Reality Bites
Jim Kirk was being eaten alive by mosquitoes.
It was an expression he had heard and used many times before at barbecues and 4th of July picnics, but this was the first time he had ever used it literally. His arms, legs, and the back of his neck were bumped and itchy; his blood was like nectar to the spindly little suckers. The humidity in the air made his clothing feel soaking wet and cling to his body and the soft ground was alive with movement with his every step.
This was hour four of wandering away from the tour for some nature shots on his new DSLR and never finding his way back to the group. Surely there was a search party out looking for him even though the guide had given very specific instructions that everyone was to stay in the boat.
He had been quiet and stayed near the back. He hadn't talked to anyone and no one saw him slip away. A small fear in the back of his head nattered at him, suggesting that it was possible no one had noticed his absence at all.
Lost in worried thoughts, he walked through an impossibly large spider's web, the slick sticky threads on his face made him duck and turn, wiping his hands down his body to check for the impossibly large spider that must have built it. Finding no creepy crawlies, he shuddered and forced himself to relax, heaving a big sigh.
Having recently obtained his Master's degree in International and World History, facing the uncertain job market with a skillset firmly anchored in the humanities, Jim had convinced his parents that he needed to travel a little before choosing his next steps. Now, as he contemplated the setting sun in the deep swamps of Louisiana, he began to question his life choices.
His thick-rimmed glasses were edging down the bridge of his nose in the oozing, nervous sweat and Jim pushed them back out and puffed out his chest. He wasn't one to give up so quickly. He slapped a fat mosquito on his forearm and it left a bloody blotch on his skin. Jim Kirk was a survivor. He was a trooper. He was...really going to stop watching so much reality TV if he ever made it back home. And he would start flossing, he promised, looking to the sky pleadingly.
His cell phone beeped low battery and he pulled it out of his pocket to check it for the umpteenth time. No signal. No roam. 5% battery life. Fuck. Fucking fuck fucker on a motherfucking fuckstick.
No, no. He wasn't going to panic. He was a smart man with resources and worldly knowledge. Besides, there was a big search party out looking for him right now, probably, hopefully.
The expensive camera felt heavy around his neck and he picked it up into his hands and looked through the viewer. He snapped a few pictures of his surroundings and then turned it on himself and snapped a selfie. He imagined his mother getting the camera in a zipped plastic bag marked evidence and took another with a big smile just in case.
He trudged onward through the stifling air and damp brush. When he saw a thick log on the ground he took a seat with a sigh. His canvas shoes were soaked through to his socks from the soft, wet ground.
He stretched his arms out and crossed them over his chest in turn then rotated his shoulders and slung his pack off his back. He dug through it, reaching past his books and journals, pens, camera manual, comb, and an empty coffee thermos to dig his fingers along the bottom until he pulled up a battered granola bar. He tore it open and caught the crumbles in his palm and tossed them in his mouth.
That's when the movement caught his eyes, a thick black snake was slithering out of the log he was perched on. Jim slid a tongue past his lip and slowly lifted his camera to his face, snapping pictures of the majestic creature. He slipped down to one knee in front of the snake, a hush in his voice, "Look at you," he whispered, getting good shots of the dull-black scales and the boxy nose, "You are gorgeous."
Suddenly, the snake shot out to strike at Jim, who shouted and fell backwards onto his backside. He gasped as he looked up at a man in a green polo shirt with a khaki vest who was holding the snake to the ground with a stick. Its body whipped around violently, thudding into the moss. The man had a pensive look on his face, which was angular with a dark brow and sharp eyes. He was strikingly attractive with a commanding presence.
He reached down and gathered the snake up just under its head and slid a hand down it's body to keep it secured. It fought against him, its body writhing. Then he tossed it away and watched it dart into the distance before turning back to face Jim. He offered a hand and pulled him to his feet, "Are you nuts, kid? That was a Western Cottonmouth. You are way too far out in the wilderness to have survived that bite."
"I honestly didn't know," Jim said, checking his camera for damage. he looked up at the man in front of him and said, "But boy am I glad to see you. Are you part of the search and rescue party?"
"Search and…" he raked his fingers through his dark hair, his handsome face squinting quizzically, "No, I'm not. You lost?"
"Yes sir," Jim said, "been wandering for hours."
"Good thing I found you then," the man said, "No one is out looking for you, yet. At least not that I'm aware of. I'm officer McCoy, everyone calls me Bones, and I'm with the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries."
"Jim Kirk," Jim said, offering a hand.
Bones took his hand and gave it a shake, he had a nice firm grip. The sun was slipping fast and soon the nocturnal creatures would be out in full force. "We better move," the ranger said, pointing in a direction and taking off, "Don't want to be stuck out in this glade when the light fades."
Jim followed the man who took long strides over any kind of ground. As he led them out, the officer was yell-talking in a thick southern accent that didn't quite match the other locals Jim had met. Jim was focused on keeping up, his doomsday thoughts completely vanished from his mind.
The ranger was talking about the Western Cottonmouth, drawling on and on about necrotic skin and poison coursing through blood. Jim was half listening, trying to sight see a little now that he wasn't facing imminent demise. They passed through a muddy pit and the ground sucked at Jims shoes as he sank all the way to the ankle in the muck. He yanked his feet out slowly, leveraging his toes to keep his shoes on. "Hold up!" he shouted at his fast-moving guide.
Bones backtracked, sucking his teeth while looking at Jim's footwear. "You okay?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to squash the impatience in his voice.
"Fine," Jim said, "That mud slowed me down," the evening light in Jim's eyes made them look like polished stones and caught the older man off guard as he clasped hands and helped pull the kid back up onto the solid ground.
"Okay, let's pick up the pace," Bones said, clapping his hands.
"Wait, wait!" Jim called as they passed a clearing full of wide, red toadstools.
Bones rocked back on his heels and sighed. He looked back pensively, watching as the kid fumbled with his camera settings. "We don't have time for this," he warned, looking at the durable watch on his wrist.
Jim snapped a picture or two before Bones yanked on his arm. .
"Lay off," Jim said, wrenching out of the handsome man's grip. He looked indignant at his shirt as if the little tug may have torn it.
"Dammit, man," Bones growled, "I'm a wildlife ranger, not a tour guide!"
Jim gave him a deadpan look and raised his camera, snapping a picture of the furious look the excitable man was giving him. After the flash, Bones's lip curled up over his perfect white teeth. "Let's move it," he barked, "we have 22 minutes before sundown and I'm going to be on the lugger with or without you."
Jim followed, his blue eyes glowering at the back of the pushy ranger's head. He wasn't sure what a lugger was, but he assumed it was some kind of boat. He swore, when he was back safe and sound, he was going to write a very angry letter about this man and send it to the wildlife commission.
The rest of the trip was gruelling. Bones walked so fast, Jim had to run to catch up. The man ducked under branches and stepped over logs like it was nothing. Jim's heart was pounding in his chest. He was a healthy man, but he was thirsty and sore and he'd been lost for over six hours in his jungle from hell. Still, he was determined to keep up with the ranger as a matter of pride and principle.
When they finally reached the river, Jim was soaked in sweat. "Are we there yet?" he asked in a purposefully sing-songy voice. He didn't even get the crack of a smile from officer McCoy. What a hardass.
Bones pointed to a seat in the boat and said, "Sit there."
Jim was a grown-ass 28 year old man. He didn't have a job but he was looking, or he was going to get a Ph.D. he hadn't decided. However, one thing he knew was that he had more school than this redneck ranger who was bullying him through the wetlands. Still, he needed help so he climbed on board and took his seat., grateful to rest his legs. Bones got in and shoved them off onto the river.
"Ranger station is a few miles down," he assured as the darkness set in. He turned on a large spotlight and shined it onto the water, then started up the boat engine and set the blades in as they took off. The breeze from the movement was nice, though they weren't going very fast. There were plenty of obstacles in the water and meandering twists in the river's path.
Bones seemed much more relaxed now that they were out of the trees. "Sorry to rush you back there," he said, his tone gentler, "It's serious business to be out in the wood in the dark."
Jim set his pack in the bottom of the boat, grateful to take it off his shoulder. "It was okay," he said, the manners his mother had taught him winning out over his own pride. "I understand."
Bones wiped a hand across his forehead in the heat.
"It doesn't get any damn cooler here when the sun goes down," Jim remarked, feeling like a disgusting ball of sweat himself.
Bones smiled, his white teeth in the dark like the Cheshire cat, "I'd like to say you get used to it, but I sure as hell haven't."
"Not from around here?" Jim asked, clawing at the mosquito bites on the back of his own neck almost enough to draw blood.
"Nah," Bones said.
"Didn't think anyone but locals would tolerate this place longer than a hot minute," Jim marveled. He wasn't too down with this swamp scene at the moment.
Jim was about to say more when he saw eyes popped out of the water, glinting yellow in the spotlight as they passed gators lurking in the murky depths. Bones saw him leaning to look and slowed the boat down. "Want to get some pictures?" he asked, "We're out of danger now."
Jim nodded and fiddled with his camera until he had the settings right. He snapped shots of the eerie eyes and the bugs swarming near the lights. He took a few of Bones, too, looking glossy in the heat of the night. In the pictures, Jim noticed the other man was younger than he seemed, when he wasn't scowling.
"Thanks," Jim said, turning his camera off again. He was eager for the journey home, wanting to get back to his hotel room and take a long, hot bath.
Bones nodded though Jim could barely see it and started the motor back up. When they reached the ranger station, it was nothing but a small building with a dock in the river, a single light on the wooden porch. Bones tied up the boat while Jim stood on the deck and watched, then led them inside.
Jim looked at the desk and the beat up furniture in the little shack of a station. It was muggy in the little room and Jim plopped onto the couch, itching absent-mindedly at the bites on his knees.
Bones left the room and returned with two bottled waters and handed one over. Jim wrenched the top off and guzzled gratefully. "Thanks," he said while gasping for air when he stopped drinking.
Bones smiled, amused. "So how did you get lost in the swamp?" he asked, "you don't seem dressed for a hike." He ran his eyes up Jim who wore a T-shirt and a thin button-up shirt, Khaki shorts, and skate shoes with short socks. His thick glasses made him look like a bonafide nerd but provided nice windows to his blue eyes under those pouty, fuckable lips. Bones snapped out of it long enough to quickly add, "Take off those shoes and socks before you catch your death."
"Nah," Jim said, "I'll take them off when I get back to the hotel. Can we go now?" He squished his toes in his shoes and water ran out of them onto the floorboards.
"We're staying here until morning," Bones informed him, "The boat is the only vehicle I have and it's too dangerous to make that long of a trip in the middle of the night without an emergency."
Jim looked like a kicked puppy, "But...what if it is an emergency?"
Bones leaned back and took a bottle of scotch out of the desk drawer and two glasses, pouring one a little more fully than the other and handing the shorter drink to Jim. "It's not," he assured, "kick off the shoes, I'll put them out to dry."
Jim sipped at the scotch and heeled out of his shoes, using his big toe to peel his socks off, too. It felt like heaven to free his feet. "I was on a tour boat," he explained, "I slipped off to get some pictures and I swear I walked ten steps into the trees and couldn't find my way back out."
"That's why they usually say to stay in the boat," Bones pointed out, picking the soggy shoes and socks up and placing them on the window sill.
Feathers a little ruffled, Jim shrugged, "I take a heuristic, Socratic approach to life." He looked smug, assuming the ranger didn't know what the words meant.
"Well, bless your heart," Bones cooed charmingly.
Jim pushed his glasses up to his forehead and rubbed his fingers into his eyes.
Getting serious for a moment, Bones added,"Next time you get lost, don't wander. It decreases the chance that you'll be found."
"You found me," Jim countered, pulling his hands away to look at McCoy, his blue eyes red rimmed from the friction but still shining like sunshine against water.
It was obvious to Bones that the kid enjoyed a good argument. He wasn't going to give him one. "Yeah, you must be a real lucky so'n'so."
"Ah come on," Jim waved him off, "I'd have made my way out eventually. Then I'd get my own reality show where I'd teach people survival techniques in the wild."
"You watch too much TV, kid," the older man sighed, "You'd be dead of a snakebite, remember?"
Jim tugged at the front of his stinking t-shirt, pulling it up off his chest and back a few times to get some air flow to his skin. He didn't want to talk about the snake. "Where's the bathroom?"
Bones pointed to the small room near the back, "Through there."
"Perfect," Jim got up with a sigh. His body ached as he stood and padded back to other area. He noticed a lot of personal effects in the bunk room. "You live here?" he called, looking into the smallest, ugliest, most rustic bathroom he'd ever seen in his life.
"Right now I do," Bones said, leaning in the doorway to the bunks. "Someone always mans the station. It's mine until I don't want it anymore. And even then, I'll have to wait while they find a replacement."
Jim shook his blond head. "How long have you been here?"
"Three years," Bones said, "ever since my divorce. Had to get out and get out quick."
"She couldn't have been worse than this," Jim said, whistling at the thin mattress and the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
"He," Bones said tightly, "And doan talk about things you doan know about, kid." He returned to his desk, kicking the door shut.
Jim shut his fool mouth tight and looked over his shoulder at the closed door. He felt like a heel for running his big mouth. He turned on the sink and splashed water on his face, peeled out of his shirt and rubbed the cold sink water under his armpits and up around his neck. He'd kick his own mama for a nice long soak in a big, clean tub right now.
When he came out, feeling just a little better, he saw the officer reading a book with his feet propped up on the desk. Jim plopped into the deep couch and drummed on the armrest. Bones turned a page and ignored him.
After a few minutes, Jim sighed and putzed around in his bag. "Bones?" he finally said, the older man looked up, fixing him with smart, brownish-green eyes, quirking one eyebrow up the side of his forehead inquisitively. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I was joking around and I made some assumptions about you and your relationship."
Bones put the book on the desk, "Don't worry, Jim," he reassured and Jim thought Bones's smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his whole life.
Jim walked over and sat on the desk, his finger tracing the book cover. It read, Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten. "Are you reading Immanuel Kant in German?" he asked, incredulous.
"Honey," Bones said, "a Southern accent doesn't mean a person is stupid."
"I didn't think that," Jim said defensively, but he knew that it was half a lie. He hadn't been fair to the people of the South. He didn't even listen to his tour guide today. He chewed his lip.
"S'alright darlin'," Bones said, patting his leg.
The touch surprised both of them. Bones drew his hand back quick and Jim shifted slightly on the desk. His fingers pushing at his glasses in a nervous habit. He was noticing how nice McCoy looked in his rugged clothes, and how he didn't sweat so much as shine a little in the humidity. Jim wanted to reach out and sluice his fingers through the thick, dark mop of hair that swept perfectly across Bones's forehead despite the weather and the exertion. Instead, his fingers twitched and he let the edge of his teeth sink into his lip.
Suddenly the room seemed as quiet as the vacuum of space. Bones lifted his muddy-green eyes to look into Jim's bright blue orbs. The corner of the little hipster's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Shit.
Then the kid stuck his hand out and touched his hair; the kid who jumped into the most dangerous riverlands in the country to snap silly pictures, who got on the ground with a cottonmouth, and stayed their travels to look at toadstools. No one had ever said that James T. Kirk wasn't bold. He'd been described in a lot of ways, not all of them flattering, but bold seemed to suit him best.
"Listen," Bones said, shying his head back away from the invading fingers.
Jim scooted closer and Bones put a hand on his knee. This gorgeous, young man coudln't want him. In his own opinion, no one wanted Leonard McCoy. It had to be a game.
Jim clapped his hand over Bones's hand. "Why do they call you Bones?" he played with the tan fingers on his knee, trapping the appendage.
Wiggling his hand free, Bones looked at him, cocking his head. "Look, kid, if you think this is some sort of wild, backwoods, one-night-stand that you can photograph for your scrapbook you can just-"
Jim kissed him, cutting off his words.
Shock thrummed through Bones's spine and he broke the stolen kiss and rocketed to his feet. With two hands, he knocked Jim's perfectly plump ass off the desk and onto the floor. The blond man landed with a thud and a look of shock, "Seriously?" He got up on his knees and peered over the desk at the pensive ranger, "Just cause I don't have a twang in my accent doesn't mean I'm some sort of pretentious jerk yankee."
Bones looked at him with a heaving chest. Everything happened so fast, he blew it. "I don't think that," he grumbled, sinking back into his chair, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms from making a hard fist.
"I didn't kiss you as part of a tour. I kissed you because I think you're amazing," Kirk huffed, adjusting his glasses on his face indignantly, "You saved me from a snake, and the wild. And you got us out of there before dark. And you're smart and funny, and your face lights up like a Christmas tree on fire when you smile and I want to see more of that."
Bones shifted in his seat uncomfortably, "You aren't so bad yourself," he finally admitted, "You may not know a goddamned thing about the wetlands but you kept your wits about you. You're covered in bites from head to toe and you haven't complained once. And Jesus Christ, you're obnoxiously adorable, even with those glasses. " He paused, then placed his sweating palms calmly on the desk. "If you want to kiss me though, you'll be a gentleman and ask first, dammit."
Jim rose to his feet, his blood pressure making his ears pound. "Well then," a cocksure smile invading his face, "May I fucking kiss you or not!?"
"Fine!" Bones said, a growl in his throat. The intense moment had his emotions in a blender. He stood and kicked the desk chair out of the way, "Thank you for asking!" he snapped.
Jim liked the tense energy Bones created. He strode to the older man and took hold of his head with both hands, pulling him in for a deep kiss. He felt the grit on the back of Bones's neck with his hand and the heat rising off of his chest as their heavy breathing made the room more humid. The smell of soap and sweat and the river mixing between them, their arms tangled like crawdads on a plate.
That's how it all happened. Though, later, when Bones would tell the story, he'd tell it a little wrong, turning Jim into an idiot in distress, carrying him to the boat, and there were more dangers each and every time.
And Jim never corrected him, smiling, pleased that only they knew the real truth: that two people were lost in the wilderness of the world and then they stumbled on each other and beat out a path to happiness that was as dangerous and sinuous as a snake in the bayou.