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Bones frowns when he sees Jim’s hands. Not that Jim can blame him since he did just pull Bones out of bed without so much as a how do you do before shoving his hands out in front him like an offering covered in second-degree burns. Jim would be frowning too if he’d pulled two shifts at the clinic at then had to deal with himself as a friend.
Bones’ frown goes nuclear when he gets a closer look at Jim’s hands, “They’re called evacuation drills for a reason, Jim. You’re supposed to evacuate.” Bones pushes the second syllable harder than strictly necessary, like Jim’s a particularly slow child that Bones hasn’t entirely given up on yet. His hand closes on Jim’s bicep to lead him into the room, walks him all the way to the desk chair and makes Jim sit down. Jim wants to tell him it looks worse than it is. Probably. His hands are all a single hot, stinging, throb from wrist to fingertip, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was technically supposed to evacuate he would have gone to medical. But the last thing Jim needs is another demerit and a note on his record saying he has problems following orders.
“I know, I know,” Jim says, following Bones’ movements through the room as he gathers his med kit, “but I almost had it, if I’d finished entering the last numeric sequence there wouldn’t have been—”
“You weren’t taking the Kobayashi Maru there, kid. The point wasn’t to pass, it was to practice getting the fuck out.” Bones gives him the same look his mother used to give him whenever teachers asked her in for a talk. It makes Jim fidget in his seat. Bones takes his hand by the wrist and continues inspecting the damage done by the minor explosion Jim was not expecting when he failed to leave his consol. The blistering is worst at his fingertips, though not horrible—definitely not the worst Jim’s incurred—which is probably what Bones’ tricorder is picking up as he scans it over Jim’s hands. Bones sighs, “You’ve got to start taking care of yourself Jim.” He says, voice low and steady as he leans a little closer to Jim’s hands, fingers still clasped loosely just above Jim’s wrist. McCoy swaps the tricorder for the tin of dermaline gel in his kit, applies it to Jim’s burns with practiced ease, his brow creased with concentration and something like unhappiness that turns Jim’s stomach to knots. His whole life as a fuck up, you’d think he’d deal better with disappointment.
“I wasn’t trying,” Jim starts, adrenaline starting to fade, focusing everything on not flinching as McCoy works. Jim concentrates on Bones’ fingers, careful and sure. “I mean, I know.” Jim hisses when Bones’ application goes directly over a particular blister, “I wasn’t trying—a few more numbers Bones, I could have saved everyone.” He says because anything else would be too much a promise he doesn’t think he knows how to keep.
Bones looks up, and something softens just barely, the tense line of his mouth relaxing enough that the possibility of a smile becomes more than just make-believe. “Yeah,” he says, tired but undefeated, “yeah Jim.”
-
“Let me get this straight: You asked him to stab you?”
Jim considers the phrasing and terminology in use before answering, “Technically, I asked Sulu to show me the contre-sixte and due to a series of events no one could foresee or prevent—”
“He stabbed you.” Bones’ no nonsense face is settled in for the long haul. It’s enough to confirm Jim’s decision to patch himself up, a decision that was working out fine until Bones barked the lights back up to fifty percent to see what it was stuck to Jim’s side. Jim wonders whether now is the time to resort to jazz hands and the same exclamation of “space fencing” that earned him an affectionate eye roll last night. He decides against it (right now all they’d probably get him is a swift hypo to the neck).
“You make it sound so violent Bones.”
Bones pokes his finger at the gauze. “Ouc—okay, point taken.”
-
Cisneros is barely breathing and they never found Ming—later, Spock reports that all vital signs disappeared from their readings moments before the attack and that the chances that Ensign Ming is still alive are nonexistent—and Jim’s back is on fire from whatever it was that the Toryan’s hit him with. Someone’s screaming.
There’s the slick taste of blood on his tongue and down the back of his throat and Jim can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and they need to find Ming, he needs to find Ming (it’s her turn to pick the month’s book for the book club she’s a part of, he heard her mention it in the shuttle ride down. She wasn’t sure whether something by Robert Nor would be too trashy and had smiled uncomfortably when he’d said it wasn’t trashy enough). He needs to find Ming, Jim can’t breathe and won’t be able too until—
Hands pressing his shoulder back, pressing him down and Bones’ voice telling him to settle, and then the hiss of something sharp near his ear before the darkness descends.
When he wakes up the lights are low and medbay’s in gamma shift (he can make out Chapel’s bright hair over by Cisneros, checking his vitals). Bones is sitting next to his bed, and Jim isn’t surprised, because Bones is always there unless there’s a reason he can’t be (and they’re always good reasons too, like he’s too busy reattaching someone’s leg to watch Jim sleep, which is something Jim can get behind). Bones’ face is lit by the silver glow of his PADD and Jim wants to say something about hypocrisy and how Bones’ is going to need corrective treatment just as badly as Jim for reading in such poor light but he doesn’t. Bones doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake and Jim’s okay with that too, just watches Bones keep him company for a few minutes before he slips back into sleep.
(He dreams of Ming, sitting out under the wide indigo expanse of Torya’s sky reading a book, something hand-bound and ancient, and he walks over to her and asks her if it’s any good. “It’s okay.” She shrugs.)
He wakes up with his heart hammering against his ribs and his back still protesting every movement and Bones, Bones looking worse for wear and so very concerned, his hand light on Jim’s shoulder asking if he’s alright.
Jim doesn’t answer, but he knows Bones wasn’t really looking for one.
.
-
“Oh fuck me.” Jim sneezes. He means it in every sense of the word.
Bones, smug son of a bitch that his it, doesn’t even try hide his smirk. It’s right there, clear as a goddamn summer day on Bones’ face when the bastard hands Jim another box of tissues.
Jim hates him.
Except he doesn’t. At all. Not ever and especially not right now when all he wants to do is pull Bones down and kiss him until neither of them can breathe and it sure as hell doesn’t care that the suppressant Bones stabbed him with makes his body feel heavy and sluggish. His brain knows what it wants.
“Sorry kid.” Bones practically drawls, “It goes against the Oath. And a few Starfleet regulations too.”
Jim frowns and scratches at one of the bright orange hives low on his stomach. They’re all over his chest and arms too, but at least whatever Bones gave him stopped them from spreading anywhere else. Bones swats his hand away.
“Just give the brompheniramine a chance to do its job, Jim and I’ll probably be able to clear you for light duty the day after tomorrow.” Bones is still smirking, like there’s actually something funny about all this. Which there isn’t, at all. It’s actually the exact opposite, a direct manifestation of how the Universe is set against James T. Kirk. Or at the very least having very good laugh at his expense. Because, c’mon, who the hell is allergic to sex pollen?
Jim scratches again, covertly. Bones still catches him. Jim retaliates by sneezing at him.
“C’mon,” Jim wheedles, desperate and shameless. His erection might be gone now but the desire is still there, an itch in his blood that only Bones can scratch. Jim pulls himself together, or tries, leans back and tries his best to look seductive. Okay, so he’s puffy and itchy and sneezing and maybe when he tried to maul Bones he started going into anaphylactic shock, but whatever, breathing is a little overrated sometimes if you ask him. Jim drops his voice, still raspy from sneezing. “This is a prime opportunity to play doctor, we might never get another chance like this.”
Bones cocks an eyebrow high. “With you in my life Jim, I find that highly unlikely.”
Jim’s prefect retort is lost in a sneezing fit that goes on for so long he’s lightheaded by the end of it. His eyes are still itchy though the desire to scratch them out of his head has decreased considerably since Bones jabbed him with the first hypo. “Whatever.” He wheezes crankily, slumping back into the pillows, uncomfortable and unsatisfied, “You know you want me.”
Bones smirk turns itself into a smile and he shakes his head. “Yeah kid you’re a catch.” He runs his hand over Jim’s rumpled hair, palm cradling the curve of Jim’s skull. He doesn’t kiss Jim but he leaves his hand there for a beat longer than he’s touched Jim since he determined Jim’s affliction. It’s almost a relief. Not for the scalding itch Jim feels all over his skin but the wrinkle of rejection that snagged in Jim’s gut when Bones pushed him away.
Jim smiles back and accepts the compliment by sneezing so hard he’s pretty sure a piece of his brain comes out through his nose. “Thanks.” Jim mumbles when Bones hands him another tissue, and he means that too.
-
“I can fix that,” Bones offers gruffly, running his thumb across the scarred skin that crescents over the flat plane of Jim’s chin. There’s hardly any pressure behind the gesture, it ghosts over Jim’s skin like a whisper. Bones’ thumb is still cool from the chilled glass of Scotch they were sharing moments before. Jim suppresses a shiver. This close Jim goes cross-eyed meeting Bones’ eyes, the dark shape of them honed in on the scar tissue under the pad of his thumb. Bones has seen it a hundred, thousand times and never paid it such close attention. Maybe it’s the Scotch talking.
Jim grins, as slow and easy as everything feels between them, maple syrup sweet and dark as amber. Bones fans his thumb again, lazy as a cat’s tail swaying in contemplation in a patch of sunlight. His nail scrapes, just slightly, over the stubble Jim should have shaved yesterday., “Thanks, but I’ll pass—‘sides, it gives me character, right?”
Bones rolls his eyes, “I’m not stroking your ego kid.”
“I’ve got something else you could—” Jim starts, salacious as he knows how, and Bones cuts him off with a quick, hard kiss. His mouth is smoky and cool against Jim’s.
”You’re incorrigible, kid.” Bones says, heaves a sigh of eternally beleaguered. His hand doesn’t leave Jim’s face until his fingertips grow warm.
End