rockinhamburger

Title: Five Times Bones Just Knows
Author: Yours truly (

rockinhamburger )
Rating: PG-13 for some swearing. Why do I always fail to bring the pr0n when it comes to Trek??
Pairing: Definitely Kirk/McCoy, but it's all in how you read between the lines.
Disclaimer: I - quite obviously - do not own Star Trek. Roddenberry is the genius behind it, and I am but a lowly fan.
Summary: Jim vaguely wonders how he managed before Bones came into his life.
Notes: This is my first Kirk/McCoy fic. I've been working on it here and there for the better part of a month, and I think I like it. I hope you will, too. Unbetaed, unfortunately, so any and all mistakes are mine; please feel free to point them out to me!

Five Times Bones Just Knows

James T. Kirk does not back down from a challenge. He's determined to graduate in three years, just like he told Pike he would, and for the most part this will not be a difficult task. The course load so far's been a cinch, and the classes as easy as the ladies Jim picks up on a regular basis.

However, on a Friday afternoon only six weeks after he's enlisted at Starfleet, he packs his belongings into a Starfleet bag he pilfered from the exercise room in the gymnasium, throws the bag over one shoulder, and looks around the room he shares with his moronic roommate for anything he might be forgetting. As the door to his room slides shut behind him, he turns toward the corridor that will bring him to the front entrance of the building, and just manages to hold back a shout of surprise when he comes face-to-face with that McCoy fellow he met on the shuttle.

"'Lo, there," McCoy says in a friendly tone. They've seen each other a handful of times in the last month, but always in passing, and they haven't yet stopped to chat.

"Hey," Jim says kindly enough, forcing a smile. He is uncomfortably aware how this must look to McCoy. Like he's running away.

McCoy gives him the one-over, and shifts the books in his left arm to his right. "You want to grab a drink with me?" he asks, an inviting smile forming on his face. He's cleaned up well since their first meeting; the stubble's gone, and he's wearing his Starfleet uniform.

A drink wouldn't be so bad. In fact, he could definitely use one, if he's honest with himself. Maybe it'll stop the errant thoughts that've been running through Jim's head all day. Besides, there's nothing stopping him from leaving tomorrow. It's not like he has anywhere to go in any kind of hurry.

Jim smiles, and this time it's genuine. "Yeah. That'd be great," he admits.

Many hours later, as the two men stumble drunklenkly home with their arms around each other for balance and their voices raised in song, Jim decides he's going to stay at Starfleet after all. In fact, he can't remember why he wanted to leave in the first place.

--

Without any warning, Jim barges into Bones's room, entirely without permission. It's a testament to their growing friendship that Bones doesn't even look up from his data pad to respond to the intrusion.

"Were you raised in a barn, man? Common courtesy to knock before bargin' in on someone."

It's their fourth month at Starfleet. They've become fast friends, spending most of their free time outside of class in each other's company. They seem to have really clicked. On this particular occasion, however, Jim is not in the mood for easy banter. As soon as he enters, he begins to pace the length of Bones's small dorm room.

Bones looks up at Jim's non-reaction to his words (a definite rarity for Jim), and his brows furrow in confusion and something else Jim doesn't notice because he's too busy pacing and breathing like he's just run a marathon. "What happened, kid? You look like you've just come from a fight. Again." Jim glances up, catching the look of curiosity, concern and irritation on Bones's face, and if Jim weren't so on-edge, he'd probably find the combined effect rather funny.

Jim sits down quite suddenly on what he knows is Bones's bed, and buries his face in his hands. "Bones, I can't stand this place," he says. His words are muffled slightly, but Bones appears to have heard him anyway.

"Okay, whoa. Tell me what happened."

"I swear to god, Bones, I almost punched him out." He lifts his gaze to Bones, and he knows how stupid he must look. "He thinks he knows what he's talking about, but he's wrong. He's so - he's fucking clueless, man," Jim says jerkily, laughing humourlessly. He's not making sense, but he can't seem to put his thoughts into an orderly fashion just now. He jumps back to his feet and starts pacing again.

"All right, I'm gonna need more information," Bones says, watching Jim carefully.

Jim stops, faces Bones head on. "Turner. Fucking Turner. Thinks he understands. He asked me these stupid - fucking stupid - questions about my dad's -- " He stops. He cannot finish that sentence. When he speaks again, his voice has picked up in volume and intensity. "He asked me in front of the whole fucking class, Bones!"

His pent-up frustration needs to go somewhere. Without being aware of deciding to, Jim snatches up an empty drinking glass from Bones's desk, and chucks it with all his might. It connects with the opposite wall and smashes into pieces. The tension in his body begins to dissipate until Jim feels like he's about to fall down.

Bones is on his feet and in front of Jim in about two seconds flat, his hands coming up to steady him. Jim breathes deeply for several minutes, and when he can finally stand without feeling like an invalid, he steps back and says shakily, "you know, I'm getting used to the stares I get when people realize who I am, and I... I can ignore the occasional inane question. But from Turner? Fuck this. I don't even know why I came here in the first place."

Bones crosses to his makeshift liquor cabinet, and pours a glass of some kind of alcohol for each of them. Then he walks back over, handing Jim one of the glasses. "Here. That's some mighty fine ale from back home. Try it."

Jim takes a sip. Bones is right about it being might fine. When Bones sits down and beckons for him to take the empty chair by his desk, Jim's already starting to feel better.

"We can talk this out later, and you can make a decision about leaving or not when you're not so angry. All right?"

Jim nods. A companiable silence descends upon them, and when the conversation starts up again, it strays far from the incident that's just occured. By his fourth drink, Jim's not quite as angry. He thinks perhaps he'll stick around a bit longer. You know, since he's told Pike he'll do it in three years, and all.

--

It sneaks up on him. Normally he has the opportunity to prepare himself for the inevitable depression that overtakes him every year, but that is not the case this time around.

Somehow, miraculously, Jim finds he's made it to his second year at Starfleet. But that almost changes on one lazy afternoon in March. He's walking back from Xenolinguistics with Kevin Catelli, a funny kid who's always got a zinger of a comeback at the ready, when he discovers what day it is.

Catelli is in the middle of telling an admittedly funny story about a childhood accident. He says, "Yep, it was ten years ago today. I'll always remember: March 22nd, 2232!", and suddenly Jim's a little kid again, helplessly watching his mother weep quietly as she prepares birthday dinner. It's the morning of his 18th birthday, and his mum's come downstairs, taken one look at Jim, and burst into tears. He's lost in memories of a day that holds no joy for him, a day that he tries not to think about, but ironically can never forget.

Somehow he manages to muddle through the rest of his conversation with Catelli, and when he reaches his room, the one he now shares with Bones, he's relieved to find it empty.

Jim goes immediately to Bones's liquor cabinet, and half an hour later, Bones enters with a huge pile of books, wearing his lab coat. When he sees Jim sitting there at his desk nursing a scotch, he wordlessly puts the books down, and pulls up another chair next to Jim's.

He doesn't ask why Jim's drinking at 1500, doesn't comment even when Jim starts in on his ninth drink. He just sits calmly, quietly, in case Jim needs to speak. Or that's what Jim figures, anyway, because why else is he being so quiet? So goddamned understanding?

The next morning, he's got a splitting headache, and he spends most of the day emptying the contents of (and eventually the nothingness in) his stomach. Bones stays nearby with a damp washcloth and a bucket, reading aloud from one of Jim's textbooks. He doesn't speak about the cause of his binge-drinking, and Bones doesn't ask.

He vaguely wonders how he managed before Bones came into his life.

--

One month into their five-year mission, Jim hurries into Sickbay, where Bones is examining an ensign (Johnson, Jim reminds himself absently), and vomits into a nearby sink. It feels like hours have passed when he finally surfaces only to discover Bones has abandoned Johnson to place a firm, soothing hand on the back of Jim's neck.

"Sorry, Bones," he croaks, pulling away from Bones's reassuring presence reluctantly.

Bones waves away the apology. "Hop up, Jim, and I'll check you out," he says, motioning with a jerk of his head at an empty examining table.

"I'm fine. Ate something weird at breakfast, probably." He sits down all the same, too weak to really put up a fight.

"A likely story, Jim. You look like you're about to fall over."

Jim doesn't argue, just concentrates on not throwing up again. When a wave of dizziness hits him, he realizes there really is something wrong, and he straightens out to lie down. Bones quickly finishes up with Ensign Johnson and sends him on his way before turning his attention back to Jim.

"Symptoms? Besides nausea and vomiting, that is."

Groaning, Jim tries to speak. "Dizzy. Sweaty. So tired."

Bones nods and scans him with a tricorder. After examining the results for a few moments, he nods once.

"Right. It's stress."

Jim lifts a hand that's been resting across his eyes to gaze at Bones in wonderment. "Stress?"

"Yep. Why don't you get an assistant or something; you've been busting your ass since we took off. You're obviously not getting enough sleep, and you're stretching yourself too thin. You're no good to this ship if you're too worked to captain it properly."

The words sting. "I'm captaining this ship just fine! And I don't need an assistant."

"Yes, you do," Bones argues calmly, making a note in his PADD. "And since I'm CMO, and I can pull rank over you, I'm ordering you to get one. I'll even find one for you."

Jim's incensed at Bones's audacity. He refuses to speak to the man for the remainder of the day.

When a young woman shows up at his quarters the following morning with an introduction ("Janice Rand, Sir. Dr. McCoy sent me.") and a scorching hot coffee, Jim grudgingly accepts that Bones might have been right. When Rand places a neat pile of paperwork on his desk that evening, another hot cup of coffee and an actual, non-replicated danish next to it, Jim's entirely warmed to the idea of an assistant. In fact, he's about ready to give Bones his firstborn child.

--

There's none of his usual self-destructive behaviour when the news comes in. No flying off the handle. He just closes his communicator and places it carefully on the desk in front of him. Then he sighs deeply, trying not to succumb to his grief.

His mother...

His mother is dead.

He's embarrassed by his tears even though there is no one here to witness them. For one wild moment, he wishes he were Vulcan, just so he'd be able to contain this emotion that's flooding through him. This pain.

The door to his room slides open without warning, and Bones enters wordlessly. Jim straightens up, wipes his face as conspicuously as he can, and turns to face Bones, his shoulders already squaring.

"Anyone ever tell you to knock before coming in?" he asks quietly.

The corners of Bones's mouth turn up, but he doesn't smile fully, which tells Jim that he's heard the news. Winona Kirk is famous enough that most of his crew will have heard about it, come morning.

He tries to smile, expelling a shaky breath. "She wasn't even around that much once I turned 10. Guess she thought I was old enough to take care of myself. So why'm I so...?" he trails off, not sure how to describe how he's feeling at the moment. And anyway, he doesn't have to say it, because Bones knows. He always knows.

Bones grabs the spare chair by Jim's desk, drags it over, and sits down in it across from him. "She's your mom, Jim," he says gently.

And yeah, that about sums it up. With those quiet words, Jim lets go. He's falling forward, unwilling and unable to hold himself up in his grief. But as usual, Bones is there to put him back together again. He reaches out and pulls Jim into a warm, solid, reassuring embrace, and it is the finest metaphor Jim can think of for their friendship. He can't help it; he sinks into the hug, clutching desperately to the other man. Basks in the comfort of another body against his.

The Enterprise, and Bones specifically, are the closest thing Jim has to home, to a family, and somehow, it doesn't seem so strange from this angle.

End.

Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment on your way out!

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