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“I put in Sulu’s name for first officer, but the brass doesn’t want two kids in charge; they’re transferring some random guy named Spock. Didn’t even consider promoting one of my existing officers,” Jim grumbles in answer to the question Bones’ didn’t ask—what he’s going to do now. A handful of the crew’s switching over—a five-year mission is a huge change from the usual puttering about their known space, and some people just aren’t up for it. A part of Jim doesn’t understand that all, but the rest of him knows it must be different for people with families. In Bones’ case, there shouldn’t be anything holding him to Earth. Even if this house is ridiculously nice. So Jim tries again: “The chief medical position’s still open.”
From somewhere behind him, Bones grunts, “Good luck finding someone with any knowledge of human cells willing to completely scramble them apart.”
Jim doesn’t even bother answering that one—the transporter debate’s been going on for years and hasn’t gotten any better, no matter how much science Jim has on his side. It’s just another Bonesism he puts up with because his best friend puts up with his weird quirks in return. Instead of pressing the subject, he moves on to the next cupboard, unsurprised when he finds another lack of Synthesizer chips—Bones can’t do anything the easy way. Giving up, Jim turns to the fridge and buries himself in the old-fashioned rush of cold air, eyes scanning the tightly-packed contents. There’s a six-pack of whiskey with one bottle missing, already off in Bones’ hand. The rest is a wild assortment of overstocked goods crammed in, trying to overcompensate for the lack of digital marvels. Pushing stuff around, Jim calls over his shoulder, “You got any beer?”
He doesn’t get a reply. A few seconds of rummaging pass, and Jim tries again, “Bones?” but to no avail. When he turns around, he has to rise up again from crouching at the fridge’s bottom shelf so he can see over the marble island. The bright side of a modern loft is there aren’t many walls to hide behind, and he finds Bones straight across in the living room area, peering out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The scenery behind him is gorgeous: a bright blue sky and lush flora in-between the other high-credit homes. But they’re on the second story, and Bones is looking down, so whatever’s caught Bones’ attention is still out of sight.
It gives Jim a moment just to look at Bones, washed in the dazzling sun, every bit as handsome as the day they first met, just a few years older. He was always fit and broad-shouldered, gruff and ruggedly beautiful. The vacation time he took off to match Jim’s shore leave has left his jaw scruffy, and his hair’s still tousled from rolling out of bed too late. He’s in casual jeans to match Jim, and a button up white-shirt with the sleeves rolled half up his arms. Even if it weren’t for the rich setting, he’d look too damn fuckable, and Jim has to force his head away—that’s a road he’s not going down again. This is maybe his one friend he hasn’t fucked, and maybe that’s the reason Bones has lasted longer than all the others.
Two cans are hiding behind a container of celery, and Jim takes one without asking. The click of the closing fridge door doesn’t attract Bones’ attention, nor Jim’s footsteps as he wanders closer, coming between one of the faux-wooden pillars and Bones’ body. He follows Bones’ gaze down into the neighbour’s backyard, where a man’s swimming in a large, perfectly circular pool.
The man’s just swimming laps, his black hair plastered to his head and pale skin almost tinted green below the water. Then the light catches the tips of his ears, and Jim guesses he’s Vulcan, though it’s hard to see his face from the angle and distance. When the man reaches the far end from where he started, he pauses to peer over the stone rim of the pool. Something stirs in the corner of his yard, then pushes up to four feet, and Jim’s first thought is that it’s a shaggy brown bear. Then it starts to move, hump back showing and tail flickering, and Jim realizes it’s a sehlat. The man in the pool reaches out a hand to the creature, and the sehlat comes up to nuzzle him.
When the man climbs out of the pool, Jim figures out why Bones is staring. He was pretty in the water, but it’s better when Jim can see what the surface hid. He’s on the thin side, but strong—typical Vulcan physique in Jim’s limited experience—tall and long-limbed. There’s a grace to the way he rises out of the water, an art to the way he tilts his head and finger-combs his neatly cropped bangs across his forehead. His face is stern but intriguing, and there’s something about the look of water beaded along his bow lips that makes Jim need to take a sip of beer for his drying throat.
The man starts to walk around the pool, the sehlat obediently following. It’s an exotic animal by Earth standards, but Jim’s heard they’re little different than the Vulcan equivalent of dogs. It’s still the man he watches. The man’s short, blue trunks cling to his upper thighs, the waistband riding low down his hips. It doesn’t seem like a proper outfit for an uptight Vulcan, and something about that makes it more tantalizing—a shrewd, handsome alien wearing hardly anything and pointlessly wasting an afternoon on idle swimming. The man opens his sliding back door to usher the sehlat inside, then closes the door halfway and wanders back to the pool, while Bones asks suddenly, “What were you saying?”
“I thought you were straight,” Jim jibes, still staring through the glass. He feels vaguely bad for it but can’t seem to tear himself away.
“I can still admire a clinically perfect physique from a purely medical standpoint,” Bones quips back, sounding half defensive and half still out of it. Before Jim can tease more, he adds, “Just the physique, though. He’s an asshole in person. One of those stony logic this, logic that Vulcan stereotypes.”
Knowing Bones’ rough exterior and taking it lightly, Jim just asks, “What’s his name?”
“How should I know? I bought this place for the view, not to cozy up to the freak neighbours.”
The fact that Bones openly ogles this neighbour makes it seem like he should know the man’s name, but Jim knows better than to pursue it. After calling out something too far away to hear to the sehlat inside, the man reaches the foot of the pool and thrusts his arms over his head, springing up for a perfect dive. He slices into the water like he was made for it, even though Jim’s heard Vulcan is a largely dry planet. Maybe that’s why this one moved. Or maybe for some other reason Jim will ask later when he slips down to casually pet the sehlat with an innocent but hopefully charming grin.
When the Vulcan resurfaces, he reaches to brush his wet hair back, shaking off his face and turning it up to the sun. He isn’t quite smiling, probably isn’t having fun, but does almost look like he’s flaunting himself on purpose: every angle’s a masterpiece. Then his face tilts again, and he looks straight at them, right up to Bones’ second-story suite and through the glass wall. His gaze is piercing, even from so far away, and Jim can feel an uncharacteristic bout of blood rushing to his cheeks.
Bones, to Jim’s astonishment, lifts his middle finger. Then he turns and walks away as if he didn’t just spend the last few minutes in a complete daze over the beauty he just snubbed.
Jim stays in place. The Vulcan’s eyes are now on him and him alone, and Jim gets an odd shiver down his spine like that’s how it should be. Their connection lingers, until the Vulcan finally looks forward again and resumes swimming like nothing’s happened. It feels strangely like an invitation to Jim, or maybe he’s just hoping for it. Vulcan social cues are difficult to read, but the man doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the slightest. Somewhere from the vicinity of the lounge area, Bones asks, “So, how do you want to waste your shore leave? Should we watch a movie, play some games, or just drink ourselves into a stupor again?”
Having completed a quick lap, the Vulcan peers up at Jim again, expression unreadable. But he does pause at the rim, arching his back and lifting one hand out of the water to tuck more slick black hair behind his ear, his fingers seeming to caress the pointed tip on the way. They’re slow in their retreat, lingering down his face and nearly catching on his lips, his eyes on Jim’s the whole time. Something about the use of his hand strikes Jim as wanton, a bit lewd and purely erotic. Jim doesn’t look away until Bones snaps, “Jim!”
Jim frowns at his best friend, contemplating.
Then he announces, “I’m going next door to borrow sugar.”
He’s already at the island to put down his mostly-full beer when Bones grunts in confusion, “I have sugar.” Jim just waves a hand, and Bones exhales in that way that tells Jim he’s rolled his eyes. Jim gets halfway down the hall while Bones shouts at him, “I’m telling you, he’s a damn computer!”
Jim calls back, “I’ve spent all my best days inside a computer!” Bones’ not-amused groan is the last thing he hears before he’s out the door, trying to recall what underwear he put on and if it’ll work in the pool.