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one
It’s his mouth that’s damning.
The rest of him will happily escort Leonard down to hell, too, with a list that’s too long to think through considering how much they’ve both had to drink that night.
But that mouth.
The one that slices sharp into a smirk.
The one that can curve molten into a knowing smile.
Right now there’s a bead of sweat that’s made its way into the perfect hollow of his Cupid’s bow.
It’s too fucking hot in this place.
That drop sits there, taunting, ready to slide further over those lips, and Leonard wants to get to it first, to chase how it tastes.
Jim smiles and it rolls, cresting over the small rise pulled taut by the curve of Jim’s mouth and fuck - fuck - if Leonard doesn’t actually groan as Jim’s tongue darts out and catches it.
There’s so much noise, too much noise, pumping music, people talking, shouting, trying to be heard over the din. It isn’t possible that the sound he made could be heard. But Jim, fucking Jim, pulls his brows together as his gaze snaps over, taking Leonard in.
“You alright?” he asks, before taking a pull on his beer, and fuck if there aren’t a dozen or more droplets of water trying to make Leonard lose his mind. Ones that gather around Jim’s thumb to roll maddeningly down his wrist, before dipping below the sleeve of his leather jacket.
How in the fuck is he wearing that in a place that’s this fucking hot?
Leonard holds his gaze for a moment, tries to catch the blue he knows is there even now in this dark, with the rapidly changing color of the light. All he gets is pale reflection but those eyes are bright and clear and it’s better to stare at them than at the way Jim’s lips press against brown glass or the bob of his throat as he swallows.
Raising his drink in a salute to the kid across from him, to the sheer level of fucked he is because Jim is his roommate and his friend and he’s as bright as the fucking sun and everyone in the bar needs to be there, right up next to him but it’s Leonard he’s looking at and thank god for the burn of the liquor as it goes down his throat because really, he needs something to pull him back.
Is he alright?
“Yeah,” he lies.
But Jim’s Jim and so he knows because even though he can’t pick up his fucking socks or wash a fucking dish, he’s gotten to know Leonard more in the last six months than Leonard thinks he’s ever known himself and so of course Jim slides over on the booth putting them thigh to thigh and just too fucking close.
“You sure?” And Jim’s eyes may be bright and clear but his smile is too loose as he leans further into Leonard’s shoulder, lips brushing against his ear.
And it would be easy, so fucking easy, to just turn, to turn and take that mouth with his own, and claim it for now in this moment and not care about later or tomorrow or what comes next.
Jim would taste like beer and sweat and he’d groan at the sharp warmth of the whiskey Leonard’s just drank and his skin would be hot and his hair would be soft and —
No.
Not like this.
“I’m fine, kid.” Even if he’s the furthest thing from fine. Even if it could never just be a kiss because Jim’s been a natural disaster since the moment they met and he might leave fucking destruction in his wake but mostly he just leaves an indelible mark.
two
It’s happened again.
Jim looks like shit, he’s washed out and pale, in clothes that are wrinkled and worn.
Both Jim and his clothes could use a bath.
He looks like shit and most would think it’s because of the bars and because of the people housed in those loud, crowded, useless places.
They’d think that Jim had just been rode hard and put up wet.
They wouldn’t be wrong. Because it’s been that, more times than Leonard could count.
But not this time.
Not the times that happen more than they don’t.
Because now Jim’s stretched out over his desk and his fingers are still clinging onto the PADD he refuses to let go of, even though Leonard’s damned sure that Jim conked out more than an hour ago.
Jim looks like shit because it’s finals, and if it wasn’t finals it would be some other test or some other cert or some damned fool problem that he would just have to solve.
Because Jim’s future isn’t just as simple as the folks’ down on Earth. Because his mind is always up there with those damned stars and sometimes Leonard worries that the kid’ll never make it there if he can’t remember to take care of himself here.
And it’s not the first time that Leonard happens to make an extra helping of breakfast, and it’s not the first time that a cup of coffee and a plate that’s got healthy, actual food on it ends up on the corner of the kid’s workspace.
But it is the first time that Leonard’s too-big hand lingers a little bit too long as it moves across Jim’s shoulders.
And this is the first time that he risks the feel of the back of Jim’s neck, tips of his fingers just daring to graze over that skin.
And this is the first time that even as Jim stirs, Leonard keeps going, brushing against that silken wheat, thumbing at Jim’s ear as he turns and leans into Leonard’s touch.
“You look like shit,” Leonard says. But what he’s really thinking is how the fuck are your eyes so blue and your mouth so pink and why do you have to look up at me like that?
Because Jim’s eyes are like the bluest summer sky that Leonard’s ever seen, and his lashes are too long to be real as they blink in that movie star kind of slowness. And Jim looks so guileless and open as he meets Leonard’s gaze and smiles in that small, soft, sleepy way.
Jim doesn’t bother to speak, he just looks to the food, to the coffee, and the tension in him leaks out and away while he presses hard into that hand that Leonard somehow has not thought to remove.
His heart is right there, almost beating between them, vulnerable and open wide. Leonard knows all he has to do is bend, to tilt, to shift his hold and bring Jim to his lips. Jim wants it, he’s waiting, Leonard can feel it like he can the ground beneath his feet, feel it like it’s a physical thing right there within his reach.
Jim licks his lips and leans forward, focus fully fixed on Leonard’s mouth.
It’d be so easy.
But no.
Not like this.
Because this is just Jim who’s never had anyone to care for him and Jim who thinks he’s gotta pay back every kindness with something else.
three
It isn’t supposed to go this way.
Leonard isn’t supposed to be the one on the floor.
He isn’t supposed to be so drunk he’s not really certain which way is up or how he gets back to down.
But he’s pulled four shifts in a row, and even though they were okay, mostly, mostly not, mostly good, mostly horrible, it’s not that that’s got him feeling like he wonders just how much one has to drink before they actually, finally melt into the fucking tile.
No, no it’s not that.
It’s not that which has Leonard soaked through with such a high percentage of alcohol in his body that he’s sweating through his scrubs, making the cotton cling to him in an uncomfortable and too-hot kind of way.
He should take his top off. It’d cool him down. It’d free his chest and let him breathe. But then he’d have to move his arms and well, apparently, they don’t feel like doing that at all.
The door opens with a tell-tale hiss, and he should jolt and look but all Leonard can manage is a groan.
Jim’s supposed to be gone. He’s supposed to be out. This is the weekend, when he finds ways to entertain himself that leave Leonard wondering alone in the night.
Jim’s not supposed to be here, there, standing over Leonard with his brow all twisted up and concern tattooed on his face.
“Guess this is why you didn’t answer my comms.” Is all he says, hands on his hips in a way that shouldn’t be cute, or adorable, or make Leonard feel a warm sort of fucking glow at the silent way that Jim, fucking wouldn’t know a carrot if it fucked him in the ass Jim, is chastising Leonard for not taking care of himself.
Because it means he cares.
Because it means he thinks Leonard is worth being taken care of.
Because it means he’s there to do it, dammit, and Leonard can’t remember the last time anyone has so much as bothered to take care of him at all.
There’s no question. There’s no accusation. There’s just Jim shouldering his weight and peeling Leonard from the place on the floor where he’s dissolved.
There’s just a quick glance to the two bottles that roll empty and discarded under Leonard’s bed.
There’s just a “Christ you’re heavy.” and a “How do you smell this bad?” as he drags Leonard into the bathroom.
The water’s cold, it’s too fucking cold, and Jim hasn’t even bothered to undress both of them before he’s got them in the spray.
His eyes are blue and gorgeous and bright, so fucking bright and it’s all that Leonard can look at, the point of his focus, the lodestone in all this bullshit that his life.
“Joce,” Leonard offers as Jim fights off his sopping scrub top and throws it somewhere on the bathroom floor.
There’s no response, no knowing glance, no superiority or pity. There’s just Jim doggedly working at Leonard’s undershirt, exposing scalding flesh to the too-cool torrent, before moving to pour soap onto Leonard’s hair.
There’s relentless fingers, and detached scrubbing, before suddenly the whiskey and the fear and the sadness isn’t the only thing that’s radiating out of Leonard’s pores.
There’s just cloud-soft terrycloth being worked across his skin, rough and purposeful on his torso, before being gentle and caring against the stubbled, worn, tired lines of Leonard’s face.
While Jim is still fully clothed and fully soaked and right fucking there.
And it’s so easy to reach up and cup his cheek.
So easy to focus on that gaze, to think of the everything it could offer that his last marriage most certainly did not.
Care.
Love.
Connection.
But no.
Not like this.
Because Jim shifts, and Leonard tilts and he’s pretty sure that if he tried now, if he tried finally, then they’d both end up tasting like Leonard’s sick.
four
It’s the end of the world.
It’s the end of a world.
Or, at least, it’s in the middle of one.
It’s Jim leaping out into the danger without so much as a thought.
Or maybe he had a thousand of them, how the hell would Leonard know?
It’s Jim on the transporter pad, beaten and bruised but never bowed.
It’s a world no. longer. fucking. existing.
Just gone.
There’s a moment, a second, with Leonard’s hand on Jim’s forearm.
There’s a second where there’s a silent question, an ask for everything to just fucking pause, there’s the realization that then, or now, the chance could be gone.
And Jim, Jim who’s a whirlwind of motion in his downtime, Jim who’s an unstoppable fucking force when he’s on a mission, it’s Jim who stops.
His boots squeak on the too-polished, too-new, never used, hardly tread on but still ripped to fucking pieces floor of the ship.
It smells like industrial glue and paint and last-minute welds.
It smells like fire and flesh and fear.
But there’s that blue-eyed gaze. One that’s sure and certain and unwavering.
There’s that mouth, it’s tight, held unknowing, waiting.
There’s that moment, as the world hurtles on around them, as space hurtles on outside.
It’s a heartbeat. But probably not even.
A half of one then.
An intake of breath.
“Bones,” he says.
“Jim,” Leonard says at the same time.
Just each other’s names. Just saying a thousand things in two sets of single syllables.
He flips his arm under Leonard’s grasp. His fingers bite hard into Leonard’s uniform.
He pulls.
Just a little. Just a touch. And Leonard? He resists. He holds back. Because not now, not here.
Everything in him screams yes. Yes, now. Yes, here.
There may not be later.
But there’s that one part, that piece, that fraction of an ounce within him, that holds fast.
Says no.
Not like this.
Because he can’t just give in when the world is ending. When a world has ended. He can’t just give in because it could be the last moment. Because Jim is forever and always and even though the void always calls to Leonard, even if the void is always right. fucking. there. he refuses to believe that his forever and always is gonna encompass the next moments, hours, days. He refuses to believe that if they get there, that it would only be for a snapshot of time.
five
They’re home.
Well, some of them.
There’s debriefings and reports. There’s parades and parties. But before any of that happens, there’s just them.
The crew that’s cheering because they made it. That’s cheering because they know that they were so fucking close. That’s cheering because there’s no other way to let out this absurd mix of victory polluted with pain.
Pyrrhic. Leonard thinks that’s the word.
But it doesn’t matter that it’s not enough. That it wasn’t enough. That they were too slow and too late and Vulcan’s gone.
All that matters is the way that Jim can’t seem to settle down. The way that he’s pacing around Leonard’s office, when he’s supposed to be sitting fucking still.
“Jim,” Leonard tries, waving his scanner, but doing nothing to derail the rant that’s just Jim letting off the pressure that’s built up in however the fuck long it’s been.
Leonard doesn’t remember.
He just needs to clear him, to give him that check that says the captain is a-fucking-okay, and then off he’ll go.
To what?
Well, fuck, none of them know.
They just saved the planet. What do you do? Go back to class?
Go back to listening to Jim snore in the middle of the night? Go back to finals and papers and pretending that none of this happened?
Or is it all different now? Is it like suddenly everything’s changed, and Jim’s got his stripes and Leonard’s floating around in space and that chance, that moment, it’s gone?
“But, Bones!” And then Jim’s there, right fucking there, with his hands on Leonard’s shoulders, pinning him with that too blue gaze and Leonard doesn’t know what's next, doesn’t know what’s too late, doesn’t know what’s too soon.
Like the air’s been let out, like a hole has been blown in the fucking hull, suddenly all that energy’s gone from Jim.
The pressure in the room bottoms out, but the intensity of the space gains, and Jim, Jim who’s still holding onto Leonard’s shoulders, he takes a step forward.
All that ranting’s vanished, all that endless motion, all that boundless energy.
Now it’s just the space between notes, the moment before the drop, and that long drawn out breath that Jim takes in feels like it’s being stolen straight from Leonard’s lungs.
Because they both know that nothing’s changed and everything’s different and there’s less than a foot that’s separating them, but it feels like it’s a mile wide.
And suddenly it’s Leonard’s hands that have settled onto Jim’s waist.
Christ, it’s easy. So easy. He fits right, Leonard’s thumbs resting light over the jut of Jim’s hips, fingers circling loose around his back.
The scanner’s in the way, held pressed up against Jim’s jacket in Leonard’s right hand, but Leonard hardly notices and he doubts that Jim’s paying a bit of attention to it.
He never does. Even when Leoanrd’s trying his damnedest to use it.
“Bones,” Jim breathes, looking up the scant difference in their heights.
He looks so different. Not the bruises, or the cuts he hasn’t taken the time to heal. Not the dirt or oil or whatever that’s somehow still embedded in his hairline.
He looks older, changed, distorted.
He looks fucking beautiful.
“I’m so proud of you.” Leonard’s throat’s tight, it’s hard to talk, difficult to get those words out, difficult not to let it all, suddenly, wretchedly fall away.
His eyes sting and he hates himself.
“So proud,” he continues, having to turn to look somewhere else, focused on the wall but never letting Jim go. “To have been there with you.”
Jim’s hand is warm. It’s strong and calloused. It’s fucking determined, tugging at Leonard’s chin and drawing his attention back.
“Don’t.” That brightness in Jim’s eyes is too bright. “Don’t do that.” His tongue moves over his lips, leaving them to shine just like his eyes are.
There’s another step, one where Leonard’s arm makes its way around Jim’s back, where he pulls him closer, close enough that he can feel the heat of him through more than just the fingers dragging over his mouth.
“You gonna fin–” It’s a question Jim starts, but doesn’t manage to finish.
Because there’s more noise and more people.
Because there's always something.
They don’t spring apart from each other but drift away, Leonard’s fingers lingering for as long as Jim’s do, until they’re both just out of reach.
Because no.
Not like this.
Not when they’re all pumped up on adrenaline and survival. Not when no one’s sure of what they’re feeling, much less if any of it’s real.
+ one
The Earth feels good beneath his feet.
Solid. Steady.
Leonard thinks he may hate it.
It’s been months. The parties and parades have faded. The accolades are now just extra lines on a resume.
Everything’s different. Everything’s the same.
The dorm’s gone, cleaned out before he even got home. Packed up, put away, moved to another space.
But Georgia is still hot, and his grandmomma’s house is just where he left it. The cracked tile, third from the right on the backsplash that she never let him replace.
Because nothing’s ever perfect.
Ain’t that the fucking truth.
The only thing out of place in his routine, in the day in, day out, that being on ‘shore leave’ or ‘early retirement’ or whatever the fuck they’ve decided that his future may be, is the knock against his door at six o’clock in the evening.
The sun’s high, and the cicadas are droning.
Are they the ones that can tell you how hot it is?
No. That’s crickets. Gotta do some math with the chirps.
He leaves flour on the knob when he grabs it.
It drops like flakes of snow onto the floor.
There’s a disinterested sweep of his hand against his jeans, trying to knock off the rest, knowing it’s gonna only dump more on the hardwood. Damn.
Ad astra per aspera his ass. He’s got nightmares he’ll never recover from, a life that’s stuck permanently in limbo, and he’s left making biscuits on a Tuesday evening while worrying about needing to mop.
“Yeah?” he asks as the door swings open.
He’s annoyed. He’s tired. Tired of the bullshit. Tired of –
Blue eyes.
Hair the color of the first rays of sun on field corn.
There’s no smile. Just hands shoved into pockets, just an uncertain curl of those shoulders that had once held the weight of the world.
“Bones,” Jim says.
“Captain,” Leonard bites.
Because Jim had actually gotten his stripes. He’d gotten his ship. Dinners became comms became messages became nothing.
Because he’d gotten swept up in it all. Swept down the river of adulation, and left Leonard behind a rapid or ten.
Jim’s brow furrows heavier as his shoulders curl in more.
“Sorry I’ve been –” but Jim’s words are cut off by Leonard’s.
“You haven’t so much as called.”
Jim steps back, huffing out air. “You haven’t called.”
“Me?” Like the fuck it’s his job, his responsibility. How many bids did a man have to make before he got the message?
“You ran away to Georgia.” Exasperation is written all over him. He’s still wearing that damn jacket. It’s too tight in the shoulders now and the leather’s worn on the elbows.
It’s too damn hot in Georgia in summer to be wearing that damn thing.
Not that Jim’s ever worried about too much fucking anything.
“I went home, Jim.” The home that he’s standing in. The home that’s the same, but suddenly, painfully not fucking enough. “Some of us didn’t get ships.”
“You could have any ship you wanted!” It’s an argument they never had. A discussion they’ve never breached. But the frustration of it’s still right there anyways, boiling over to spill onto the worn planking of Leonard’s porch.
“Only wanted the one.” Leonard’s voice is soft, but he’s proud it’s still steady. Still sure, even if he’s not. “Didn’t give a damn about the bucket anyways.”
He watches Jim’s chin tilt in that defiant way. Held solid and moving up, ready to take the hit that’s always right on the verge of coming for him.
“Wasn’t what I wanted.” Leonard works his jaw, looking anywhere but at the man standing before him. “Wasn’t what I cared about.”
There’s a huff of irritated air.
A beat, a pause, filled only by that ever present tangible drone that feels like it could fill you up and erase you.
“I’ve been waiting, Bones.” There’s a hitch in his voice, a break in his words, that makes Leonard’s gaze snap to him.
And just like that he’s the kid in the bar again. That brightness has changed, and it's the whole damn quadrant that wants him now.
But it’s still just Leonard he’s looking at.
“Waiting?” It’s Leonard who licks his lip this time.
“You gonna do it or not?” Jim’s not as close as he was. Jim’s not pressed beside him. There’s no heat from his body, there’s no smell of his skin.
But the tension’s still there. Still tangible. Thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Do what?” Because Leonard can’t believe it. Can’t believe it that after all this time that Jim’s here, that he’s there, that he’s within a step or two and he’s asking after what Leonard’s been too damn scared to speak life into.
“Who are you, Spock? Are you gonna kis–”
There’s gotta be flour on Jim’s back.
The outline of Leonard’s hand dusted against that supple brown.
A mark. One that can be washed away, brushed off.
But nothing’ll ever take away the softness of Jim’s lips. Nothing will ever erase the minty taste of his mouth.
Leonard smiles into him, pulling him closer, wrapping his other arm around his waist.
Jim had been ready for this. He’d hoped. He’d planned.
He’d brushed his fucking teeth.
And now his fingers were tangled in Leonard’s hair and grabbing at the back of Leonard’s neck like it was the only thing to keep him tethered to the planet. Now he was melting into Leonard like he was meant to, fitting up against him like they’d been two parts of a broken pair.
Because yes.
Just like this.