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“Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me. I am afraid duty calls...”
Jim bows out of the conversation before either of the ambassadors can try to dissuade him. He slides his empty champagne flute and a smile onto a passing tray, and then side-steps a rowdy party of Andorians before he is dragged into the middle of their drunken debate.
Most everyone at this post-conference gathering has had too much to drink, including Jim, who has been bouncing between small talk and serious talk, delegations and politicians, and more waitresses carrying sparkling glasses of wine than even he can bear to deal with; and he was just looking for an excuse to bail out of Ambassador Devine’s firing range when he spotted Bones across the hall.
Jim needs no excuse to saunter over to Bones – but he saves face as the conference host if he appears to have one. And Jim would say he has one: Bones looks miserable. And not his usual brand of miserable that scares the pants off the ensigns and makes Jim crow with glee.
(It’s hot, what can he say? Combine that with the rosy-drunk flush Bones has going on right now and, well, Jim would be swooning).
But Bones doesn’t look like that; he looks carved from stone. The cool grey of his dress uniform isn’t doing him any favours tonight. He hates wearing it on a good day – and today has been a good one. The conference was a hit, the guests are relaxing. The Enterprise is safely sun-docked to Thoral Epsilon and the crew deserve the downtime.
Bones isn’t even on-call right now, which is something of a miracle. Doctor D’Ettora laughed him out of Sickbay after Beta shift. Affectionately – and Jim really does mean this affectionately – Bones is a control freak. Those neurotic tendencies have saved Jim’s ass on multiple occasions and he is not complaining about them, but they do get out of hand sometimes. Bones’ staff can run Sickbay without him. Doctor D’Ettora is more than capable of handling a few overzealous lieutenants and their ill-thought-out drinking games.
Bones should relax! Drink! Be merry!
He doesn’t look like any of those things; he doesn’t look like anything, not even himself. His face is utterly blank – and not in a shocked sort of way – but in a way Jim recognises and dreads.
Bones is holding a champagne flute at least, so some attempt at drinking has been had. There is only a splash left at the bottom, still bubbling like liquid gold. He is swirling it up the sides of the glass, round and round, round and round.
He doesn’t even seem to notice Jim crossing the room. Nobody dares approach him. Even the very air around him has fled at his unapproachable vibe.
Good thing Jim is not deterred. He wants to warm his hands on the drunken flush on Bones’ face so bad, but something tells him copious amounts of physical PDA won’t go down too well at this time. He thinks that something is Bones’ face.
“Bones, having fun?”
Bones’ mouth does not budge an inch from its scowl. His eyes lift halfway to Jim’s face and then down again, and around and around the champagne goes. Jim hears it fizzing in the frigid silence.
“I was,” Bones replies – and that, apparently, is that. He is not typically one to pass up an opportunity to rant, gossip, bitch, or moan, Jim’s Bonesy Bones, and yet those two words appear to demand all of his effort. He stares unseeingly into his glass.
Jim may be tipsy – but he is not blind. He steps in close and angles himself between Bones and the crowd so he can keep an eye on everything at once. This corner of the hall beside an abandoned row of chairs is hardly a private place, especially with Jim being Jim, and Bones looking like a statue from Rome, but it will do. Jim is adaptable – some might even say flexible. And Bones doesn’t look like he knows or cares about where he is anyway.
Jim lowers his voice. “You having a shutdown?”
The debate going on between the Andorians kicks up a notch as more alcohol is involved. Jim glances back to ensure the conference hall isn’t about to erupt, and in the corner of his eye, he sees Bones’ entire body twitch.
“Hm,” Bones says, instead of his usual spiel. He sips the champagne, looking into, and through, and far beyond the bottom of the glass. He shrugs the glass as though to say, thought this would go an’ perk me up.
Ah yes, alcohol, that well-known stimulant. It is true that Bones can be a loud and friendly drunk, but it would take more than a couple flutes of champagne to get him there. A bottle of his favourite whisky would do the trick. But then again, whisky is just as likely to roll him like a flirty playboy into Jim’s bed, and that would definitely perk something up.
That feels like Jim’s cue to get them both out of here. He glances around the room one more time, checking on the guests and crew. None of them need to see him popping a boner like a teenager at a school dance. And he knows Bones won’t want to be seen right now.
An ambitious security officer is attempting to corral the Andorian party away from the less inspirited guests. Jim discourages her with a quick shake of his head. As long as nobody breaks Jim’s ship or tries to assassinate another ambassador (again), then he doesn’t mind a bit of harmless fun. There was once a time when he would join them, but Jim isn’t that twenty-two year old anymore.
Thank god. He much prefers thirty-two, quiet nights in, foot rubs, and Bones. He coaxes the champagne flute from Bones’ white-knuckled fingers and then knocks the rest back like a shot.
It tastes better with the promise of getting out of here. He gasps – pah! – and offers a crooked smile; and his arm.
“I’m a heathen, I know. And a terrible boyfriend. Wanna ditch this party and have one of our own back home?”
Bones’ mouth moves long before the words come out: “As long as I can change outta this damn uniform.”
“What do you take me for? Clothing optional, always. Come on.”
It takes a few minutes to escape the crowd. The energy from the party is still buzzing under Jim’s skin when the turbolift dumps them onto the senior officers’ deck. Maybe he isn’t so far removed from that twenty-two year old after all. The diversity and ambition on-board is exhilarating. He lives to meet and greet and barter and mingle. That is kind of his whole deal as the captain. He loves it. He loves his job. His ship. His crew. Bones.
Bones, who slumps like an old dog as soon as their quarters come into sight. It is peaceful up here, silver and slumbersome. The Enterprise’s ambience is all there is to be heard: her whistles and beeps, and ever-present drone. Jim would be content except for the unusual silence from Bones, on his arm. He is almost afraid to speak. What could be a pleasant stroll may as well be marching Bones to his execution.
“Yours or mine?” Jim asks. The with me or without me is left unsaid. He rubs Bones’ wrist, where the cuff of his sleeve is tight. The grey blazer is a far cry from comfy medical scrubs, and he knows it will be driving Bones insane.
“Yours,” Bones says, after a drawn out twist of his hand. It is a gesture that could mean a few different things: sure, get on with it, help. “Fine.”
They step into Jim’s quarters. Bones wastes no time in shucking out of his clothes: first go his shoes, thud thud, against the wall; and then his jacket and belt, and every button of his shirt. Jim toes out of his own shoes with a bit less pizzazz, and by that point, Bones is already facedown on the bed.
What is usually a tempting sight makes Jim’s heartstrings tug in sympathy. As quietly as possible, he changes out of his own uniform and puts everything into the laundry. He keeps the lights low, feeling for Bones’ discarded clothes across the floor.
A shuffle. Bones rolls onto his side, a pillow smashed against his face. The lightscreen across the wall is dark and navy-ambient; not a real window, and bathing him in opalescent blue light. In its glow, he paints a pretty picture of a man attempting to suffocate himself: nearly naked, drunk-red, his hair all dishevelled and his breathing so quiet that he must be stifling it intentionally to reduce the who-whooshing noise in his ears.
Jim grabs a quilt from the cupboard and drapes it over Bones’ chest. It is thick and heavy, and each square is bigger than Jim's splayed palm, and Bones buries himself under it. Then he lays so still that he may as well have died.
“Okay?” Jim asks.
No response. All right.
Jim leaves him to it - even though it pains him to step away. His natural inclination is to throw himself at a problem – not that Bones is a problem, as such – but he is someone Jim wants to needle and poke at and dig and dig and dig into until he fully understands.
It’s an act of love, he promises. Understanding what Bones is going through means Jim can help. He’s a captain, best friend, and partner, that’s kind of what he’s here for.
Bones has certainly tried to explain it, and Jim has certainly tried to imagine it, but the truth of the matter is that Jim is fuelled by social engagements whereas Bones has a fuel gauge that sputters constantly at half empty and tanks hard. And Jim just... doesn’t get that.
It’s okay. Bones doesn’t get Jim either so they are even.
Forty minutes pass. An hour. Jim is in the middle of convincing himself that a late-night fry up from the cafeteria isn’t such a terrible idea when his comm chirps in his pocket. Anyone on-duty knows to reach him via the ship intercom, and Doctor D’Ettora knows to keep mum on the crew’s drunken adventures, so he suspects he knows exactly who it is when he flips open the comm.
LHM: who do I have to kill for a cheeseburger
Jim’s relief comes out like a laugh. He hops into the bedroom, where Bones is still a multi-coloured blob on the bed but there is a communicator clutched against the pillow now, and deft fingers angrily typing away. Jim bounces over and takes a peak.
“I was thinking chicken wings.”
Bones glares at him, saying nothing. His mouth isn’t frowning or moving, which may or may not be an improvement on earlier, and then Jim's comm chirps again.
LHM: of course you were. and salad?
“Onion rings.”
LHM: compromise
“Onion rings and fries.”
Bones kicks him through the quilt. Jim leaps away and bee-lines to the intercom to sweet-talk the on-duty chef, returning quickly. As much as he needs some fast food to satisfy his drunken stomach, he needs Bones more.
The bed dips under Jim’s weight. He runs his fingers along the edge of the pillow, asking without words.
The quilt adjusts: one pillow down but one captain up. Jim drapes himself along Bones’ back, wiggling his cold feet in-between those bare legs. His dick gets the wrong idea at the barely-there touch of Bones’ boxers, but his heart gets the right one as Bones claims Jim’s hand and presses it against his mouth.
Jim nuzzles the back of Bones’ neck. It is stuffy under the quilt, just slightly too cosy. The warmth and the sweat and the smell of Bones’ aftershave threaten to intoxicate Jim even more. He isn’t usually so tipsy after a couple glasses of champagne. His face is burning as he rubs it against the coarse hairs at Bones’ nape, but maybe that is just happiness and relief and love.
“Feeling okay? Can you talk?”
“Mhm,” Bones says. His lips mouth against Jim’s knuckles. “Yeah. Didn’t step on no toes, leaving, did we?”
“’Course not. And if we did, it was all me. I’m sorry I didn’t bail you out sooner.”
He huffs. “I could’ve walked out.”
Jim isn’t so sure about that. Bones’ fight-or-flight response was not consulted in the conference hall. If he had left when he should have, he wouldn’t have been non-verbal beside the hors d’oeuvre.
Luckily, Jim spotted him before one of the ambassadors. He isn’t ashamed to admit that Bones exists in the periphery of his awareness, always, even when they are decks or planets apart. Not in the literal sense – like they are psychic. But in the sense that he orbits around Bones, and he knows when something has knocked them off-course.
Bones doesn’t always play nice when he is overwhelmed. That is the long and short of it. Jim could have given his best guess as to how their diversified guests would have responded to that, but why take that chance? Best just to get Bones away from whatever is stressing him out.
He shouldn’t need to watch Bones’ back on their own ship – but Jim does it willingly anytime, anywhere. He brushes his thumb against Bones’ chin, feeling protective and, yes, horny – and unsure if Bones will appreciate either right now.
Regardless of whether or not Bones appreciates it, he definitely notices it. The pillow he was clutching makes a swift return as it smacks the side of Jim’s face.
“Hey!”
“Tell your little brain to wait till after dinner.”
“It’s not little! After dinner, you said?”
Bones laughs. He brushes his lips Jim’s hand one last time and then throws that back over his shoulder, too. Then he rolls onto his back, quilt and all, and tugs Jim’s face down for a real kiss.
Jim’s complaints cease as soon as they start. He can wait till later if he is rewarded with this in the meantime. He kisses Bones’ throat and then nips his bottom lip, making him gasp in the way they both like.
Jim smiles. “How much of that champagne did you drink?”
It is all over Bones’ breath. Jim can almost taste those fizzy bubbles like they were the thing in Bones’ throat scaring off his words.
“Mm. A few.” His hands wring the bottom of Jim’s shirt. “It kept coming by on those trays.”
Jim laughs. “You didn’t have to take it.”
He nuzzles under Bones’ chin again, enjoying the bristle of a much-needed shave. Well, Starfleet considers it necessary. He would much prefer to see Bones rocking a dark beard.
They kiss some more. Bones is still a little quiet by his usual making-out standards so Jim doesn’t want to push. But damn, the hands stroking over his back are distracting. He threw on one of his older tank tops because he knows Bones likes rubbing his fingers over the seams, and now he is reaping the rewards.
He slides his hands up Bones’ very bare legs. A yellowing bruise keeps his attention for a few moments, loving it gently. He feels Bones shift.
“Tell me to slow down.”
“Already did,” Bones pants, but his hands twist tighter in Jim's shirt, stopping him from pulling away. Or – asking him to stop. It could be either with Bones.
“If you want that off me, you only have to ask.”
Bones rolls his eyes. “Any excuse to lose a shirt. Stop fondling my knees and kiss me up here.”
Well, the direction can’t be much clearer than that. Jim is only too happy to oblige.
Eventually, there is a chime at the door.
“Fuck,” Jim says. “Can my staff be too efficient?”
Bones pushes him off the bed and Jim goes, rumpled and revelling in it. He hopes his face isn’t too red as he answers the door but Bones’ whistle dashes those dreams. The poor yeoman doesn’t comment on it but she does try exceedingly hard not to use her eyes or ears or exist in the doorway at all.
“Be glad you were wearing your shirt!” Bones calls as soon as they are alone again. There is a series of stomping as he hurries into some clothes. The promise of greasy food has roused him up the rest of the way, then.
Good. That’s good. Jim likes Bones’ grumpy, complete lack of volume control self. Watching him struggle in his own headspace always leaves Jim feeling helpless. He wishes there were more he could do.
Well, there is one more thing. He hits the intercom. “Computer, record message for Doctor McCoy: fuck off. Send.”
“Sending,” chimes the computer – and then from the bedroom, Jim hears, “Message request from Kirk to McCoy. Please accept or decline.”
There’s another thud. “Are you for –? Jim – I am right – Accept.”
“Relaying,” chimes the computer, and then in Jim’s voice, “Fuck off.”
“JIM.”
Jim nearly brains himself and their dinner on the kitchenette counter with laughter. Doubling over his knees spares him from the ball of socks Bones lobs across the room, but not from the irate chime of the computer going, “Message request from McCoy to Kirk. Please accept or –”
“Accept it, you coward!”
“Computer –” Jim wheezes, with tears in his eyes. He hears Bones thunder across the quarters, laughing and raging. “Give it to me, computer. Accept, I accept!”
Bones pelts him with another ball of socks. The computer explodes with Southern charm. Jim hangs onto the counter for dear life and thinks the Andorians down in the conference hall can probably hear him, and he doesn’t even mind.