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The prompt this week… Star Trek Yes I might be looking for excuses lol.
Day 21
McCoy doesn’t bake. He just doesn’t do baking. He had never expected Jocelyn to bake either, because he knows what a drag it is. Not that Jocelyn had ever showed an interest in being a housewife or doing domestic things in general (“That’s just so twentieth century, Leonard …”). So he finds it kind of disconcerting to see how much effort and commitment Jim puts into this repulsive act.
“We need to weigh it!” He insists.
“Here it says ‘a pinch’. Just …” McCoy makes a vague motion with his hand, “… just sprinkle some of the stuff on it.”
Jim chews on his bottom lip. “Yes, but how much is a pinch? Can’t we do some research? Just to make sure?”
What the hell? Research? McCoy is so close to tell him not be a big baby about it, but Jim’s eyes are wide and blue and look so incredibly earnest that he find himself unable to do it. He sighs, resigned. “Okay. Whatever. I’ll look into it.”
Jim grins enthusiastically and pats him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Bones!”
Maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised. Jim does everything he does with maximal effort and a hundred percent dedication. That much he knows.
They screw it up. Their first version of the cake is a flat, black … thing.
“I’m not sure it’s supposed to look like that,” Jim murmurs as he inspects the smoky briquette in front of him.
“I guess not,” McCoy sighs, feeling fed up with baking already. Whoever said Twentieth-century housewives had it easy was a bad, bad liar. “Look Jim, I really need to get my science assessment done and maybe we should just …”
Jim’s lower lip trembles suspiciously while he tries to act nonchalant (and fails). “Yeah sure,” he manages. “Go ahead. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
And this? This is just plain mean.
McCoy rolls his eyes and massages his throbbing temples. “For heaven’s sake. Alright, alright. Let’s give it one more try,” he grumbles.
Jim beams. “Awesome!”
Of course the second time around Jim is even more dedicated (some might call it obsessed) and puts even more effort into everything. Secretly McCoy is glad that he decided to stay (decided, ok? Not got persuaded) because in his over eagerness Jim is even more careless and accident-prone than usual. After the third time he almost cuts his hand, McCoy sighs, takes the knife from him and starts to cut the ingredients himself.
“Not going to take you to the hospital again,” he grumbles under his breath. “Not today.”
Jim hears it anyway, if his smile is anything to go by.
Of course that doesn’t stop him from meddling. “Stop! Bones, wait! That’s too much chocolate.”
“There’s such a thing as too much chocolate to you?” He raises a skeptic eyebrow. “Am I still talking to Mr. ‘Yes, there has to be extra chocolate on my Triple-Choco-Shock ice cream’?”
Jim hesitates, clearly torn between ‘doing it right’ and ‘creating the sweetest cake in the existence of mankind’. “Well … no,” he finally answers, throwing a wistful look at the dark powder in McCoy’s hand. “But other people need to eat this too, right? And they need to like it. I just … don’t want to mess it up.”
There’s something else in his voice, something insecure and vulnerable that makes it clear as crystal what he really means.
They won’t like me if I mess this up.
And somewhere deep down McCoy wonders how and when and why Jim ever started to think that way.
“Okay,” he finally says, sounding softer than intended. “We’re doing it right. It’s gonna be the best damn cake those fuckers have ever eaten.”
And the beaming grin Jim sends his way totally doesn’t make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Day 22
They don’t mess up the cake. In fact, McCoy thinks, it’s really the best damn cake the Xenolinguistic Club has ever seen. Not too much chocolate, not too little lemon. The cake is just perfect. Even Uhura is impressed with their effort – they still don’t get to know her first name.
Day 23
He has a headache. One of the bad ones. One of these kinds where even a hypospray can’t work its magic. It doesn’t help that Jim comes bouncing into his room after his classes, loudly announcing that he’s gonna spend the night with one fine lady called Virginia of all names. McCoy tries to snort, but that makes his head hurt even more and he groans into his pillow.
Jim finally stops babbling about his newest fancy. “Bones, you okay?”
McCoy rolls his eyes, but that hurts as well. “Go away.”
“Are you sick?” Jim leans over him and McCoy closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the worry in Jim’s eyes. He doesn’t need the worry. “You’re a doctor! How can you be sick?” Come to think of it, McCoy doesn’t need the idiocy either.
“Go. Away. Now.” He still hasn’t opened his eyes.
Jim thankfully backs away. “Do you need anything?”
“For you to shut up,” he groans.
“Okay … but … you know … call me? If you need anything?”
McCoy hears the door closing and he withstands the urge to roll his eyes again. As if he’d ever ask Jim for a favor.
Day 24
Jim’s last course today is Tactical Analysis which McCoy didn’t take for a damn good reason. It’s one of those courses with lots of annoying drivel and needless discussion and no simple answers. Ever. Thank you very much, but he prefers his facts and neat slivers of Vulcan liver on a plate.
He’s not really surprised when Jim doesn’t show up afterwards. There’s probably a lot of heated talking going on and Jim is one of those persons who has an opinion about absolutely everything.
When Jim still hasn’t shown up after diner, he tells himself he’s actually glad for an evening of peace and quiet. Ever since Jim is around he hasn’t time to read a few books or to clean his room, things that desperately need to be done. In the end he does neither.
As he finally hears somebody knocking on the door it’s almost midnight. Not that he’s staring at his clock or anything.
“Dude, some people are trying to sleep …” his words die on his lips as he catches sight of Jim. One of his eyes is almost swollen shut and his lips are bleeding. The worst thing is the look on his face though. His eyes are dark and he looks tired, defeated and completely miserable.
“What happened?” He asks sharply.
Jim shakes his head. He licks his lower lip and winces. “Nothing.” His voice is rough. “I just … you got an ice bag or something?”
“Nothing?” McCoy snarls as he draws him inside. “Yeah sure, it looks just like a fat bit of nothing to me.”
He raises his hand and feels his stomach clench as Jim flinches almost unnoticeably. Carefully he probes the swollen area around his eye, trying to gauge the damage.
“Sit down,” he orders. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Ribs? Stomach?”
Jim stubbornly shakes his head, but McCoy checks it anyway just to make sure. “I keep telling them ‘not the face’, you know?” Jim says eventually, trying for casual and failing miserably. “But obviously they can’t stand me being so pretty. Makes them all hot and bothered.”
McCoy wants to ask, he want to bug Jim until he spits out the truth. But he knows this is the only thing he’s going to get out of him, smart-ass remarks and hot air. So he doesn’t ask again and Jim doesn’t offer an explanation.
But he allows Bones to take care of him, and at least that’s something.
Day 25
“Do you know about my dad?” Jim’s voice is quiet, almost inaudible in the current noise, and it takes him a moment to comprehend the question. And when he does, he’s not sure he actually understands it.
“Yes,” McCoy answers carefully, not really sure which questions he just confirmed. Yes, I know who your father was? Yes, I know that he is dead? Yes, I know that he’s a hero? Yes, I know that everybody and their dog are comparing you to him? Yes, I know you hate it?
Jim nods. “Okay.” The tense line of his shoulders slumps a little, he looks almost relieved. McCoy is watching him from the corner of his eyes, trying to search for … something.
Jim looks like a rowdy right now, wild and unruly. His left eye is about to turn from purple to dark blue and his cheeks are bruised. He wears his leather jacket like a shield. He’s been fidgety the whole evening, and he drinks too much and too fast. Maybe it’s about yesterday. Maybe it’s about his father, who’s a dead hero. And maybe it’s about both.
Jim beckons to the bartender. “Can we get another drink?” He asks, his fingers drumming on the counter. To McCoy he says: “Let’s get wasted.”
“Are you okay?” It’s a pointless question, but he asks anyway.
Jim shrugs. “Depends. Are you going to carry my sorry ass back to the dorms?”
McCoy sighs and rolls his eyes. “You know I will.”
Jim smiles. It’s small and vulnerable looking in his bruised face, but it’s an actual smile. “Then I’m okay.”
And that’s as good an answer as anything.
Day 26
A glance at his watch tells McCoy that its past midnight, and he decides that enough is enough.
“Come on, you’ve got enough,” he tells Jim. Jim just blinks slowly at him, all this restless energy from earlier gone, and nods. Somehow McCoy had expected a lot more arguing, but Jim just looks tired and contemplative and it makes McCoy uneasy. Jim is not supposed to be the broody one of them.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
They get up, Jim goes to the bar and pays, and then they’re outside. The cold night air does wonders to Jim’s level of consciousness it seems, because a hand on McCoy’s shoulder stops him from going any further.
“What?” He growls. Contrary to Jim, who looks now more alert than he did half of the night, McCoy is really tired and has a full day of a Chemistry class ahead of him.
“Wait just a second, okay?”
Before McCoy can even reply, Jim has vanished in the bar again. McCoy mutters some curses under his breath and they get louder when Jim reappears, in his arm a barely conscious redhead McCoy recognizes from their Basic Warp Design class.
“What the hell?” He growls. “I’m not helping you with your romantic endeavors!”
“Bones!” Jim’s voice wavers somewhere between dismay and amusement. “Some guys wanted to chat her up. I just got her out before they could take her to one of their definition of a romantic endeavor. Isn’t that right, Mary?”
“I may throw up on you,” is all she has to say, sagging even more against Jim, who starts to have trouble keeping her up.
McCoy still grumbles, but he helps sling Mary’s other arm over his shoulder.
Day 27
He has lunch with two of his fellow students during a break in their Chemistry class when he realizes they’re a bunch of complete idiots he really doesn’t want to know. Well, of course they are idiots, most of them are at least half a decade younger than him and he just hopes for them that they will grow some more brain cells really soon.
“So, Peters said he saw Mary leaving with that slut Kirk yesterday,” Kalint begins out of nowhere after they’ve all sat down with their trays. McCoy nearly spills his water, but Kalint doesn’t notice it.
“I can’t believe he’s still enrolled,” Rooter complains. “He’s nothing but a pretty face.”
“Yeaaah,” Kalint draws the word out like gum and leans back in his chair. “I bet he’s only here because of that.”
McCoy can’t believe what he’s hearing and he really, really hopes that Kalint isn’t implying what he thinks he is. “Excuse me? What exactly do you mean by that?” He asks and tries his best to control the rage in his voice.
Kalint looks at him, kind of surprised to see the scowl on his face. “Well, you know … Captain Pike? He recruited him personally, if you get my drift. Kirk didn’t even have to apply like the rest of us. He just got a free pass.”
McCoy actually laughs at that. As if anything in Jim’s life he’s seen so far could be described as a free pass. Kalint and Rooter look at him, bewildered.
“You okay, man?” Rooter asks and McCoy has enough.
“Fuck you,” he bellows and they actually flinch. “Jim is here because his aptitude test result is higher than yours, combined together, you assholes.” He stands up and ignores their open-mouthed stares at him. “And just for your information, he got Mary out of that bar so none of you morons and your friends could take advantage of her. And we just brought her home like any decent man would do.”
They still stare at him when he leaves the cafeteria, but he couldn’t care less.
Day 28
“Okay, can you explain to me one more time why you invited me to lunch? Not that I complain, but usually you hit me when I ask if you want to act like a southern gentleman …”
“Just shut up and eat, Jim,” McCoy says, but with a smile in his voice. Jim picks up on it and smiles one of his big, all teeth-smiles back at him.
A few seconds later Jim is so occupied devouring his chocolate cake that he doesn’t notice McCoy scowling in the direction of Rooter and Kalint who are sitting across the room.
Day 29
“Sooooooooooooooooo,” Jim says upon entering McCoy’s room, bringing a pad with him, and McCoy puts his own padd down. Nothing good can come out of a sentence starting like this and he really doesn’t want to ask.
“What?” But of course he does it anyway.
“I just had a conversation with Mary … you remember her, Bones?”
“Of course,” McCoy rolls his eyes. “Did she invite you to Thank you-sex?”
Jim tilts his head as if in serious contemplation. “Nope, would kind of defeat the purpose of saving her from people like me in the first place, don’t you think?”
“You’re nothing like this,” McCoy grits out, remembering Kalint and Rooter.
“Aaaw.” Jim has the audacity to pat him on the shoulder and McCoy scowls at him. “That’s nice … so, tell me, Bones. Had lunch with some of your chemistry buddies recently?” Jim asks nonchalantly, the only thing betraying his cool the way he nervously tips random buttons on his pad.
“What?” McCoy swears he feels his stomach drop at least a meter. “Mary heard us?”
“Only you. Made quite the impression on her, you striding out of the room like a righteous knight.”
“I’m no righteous knight and you’re nothing like these bastards pictured you.”
“Bones,” Jim suddenly gets serious. “It’s okay.”
“No!” He shouts and stands up, hands balled to fists in anger. “It’s not okay,” and now he’s pointing at Jim who just looks confused, as if he doesn’t get the concept of people standing up for each other, for him. “They had no right to say this shit about you. It’s not true.”
“But they’re your friends, Bones.”
“What? In what universe would I want to be friends with a bunch of morons who talk only trash about you?”
“But – “
“No buts! And now sit down; don’t you have this interstellar cartography assignment due tomorrow? Have you even started yet? Unbelievable, I bet you will ace it nevertheless, just don’t wake me when you work through the night, okay?”
Jim hesitates for a second. “Okay.”
Day 30
“Hey Bones, what’s taking you so long? Don’t you remember the strippers and beer-night you promised me again last wee – …” Jim pauses mid-sentence and stops halfway through the door. “Uhm … is this a bad time?” he asks belatedly, sounding more curious than apologetical.
Bones shakes his head in ‘no’ and continues pacing up and down. He’s holding a communicator in one hand; the other is curled to a fist. He’s tense and feels queasy, just the way he feels when he sits inside a shuttle. Jocelyn is talking to him for half an hour now and she fires question after question so fast that his head is starting to spin.
“Look …,” he tries. “Jocelyn.” He sighs and runs his finger through his hair. He turns around. “You know, that’s not …”
It’s to no avail.
It’s a little bit sad and all kinds of ironic, because it used to be one of the things he adored about her. Her fierceness, her temper, her sharp tongue, the way she could outtalk people. Now it’s part of the things he hates the most, apart from the fact that she took everything from him. She never gives him room to talk anymore, let alone to think, to set things straight.
“Bones …,” Jim says, sounding oddly soft, and McCoy can’t help but look at him. “I can wait outside if you’d rather …?”
“No. Jim, no.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath.
“What the hell?” Jocelyn asks, sounding affronted. “Are you still at work?”
“I’m not …”
“Why do I even bother to ask? Of course you are. Dear God, Leonard. At least tell your patients to wait outside when you talk to someone. Geez.”
And this is kind of the last straw, not the fact that she still thinks he’s an obsessed workaholic with no life and social contacts whatsoever, but the fact that she assumes she’s more important to him than beer and strippers and Jim. Not particularly in that order. Because she’s not.
“Look, I really can’t talk right now”, he snarls, feeling angry and satisfied and in control at the same time. “I’ll call you back. And Jim is not a patient, he’s my friend,” he adds, emphasizes the last part.
“Friend,” she repeats slowly as if he’s talking Klingon. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Are you serious?”
And hell if he knows. His brain feels kind of frozen. He hasn’t even realized that it had changed somehow. And even now he can’t pinpoint an exact moment or a date where Jim had turned from ‘annoying brat who steals my food’ to ‘friend’. The only thing he knows is that somewhere along the way he has gotten so used to Jim’s company that it almost feels like he’s missing something when Jim’s not there.
“Yes”, he answers, still not looking at Jim. “Yes, I’m serious. He’s my friend, and he and I are going for strippers and beer now. Have a lovely evening.” He hangs up before she even has the chance to reply and damn, it feels good. He feels an awkward little half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What …” He clears his throat. “What did you say about strippers and beers?” He turns around when there’s no reply. “Jim?” he asks.
Jim is staring at him. He is eerily quiet, which is kind of awkward and more than a little unusual, because Jim is not even quiet when he’s quiet. Usually he’s constantly in motion and he always does little things like humming, bouncing or tapping with his fingers. Just not right now.
“Jim? What?” McCoy repeats and starts to feel a little uncomfortable. Is it something he said?
“Nothing.” Jim seems to awaken from his stupor and shakes his head. Suddenly he’s grinning at him, all bright and warm and happy and McCoy feels something soft and fuzzy unfurling inside his stomach.
Jim stands up and stretches. He pats him on the shoulder as he walks by and if his hand lingers a little too long … well, McCoy chooses not to comment on it. “’S nothing really. Let’s go.”
