DISCLAIMER: I don't own Star Trek. : (
Legato
His fingers skim over the ivory keys with an intellect of their own, built after hours of work from the miracle known as muscle memory. Nimble and light, they dance through the chord progressions like spiders spinning a web of notes that resonate within the small room.
The only thing in his life he can truly believe in.
People can—and will—lie. Cheat. Betray.
Machines eventually fail. Malfunction. Fall apart.
And everything else is unpredictable.
But music—music is perfect.
The song ends in a D minor chord and he sits for a few brief seconds before starting a different song in the same key.
The lyrics—though he is no singer, echo through his head. Scarborough Fair. It is one of his favorites, slow, sad and beautiful as it is.
A knock comes at the door, startling him.
He mutters a curse as his fingers slip on the keys, making an unpleasant combination of notes sound loudly.
"It's open," he calls, hastily getting to his feet and pulling a sheet over the instrument, hurrying to the small kitchen and producing a large bottle of gin.
The door slides open. It's Jim.
"Hey," Jim says. He notices the gin and asks, "You expecting me or something?"
He glances at the bottle. "No. Just hanging out."
"It's four a.m."
"…Your point being?"
"I know when people go to sleep. Uhura turns in around ten, Spock with her, Chekov at ten-thirty, Sulu at eleven, Scotty at midnight, me at eleven, and you at one or two."
"How you know this, I neither want nor need to know, Jim."
"The fact remains, you're not asleep. So A, something's bugging you, or B, you have a lot of work to do. Judging by your lack of a stylus and a PADD, I'm assuming the former."
He rolls his eyes. "You're one to talk. What happened to your uniform?"
Jim frowns, bemused. "We've been on shore leave for the past four hours. We're docking above Earth at around ten."
"Oh, right. And you're going to milk it for all it's worth."
"Exactly."
He sighs. "Gin?"
"Not too much. It's enough to pull into the space dock looking like a zombie; I don't want to look like a hung-over one too."
"I think that's the first time you've shown a shred of common sense."
"D'aww, you're so thoughtful."
He smirks, pouring a glass of the dark liquid and handing it to his friend.
Jim takes a gulp. "So. What're you doing for your lovely month off?"
He shrugs, now pouring himself a glass.
"Are you kidding me? You mean you're just going to sit in this boring old ship for the entire shore leave?"
Another shrug, this time accompanied by a swig of gin.
"You're joking!"
"It's not like I have anywhere to go. Nobody to visit."
"You can't visit your daughter?"
"If you want me to return with a frying pan dented into the shape of my face, I can."
"…Oh."
Silence falls as they simultaneously take sips of their drinks.
"Come with me," Jim says, after a moment.
"Huh?"
"Come. With. Me."
He pauses for a moment, then shrugs again.
"Come on, it's not like I'm doing anything truly dangerous. I have a responsibility to the ship and crew now. Although, you would have to suffer the embarrassment of meeting my mother, first."
"Sounds like it'd be more embarrassing for you than for me."
"Ha, ha. You don't know my mother."
"Whatever."
"Come on! We could see the sights, flirt with hot women, get into bar fights…you know the drill."
"And here I was thinking you were using your good judgment."
"It's shore leave. What do you expect?"
"I don't know, maybe a little peace and quiet?"
Jim laughs. "Nope. But seriously, come with. It'll be fun."
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"…Well…okay. If you're sure."
Jim grins and slams the rest of his drink.
"So," he says, "What was I hearing earlier?"
"What about?"
"You know what. The music."
"Music?"
"I may not be the most musically oriented, but I know that song when I hear it." He smiles, knowingly.
A short silence, during which the two men stare at one another. Then—
"All right, all right, it was me!" he snaps, irritably.
"You're damn good. Did you—" Jim begins.
"—play as a kid?" he finishes, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah."
"Since I was five."
"Jeez! How come you never told me?"
He gives Jim a look.
"What?"
"What do you mean what?!"
"What?"
"You know what I mean, what."
"What?"
"Never mind. It's just…nuh…I don't know." He swigs his drink.
"Stage fright?"
"Yeah. Sort of. I dunno. I guess most people don't expect the piano to be the first instrument of a guy's choice."
"What the hell are you talking about?! Plenty of guys play the piano. Elton John, Freddie Mercury, Mozart…Hello, what is the deal? You're freaking out about essentially nothing."
He shrugs in response.
"Besides," Jim reassures him, "You can't be any worse than Spock. I mean, come on. He plays the violin. How many guys can you name who played the violin?"
"…Well…" he replies, uncertainly, "…Bach?"
"That's the cello."
"Jack Aubrey?"
"Fictional."
"Sherlock Holmes?"
"Also fictional."
He smiles slightly. "Ok, you win."
Jim grins. "You have a gift. Don't waste it."
He blinks in reply. "I never thought of you as inspirational."
"Time's a-changin', isn't it?"
"Guess so."
Jim stands to leave, patting him on the shoulder as he does so.
"Oh, and one more thing," he adds, on his way out the door, "That favor you did to get me here with the mudworm vaccine thing that made my hands swell up and my tongue completely numb? This makes us even."
Bones grins as Jim walks out the door.
Slowly, he makes his way back to the piano, unveiling it once more.
Outside, Jim's smile widens as he hears the sweet music, muffled by the wall between him and Bones's quarters.
Inside, the doctor's fingers dance across the keys of his piano with a graceful, almost surgical precision as he listens to the lyrics in his head once more.
Fin!