The last thing that Leonard McCoy really, truly sees is his daughter curled up in bed between himself and Jocelyn. She'd woken him in the middle of the night with her crying and hadn't settled until he'd laid her down on their bed and pulled her into his chest.

It was a hot, clear summer night with a full moon that shone from Joanna's hair as he stroked it, soothing her to sleep as she sucked on her thumb and Jocelyn murmured in dreams too deep to be broken by the earlier shrieks.

He fell asleep like that, legs tangled in sheets and sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. He didn't know what time it was because he was past being able to see the numbers on the clock, but that didn't matter because it was a Saturday tomorrow and he didn't even have to get up for church.

His eyes drifted shut as they stayed locked on Joanna, and the last thing that Leonard McCoy sees is the silvered outline of her face turned up to his in her sleep.

When McCoy was twenty-two, the drugs that he'd been taking since birth to counter the hereditary optic neuropathy began to stop working and they stopped working fast, first his left eye and then his right. But he didn't tell anyone because he was just months away from finishing his doctorate and he couldn't stand it if he were thrown out. He didn't even tell Jocelyn because they'd only been married a year and Jo was teething and screaming all the time, and he didn't want her to leave him for this stupid reason.

He just upped his dosage and tweaked it a bit and managed just fine, if he ignored the headaches that came and went every day.

He was blind within a month.

The worst part is that he's only legally blind. He can still tell the difference between light and dark, and he can see basic shapes – he knows if there's something in front of him. But there's no detail at all, just vague outlines that merge if they're not distinct enough. Half of the time he wishes that he just couldn't see a fucking thing because it must be better than wondering all the time exactly what the person talking to him looks like.

Sometimes he considers concocting a drug that'll finish the job; get him all the way there. He never does.

Jocelyn leaves him a week after Jo's second birthday, and he doesn't blame her. Turns out that for the last few months she'd been seeing Clay Treadway behind his back again and he tries to muster up some sort of righteous anger, but doesn't manage. He's just too tired and Clay isn't blind.

The conversation ends with her carrying their daughter away and a bitter taste in his mouth.

No, really, he doesn't blame her. He's not sure at what point she'd realized that he was losing his sight but she says that she'd known for a while, and she's furious. And then she's upset, because she seems to realize just what this all means for their future.

Then she's furious again.

The only thing that he blames her for is not appreciating just what it means for him.

McCoy makes his way back to his parent's house in Atlanta, every step of the journey mapped out and timed so that he gets there safely, and his momma cries loudly in his ear and he feels her tears wet on his cheek as she clutches him to her chest.

His father tells him that he could have at least waited until he'd finished med school.

It's not easy, but then he never thought it would be.

Nobody wants to hire a blind man who hasn't got any real qualifications, and there doesn't seem to be any hope for him ever finishing med school. Hell, they won't even accept him into a new course of study to start afresh.

He stays with his parents for the summer, the hours merging together into one shimmering, endless day filled with peach cobbler and mint julep and the smell of baked ground. He fills his time by sleeping, drinking, and riding. His old mare's still hanging around and she knows the way home by herself; he doesn't even need to direct her. He might not be able to see her properly but it doesn't matter, because she's warm and familiar and solid between his legs and he knows that she'll get him home safe.

She dies when they're out in town, and he can't see that it's a yew shrub that she's eating and he doesn't know until two hours later when his father finds them and shoots her through the head.

He leaves early next morning when it's light enough that he won't trip over his own feet, and his momma's still in bed and won't beg him to stay.

He heads north-west with his route planned out in his mind, and keeps his head down as he trudges along the road so that nobody sees the blank look in his eyes.

He travels across the country and stays in rehabilitation centers over the period of two or three years, spending his time living off his disability allowance and wandering down the street with his hand trailing along the wall beside him. He registers with doctors in every state he visits and goes to see someone every month without fail, and every month without fail his eyesight deteriorates a little more.

People seem to have one of two reactions when they find out he's blind – either they pity him, or they want to take advantage of him. On the few occasions that someone he meets at a bar doesn't do either, he follows them back to their place and lets them make him feel like he might actually be worth something.

It's not anonymous sex – McCoy always asks their name and tries to find out as much about them as possible before they go their separate ways – but there's a big difference in knowing all about their married lives and knowing what they look like.

He finally buys a cane when he's in New York, and admitting that he needs it is harder than he ever imagined. There's a whole host of different ones to choose from in all different colors and materials but he goes for the standard white that's more obviously recognized as blind man's cane, a folding one that can be inconspicuous when it needs to be. It's solid and practical in his hands and besides, it's not as if he's going to be able to see it for much longer anyway.

He makes the difficult journey back to Georgia each year for Joanna's birthday, and each year he tells her how much she's grown even though he can't see enough to even tell her apart from the other screaming children. Jocelyn stands in the shadows as he keeps hold of his daughter, running his hands over her face in order to commit her features to memory for another year.

When he's twenty-seven and can't see a fucking thing, McCoy lucks out with a job in Iowa City. From what he hears when he carefully walks into the free medical clinic, it sounds as if nearly all the unsavory characters in the state have gathered there, so the staff is grateful for his help, even though he's only a receptionist.. And there are million and one voice-activated shortcuts on the computer.

Turns out the staff are pretty accepting and capable and nice, just doing their best with a bunch of drunks and addicts and pregnant teenagers and elderly ladies, and that's great. Even though it's not real medicine it's probably the closest he'll ever get.

Sometimes listens to the patients' files and tries to diagnose them just from their records. For each one he gets right, he awards himself a shot of bourbon. He tells himself it's a good sign that he gets drunk more often than he stays sober.

He gets a flat on Sycamore Street. It's a rough neighborhood but low rent and he's okay with that. Plus his electricity bill is always lower than it used to be since he never turns on the lights.

There's a bar down the road that's quiet enough most nights, so he goes down a few times a week, and within a month the barman knows what he's going to order before he opens his mouth. He only encounters trouble once – some dick starts on him, mocking his lack of sight and generally being in his face. McCoy tells him precisely what he'll do to him if he doesn't back off in medical lingo with words eight syllables long and every time after that his bar stool is free when he walks through the door.

Once a month his disability allowance and meager salary from the clinic comes through, and once a month he pays out his child support to Jocelyn. Somehow, he slowly begins to accumulate some credits to his name.

When he goes to see Jo on her fifth birthday, she doesn't remember who he is.

Leonard McCoy has been working at the clinic for about eight months and he has the job completely memorized when a young man walks through the sliding doors and immediately throws up on him.

August 2254

The worst thing about this situation is that he hasn't got any clean shirts back at his apartment which means wandering around shirtless for a good half-hour while they're in the wash, and there's a woman across the hall who he swears spies on him. He always gets that feeling, like someone's watching him, and since going blind it's usually right.

"Sorry, man," slurs the guy who's just stumbled through the clinic doors and thrown up all over McCoy. "I need to see someone. I think I've got an STD."

Yeah, and probably more than one, McCoy thinks sourly leaning backwards from the reek of alcohol that's wafting his way over the counter, while his fingers rattle over the keyboard to open a new entry screen.

"Name?"

"James Tiberius Kirk."

"Find a seat."

"Someone's grumpy today."

"Yeah, well someone just threw up on me."

"I'll let you return the favor some day."

McCoy tries not to scowl too much as he listens to Kirk flop down into a seat and start hitting on some poor girl. The computer hums beneath his palms, bringing up all the information on Jim Kirk, ready to be sent through to the next available doctor. Then he gets up and goes straight to the bathroom, stopping only to get a scrub shirt from the storeroom.

As far as first meetings go, it's not really the most auspicious.

One of the only good things about being blind is that all of his other senses are enhanced, but even that isn't so great. Like when he's lying in his unstable bed at night under a threadbare coverlet and he can hear the water running through the pipes and the couple above having another argument and drunken singing out the window.

Another is that people seem to think that if his eyes don't work, then neither does his brain, and talk to him as if he's simple. Depending on his mood he'll either give them one hell of a lecture and prove just how well his brain does work, or he'll act as they're treating him and they scamper off pretty damn quick, which he knows is immature but he needs to get his kicks somehow.

And those are pretty much the only good things.

September 2254

"I need to see a doctor right now."

"Take a seat, Kirk," McCoy says tiredly because it's approaching midnight and he's been on shift for almost sixteen hours since Olivia's out sick with Andorian shingles – hell knows how she caught them – and he's just a few weeks from hitting twenty-seven and he's stuck in a fucking clinic with no prospects and a daughter who doesn't know him and oh, he's blind.

"I said I need to see one right now," Jim shouts, stalking over to him and this time, he stinks of blood instead of alcohol. "Can't you see I'm fucking injured?"

"No, I can't. Can't you see that I'm fucking blind?!" McCoy snaps, his face twisting into scowl and he knows that he should have more patience and not be so rude but dammit, he's not in the mood for any shit right now especially from a dick like Kirk.

Kirk's silent for a moment and McCoy's glad that at least there's nobody else in the waiting room to stare at them. He hears Kirk sigh and sit down with a faint grunt of pain, and immediately feels bad.

"How long am I going to have to wait?" Kirk asks a little sullenly, and McCoy sighs.

"Mrs Campbell's gone and injured her back again, she'll be in there a while," he pauses, and opens his mouth several times before deciding to actually speak. "What's your injury?" he asks quietly, and it takes Kirk a minute to respond and when he does, his voice has an odd sort of resigned pain.

"Got into a fight," he says tightly, while McCoy stands up to move around the desk. "Broke my nose, some fucker cut my arm open. I just need a regenerator running over me and get some meds and I'll be good to go, so don't worry, I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

"That's not why I asked," McCoy says bluntly and navigates his way across the room to where he can hear Kirk's voice. He mentally awards himself another shot when he manages to get all the way across to him and bump into his leg without colliding with any other objects.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Kirk asks, pulling back a little as McCoy grabs at his shoulder and then moves up to his face, and he scowls as he places a hand either side of Kirk's head.

"Diagnosing you, now sit the fuck still."

He starts with Kirk's nose, ignoring the sharp intake of breath as he presses gently on it and the surrounding area, checking the bones and muscles under firm skin.

"Well it doesn't feel like septal hematoma but obviously I can't see it, so don't take my word on it. Definitely broken though."

"I already told you that, and that hurt," Kirk grumbles, but he doesn't pull away. "How'd you know it was me if you can't see anything, anyway?"

"I have a pretty good memory for voices," he admits, then moves on from Kirk's nose to run his fingers over the rest of his face, checking for any more injuries.

"Ow."

"Don't be a wuss. You've got a nasty bump just under your occipital bone and what feels like a minor transverse fracture to your zygomatic bone, but your eye's not damaged. I'm guessing the guy who punched you glanced off your cheek?"

"Are those even real words?"

"Bones are my specialty, kid."

"You been picking things up from the real doctors?" Kirk asks. He sounds playful and McCoy knows that he means no harm but he still bristles at the comment.

"I've got four years of medical training under my belt, and I know more'n that guy putting Mrs Campbell's back straight in that room. Only I can't make any official diagnoses so just make sure you tell me what he says so I can tally it on my chart, okay?" he says with a little more bite than he first intended, and releases Kirk's head.

"You've got a chart?"

"Along a shot of best bourbon for every correct diagnosis. Experiencing any dizziness? Nausea, headache, blurred vision, tiredness?"

"Kinda."

"Concussion. Give me your arm."

Really, he's surprised that Kirk's being so compliant when he's just admitted that he has no qualifications with which to perform these procedures, but if Kirk's not complaining than neither is he. Besides, the satisfaction of getting it right will help make this shitty day that much better.

He nearly starts when he feels Kirk take his hand and guide it to his arm. Forearm, well-defined, he thinks absently as he takes it in one hand and runs his fingers over it with the other. Kirk hisses as he reaches the cut, but he doesn't apologize as he inspects the wound. It's about two inches long and not particularly deep, so at least the regenerators won't have a problem sorting it out.

"Cut to the brachioradialis, not deep enough to really affect the muscle tissue however the recurrent artery was nicked which is why it's bleeding everywhere. Here, hold above your heart like this."

It's at that point that the door opens and he can hear Mrs Campbell thanking Doctor Piper profusely for fixing her spine. He ushers her out of the door and into the darkness and rain before turning back to where McCoy's holding Kirk's arm up in the air.

"Well come on then son, let's get you sorted out."

Kirk stands, pulling his arm from McCoy's grasp, and then claps him on the shoulder before following Piper into the examination room.

McCoy awards himself eight shots within ten minutes of slumping into the armchair in his flat after a good day's unofficial diagnosing, water dripping from hair. He administers all his relevant meds before listening to the latest medical journals that have been sent to his PADD as outside the rain continues to hammer against the windows and the wind howls through the alleys.

Halfway through a journal on a whole new swath of diseases on Capella that the citizens are refusing to treat, he finds himself wondering is Jim Kirk is out getting wet somewhere. Which is a completely ridiculous train of thought because he hasn't seen the guy in nearly a week, so why the hell is he appearing in his thought processes?

He promptly gets out of his chair, pulls on his jacket, and goes to the nearest bar.

Turn out to be a bad move, because the last person that he wants to encounter is sat right where McCoy wants to sit, damp and warm and fidgeting, and McCoy pulls back his feeling hand like he's been burnt, and wipes a trickle of rainwater from his neck.

"Jim Kirk," Kirk says brightly, not moving when he's told to, and McCoy feels around for another stool as he glowers and orders a drink.

"I know what you're called, kid. Is there a reason you're sat on my stool?"

"Sorry, didn't realize it had your name on it."

"Most people know to get off it when I walk in."

"Well, I'm not most people."

"No, you're far more annoying than most people," McCoy snaps, downing the drink that's pressed into his hand. "What are you even doing here? I'd know if I'd heard your voice in this place before."

"Yeah, you've got super-hearing, haven't you?" Kirk laughs. "It's been a while since I've been here. Fresh hunting ground. Plus I've been banned from most of the other places in town for another month or so."

"Fresh ground?" McCoy asks, pulling a face. "What the hell for?"

But Kirk's already moving off the stool and away from him, and McCoy can hear him flirting loudly with what he presumes to be a woman or female humanoid or some sort just a little further away. He rolls his eyes and orders another drink - that sort of hunting ground.

Only now it's insults that he can hear flying fast and vicious and then the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh accompanied by a ground of pain and a roar of anger. Then the bar erupts into a sort of controlled chaos, centering on Kirk and whoever he's picked his fight with as their brawl turns nasty, glass shattering on the floor.

McCoy finishes off his drink and calmly walks against the flow of human traffic surging to watch the fight. He unfolds his cane from his jeans and makes the familiar and somewhat damp journey back to the clinic, where Patty's halfway through her shift and sounds surprised to see him.

He's armed and ready with a hypospray when Kirk stumbles in ten minutes later and nearly falls flat on the floor.

After the third time that Kirk staggers into the clinic smelling of alcohol and blood and sex, McCoy goes home exhausted and looks him up on his PADD because he's sure that the name is familiar.

It only takes him five minutes to find the information on the USS Kelvin, written by a Starfleet officer called Pike, and then he's suddenly not so tired any more.

"Ow."

"Don't be such an infant," McCoy snaps, pulling the bandage a little tighter around Kirk's hand. "It's just a cut. Be glad no tendons got damaged, that's always a risk with the hand."

"You know, your bedside manner is kind of atrocious," Kirk points out, and McCoy snorts.

"I don't believe in mollycoddling," he says flatly, tying off the gauze. "And I reckon most people appreciate being treated like an adult than a child. Rest that hand for a few days then come back for me to check it out."

"Awesome. Thanks Bones," Kirk says cheerfully, jumping up from his chair. "How long til you get your new regenerators?"

"Just another few days. And did you just call me Bones?"

"You said bones were your specialty."

"That doesn't mean I need a nickname."

"Yeah, it does. Good night, Bones!" Kirk calls over his shoulder as he walks away, and McCoy laments his lack of sight because if he tries to throw something at him, he's pretty unlikely to hit the smug bastard.

Jim Kirk is possibly the most accident-prone person in this solar system, because he seems to be in the clinic at least once a week. This is annoying, because he's usually drunk and likes to try and talk to McCoy, who has a hundred and one better things to do, and calls him by that infernal nickname. But then again, he also allows McCoy to diagnose him by feeling around where the pain's coming from without complaining and sometimes, he'll allow McCoy to treat his minor injuries.

McCoy's been drinking an awful lot recently.

Sometime in between diagnosing Kirk and telling him to fuck off, McCoy realizes that he's been spending an awful lot of time just talking to him, more than he's really talked to anyone in several years. He speaks to his coworkers, sure, but he'd never say that he's friends with them. He wouldn't know what to say if he encountered them in a bar somewhere. He still speaks to his parents every few weeks or so, just to let his frantic mother know that he's safe and fine and no, he's not coming home. He speaks to Jocelyn less frequently, to get updates on Jo that he wishes he could receive first-hand.

But he doesn't talk to anyone quite like he talks to Kirk, about anything and everything and nothing, even though he's known him for just a few weeks, and he's slowly coming to actually like the degenerate idiot. He should probably be unsettled, but knowing that he should and yet not being worried is an oddly liberating sort of feeling.

October 2254

"So, someone told me a certain grumpy receptionist's birthday is coming up."

"If you're not injured then fuck off, or I'll give you a reason to be here," McCoy growls, his fingers rattling over the keyboard. Kirk completely ignores him.

"I was thinking I should take you out for a drink," he continues, and the desk groans as he leans against it. "I know a great bar. I'm not even banned from it."

"And I know of a hundred places I'd rather be than talking to you right now. How'd you know it was my birthday anyway?"

"Olivia told me. How old are you exactly?"

"Twenty-seven, not that you even care. Now go away or make a donation, I could use the extra credits."

"I care because you look like you could use a few friends right now, and it's not as if I've got anything better to do. Come on, live on the wild side for once."

"Because going to a bar is really cutting edge, isn't it?" McCoy drawls, keying in Mrs Campbell's details as he waits for her to exit the examination room with her knee put back into place. "Besides – I'm a receptionist, I'm busy."

"Not busy on Thursday evening after six. Olivia told me."

"Oh, she fucking did, did she," McCoy snarls and makes a mental note to give that damn woman a talking to when she's next on shift. "Well she told you wrong. I have an appointment at that time with a bottle of bourbon in my apartment."

"You shouldn't be so anti-social. It's bad for you."

"You shouldn't be so goddamn annoying."

"I like to think I'm persistent. I'll pick you up once your shift finishes, okay?"

"You'll be here whether I agree or not, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Fine. But just for one drink."

"Awesome, it's a date. See you then Bones!" Jim says brightly, pushing himself away from the desk and hopping away, and McCoy blinks before his face drops back into its normal scowl.

"It's not a fucking date, and my name isn't Bones!" he yells, but Kirk's already walked out of the door.

On Thursday morning, McCoy wakes to find two messages on his PADD. One is from his mother, wishing him a happy birthday and asking him to come home. The other is from Jocelyn, with another update on Jo. Turns out she's doing real well in school, one of the brightest in her class, and McCoy comms her back thanking her for the info.

Work is slow and quiet like it always is mid-week, and it's a relief. The people that he works with but doesn't talk to are all pleasant and nice enough but once they've said happy birthday that's kind of it, and they all carry on as normal.

Six o'clock rolls around and true to his word Kirk is waiting for him, lounging just outside the sliding doors. He announces his presence as soon as McCoy steps out of the clinic with a horrifically out-of-tune rendition of an old 20th century birthday tune that makes McCoy cringe and try to sidle away.

"Whoa, no way. I said I was taking you out for a celebratory drink and you're not getting out of it that easy. Come on," he says firmly, taking McCoy by the arm and physically hauling him down the street.

It turns out that the bar Kirk had been raving about is right in the middle of the city and full of young, writhing bodies that press too close and sound too loud. But Kirk drags him to a seat a fair distance from the dancefloor and pushes him into it, disappearing for a few moments only to return with drinks that clink as he sets them down onto the table. He pushes one into McCoy's hand and the glass is cold and slightly damp under his touch, and when he takes a sip it's burning whiskey that eases down his throat. Maybe tonight won't be so bad after all.

"Okay so if this is a date, I'm just going to hope that you're an attractive son of a bitch, so people don't think I'm a complete loser," McCoy says flatly, and Kirk laughs in his ear.

"Oh, I am," he replies easily and McCoy can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

Leonard McCoy is nearly drunk.

They've been sat in the same places, steadily drinking, for a good few hours, and neither of them are showing any signs of stopping soon. Though to be fair McCoy acknowledges that he's possibly not in the best position to be making any sort of decision about the future.

"…and then Frank decides to sell my dad's car which is like, the last thing of his that we had and I was pissed off about that, so I drove it off a cliff."

McCoy pauses for a second to process this, and then frowns.

"I bet he didn't like that," he says, and Jim grunts opposite him.

"Yeah. He yelled at me for ages about that, and then told me to clean up because I'd been shedding dust everywhere."

"Life's a bitch."

"It really fucking is. What about your home life? Shitty as mine?"

"Just an over-protective mama and a dad who thinks I'm a disappointment, and one hell of an ex-wife."

McCoy's not sure why he doesn't tell Jim about Joanna, but he's sure that there is a reason.

The cold blast of air sobers McCoy up an awful lot, when they stumble out of the door during the early hours of the next morning. And it's strange because while he's spent the last six hours or so talking about absolutely everything with Jim he feels as though he could keep talking for another six days.

"Do you miss your dad?" he asks as they wander down Hollywood Boulevard, Jim's arm wrapped around his shoulders and his cane stretched out in front of them both.

"I didn't know the man," Jim reminds him, steering them to the left. "He died pretty much as soon as I was born. The only memories I've got are from old PADDs and holos and recordings, but they're none of my own."

"Can't be easy for you."

"I got over it when I hit puberty. We're coming up on your street."

"Good. Wait, aren't we something like fifteen miles from your house?" he asks, his cane hitting what's either a lamppost or someone passed out, and Jim shakes his head slowly.

"Nah, that's my mom. I told you, I'm on Rochester Avenue."

"That's still several miles. And you're still drunk."

"So are you," Jim says petulantly as they round the corner onto Sycamore Street, and McCoy just knows that he's pouting.

"Hardly," he says proudly, patting his stomach. "Got one hell of a liver. And I wasn't accusing you, just making an observation."

"And where was your observation leading, Doctor?" Jim says suggestively as he leans in closer and McCoy pushes him away.

"You stink of beer," he says flatly, coming to a halt where the pavement is cracked and ruptured under his cane and feet. "This is me."

"You do realize that this is the roughest part of the whole city, right?" Jim asks a little skeptically, following him to the front door. McCoy just shrugs.

"I needed somewhere with cheap rent, and it's ideal. I'll let you know if someone tries to mug me, how about that?" he jokes, but Jim takes hold of his upper arms a firm grip, pulling him around.

"I'm serious, Bones. I don't care what it is, if you have any trouble you comm me, okay?" he says sincerely, and McCoy can't help but smile as he folds his cane and sticks it in the back of his jeans.

"Yeah, okay," he agrees, and Jim's grip on his arms lessens.

"Good," he says shortly, clearing his throat. "Well I'd better get going…"

"Wait," McCoy blurts out and he has no idea why but dammit, he hasn't done something impulsive in a long time. "I want to see you," he says quietly, because while he's run his hands over Jim's face to check for bumps and bruises before he's never really taken in what he's mapping out. "Let me see for myself if you're as attractive as you claim to be."

"Bones, you can't…"

"Just stay still," he orders and to his credit, Jim does.

He barely flinches when McCoy's hands take hold of his shoulders, moving up to feel along his neck and up to his jaw. It's strong, defined and rough with a five o'clock shadow. Then he moves his fingers over the rest of his face, feeling out all the pockmarks and dimples that indicate a wide grin when Jim's smiling. An average nose, prominent brow, soft hair. McCoy can't quite put it all together in his head to form a full face but each part by itself is perfect beneath his fingertips. He moves to Jim's lips, memorizing them as he traces them, and Jim's breath is warm over his fingers.

"Okay, maybe you were right," he admits, and his voice isn't quite steady and he hasn't a fucking clue why. He doesn't flinch as Jim's hands to come up to bracket his own face, and for some reason he's not surprised by the kiss when it comes.

He is surprised by just how gentle Jim is – because if there's one thing McCoy's learnt in the two months of knowing him it's that Jim is as fast and destructive and beautiful as a tornado. But right now he's being so slow and careful and so much unlike Jim that it's strange and exhilarating at the same time.

McCoy can't help it – as much as he's telling himself that this is a bad idea his lips part beneath the pressure and Jim's tongue slips between them. He makes a sort of soft noise in the back of his throat as one of Jim's hands slides down to the small of his back and pulls him in closer.

All in all it's not the most brilliant kiss he'd had, but it's Jim, and that makes more of a difference than it should. Now he's this close and inhaling him, hands buried in his hair, he can smell the pinewood and alcohol and heat that makes up Jim Kirk, and it's a smell that feels too familiar for reasons he can't work out.

Jim pulls away carefully as though he's worried that McCoy won't stay upright if he moves too fast, and to be fair he might be right. But he doesn't let go, just presses their foreheads together and sighs heavily.

"You're not exactly bad-looking yourself, you know," he says quietly, and suddenly McCoy realizes that they're still on the street outside his apartment and his chest sinks as he remembers why this is a really, really bad idea.

"Jim, I can't do this," he mutters, pulling out of the embrace reluctantly. "I can't deal with this and I don't want to be your latest conquest, okay?"

"That's not what this is about, Bones," Jim says so fucking earnestly, reaching out for him, but he twists away. Just because Jim think it's not about that right now doesn't mean it won't turn out to be, and McCoy's not sure if he can cope with that again.

"Look – I had a good time, but nothing more is going to happen. Ever."

"Bones…"

"Good night, Jim," he says firmly and feels behind himself for the doorknob. "I'll see you around."

He tells himself it's a good thing that he can't see the expression on Jim's face as he closes the door between them.