep this up and I’m gonna have to hit you with another dose,” Bones tells him, nodding toward the tray of rehydration vials on the counter. “What’s all this about, hmm? You hurtin’ that bad?” He smooths the tissue down Jim’s jaw to his chin to catch the slow drip of tears leaking down the side of his nose. “Or are you just tired? I’ll let you rest in another minute, promise. Reckon we could both use a couple hours’ sleep before we try that again.”
Jim grabs onto Bones’s wrist, to get his attention but mostly just to hold him, to have this one small part of Bones’s flesh and blood and flexing tendon all for himself. “I – I l–love you,” he gasps, fighting to get the words out through the strangling tears, and Bones’s wrist goes still in Jim’s hold, the tissue pausing in its path back up his cheek.
Jim blinks furiously and manages to clear his vision enough to see Bones kneeling in front of him, the same place he was the last time Jim looked, the same place he always is when Jim needs him. His face is still drawn and gray and exhausted and tender, only now his mouth has ticked up a little on one side, and his eyes are even warmer than before, a vivid bright green in the artificial light.
“Hell of a thing to cry about,” he says at last, gently teasing, and Jim chokes out a laugh, snotty and surprised and so, so, so ridiculously in love.
“Y-yeah,” he agrees, clinging tight to Bones’s wrist.
The other side of Bones’s mouth curves up to make a real smile. He leans forward and plants a kiss right above Jim’s eyebrow, whispers against his skin: “You’re awful sweet for a vomit factory, you know that?”
Jim slaps feebly at his chest, and Bones chuckles, sits back on his heels and resumes wiping off Jim’s face.
“Love you too, kid,” he adds, kind of redundantly. Jim doesn’t mind, of course; it’s nice to hear, not necessary but nice, a soft square of folded tissue skimming over his raw nerves. “How’s that antiemetic sittin’ with you? Think you’re done for this round?”
Jim nods, realizing as he does so that he does feel a little better. He’s been so busy feeling sorry for himself that he didn’t notice his stomach settling down.
“Well, that’s somethin’, anyway. Tell you what, I’ll sure be glad when you can keep a mouthful of fluids down without spewin’ it back up everywhere. This has got to be some kinda record, even for you.” Bones folds a tissue over Jim’s nose. “Blow.”
Jim shakes his head, though he doesn’t get very far with Bones holding onto his nose. “I – hup – I can’t,” he croaks around a jolting hiccup. “Bones, it hurts.”
“I’ll bet it does. But it ain’t gonna get any better the longer it stays in there.” Bones raises his eyebrows. “May as well get it over with. One good blow and you’re done.”
Jim screws his eyes shut and forces out a sharp exhale through his nose before he can think twice about it – which is good, because as soon as he does it he wishes he hadn’t, fire racing all through his nose, down his throat, up into his fucking brain. Fresh tears well up, stinging hot in the raw corners of his eyes.
“There you go,” Bones says, tossing the puke-drenched tissue into the toilet and hitting the flush button. “Was that so bad?”
“Yes,” Jim bites out, though he can’t hang onto his outrage after Bones once again blots the tears from his eyes (with a new tissue, thankfully).
“Well, it’s over now,” Bones says evenly. He produces a shot of mouthwash, which Jim accepts with a certain amount of trepidation, his fear of triggering another round of dry heaving only very slightly outweighed by his desire to get the acrid taste of his own stomach lining out of his mouth.
While Jim’s swishing and spitting, Bones busies himself with the pile of bedding and pillows in the corner. He seems to have everything arranged the way he wants by the time Jim’s done, and he turns back and holds out a hand, beckoning Jim over.
As tempting as the offer is, Jim knows he has to turn it down. “I’m just gonna throw up again,” he says, slumping against the toilet in defeat. The least he can do for Bones is save him from having to go hunt down yet another armful of blankets when Jim inevitably ruins these.
“So? Nothin’ here that don’t wash.” Bones drops his hand down to pat Jim’s leg. “Myself included. Think we got that pretty well established by now.”
“Bones,” Jim whines, kicking out uselessly at Bones’s knee, but he musters the energy to heave himself forward when Bones gestures for him again, crawls gratefully into Bones’s arms and lets Bones settle them back into the nest where they’ve spent most of the past two days.
It’s better than the toilet, anyway. Bones’s chest is as firm and inviting as ever, and his undershirt smells mercifully clean, despite the fact that Jim is almost positive he got caught in the crossfire this last time.
“Did you change again?” he asks, rubbing his cheek against the soft, dry fabric. “How have you not run out of shirts?”
“Oh, I did.” Bones runs a hand over Jim’s hair, seemingly unbothered by how gross it has to be by now. “The last few’ve been yours.”
Jim grunts his acknowledgement into Bones’s chest. “Doesn’t matter. I’m throwing everything into the incinerator after this is over.”
“I’m sure that’ll go over well with Quartermaster Dinh.”
“What-the fuck-ever,” Jim grumbles. “He’s down on Kropturia VI right now getting plastered on Cardassian sunrises and collecting bets on whether Mirza and Peters are finally gonna hook up. He can deal with me needing a few new shirts.”
“Mirza and Peters?” Bones echoes. “You’re kiddin’.”
“Yeah, no, they’ve got this weird – I don’t know, it’s a whole thing.” Jim slips his hand under Bones’s shirt to rest on his stomach. “Mirza’s never gonna go for it, though. She’s still hung up on her ex back home. Apparently their families spent Eid together and her mom hasn’t stopped messaging her about him since.”
“Jesus, kid, how do you know all this shit? Is there a newsletter I forgot to subscribe to?”
Jim shrugs. “I hear things.” Figuratively and literally. No one ever thinks he could possibly hear them whispering from down the corridor or across the bridge, and he rarely takes it upon himself to enlighten them.
Bones makes an unimpressed noise – his these damn kids noise, to be specific, unless Jim’s so out of it he’s getting them mixed up – and scratches Jim’s scalp, which feels so toe-curlingly good that Jim forgets to be horrified by how greasy his hair must be. “Well, can’t say I’m sorry to be missin’ that mess.”
He sounds totally sincere, but Jim’s gut twinges with a spasm of guilt. Bones shouldn’t be missing that mess. He should be down on Kropturia with everyone else, enjoying a few well-earned days of shore leave.
“You should go back,” Jim says, hoping he’s not too screwy to pull off casual nonchalance. He strokes along the underside of Bones’s ribs, the skin soft and smooth where it slopes down from the bone toward the shallow valley of his stomach. “I think I’m puked out for a while. You might as well get out while you can. Go have fun.”
Bones snorts. “Oh, yeah. Lot of fun I’d have, gallivantin’ around with a bunch of shitfaced ensigns tryna get their rocks off while you’re up here sick half to death and all by yourself. I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Just go for a few hours, then,” Jim persists. “Have dinner, hang out with Scotty or something. I’m so wiped I’ll probably just sleep the whole time anyway. Won’t even know you’re gone.” That part’s a lie, he always knows when Bones is gone, but he can’t stand the thought of Bones spending his entire leave trapped here in this clammy puke-smelling hell Jim’s made for them. No one on this ship deserves a break more than Bones does. No one deserves a break from taking care of Jim more than Bones does. “Come on – do it for me. You can be my eyes and ears down there, report back on the hot goss– ”
“I said no, Jim,” Bones says sharply, the sudden edge to his voice taking Jim by surprise. “I don’t know what you’re playin’ at with this, but I’m tellin’ you right now, that dog won’t hunt. So just drop it, all right?”
His arm tenses around Jim’s shoulders, hitching him in tighter. Jim curls closer instinctively, huddling into the comfort of Bones’s body, and Bones’s other hand splays low across his back to hold him in place, that particular kind of warm steadying touch that always makes Jim want to cry a little even when he’s not sick and dehydrated and maybe starting to get the tiniest bit hysterical with exhaustion.
“You don’t want me to go,” Bones says, gentle again, all traces of scolding drained out of his words.
Jim tucks his cheek more securely against Bones’s chest and tries to swallow back the quaver of rising tears to at least the point of plausible deniability. “I don’t want you to go.”
Bones hums to himself, a good satisfied I just won this argument hum. “There’s that settled, then,” he says simply.
He seems willing to let that be the end of it, but Jim’s not so sure it should be. It’s occurred to him – too late, as usual – that he probably hurt Bones’s feelings by pushing him to leave, made it sound like he doesn’t appreciate having him here, doesn’t need him. Another misunderstanding to throw on the pile. But Bones put in the effort to explain himself earlier after Jim freaked out, apologized even though Jim was obviously just being insane; Jim can’t not do the same.
“I don’t want you to go,” he says again, because it can’t hurt to reinforce that. “It’s just, um.”
He stalls out, and Bones waits a few seconds before prodding: “It’s just?” He pets the small of Jim’s back in slow circles, patient with him now that he’s recognized Jim’s trying to use his words like he’s supposed to.
Jim makes another attempt, encouraged by Bones’s response. “We haven’t had leave in forever – not since Yorktown. And you were so excited for it. You shouldn’t have to be stuck here with me, getting thrown up on and…and yelled at, and sleeping on the fucking bathroom floor.” He twists his fingers up in the hem of Bones’s shirt. “I want you here, I do. I feel like shit, and I need your help, and I know you wouldn’t leave me alone when I’m this sick. I just…I wish you didn’t always have to choose me over you, you know?”
He turns his head to look up at Bones’s face for his reaction, but he doesn’t have time to read him before he’s distracted by Bones’s hand abruptly lifting away from his back, reappearing a second later at his mouth to tug his lip out from between his teeth.
Dammit. Jim’s usually better about that. This thing has him seriously fucked up.
“You know what I was most lookin’ forward to this leave?” Bones asks quietly, rubbing his thumb back and forth under Jim’s chewed-on lip.
“Decent food, real sunlight, and coffee that hasn’t been pissed out of a synthesizer,” Jim recites dutifully, doing his best to ignore the guilty lurch of his stomach. “You only said so like eight hundred times.”
Bones flicks his chin. “That’s as may be, but the correct answer is you, genius.”
Jim blinks, wondering if maybe the dehydration’s catching up with him again. “Me?”
“Obviously,” Bones says. “What the hell use is any of that other stuff to me without you? You think I got some burnin’ desire to sit out in the sun drinkin’ whiskey all by my lonesome? Or, god forbid, have to tag along after a bunch of other lovebirds makin’ eyes at each other all day and night? That sound like my idea of a good time to you?”
Jim has to admit that it does not.
“Besides, I – well, shit, kid, I miss you.” Bones drags his knuckles along Jim’s cheek, rasping against the overgrown stubble. “Things’ve been so crazy lately: the pox outbreak, all them back-to-back missions keepin’ you planetside, me on gamma shift this whole month. Feels like I hardly get to see you anymore.”
It’s true, Jim realizes with a dawning sense of dismay. He’s been busy enough with diplomatic assignments and all the ecological surveys they’ve been conducting that he hasn’t given it much thought, but he and Bones haven’t seen nearly as much of each other recently as they usually do. He can’t remember the last time they spent more than an hour together when they were both awake and off-duty.
Bones brushes a few greasy strands of hair off of Jim’s forehead. “So, yeah, I was lookin’ forward to leave. But not because of the food or the beaches or the damn Cardassian sunrises.” He touches the dip of Jim’s upper lip, the pad of his finger fitting there just-so. “I just wanted to have you to myself for a few days.”
Jim kisses Bones’s fingertip, and then the others too, one-two-three-four. “So did I.” That’s true, too. He may not have been paying enough attention to the current state of things between them, but whenever he thought about their upcoming leave, it was Bones he was picturing:
Bones shirtless on the beach, his wide sculpted shoulders gleaming bronze in the sun.
Bones pretending not to want the mint juleps Jim would keep ordering for him.
Bones laid out beneath him in a big white-sheeted bed, tanned and dark-eyed and so fucking hot, the most insanely unfairly gorgeous man he’s ever seen.
Bones smiling at him, relaxed and cheerful, dimples creasing at the sides of his mouth.
The real Bones laughs suddenly, those beautiful dimples appearing as though summoned by the intensity of Jim’s longing for them. “Looks like we both got what we wanted, huh? Can’t say this is exactly how I pictured it, but I guess that’s on me for not bein’ more specific in my wish-makin’.”
Jim laughs too, though he probably shouldn’t, knowing his asshole stomach is just waiting for the slightest excuse to launch into another round of heaving. “What, this isn’t doing it for you? Me in my underwear…you wearing my clothes because I puked on all yours… Come on, this is, like, peak romance.” He sneaks a hand up Bones’s chest to poke one of his dimples, pleased when Bones doesn’t bat him away. “You’re right, though. These past couple months have been rough. We’ve got to do a better job of making time for each other. Obviously we can’t control everything, but we can at least make sure to sync our shifts. If we’d both been on gamma this month, it would’ve been a lot easier.”
Bones arches a skeptical eyebrow. “You hate workin’ gamma.”
“I hate sleeping alone,” Jim counters, poking the other dimple now in the interest of fairness. He loves them both equally; he wouldn’t want one to feel unappreciated. “I hate only seeing you for five minutes in the morning. I hate that it’s gotten so bad you’re actually glad I ate those fucking clams.”
“Like hell I am,” Bones says, but he’s laughing again, so Jim counts it as a win. “You know damn good and well that ain’t what I meant. And I don’t believe it was the clams, either.”
“It was the clams, and that’s the last time you talk me into eating shellfish. They tried to kill me, Bones.”
Bones rolls his eyes. “Fine, be that way. Next leave I’ll let you eat nothin’ but nachos and chicken fingers, how’s that?”
“See, you’re joking, but I’m holding you to that,” Jim says, pointing his own finger at Bones’s nose. “Nachos and chicken fingers, that’s what you said. Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Yeah, till you drop dead of scurvy and I gotta serve under Spock for the rest of this tour,” Bones says. “Real winner of a plan you got there, Mr. Long Game.”
Jim has a great response to that, but before he can get to it he startles himself with a huge yawn that comes out of nowhere and makes his jaw crack. Bones yawns too, watching him, which makes him yawn again, which makes Bones yawn again, at which point Jim realizes they’d probably be better off tabling this debate for some time when they’ve gotten more than four hours of sleep between them.
“Hold that thought,” he says (yawning, naturally, though he tries to hide it so as not to set Bones off again). “God, how am I so tired? I haven’t even stood up today.”
“Kid, I ain’t never in my life seen somebody throw up as much as you have in the past two days,” Bones says with feeling. “Of course you’re fuckin’ tired. It’s a god-given miracle you ain’t puked yourself right into a coma. Shit, this last time I was half expectin’ to see your damn brain comin’ out your nose.”
“I thought the same thing!” Jim exclaims. He nestles down happily on Bones’s chest, delighted by this unexpected bit of mental synchrony. They really are perfect for each other.
Bones gets both arms around Jim again, his hand finding its way home to that sweet spot on Jim’s lower back. He feels amazing. He is amazing. He deserves every nice thing in the galaxy – including a break, a real break, one where he can sleep in an actual bed and doesn’t have to wash puke out of his hair ten times a day.
“Bones?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m gonna make this up to you. I promise.”
“Jim – ”
“No, I’m serious. We’ll go…I don’t know, someplace sunny. Warm. And it’ll be just us – no horny ensigns or obnoxious tourists or anything like that.” He kisses the flutter of Bones’s heartbeat through the thin barrier of his own shirt. “Just you and me.”
Bones’s arms flex around him, a perfect squeeze. “Sounds real nice.” His hand starts moving on Jim’s back again, sweeping lazily up and down, up and down. “Get some sleep, now. We’ll try you on the ginger ale again in a couple hours.”
Jim grimaces and punts that prospect to the side, away from the dreamy sun-drenched fantasy he’s started constructing for the two of them. “We’ll sleep in every day. And I’ll make you coffee, real coffee, and we’ll eat real food – well, you will, I’ll be busy eating my weight in chicken fingers – and we’ll, um. What else did you want to do this leave?”
“Drink too much,” Bones mumbles, tracing sleep-heavy fingers along Jim’s spine. “Go for a swim. Fuck you stupid.”
Jim groans into Bones’s chest. “I hate clams,” he says fervently.
Bones skims down Jim’s back to give his ass a consoling pat. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll hold that thought too.”
“You’d better.” Jim tucks his hand comfortably under the warm weight of Bones’s ribs and sighs, fuzzy with sleep. “And I won’t puke on you even once,” he adds drowsily.
Bones’s chest quakes with a laugh. “Careful now, kid,” he says, low and fond and perfect, perfect, perfect. “Best not go makin’ promises you can’t keep.”