Blue Eyes and a Bottle of Jack

By Alone Dreaming

Rating: PG-13 or T for Language (to be safe really)

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be posted under fan fiction.

Warnings: Alcohol and Angst (again, to be safe)

Dedication: Erm, to Ginger Ninja, for inspiring me to actually write some McCoy/Kirk friendship. Thanks for gracing us with your talent.

Author's Note: I lied. This is my last story until I return from Georgia. It is a piece of introspective nonsense. Thank you all for your support. This is the most I've written in over three years and the responses have really helped me get over the writer's block. So, thank you. Remember, the lack of smarts, grammar or otherwise, is due to lack of intelligence and betaing. Enjoy.

It's funny, he decided, as he took another long draw from the bottle of Jack Daniels, that the two dates would coincide as they did. He'd never thought about it before now, because he usually retreated to his own dark corner and didn't contact anyone on this day; but there it was, glaringly before him. It would have come up at some point in his life, he knew, letting the alcohol swish over his tongue and trickle down his throat. Eventually, someone would have mentioned it to him while he drank himself into oblivion. It would never be Jim, of course, because Jim would be too busy matching him shot for shot and not saying anything at all. But someone else would have, like Lieutenant Uhura, who liked to organize things like that. The person would come up to him and give him a date for the party and insist he come up with a gift or throw money into a pot for something nice.

It would have happened, at some point, and he would've mused over it the same way he was now. He would've downed the whiskey in the same way, let it linger, and stared at the man who was his best friend with the same, searching eyes, hoping, just as he was now, that some sort of hint would rest there. He knew that he wouldn't see anything, just like he wasn't seeing anything now. Jim would eventually meet his eyes, give him a cocky, drunk grin and steal away the bottle so he could partake in some of the alcohol. Maybe he would speak up, say something disrespectable, comment about how Bones was not his type and to stop with the staring, but he wouldn't hint about what the date meant to him. He wouldn't push buttons on what it meant to Bones either.

Different, he thought, as he put his head against the metallic wall behind him, than Jim was right now. First, Kirk hadn't had one drop of the alcohol. He'd not done his usual snatch without a request and McCoy had not offered, as sometimes happened in the past, leaving him completely sober. Also, this Kirk kept his eyes solidly on McCoy the entire time, a crinkle on his nose, his lips pursed. He said nothing, sarcastic, funny or otherwise; he just watched and now and again, sighed. That was good, McCoy thought, because that would use up less air. Also, he had an uncomfortable feeling that the date might come up this time and he'd rather not address that at all. He allowed another sip of Jack Daniels to slosh into his mouth and brooded.

He'd always been good at brooding. Even when he had been happy, living with his beautiful wife and daughter and his wife's son, he'd been excellent at mulling darkly over past events. He used to sit in their bedroom when she had night classes and the kids were in bed, and sip on a cup of Jim Beam and think about things. Sometimes it was the latest argument over her son's outrageous antics; sometimes it was the hours he worked; sometimes it was over silly, inconsequential things like the brand of soap they used at the house; but whatever it was he would think and think and think until she would get home. He'd set it all aside when she came up and make love to her; or she'd force him to put the alcohol away and help his drunken ass stagger to bed.

She'd listed that as one of the reasons their marriage didn't work. They'd sat around the old wooden table his grandfather had left him in his will and tried to work things out only to discover it was too late. She'd said he drank too much. He'd said she wasn't around enough. She'd said his work consumed him. He'd said she was too fond of her co-worker, Jordan. She'd said he wasn't a good father to her children. He'd said, selfishly, that he was plenty good to the child that was his and maybe if she'd allow him to exercise some control over the one that wasn't, he'd be better to that one too. She'd said that maybe if he got his head out of his brooding ass and whiskey bottle more than once a week, came home for dinner more than once a month, maybe she'd do that.

At least, in court, the lawyer had dismissed her cries of him being a volatile drinker. He could say it himself; he'd never been a violent man. His words had been harsh, crass and out of line on occasion but he'd never raised a hand against any member of his family; not even his stepson who deserved a good whipping. Never his daughter, even at her most playfully bad. Not his wife, when he'd discovered she'd slept with her co-worker. He'd only consumed enough alcohol to not remember what he'd done four times in his life and none of those times had he been near his family. According to those who had been around, he'd been a complete pacifist.

But that did not change the fact that he was a morose drinker. He was not a fun person to be around when he got into a mood and started to think and drink. He knew that, knew it was a flaw, but he accepted it as something he could not change. Besides, he did some of his best thinking under the influence and he purged unnecessary emotions at the same time. He did his best processing, his best considering, his best accepting when he had a bit in him and he'd come to terms with that. Sure, no one would ever call him the life of the party, but at least he didn't bottle things up.

And only once a year did he intentionally drink to come into this state of reminiscence. It was only this day that he sat down, opened a fresh bottle, and finished it with every intention of considering what more he could have done. He went back to that great oak table with his wife, her eyes wide and her face pale, and relived it all. He thought of everything he could have said, tried new words to see if they made a difference and sometimes, he managed to convince her that they could work things out. When most of the bottle was done, when his head drooped onto his folded arms and he stared past Jim at the opposite wall, sometimes, he thought he could see himself with his daughter in his lap, enjoying a sunny afternoon on their front porch. His wife and her son were goofing off with a soccer ball, and the boy even gave him a smile. Most of the time, he just saw a sorry, sad asshole who couldn't even get his darling girl to return his phone calls.

He raised the bottle again, intending to slip into the familiar stupor. Usually, he would be in a private place doing this; anywhere that he could be sure he wouldn't get some intruder on his drunkenness. He would lock his door (though Kirk always got in somehow), dim the lights, sit in a chair at a table and guzzle. Now that he thought about it, this was the first year since his divorce that he hadn't been in a private place of his choosing. It wasn't a public area, at least. A broken down turbo lift with minimal lighting and only his best friend to witness was a decent and, considering the circumstances, his only option. His lips met the neck of the bottle and he prepared to feel the numbing warmth only to find that it didn't come. Another hand had wrapped around the glass, preventing him from consuming anymore. He wasn't sure when Kirk had moved across the lift and to him.

"Bones, I think that's enough," Kirk said, firmly pulling the bottle away from the flaccid fingers.

"I know my limits," he replied and clumsily snatched for it. His hand missed and he almost fell over. "Give it back. Now."

"You know I would let you drink yourself into a coma today normally," Kirk answered, not giving the it back. He set it down, out of reach. "Every other time I've been with you, I've let you do whatever you want. But right now, in this situation, I've gotta stop you because right now, I'm your Captain as well as your friend."

A low growl escaped him. "Then why didn't you fucking stop me before now? Why half-way through, Jimbo? Answer me that."

"Because," he said, soft, gentle, "I'm your Captain and your friend. And I--" He sighed and sank down next to McCoy. "I know, as your friend, that you need it. And sometimes, that overrides my better judgment as your Captain." He looked at the Jack longingly.

The low glow of the lights caught Jim's features and bright blue eyes which were strangely reminiscent of his daughter's. His daughter's had changed as she'd aged, dimming down to a smoky grey-blue coloring which he had loved just as much. But the sparkling clear eyes reminded him of when they'd all been happy together, before everything had spun out of control. He'd watched eyes like those laugh as a baby, learn, explore, cry, smile; he'd loved those eyes more than anything else in his life. Maybe that's what had attracted him to Jim; the familiarity, the happiness, the safety after two shattering years of devastation. All the times he'd been drunk on this day, the day that she'd sat down and told him it was over, he'd never looked at them before with such clarity.

"You're a right bastard," he muttered with affection.

Kirk grinned a little bit. "Yeah, so they tell me."

They sat shoulder to shoulder as the air continued to thin and the lights dimmed around them. The lift shuddered and the bottle of Jack tipped over. Amber liquid spilled onto the floor in a slow spreading puddle; it swirled around, glowing in the fading emergency lights. It became a dark blob of brownness, traveling around the floor, only stopping at the walls and at their boots. Kirk grimaced and gave McCoy an apologetic glance. McCoy didn't look at him, watching it with fascination; this would be the first time he didn't finish the bottle on this day.

"Sorry," Kirk said, and he was the friend, not the Captain. "Didn't mean to."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm a doctor, Jim, not an alcoholic. I'm sure your actions benefited my liver." And he meant it.

"But it's still a waste of good stuff," Kirk muttered.

McCoy agreed but stayed silent. It would figure that they'd die on this day too, in the dark, in a broken turbo lift on their own ship. He could feel the thinning atmosphere around him, knew he was taking shallower breaths. It was getting cooler in here-- failing life support all around-- though he still felt comfortable. Soon, they'd get lightheaded, or he would get more lightheaded, and start to feel sleepy. At least he'd die mostly inebriated and not fully comprehending the situation. He knew if he didn't have the whiskey in his system, he'd be panicking right now. His mind trekked back to the first day on the shuttle, his mind rattling off everything that could go wrong. This hadn't been on his list-- but it certainly deserved a place on it now.

And then, he said, "Well, Jimmy, happy birthday. Sorry about your dad. Sorry that, so far, today's been a bust." Sorry I never said it before now. Sorry I never looked or asked.

Jim blinked at him. His eyes glowed like McCoy's daughter's had so long ago and he laughed. For the first time since the lift had stopped, trapping them both, and Scotty's panicked voice had tried to reassure them before crackling out of existence, he thought they'd survive.

"Thanks, Bones."