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The night they both finish their last second year exams, Jim comes over and collapses in a heap on McCoy's bed. "I want to sleep for a month," he groans.
They don't sleep at all.
As the sun comes up Jim slides stickily against him and bites lazily at his jaw. "Now I want to sleep all summer," he says. "So I think I'll make it the rest of the year and then you'll be back. Win-win."
McCoy laughs and drags Jim's mouth to his for a moment. "I give it a day," he says dryly. "You'll find something to distract you. Or someone."
Jim mumbles an acutely dismissive noise. His shoulders flex under McCoy's hands as he presses up on his hands and gives himself a wider range of motion to go after what he wants, hungry kisses broken up by meandering explorations of McCoy's jaw and neck. His hips shift and, incredibly, McCoy can feel him stirring and firming next to his own determinedly spent cock.
Granted, Jim just spent the last hour building him up to the best orgasm he's had in weeks while ignoring himself, but still. It's not like the kid didn't come twice already. "Jesus, Jim," he groans. But he twists his leg around Jim welcomingly, in encouragement. "And don't fucking give me that," he grumbles, wincing as Jim's teeth latch onto one nipple and tug. He cards his hand idly through Jim's hair. "That take it or leave it bullshit. I know exactly how many people you've fucked in the last six months, not including me. Someone'll be warming your bed within the week."
"Probably," Jim admits easily. He fumbles around and manages, somehow, to get fresh lube smeared where it counts, then pushes in easily and bottoms out with a groan. "Kind of focused on warming yours right now, though."
"Oh, well then, you've convinced me," McCoy grumbles as Jim settles into fucking him slowly, lazily, every thrust nudging him right to the cusp of oversensitized pain. "Praise the lord and -- oh fuck -- hallelujah, romance is not actually dead after all."
Jim snorts with laughter. "Victory at last!" he crows.
Then he shuts up and gets to work.
~~~~~~~~~~
Along with the twinging reminder of the night's activities every time McCoy shifts in his seat, the nice thing about Jim fucking him past exhaustion is that he drops off and actually manages to sleep through most of the trip to the transport hub at the edge of the solar system.
After that, however, he has little option but to brood on the prospect of nearly seven months on Dramia II, immersed in work he loves but far removed from everything else that has become... unexpectedly comfortable to him, over the past two years.
It's not so much that he minds the fact of being away from Earth, travel time and method aside.
It's more that he hasn't gone three days without seeing Jim in some fashion or another for so long that he can't imagine how it's going to feel a week from now, a month, by the end of year. They've gone through their dry spells and bursts of insatiable need alike, but whatever the pattern the constant has been that Jim has been there, readily, for a year and a half.
Somewhere along the line -- and he's not sure when, he's not sure when Jim went from acquaintance to friend to unbreakable habit -- McCoy forgot how to live life without the damn kid in it.
And without Jim around to lend the prospect of his particular brand of unpredictability to every day, the time passes slowly. McCoy buries himself in the project, the endless cycle of sequencing viral strains, synthesizing batches of vaccine, rushing to deliver them before the compounds destabilize. Merciful weeks go by where he doesn't miss anything at all, save the comfort of his bed waiting like a promise every night.
But Jim is not the sort of person who will abide by any risk of being forgotten. He sends McCoy long, rambling messages that are clearly composed in scattered moments of his days and pieced together when it all hits some critical mass identifiable only by him. He meanders from topic to topic, offering stories that are frequently abandoned halfway through in favor of whatever new thought has struck him.
Occasionally he drops in casual comments about the people he's fucked.
You remember my friend Gary? With the mole on his -- yeah. Slept with him last night. Hoooooooly shit, was that awkward. Never again, Bones. I think it's pretty obvious I need you to get back here and kick some sense into me.
and
You don't even wanna know, man. She was too kinky even for me. And her boyfriend, holy shit.
McCoy only answers once or twice. He has trouble, through the fog of exhaustion, figuring out how to keep it light, keep it reined in, keep it from being betrayed in every goddamn word that he would gladly face the wretched trip a dozen times over if it only meant he could see Jim -- see him, breathe him in, drown in him -- for even a day.
Four months in, everything changes.
...met her in my ethics seminar. She's -- she's brilliant, seriously. I was just trying to mess with her head at first -- I know, I know, I can just hear you bitching about it being Uhura all over again. But I don't know, Marlena's different. She makes me think. We, ah. We've gone out a few times now and I...just thought I should tell you, I guess.
It's not the same without you here, Bones. Can't wait 'til you're back. Take care, buddy.
McCoy takes an evening and actually bothers going into town for something other than supplies for once. He does acid-harsh moonshine shots with a science team running soil reclamation experiments, and by the end of the night he's falling into bed with the project lead.
The thing about Nancy is that she makes an act of love of everything she does, from the way she speaks with rolling vowels and a secretive smile on her lips, to the way she wraps around him and pants softly in his ear as he moves inside her. In the three years since he moved out and left behind the crumbled ruins of his marriage he's only been with Jim, and it's an incredibly easy thing to lose himself in everything new that Nancy offers: the lushness of her body, the stimulation of her company.
The distraction of each and every way she will never be a damn thing like Jim.
For nine weeks McCoy fancies himself in love with her. By the time they part ways he's received twelve more messages from Jim.
He hasn't opened a single one.
~~~~~~~~~~
When he returns to Earth, it's straight to Georgia to take advantage of a fragile detente with his ex, to try and cram another year of missed parenting into a few short weeks over the holidays. Fortunately for him, Joanna is still too young to hate him for all of his shortcomings.
Less fortunately, he's more than old enough to take care of that himself. At the beginning of January he tells her goodbye -- again, as always -- and returns to San Francisco fresh on the heels of a stark reminder of everything he's never been able to make work.
Of all the ways he's never been the smart bet for anyone to make.
Jim is waiting for him at the shuttleport when he gets in. Between the rush of cold air whipping in off the bay and the warm clasp of Jim's arms enveloping him in an exuberant hug the second he walks outside, McCoy feels reanchored to the familiarity of home in an instant, in a way he simply hadn't in Georgia.
It's a fleeting feeling; he's not surprised.
Jim trots along at his side all the way back to campus and to his dorm, where he perches against the edge of McCoy's desk and watches McCoy methodically unpack. "So after careful consideration," he announces, "I have decided it totally blows when you fuck off where I can't see you every day. I missed you. Have I mentioned I missed you?"
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Only four times now. Hell, if I didn't know you better I'd be tempted to think you hid yourself away in mourning the entire time."
"I could have," Jim retorts. "Black is absolutely part of my palette."
It's an odd way to be torn, resenting the reminder that he knows all too well that Jim didn't and spent the months living a life that moved on without McCoy, and yet wanting to simply accept the comfort, the ease, the relief of reimmersing himself in the experience that being around Jim always turns out to be.
McCoy steers himself forcibly towards the latter. "Is there any color you wouldn't make that claim about?"
"Lavender," Jim says promptly. "I look terrible in lavender, Bones, there was a -- never mind. It was high school. I don't really talk about it."
"Uh-huh." McCoy ducks his head with a soft laugh, and when he looks up again Jim's self-satisfied smirk and warm gaze nearly make his breath catch. He closes his hand around a small drawstring bag tucked away in a side pocket of his duffel. "Catch," he says gruffly.
Jim's hand flashes out. The tip of his tongue pokes out as he fumbles open the knots. McCoy waits and is not disappointed; Jim's response to the heavy metallic sphere that rolls into his hand is cautiously pleased and entirely confused. "Really ineffective paperweight?" he guesses.
"Dramian puzzle orb," McCoy corrects. "If you solve it in less than three hundred hours, do me a favor and keep the bragging to a minimum."
Jim's face splits in a broad, delighted grin. "Way to set the goal post for me, Bones. How long did it take you exactly?"
"Three eighteen." McCoy stows his duffel under the bed and finally allows himself to collapse. "And twelve minutes," he adds grumpily, cramming a pillow under his head. "That thing is a goddamn torture device. Mark my words, you won't rest until you solve it."
"Noted." Jim fiddles with the orb for a minute, fingers exploring the smooth surface, then clears his throat. "So, uh. Is that why I haven't heard from you for awhile?"
It strikes McCoy as convenient in a somewhat shameful way that he's just thrown an arm over his eyes to block out the light and thus doesn't have to actually face Jim for this. "Things got pretty busy," he mutters vaguely. "I imagine you were keeping yourself occupied, too."
"Yeah," Jim says slowly. "So...that. Do we need to...I don't know, talk about it?"
McCoy thinks briefly that he would rather be forced to watch videos of early twenty-second century medical techniques while having bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails and barbed wire slowly twisted around his balls.
He contents himself with a dissembling, "Have we ever needed to?"
Jim chooses to make right then be one of those times he absolutely refuses to take a hint. "It's just," he starts.
McCoy groans. He lifts his arm from his eyes and makes a concerted effort to set Jim's hair on fire with the sheer force of his glare. "Jim. For the love of god, do not explain yourself to me. Go the hell away so I can get some sleep. Dinner later?"
"I'll bring you tacos," Jim agrees, a faint note of relief in his voice. He pushes off the desk and pauses at the door, swapping the puzzle orb from hand to hand. "Bones. We're good, right?"
"If you get out, we're golden."
Jim gets out. In the quiet calm of his absence, McCoy covers his eyes again and reaches, desperately, for the senselessness of sleep.
~~~~~~~~~
The semester starts and settles rapidly into an interminable, frantic rush to hit ever higher standards of performance. McCoy hates the way it drains his will to even get out of bed most days.
He loves the way it gives him never-ending excuses to avoid Jim at his pleasure. In between the chaos of conquering a new slate of classes and juggling hospital shifts, he gets through two entire weeks without seeing Jim in more than passing.
That lasts right up to the point Jim accosts him outside his own door on a Friday night. "That's it, I'm playing the friend-desperate-for-your-company card, Bones. Ditch the uniform, we're going out."
He goes because saying no to Jim takes energy he doesn't seem to have.
He goes because it feels strangely like it might be be the last chance he has to salvage his friendship with Jim -- and make something less than a complete wreck of his personal life.
Jim is in a strange mood all night, jittery and energetic. He keeps them supplied with pitchers of beer and natters on about the unholy load of classes he's taking, and at one point spins a tale so horrifying about how colossally he bombed his retaking of the Kobayashi Maru in December that McCoy only believes it's true because it's Jim.
Of course he would go out of his way to make inevitable failure even more spectacular the second time around.
He runs out of steam around the time they take up a game of darts. For awhile they play with nothing more than muttered comments complimenting each other's aim, until in the middle of a turn Jim glances sidelong at McCoy. "So, you haven't asked me about Marlena," he says evenly.
McCoy freezes. "Didn't realize I needed to," he finally drawls. "Lord knows you're prone to just telling me pretty much any damn thought that goes through your head."
Jim acknowledges the truth of that with a quick and rueful grin. "Mmm. But see, the thing is...I meant ever. You haven't asked me about her ever."
And without warning there it is, everything McCoy has been trying to avoid laid bare by Jim in a simple statement and a clear-as-glass gaze. He hates that the kid can do that so easily; he hates it now more than ever before. "Yeah, well," he mutters. "Like I said."
"Ah." Jim rolls his last dart between his fingers, glances away from McCoy just long enough to aim and throw. He hits a perfect bullseye and nods to himself, an internal congratulations, then lifts his beer and takes a lazy sip. He waits until McCoy is in place and taking aim to speak again. "Well, we broke up, by the way," he adds then, as casually as if remarking on the weather. "Before Christmas, in fact."
McCoy's dart embeds itself into the wall, two feet wide of its target.
With a muffled curse under his breath, he turns his back on Jim and stalks for their table to pour himself a fresh glass -- and take the opportunity to school his reaction. He only gets a moment, as Jim apparently decides to abandon their game and follow along to drop lazily into his chair. McCoy sighs and takes his own seat. "All right, then, spit it out. What happened?" he forces himself to ask.
Jim shrugs and kicks back in his chair. He props one calf across the corner of the table and jiggles his foot; the sight of it, out of the corner of McCoy's eye, drives him half mad. "Nothing happened," Jim says simply. "We had some fun, lived it out. But me and Marlena, we were never going to make each other happy. I'm not the guy who's gonna follow her along to the command she's sure as hell going to get someday, and she..."
McCoy waits. Jim gazes at him, and a rueful smile tugs his lips. "Well. She's not the one I'd be torn up about not following me along to mine, let's say."
For a long time, McCoy stares at Jim in silence. Jim sips at his beer and waits him out.
"I started seeing someone while I was on Dramia II," McCoy finally says. His voice emerges rougher than he would prefer. He gets a blink of surprise, at least, and he scowls and flicks a discarded lime rind across the table that Jim swats away. He blows out a long sigh. "It was stupid, under the circumstances -- I suppose it was just damn lucky for her that the only thing I do better than lose my head over people is leave 'em behind."
He sighs heavily and tosses some credits on the table, stands and pulls his coat off the back of his chair. "Good night, Jim," he says wearily.
"Bones." Jim's foot hits the floor with a heavy thud. His face, when he rises, bears traces of a man McCoy can believe will get to all the places Jim plans to go. "That's a neat trick you're trying to pull."
McCoy scowls. "Yeah, what trick is that?"
"Do you know the problem with everyone you've left behind?" Jim asks. It hardly seems an answer, not that Jim ever gives a damn about a thing so simple as making one lick of sense. He drops his own credits down and prowls around the side of the table to poke McCoy repeatedly in the middle of the chest, a jab for every word. "They let you go."
Something tightens in McCoy, right under the lingering sensation left by Jim's finger. He steps backwards as if to protect himself somehow from it getting even worse. "Jim..."
"Bones. I'm dragging you with me wherever I go, one way or another. You might as well get used to it." Jim drops his hand and twists their fingers together. "Starting now."
McCoy notes the twinge of desire that begins to unfurl in his gut at the touch of Jim's skin to his. He pushes it aside in a ferocious burst of will. "That may be so," he admits ruefully. He pulls his hand away and shrugs into his coat. "But it won't be that way. You're not dragging me back, Jim, not to that. It's just not worth it."
The flash of startled hurt in Jim's eyes follows him all the way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Miraculously -- and somewhat alarmingly -- Jim leaves it be. McCoy passes the rest of the weekend in peace, studying be damned, and come Monday he can almost pretend things are back to normal.
Normal being a relative term, and all.
Jim messages him at the crack of dawn, a quick suggestion of squeezing lunch in between lectures, and he gives McCoy a quick once over in the dining hall but otherwise launches right into bitching about his morning seminar and the idiot instructor teaching it.
It's almost as if nothing happened between them.
Ever.
The saving grace is that McCoy has been here before, he's done this. He's picked up these kinds of pieces and made sense of the picture left behind. He knows how to do this a far sight better than he ever knew how to do...whatever it was he was doing with Jim.
The days pass in a blur, a week and then two and then three. Jim floats in and out of his awareness, twirling into the periphery of his daily life and then right out again, both of them too busy for much else anyway. When he finally comes up for air it's a weeknight but he's too tired to think anymore, so when Jim swings by to see if he's up for drinks, he says yes for once.
It turns out not to be one of his finer decisions in life. McCoy learned early on that faced with stress, Jim likes to blow off steam whereas he tends to stew in it, and tonight is no exception. They've never mixed well in times like this, not unless they resorted to bed, and before long Jim has abandoned him to his brooding in favor of disappearing off into the crowd, no doubt searching for a better time.
He appears to find it. McCoy catches glimpses of him hanging on the every word of an Orion girl with a smile as bright as Jim's eyes, and their body language writes out a message that gets clearer and clearer the longer they talk -- and start doing other things.
It's nothing McCoy hasn't heard before, nothing he hasn't imagined while Jim filled his head with tales of precisely these kinds of exploits. It's just also nothing he's ever had to watch in living color.
He's a hypocrite, he tells himself bitterly, standing with a lurch and shrugging into his jacket. A hypocrite and a self-deluded fool. And he's done.
On his way out, his gaze locks with Jim's. He lifts his hand in a tight, brief wave goodbye but Jim doesn't return the gesture, only watches him steadily from across the room. Jim's hands stay where they are, one flat across the small of his new friend's back and the other twisted in the red shock of her hair; his head stays tilted to allow her to keep doing whatever it is she's doing to his neck. McCoy thinks about what he knows is going to happen tonight, he thinks about Jim taking her home and mining laughter and orgasms from her body. He thinks about Jim moving on top of her, inside her, with all the enthusiasm Jim always puts into sex.
His cocks stirs. He curses under his breath and turns to leave, but all the way to the door he can feel Jim's gaze following him, unrelenting. Only when he's outside on the street does he feel safe from it. He stops short in the middle of the sidewalk and takes a few deep breaths, and he resigns himself to his destination: home, his own bed, the cold comfort of his right hand.
Then he starts to walk.
In the morning Jim is in a fine mood. McCoy, less so. There are fine tendrils of poorly defined emotion creeping through his mind and he's never done well with that, has always externalized it in flashes of annoyance to relieve the pressure. Jim is impervious, as always, and when he demands McCoy's presence at that damn test, at his third attempt to make impossibilities bow down before him, McCoy relents.
As fucking always, he gives in with no real fight at all.
~~~~~~~~~~
For a day that saw the death of millions and an entire planet torn out of existence, it ends with a strangely unsurprising degree of anticlimactic ease. It doesn't actually feel like anything is ending at all, merely transitioning into whatever comes next; McCoy, tucked away in the borrowed quarters of his dead predecessor and sipping at inherited whiskey, can't quite convince himself that it's an optimistic point of view.
What it all adds up to, he figures, is little more than that he's not dead, a lot of other people are, and everything else remains essentially the same. Adding insult to injury, the sun is a bright and cheerful crime against all things irritable when they return to Earth, and Jim appears at his door late in evening.
Except for how the goddamn universe has been turned inside out on itself, it's business as fucking usual.
Despite his sour mood, McCoy lets Jim drag him out for a drink. The alcohol does nothing to improve his disposition, not with bruises still fresh across Jim's face. "There some reason you're not letting anyone take care of that mess making you even uglier than usual?" he mutters, staring down into his glass as he swirls the dregs of blissfully numbing alcohol in it.
"What are you talking about? I may be a mess, but I'm a hot mess, man. Or so say half the people I've ever known."
McCoy snorts. "Far be it from me to argue with popular wisdom." He glances at Jim and manages a wry smile. "Though I suspect a lot of tunes'll be changing when it comes to you."
"Eh," Jim says carelessly. "Fuck 'em."
"Riiiiiight," McCoy drawls. "Jim Kirk, everyone. Humblest jackass on Earth, hold your applause."
"Oh, I'm not saying they can't adore me." Jim laughs. "They can just go fuck themselves for not appreciating my awesomeness all along." Leaning over the bar, he gestures for another drink and hums to himself as he waits. When he has it fresh in hand, he turns to brace one elbow on the scarred surface and kicks lightly at one of McCoy's feet.
"So hey," he says with a smirk. "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"
It hits McCoy in a flash, the realization of where Jim has brought him and the dizzying sense of coming full circle in so many ways all at once. He laughs before he can stop himself. "Son of a sentimental bitch, Jim."
Jim ducks his head, but not before McCoy catches the embarrassed smile tugging one side of his mouth -- or the flash of relief in his eyes. He lays his hand over McCoy's wrist where it rests on the bar and his thumb rubs idly over the jut of bone. "Well? What do you say? For old times' sake?"
McCoy sighs. "Jim, I don't think --"
"No? What about because you want to? Because I want you to?" Jim's voice sharpens. His eyes look flinty in the dim light when he looks up again. "Or maybe because you couldn't leave me behind when you tried, Bones. When it didn't even matter."
McCoy doesn't say anything. Jim sets his jaw and glares. "What, is that not enough? Fine. Then let's try this: because you're a stupid, scared, stubborn wreck of a person and I love you anyway, I love you for all of that, asshole. Because it's been the better part of a year and I still think about you when I'm with other people, I still think about you when I jerk off."
Mouth gone dry, McCoy stares at Jim in a stunned stupor. "You had me at 'nice shoes', numbnuts," he finally says faintly. "I was just going to say that...I don't think I can do it again, Jim, not pretending it means less than it does. I can't do that again."
Jim stares at him for a long time. McCoy tries not to fear that he's gone and ruined a sure thing. "Don't you remember my birthday last year?" Jim asks at last.
"What, do you actually remember your birthday last year?" McCoy retorts.
"Hey, I wasn't that drunk," Jim says mildly. "Not so drunk that I can't remember telling you this then -- and you blowing me off."
"What the hell are you on about?"
"I told you I wanted to be with you forever."
"You -- " McCoy gapes. "What you said was don't stop, don't ever stop -- and then you came. On my pillow of all places!" He cuffs Jim abruptly on the side of the head. "Damn it, Jim, if I had a credit for every time you've proclaimed devotion when you've got an orgasm in the offing..."
"It was different that time!" Jim shrugs carelessly. "That's what I meant, anyway, that I didn't want any of it to stop. And I mean, it was cool, how things were, but -- you went sort of radio silent while you were gone. I kind of figured the light years had finally trumped my ability to keep you sex-stupid and seduced. I don't know. I missed you and you weren't talking to me and Marlena was there, so...I thought I should try to do that differently. Since I'd fucked it up somehow with you."
"Sex-stupid," McCoy echoes numbly. "Seduced....Jim, you -- jesus christ, you moron, the first time you mentioned her you made it sound like you were Dear goddamn Johning me over subspace."
Jim rolls his eyes. "Well, I wasn't, you sad sack of a miserable bastard. I was keeping you informed, I thought you liked that."
"Not when you're informing me that you're going ass over tits for someone else!" McCoy snarls. "Damn it, Jim, you go and tell me you're fucking dating and what do I do? Let that chase me into the arms of someone I convinced myself I loved. Sex-stupid? Let me tell you something, sex-stupid lasted for about the blink of an eye, dumbass, the rest of the time I was just stupid for you."
Jim stares at him, lips parted and shiny and pink. "Bones," he finally says. He clears his throat. "You...were?"
"Oh, fuck you."
"Exactly." Jim grins and waggles his eyebrows, tips his head towards the exit. "Let's."
~~~~~~~~~~
Remarkably, Jim keeps his hands to himself until they're right outside McCoy's door.
Then it's all rapidly downhill from there.
So rapid that they don't make it to the bed. McCoy can't remember a time in his life he felt so frantic that he couldn't even watch his step, or be bothered to get up after tumbling to the carpet in a tangle of limbs. But it's been a long goddamn year and Jim is laughing under him again at last, shoved up on one elbow with his other hand twisting in McCoy's hair. McCoy curses and tries, inadvisably, to wrestle open Jim's pants and his own at the same time.
He finally gives up and bats at Jim in frustration. "Help me, damn it," he growls, and focuses on getting his own cock out of the damnably frustrating confines of his pants.
Jim exhibits a flexibility McCoy considers inappropriate to his age by wriggling out of every scrap of his clothes while remaining sprawled on the floor with McCoy between his legs. "C'mon, then," he finally huffs, jacking his cock and beaming happily.
McCoy lurches to the side and fumbles blindly in a drawer for lube. Jim smacks his arm when he tries to give more than a perfunctory swipe of slickness. "Foreplay later," he says inanely. When McCoy scowls at him the levity fades from his features. "Bones. Please."
The first push in is too hard, too fast; Jim just digs heels into the backs of his thighs and throws his head back with a full-throated groan. "Oh my -- holy shit, I have missed your dick."
"Flattered, I'm sure," McCoy snaps. He's going to have to do some dermal mending on them both; his knees keep slipping against the carpet and he shudders to even think about Jim's back taking the brunt of each jarring thrust McCoy gives him. "Jim -- we should move to -- "
"If you stop I will kill you," Jim threatens. McCoy goes down hard on one forearm and grasps a fistful of Jim's hair, yanks his head back to expose his throat to McCoy's wandering mouth. Jim stretches his arms, grasping clumsily at McCoy's legs and digging his fingers in, encouraging, insisting. McCoy works into Jim in short, quick strokes that force sharp noises from him, guttural demands for more, fuck, Bones, fuck fuck fuck fuck until McCoy kisses him just to shut him up.
It's hard, brutal sex, desperate and reckless. The need twists inside McCoy like a churn of panic that feels dizzyingly akin to the worst scenarios he's been subjected to in the flight simulators. His orgasm is rushing at him as his focus narrows and goes scattershot, leaping from detail to detail: the rut of his cock into Jim, the slip of sweat on skin, Jim's teeth scraping his jaw.
Jim. He grabs for one of Jim's legs, folds it up and back until Jim groans and goes taut at the angle McCoy is slapping in at. McCoy hisses in satisfaction. "You missed my dick so much?" he growls. "Show me, hotshot. Come on it, do it, just fucking -- "
Jim's eyes roll back, fluttering and shaking under heavy lids, and his cock pulses out long stripes of come between them. "Bones," he gasps. He searches out McCoy's mouth again, his kiss panting and sloppy. "God, yeah. Fuck. That's the stuff."
McCoy bites Jim's lip as the crash finally hits and he grinds in deep, honestly stunned by the rattling force of his orgasm. His vision constricts and sparks dance behind his eyelids, and his lower back throbs with spasms that make him jerk into Jim again and again.
He's getting too old for this shit, christ, fucking on the floor like over-eager kids. When he groans and pulls out slowly, Jim just sighs and stretches languidly. He waves a hand vaguely in the air. "I'm gonna...something. Eventually."
McCoy snorts. Getting off the floor is a crime against his knees and his spine both, but he manages and offers Jim a hand to haul him up as well. He winces at the raw redness on Jim's shoulders when he turns away to stumble to the bathroom, and when Jim returns and collapses face first on the bed he sits at his side to run a regeneration cycle on the marks with his handheld dermal unit. "Better?" he asks quietly before turning his attention to his own abrasions.
Jim flops over onto his back and sighs. "In pretty much every way imaginable," he says cheerfully.
Rolling his eyes, McCoy goes to take a piss and orders the lights off on his way back to the bed. Jim budges over for him to lie down, but is still close enough for McCoy to feel the heat bleeding off his body.
For reasons he can't quite pin down, he resists the urge to slide an arm over Jim and tug him even closer.
In the silence that reigns for a few minutes, McCoy drifts towards sleep. Then Jim breaks it. "I would like you to take note that I have come my brains out and do not have an orgasm in the offing," he says idly.
McCoy grunts into the pillow. He's too fucking drained to figure out what the hell Jim is on about. "You're welcome," he mutters.
Jim hums and elbows him in the side. With a yawn, he squirms around, jostling McCoy even more as he punches his own pillow and crams it under his head. "Just wanted to make sure you don't go blaming my dick when I say I kind of love you."
McCoy waits a beat, lets Jim's words wash over him and settle. "I blame your dick for everything," he finally says. "It's an absolute menace."
Lifting his head, he watches a slow smile spread across Jim's mouth even as Jim doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Ruined you for life, you think?" Jim asks lazily.
"Yeah, kid," McCoy says. "Yeah, I think it just might have done."