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A book is a present you can open again and again.
It occurs to McCoy, somewhere between the Academy Library and his apartment, that the summer break for cadets has officially started. His last final was yesterday afternoon – Introduction to Andorian Pathology and Immunology – and while he knew, somewhere, that the academic year was over, for some reason it takes a full twenty-four hours for the fact to really sink in.
When it finally does he feels like a weight is sliding from his shoulders. With each step he takes toward home, towards his comfortable couch and his books and his scotch and towards absolutely nothing pressing to do, he feels more stress bleed away. He leaves the knot in his shoulders from his Astral Navigation class somewhere by the field where a few cadets who are truly dedicated to their personal fitness are running the track. The headache from Warp Theory – a class which he doesn’t even plan to ever use – slips away as he passes the building where Jim has his Stellar Cartography class.
By the time his building is in view there’s almost a bounce in his step. He feels light and strong and, for the first time in more than the two years since he got on a transport to Riverside, like he has things worth looking forward to, like his life isn’t over.
He’s not sure what changed in him, just that yesterday he felt about a hundred years older than he should and today he feels more like his actual thirty years; he feels… good.
He has nothing that demands his attention for the next couple months save for his work at the clinic, where he will be continuing his part time schedule, and his best friend. And the things is, he doesn’t really mind that at all. He likes those things. Hell, he loves those things.
They’re the things that make the other stuff worth it. They’re why he gets up in the morning on a day when he has to pilot the shuttle sim, why he’s still here at Starfleet, why he hasn’t drunk himself into a sad, lonely stupor by now.
They’re not free of stress, either of them. But they’re not boring and they’re the two things in his life that he derives the greatest joy from.
When he left Georgia, he really, truly felt like he was leaving his entire life behind him. He was leaving his home, his family, his practice. That was everything he had. He joined Starfleet because they needed doctors and he really, really needed to be a doctor.
For a little while, when he felt like he’d lost everything that made him him, being a doctor gave it back to him; the clinic gave that back to him, three days a week. But even though he was Dr. McCoy, MD, PhD, he still felt like the best part of his life was behind him.
Jim was – something else entirely. It took him a long time to really understand what Jim was. He was a genius, undoubtedly; a dick, definitely; and a friend, apparently whether McCoy wanted him or not. And a friend was apparently something McCoy needed more than he needed to be him, because the thought of spending the summer working at the clinic doesn’t fill him with the same sense of future that the thought of spending his summer with Jim does.
He’s suddenly filled with the need to do something for Jim. Jim has done more for him in the last two years than he probably realizes, and while McCoy knows it’s not a favor that’s easy to return he feels like he has to do something.
Jim is not the type to easily accept help from others, a fact McCoy is very familiar with. Nor is he prone to emotional displays of a personal nature – and on this point he generally has McCoy’s full support. But still, McCoy needs to do something to say thanks, to let Jim know that his friendship is the most valuable thing in the world to him. He just has no idea what.
“Jim? You here?” he calls as he pushes the door open, also pushing away the thought that it’s not unlike when he would come home from work in Georgia and call out to his wife. Not that Jim is in any way like his ex-wife – or that he even lives here, for that matter – it’s just that two years has given McCoy time to come to terms with the fact that Jim has little respect for personal property and even less for personal space.
Jim’s head pops into view, followed by the rest of him and McCoy can’t even bring himself to pretend to be bothered by Jim’s habit of breaking and entering. Though, to be fair, there’s usually no actually breaking involved since Jim has his door code.
“Hey, Bones!”
“Put your shoes back on, we’re going out.” McCoy’s not sure where that came from, or even where they’re going. He just knows that Jim has spent the last two years dragging him out to bars and parties and greasy diners and apparently it’s been good for him because right now he just wants to get out of his apartment and live among the rest of the world for a little while.
Jim doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask where they’re going until he’s got socks – clean ones from McCoy’s drawer, dammit – in one hand and his shoes in the other.
“We’re going out for your birthday.” Translation: I have no idea where we’re going.
Jim freezes where he sits on the couch, one foot in the air, hands poised with a sock as he squints at McCoy. “What?” he asks with a shake of his head.
“Your birthday. C’mon.”
Jim’s moving now, quickly sliding his shoes and (McCoy’s) socks on. “My birthday was four months ago.”
“I know.” And he does. But Jim doesn’t celebrate his birthday because – as he puts it – that’s kind of morbid. That hasn’t stopped Jim from dragging McCoy out for the past two years on his birthday and if there’s one thing McCoy won’t tolerate, it’s hypocrisy. In other people.
“What? But… okay.” Jim has apparently decided that either he’s not going to say no to getting out of the apartment, or McCoy has gone dangerously insane and it’s best to play along.
Either way it’s less than twenty minutes later that they find themselves being seated in a restaurant that is a step or two above their usual fare. They have table cloths for Christ’s sake. And wine.
Jim raises his eyebrows when he sees this, but he doesn’t saying anything. McCoy thinks he’s grateful for that fact but it feels almost wrong, Jim not having something smartass to say, not pushing McCoy’s buttons. McCoy feels like being nice, doing something nice for Jim; that doesn’t mean Jim has to reciprocate.
Apparently it does to Jim, because they talk and pass the time while they eat but it feels polite, something that their friendship has never been. And McCoy realizes he doesn’t want it to be. Jim is as friendly as he’s ever been and the thought is disturbing to McCoy, because Jim is rarely friendly with him.
They are friends, yes. They do things for each other, they treat each other with respect – except for when they don’t. They are often nice to each other but they are never friendly. They’re too close for friendly. Friendly is what Jim is to strangers in bars; the ones he wants to sleep with, not fight with. Friendly is what Jim is with the librarian that lets him use the staff computer terminal when the others are busy. Friendly is what Jim is to Winona.
It’s a relief when Jim finally can’t take it anymore. Jim is hardly the most patient man McCoy has even met and the dam finally breaks just as McCoy is lifting his glass to his lips.
“Do you have some deadly space virus or something?”
McCoy doesn’t choke, barely. He sets the glass back down on the table and looks at Jim. He looks – confused.
“What? No!”
“Are you dropping out? Breaking up with me? Bones, what’s going on?”
He wants to laugh. He almost does, huffing a soft breath and smiling wryly. McCoy’s worry over Jim’s politeness seems silly now, seeing as it was caused by Jim’s worry over McCoy’s behavior. They’re quite a pair sometimes.
“I’m not dying or dropping out, Jim. And we’d have to actually be dating for me to break up with you, but I’m definitely not doing that either.”
“Then what…” Jims trails off. Apparently McCoy’s behavior is so out of character it can’t even be put into words. He really does laugh then.
“Dammit, Jim. I just felt good today, okay? I feel like everything’s not so... I don’t know, I just… it’s summer break, I don’t have to set foot on another god damned shuttle for at least two months, I have some time to relax and do the things I want to do. I have some time to take a friend out for his birthday.” He gives him the easy answer because the hard answer is… well it’s hard.
“My birthday was four months ago,” Jim repeats, and it’s not phrased as a question but it is a question all the same. And it’s clear to McCoy, who knows Jim so well, that he’s not really asking about his belated birthday celebration.
But McCoy doesn’t really want to talk about the other stuff right now, he just wants to have dinner with his best friend so he asks “Would you have let me take you out on your birthday?”
Jim opens his mouth to answer him but seems to realize before the words even leave his mouth that they are probably a lie. Instead he leans back, away from McCoy and admits “No, probably not.”
“Exactly. And please actually eat those,” McCoy gestures to the greens on Jim’s plate. “They’re probably the only healthy part of the heart attack you ordered for dinner.” McCoy returns his attention to his own meal and that’s it; the conversation is over. And when he glances up to find Jim still looking at him like he’s a jigsaw puzzle someone left out in the rain, he just decides to call it a win that at least he’s eating something healthy while he does it.
The rest of their dinner is surprisingly pleasant but not nearly so polite. Jim teases him about his collection of young adult detective novels that he’s had since he was nine and is delighted, if surprised when McCoy just laughs instead of grumbling for Jim to stay out of his stuff. He’s even more delighted when McCoy admits that he still pulls one out from time to time when he’s feeling nostalgic, or just particularly bored.
“You know,” Jim says to his plate, stabbing half-heartedly at the last bits of food there, “my Grandpa Tiberius used to bring me books like that when he’d come visit. Every time, a different book. First one was one of those pop-up things. Didn’t even really have any words.”
McCoy knows that Tiberius Kirk died when Jim was a child, that he was his paternal grandfather and that he taught Jim the word “shit.” He also knows Jim both hates his middle name, and loves it because it reminds him of a man who loved him unconditionally. The first three Jim told him, mentioned in passing, the last he figured out on his own by the look on Jim’s face when he told him the first three things.
“Do you still have them?” He’s beginning to understand Jim’s fascination with books. It’s a love he shares, so he’d never questioned it before but he’s coming to realize that Jim’s love might come from a very different place than McCoy’s own desire for escapism. Then again, maybe not.
“Some of them, yeah,” Jim says with a small, earnest smile. This is the quiet, serious side of Jim that McCoy loves. It’s not the loud, flirtatious jackass that hangs out in bars with the other cadets but neither is it the charming, polite, friendly man that was sitting across from him at the start of the meal. It’s Jim at his truest, McCoy thinks. The real Jim as he sees him, not as he presents himself to the rest of the world and in that moment McCoy feels like maybe he really has been able to begin to repay Jim for everything he’s done for him.
The waitress comes then and McCoy settles the tab. Jim doesn’t protest, as he shouldn’t because it’s his birthday dinner, four months late or not. When their dishes are gone and the waitress has gone onto the next table McCoy takes the napkin from where it rests on his lap and tosses it on the table. “Well, let’s go. We’ve got another stop to make.”
“We do, huh?” Jim asks, and just like that serious Jim is gone. That’s okay; McCoy likes him like this, too.
“We do.” And that’s all. It’s a birthday present, he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.
And the look on Jim’s face when they stop in front of Heyfield’s Used Bookstore is worth the walk from the restaurant with Jim pestering him with questions and guesses as to what their destination might be, each one dirtier and more unlikely than the last.
Jim’s smile is delighted and McCoy finds himself smiling back at him before he even realizes it. “Well, go on then,” he nods toward the door because Jim is just standing on the sidewalk, staring at him. “But I’m not buying you the whole damn store so choose wisely.”
Jim’s face slips mercurially from the bright, child-like smile into the smirk it’s more accustomed to as he precedes McCoy through the door. By the time McCoy follows him inside Jim’s already got a book off the shelf and it flipping through it intently.
Kids in a candy store have nothing on Jim Kirk in a bookstore apparently. Not wanting to seem like he’s watching Jim, though he is, McCoy sidles up to the shelf and pulls a book of his own down. He’s already got the cover open before he realizes it’s The Red Badge of Courage, the bane of his fourteen-year-old existence and he can’t help but laugh.
“God, I hate this book,” he says, mostly to himself. But Jim looks up and meets his eyes so McCoy holds it up for him to see, wry look on his face as he explains. “The Red Badge of Courage. I had to read it in school and write a paper about four times longer than I thought could possibly be justifiable. Only C I ever got.”
Jim smiles and plucks the book from his grasp. He flips through it briefly and then, much to McCoy’s dismay, tucks it under his arm with the other book he has apparently decided is a keeper.
“Oh!” Jim’s off again, attention span of a gnat, and is halfway down the aisle before McCoy really registers that he’s gone. McCoy follows him sedately and finds him clutching a battered copy of The Intergalactic Adventures of Jonathan Archer, a look of reverence on his face McCoy has heretofore only seen in the presence of incredibly complex starship machinery and the cheesecake from the bakery on 12th street.
“He bought me this book. When I was five or six, I think. I don’t have it anymore. My mom threw it out because I’d colored in it, like that didn’t just make it more awesome.” McCoy doesn’t bother to keep the warm smile from spreading across his face. Jim’s not even looking at him, enraptured as he is by tales of the original Starfleet hero’s daring do. It goes unsaid that Winona’s reason for throwing out the book probably had more to do with her fear of it filling Jim with dreams of adventure in space than it did with a few crayon marks in the margins and McCoy feels a brief flash of pity for the woman.
He’s not sure if the pity grows or changes to something cold and hard that settles in his gut as he follows Jim through the store, watching him pluck book after precious lost book off the shelves. The Illustrated Starship, The Cosmos A to Z, Nigel Mermon’s Guide to the Universe; the pile in Jim’s arms grows and McCoy’s pretty sure he’s going to end up paying for every one of those books just to see that look on Jim’s face that he loves so much. The one where his eyes smile more than his mouth does and he looks at you like he’s just let you in on some great secret.
McCoy lets Jim wander off and entertains himself, plucking books off the shelf as they catch his eye. He allows himself to get caught up in Dickens and Twain and maybe just a little bit in a couple of graphics novels from the 2160’s and doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until he glances out the window and sees how far the sun has moved in the sky. It’s starting to set.
Peering down each aisle as he passes he is a little surprised to find Jim crouched in the poetry section. He is facing away from McCoy, his pile of books at his knee and a hardcover antique volume in his hands.
As he turns down the aisle to join him, Jim glances at him over his shoulder and McCoy nearly misses a step. He’s wearing his glasses. Jim never wears his glasses. The only reason McCoy even know Jim HAS glasses is Jim had pulled them out of his pocket once to make sure they hadn’t been crushed after a particularly graceless display of drunken acrobatics.
Jim’s smile flashes bright and quick before his eyes turn back to the page in front of him. It’s beautiful.
The smile McCoy has now been wearing for the better part of the evening slips off his face. The smile at the shared fun, the shared freedom and joy of spending an evening with a good friend slips away because he’s not feeling those things anymore. What he’s feeling is markedly closer to want. One happy glance from Jim and suddenly everything he and Jim have been to each other for the last two years goes from feeling like everything to feeling like it’s not enough.
He wants Jim to be more, but even more than that, he wants to be more for Jim.
Jim is looking at him now, curious; no doubt wondering what caused the sudden change of mood, so McCoy tries to shake it off. He forces a smile and glances at Jim’s pile of books, at anything that isn’t Jim’s face, just for a second.
“You about ready to go?” His voice sounds normal enough but Jim is still looking at him like he’s waiting for something. Like he knows something isn’t right.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Let me just...” he pulls off his glasses and gestures to his pile of books with them. Closing the book in his other hand he lays it on top and McCoy see that it’s an anthology of Cyrus Keaton’s works from the mid twenty-second century. In any other frame of mind he might be fascinated by this insight into Jim but right now it hardly even registers, he’s so conflicted. He feels like the world outside of him is standing still while everything inside is shifting and moving and he has no idea where it’s all going to end up. He just bends down and takes half of the books and heads in the direction of the register.
Jim follows him, he knows. He can’t see him but he’s hyper-aware of his presence right now and he can feel him. He brushes aside Jim’s protests and pays for the whole lot. He’s not sure how much it costs him – probably quite a bit – but Jim gives him that look, the one with the smiling eyes, and it really doesn’t matter. McCoy smiles back, albeit weakly and lets Jim grab his own bag. McCoy’s not sure anything that could be mistaken for chivalry would be good for his mental health right now.
They head pack toward the dorms on foot. It’s a couple of miles but McCoy needs to clear his head and Jim isn’t complaining. The walk is unusually silent and McCoy doesn’t look, but he can feel Jim’s eyes hot on the side of his face every once in a while. He’s too preoccupied to care. Too distracted, too confused.
The worst part of this whole thing is that McCoy knows, he knows, that just because he’s only just realized this, it doesn’t mean it’s new. This has always been there, in some form. He needs Jim, he wants Jim, he knew these things. Hell, he even knew he loved Jim, but for some reason he still feels off-kilter realizing that he actually wants to do something about it.
He’s been happy just being Jim’s friend. He’s been content. Except, McCoy realizes suddenly, he hasn’t been. He thought he was, maybe, but he’s been miserable. In everything he did. Yes, Jim made it better but even just this morning when he got out of bed he did it because that’s what you do in the morning, not because he was eager to greet the day.
Something changed today and McCoy’s not really sure what it is but he attributes it to Jim. Maybe it really is nothing more than that he’s finally ready to move on, to start moving forward. Whatever it is, things are different now and that thought lingers with him until he realizes that they are back at his door, Jim still clutching his bookstore haul in one hand.
“Hey, Bones?” McCoy’s eyes rush up to meet Jim’s as his voice brings him more fully to the present. “Thanks.”
McCoy just swallows and nods like it was nothing. Like it hasn’t been the biggest, most life-changing day since he signed up for Starfleet in the first place. Maybe even before that. But to Jim nothing is different so McCoy just nods and smiles and wishes him a happy birthday, four months too late.
“Really,” Jim continues in his earnest Jim voice, “this has been… the best birthday I can remember. So thanks. For everything.” Jim’s eyes are smiling but his mouth is deadly serious and this time McCoy can’t even bring himself to nod, he just looks at Jim.
He looks at Jim and feels his breath coming a little faster, his heart beating a little harder and before he’s fully cognizant of what he’s doing he’s leaning forward into Jim’s personal space and pressing his lips softly to Jim’s.
Jim kisses him back.
That, more than anything else, is what causes him to pull back, makes him realize what he’s doing.
“Okay, wow.” Jim’s voice gets his heart going even faster and he’s not even sure if it’s because he sounds hoarse and surprised, or because it means the other shoe is about to drop.
“Look, Jim…” he’s not even sure how to talk his way out of this one, how to tell Jim that it’s okay, it doesn’t have to mean anything.
“Best birthday ever and the party’s not even over yet.” McCoy is still processing what that means when Jim’s lips brush over his again. Jim presses his mouth to McCoy’s, warm and soft, and McCoy feels his lips part so he eagerly follows the example.
When his tongue meets Jim’s he hears a soft “Mmph” and the thud of the books being set rapidly on the floor before the warm press of Jim’s fingers is there at the back of his head, in his hair and stroking down the back of his neck.
The kiss grows harder, wetter, more eager, more frantic. One of Jim’s hands is at his waist now and he’s momentarily surprised by the thump of his back hitting the door.
Jim’s lips leave his but he’s still pressed hard against his front door, panting harshly as Jim kisses the underside of his jaw on his way to deliver a sharp nip to his ear. McCoy’s eyes fall shut when Jim pulls his earlobe into his mouth.
“Jim,” McCoy manages to say somehow, “I have neighbors”
“Fascinating,” Jim mumbles against his neck.
“Jim –“
“God, Bones.” Jim buries his face in McCoy neck and for a minute they just stand there, breathing each other in, McCoy’s arms around Jim’s back. For the first time now McCoy thinks that maybe he hasn’t begun to repay Jim. Maybe there was nothing for him to repay, and maybe, just maybe, Jim has always needed him as much as he needed Jim.
The thought is enough to cause the last little bit of weight, the weight he’d forgotten was even there while he was kissing Jim, to slip from his shoulders. Suddenly he doesn’t care about his neighbors anymore. He still desperately needs to get Jim inside but it has more to do with the relative comfort levels of the hard hallway floor versus his queen-sized bed than it does with the worry that they’ll be caught.
“Bones?” Jim’s voice is muffled in McCoy’s neck and McCoy smiles.
“Yes, Jim?”
“How many times a year do you think I can get away with celebrating my birthday?” Suddenly McCoy doesn’t just feel like he’s no longer weighed down; he feels like he’s weightless.
“Probably just the once.”
Jim nips at his neck and rocks gently against him. “Damn. I like the way you celebrate.”
“If you get inside right now I promise we’ll find something to celebrate tomorrow.”
In a flash Jim is off him and tugging him away from the door to pull it open. As Jim pushes him through inside, tugging on his shirt as they go, McCoy thinks that tomorrow is the second day of their summer break, and really that’s as good a reason to celebrate as any.
end
